#underbelly: razor

[perioddramasource]

Danielle Cormack as Kate Leigh and Chelsie Preston Crayford as Tilly Devine in UNDERBELLY: RAZOR (2011) Episode 1: The Worst Woman in Sydney

[intriguingpeoplebyangelafloyd]

KATE LEIGH

KATE LEIGH

1881-1964

Kate Leigh and Tilly Devine ruled Sydney, Australia’s underworld during the 1920s. Leigh was a madam and trader of alcohol, cocaine and ran underground gambling ring from her home in Surry Hills.

            Leigh was born in Dubbo, NSW, she was neglected by her parents and went into a girls home aged 12. She gave birth to Eileen in 1900 and married James Ernes ‘Jack Lee (Leigh)’ in 1902, his father was Chinese and mother was Australian. Jack was a petty criminal and they broke up in 1905 and later divorced. In 1922, she married Edward Joseph ‘Teddy’ Barry a petty criminal and later separated. After dating a few men, she married criminal Ernest Alexander ‘Shiner’ Ryan in 1950 and separated six months later.

            Leigh made her money from selling alcohol, the law stated bars had to close by 6pm, Leigh ran 20 bootleg outlets. Leigh never drank alcohol, smoked or did drugs - even though she traded them. She had the protection from male criminals who used razors as weapons.

            Leigh and Devine remained in conflict during their criminal careers, they had physically fought each other numerous times and their rival gangs remained in constant battle. Even though Leigh was involved in crime, violence and murders she was never convicted for any violent offenses. In 1930 she shot and killed Jon William ‘Snowy’ Prendergast when he and his gang broke into her home. She was also involved in the shooting of Joseph McNamara in 1931. Leigh was imprisoned on other charges including the selling of alcohol and drugs, regardless, she continued business.

            Leigh was known for dressing up and wearing jewellery, including diamond rings on every finger and she only wore the most expensive clothing. She was the wealthiest woman in Sydney during the 1930s and 1940s, but the Tax Office sent her bankrupt in 1954 and when bars were able to serve alcohol until 10pm it destroyed her business.

            Leigh died aged 82 in hospital on 4 February 1964 at St Vincent’s Hospital, Darlinghurst. She had suffered from a stroke in January of that year and her health went downhill as a result. At the time of her death she was living in poverty in a small room above a hotel in Surry Hills and was financially dependent on her nephew, William John Beahan who ran a shop downstairs. Her funeral at St Peter’s Catholic Church had 700 people attending; she was buried in Botany Cemetery (Eastern Suburbs Memorial Park).

#kateleigh #underbellyrazor #daniellecormack

[iydiamartinx]

SOMETHING BENEATH THE DARK

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 1.1k synopsis: After a brutal fight leaves Nightwing broken and sinking beneath Gotham’s black waters, something finds him as he drowns.

Gotham’s harbour was a graveyard after midnight. Black water churned against rusted pylons, and the sky above crackled with a low, rolling storm. Rain kissed the surface like shrapnel, turning the world into a blur of metal and shadow.

Nightwing had followed Killer Croc across half the city, down into the sewers, through the rusted veins of Gotham’s forgotten underbelly. He should’ve known it was a trap.

The fight had been brutal.

Croc’s claws tore through kevlar like it was paper, each swing backed by brute, animal strength. Dick was fast—he always had been—but even speed had its limits. A rib cracked. Then another. A vicious gash split open along his thigh, blood pouring warm down into his boot.

And then came the final blow.

A savage strike to the gut that lifted him clean off the ground and hurled him through the crumbling barrier at the dock’s edge.

He hit the water like stone, the impact stealing away the last of his breath.

Darkness swallowed him.

The water was frigid, a thousand knives piercing every inch of skin. He sank fast the weight of his gear dragging him down into the abyss. The deeper he fell, the quieter the world became. Muffled. Cold. Endless. He was surrounded by darkness and the little light from the surface was fading quickly in the dark murky water. 

His limbs moved sluggishly, muscles trembling with the effort to do anything. Blood drifted in clouds around him, curling through the water like ribbons of red silk. His mind flickered—memories, regrets, faces. Bruce. Jason. Tim. Damian. 

Above him, the surface blurred into nothing.

Below him, something moved. 

A flicker of silver and green through the murk.

His chest seized.

For a split second, he thought Croc had followed him down to finish what he started. That the beast would drag him deeper into the dark, tear into him beneath the waves, and leave nothing behind for his family to find and mourn.

His eyes fluttered closed.

Cool fingers brushed against his cheek.

He barely opened his eyes to see a hauntingly beautiful face staring back at him.

A face hovered before him—eerily beautiful, otherworldly in a way that made reality bend at the edges. Her features were sharp and striking, softened only by the slow drift of her dark hair, fanning around her like tendrils of ink. Her eyes, aglow with a spectral green, locked onto his with unnerving focus. Not hostile. Not kind. Curious.

The faintest shimmer danced across her skin—silvery scales catching fractured light, scattered like constellations along her cheekbones and collarbones, disappearing into the sleek line of her body. A long tail coiled below her, smoothly moving back and forth through the water.

He should have been afraid.

Instead, he stared—entranced.

Even as his heartbeat slowed. Even as darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. He couldn’t look away.

And neither could she.

The siren studied him like a riddle she hadn’t decided whether to solve or devour. Something about him called to her, some unnamed pull that echoed through the deep. He was broken. Bleeding. Mortal. But beautiful. There was strength in the lines of his face despite the pain. 

Her webbed fingers drifted up his side, glowing faintly in the murky dark as they passed over splintered ribs and torn muscle. He gasped, the water rushing in, choking on pain and salt. Her hands cradled his face, tilting it toward her. She stared down at him, unblinking.

And he wondered, even as the world blurred, if she was Death. If this hauntingly beautiful creature was the last thing he’d ever see. He’d caught a glimpse of the teeth behind those full, plush lips—razor-sharp. Predatory.

Then, she moved.

Without a word, she slipped an arm around his torso, her touch strangely gentle for something not quite human. And with a single, powerful flick of her tail, she carried him upward—through the heavy dark, past rusted pillars and long-forgotten wreckage, toward a surface that felt impossibly far.

The storm greeted them in fury. Lightning tore the sky apart.

She dragged him through the shallows, water frothing around her as if the harbour itself was reluctant to let him go. The current fought her, but she was stronger.

They reached the rocks near the old shipyard.

She laid him there with surprising gentleness, his body collapsing against stone slick with rain and seaweed. He coughed violently, water and blood spilling from his lips in choked bursts. His mask was cracked, his lips pale, body shivering violently from the cold.

But he was alive.

She lingered, half-submerged in the shallows, her arms still braced around his shoulders, steadying him as he struggled to lift his head. Her eyes roamed over him—taking in the battered lines of his body, the bruises blooming across his skin, the slight furrow of his brow that remained, stubborn, even in pain. There was something to him she didn’t understand. Something that made her stay.

She leaned in closer, the dark fall of her hair dripping water onto his chest.

“You… saved me,” he rasped, voice frayed from water and pain.

Her head tilted, a flicker of curiosity flashing across her sea-glass eyes. Not confusion—interest. As if the words themselves were strange to her, yet somehow he knew that she understood him. 

Slowly, hesitantly, her hand rose.

Webbed fingers, delicate yet not completely human, reached for his face as though drawn by instinct. Her touch brushed against his jaw—cool and smooth. Both curiosity and intelligence swirled in her gaze.

But before she could memorize the feel of him, a distant voice echoed from beyond the docks. “Nightwing!”

She flinched, the spell broken. Her hand snapped back like she’d been burned, her body recoiling into the water.

Another. Closer. Urgent.

“Dick?!”

The blare of a siren followed, distant but growing louder. The unmistakable thrum of the Batwing overhead. Footsteps pounded against steel and stone.

Her gaze flicked toward the sound.

Then back to him as if conflicted. Her lips parted like she wanted to speak, like she wanted to say something.

But the words never came.

With one last look, she slipped into the water, disappearing beneath the darkness of the rough waves. 

By the time Jason and Tim reached the rocks, all they found was Nightwing—broken, dazed, and wet to the bone—lying alone at the edge of the harbour.

Later, when he tried to tell them, they’d exchange glances. Offer faint smirks. Tell him the blood loss, the cold, the trauma—it must’ve made him imagine her. That there was no one there. No figure in the water. No glowing eyes. Not even the faint flash of silvery scales.

But in his heart, even as pain dulled his senses and voices filled his ears, he knew better.

Something had found him in the dark.

Next Chapter →

[mamayan]

You up? Give us some delicious yandere stuff 🙏 let's say... Fae King yandere and changeling darling 😏✨

This turned into a full fic :3 ~★ In honor of some monster fucking!

Yandere! Dark Fae King x Darling! Changeling

tw: NSFW • Obsessive/Possessive Themes • Non-Human Morality • Kidnapping • afab Reader • Dubcon • Oral (F) • Grooming (reader is of consenting adult age) • Forced Mating • Imprisonment • Violence (not toward reader) • Implied Murder • Rough Sex • Praise • Overstimulation • Dumbification • Belly Bulge • Size Kink

Part Two: Here

“…hic…sniff…”

Dark eyes glanced into the cool night, curious as to what creature was disturbing his evening.

“…hic…” it came again, much to his chagrin.

The still lake reflected the full moon like a mirror. To his left, not too far off, he honed in on the disturber. Something small and curled up. Shaking. The oddity enough to catch his full attention as he stood silently. The night his home and prison as he swiftly left in a puff of smoke over to the location of his intruder.

You.

His first instinct to end your miserable life, a human somehow entering his domain and crossing his barriers, but upon a closer look… he realized you were of his own kind.

A changeling at that. An abandoned fae left to die in the hands of mortals. Few if any live to maturity like this, but your short human stature led him to believe your growth was surely stunted due to neglect. Young fae needed abundant love and care in their infancy, the first 100 years of life incredibly crucial for their development. Least they end up like him and his kingdom. You were even younger than full maturity, though your physical body had completed it’s growth, your magic was weak and juvenile.

You were making odd noises which drew his curiosity, moving closer to your form, face buried in your lap as you hunched over your drawn up legs. Your feet were bare as the edges of the water lapped at them. Clothing sparse and tattered, rags unfit for even a human, let alone a Fae nearing maturity.

“Noisy little thing,” he hums aloud, startling you as you jolt and nearly throw yourself into the water. Your neck snaps up, pretty face swollen and blotchy from tears looking up and up until you saw a creature looming over you.

Your scream is cut off by a clawed dark hand, slapping over your mouth and muffling the cry as you try to jerk away in fear and panic. He watches in mild amusement, snickering as you realize your struggle is futile and efforts dying down. “Scream if you like, but none other than I will hear it out here.” He assures ominously, thin onyx colored lips pulling back to bare his razor sharp canines and pearly teeth at you. His grin savage and delighted in your terror.

He watches curiously as your wide doe eyes well up with tears, the crystalline droplets spilling up and over your cheeks, soft lips quivering beneath his palm. You reminded him of an animal imploring their predator for mercy by revealing their underbelly. There was a word for it…

Cute. His mind conjured at last. He found you cute, a changeling bold enough to intrude into the kingdom of the corrupted. You hadn’t even dropped the mirage covering you, old magic from your biological family still covering your natural appearance to mimic the human you parasitized off the life of.

“Why do you cry little one?” He asks softly, attempting not to terrify you further and avoid his questions.

You hesitate, but his molten gold eyes seem to melt through your defenses despite his dangerous and beautiful appearance. “I’m wrong,” you sniffle, grateful when he removes his enormous hand off your face, the sharp claws tipped in gold frightening against your soft breakable skin. “All wrong… and I don’t know what to do.” You curl back up around yourself, as if he too will cast judgement upon you.

He awkwardly mimics your stance, curiosity blazing as watches you in fascination. You find the way his monstrously large form contorts to sit like you somewhat baffling and amusing, less frightened now that he doesn’t seem to wish you harm.

“How are you wrong then?” He pries further, cupping his defined jaw and leaning into his hand as he observes.

“I’m not…I’m not human—I’m a—a—,” you stumble, unsure if this night is even real anymore. The shock so great you’re still trying to cope.

“A faery?” He supplies, amused by the way you gesture with your hands, expression so open and easy to read. “A changeling raised amongst humans to feed off their happiness?” His deep voice purrs it happily, as if he’s glad for it.

He is. His hatred of humans not something he feels the need to hide.

You appear devastated though, “I didn’t mean to—I don’t want to hurt or make anyone unhappy.” You mumble miserably, tugging at your hair and skin, as if that will dispel the magic which hides your true appearance.

“That’s just how our kind is, we need that happiness to grow properly.” He rubbles, eyeing your shocked expression. “We also happen to be fickle creatures ironically, and if a newborn is thought to need too much care, it is pawned off on humans who have more patience.” He clarifies, smiling as you seem to take him in with new eyes.

“You— are you a faery too? You just seem…” he chuckles as you awkwardly trail off.

“Evil? Centuries ago humans once called me the devil,” he laughs, his dark hair falling into his face like a waterfall as he shakes the loose fluffy curls, his pointed horns jutting from the top of his forehead jet black and smooth like ivory. He was too beautiful to call a devil, though you supposed it could be because of that which he was deemed so. His every feature seeming to catch your gaze with it’s beauty.

“I was going to say different…” you trail off shyly. “You don’t seem evil to me at least.”

He pauses, taking you in again as you regard him with those harmless eyes still wet with drying tears. It’d been centuries too since he’d left his kingdom, the entrance to the veil this lake he occasionally comes up to lounge by. He hasn’t seen a human since then, let alone a changeling or uncorrupted little faery like you.

He likes those pretty tears. He finds it annoying you shed them for humans you should guiltlessly take from.

His smile widens, eyes glittering mischievously and nearly glowing as he leans closer. The smell of sugar and cinnamon wafting off of him as you breathe in, nearly gasping as your mouth waters.

“How’s this little one? I’ll teach you how to be a faery, to show you there is nothing wrong with you.”

His eyes, where they should be white are entirely inky black, golden irises with reddened pupils framed by dark thick lashes, looked sincerely upon you.

He seemed genuine and kind despite his towering humanoid figure which looked to be capable of killing you easily.

It warmed you though, the thought of wanting to belong strong as you nod with a smile.

“I’d be eternally grateful.” You nod.

Sealing your fate.

“Tell me your name.” He asks sweetly, because despite his menacing size and sharp teeth and nails, your new friend was nothing but kind and gentle with you.

“Y/N” you reply easily, letting him playfully ruffle your hair as he picks out the leaves which got tangled in your locks from your travels here.

When he repeats it though, wonderful shivers shoot down your spine. He smiles, cooing at you like one might a baby as a he teases, “Such a cute name for a cute faery.”

You weakly protest, but fall into easy laughter as he swiftly changes the subject.

He was discussing proper fae etiquette. The basics, to not say please or thank you or I’m sorry. They all meant you expected more from the other or wouldn’t reciprocate, and that was just bad manners.

His soft hands, which could easily cover your entire face, were settled on your upper arms, having sat you in the grass against his chest.

He liked holding you close. Your little figure so soft, and from the dark circles beneath your human appearance, he assumed the neglect from the humans you resided amongst was growing worse. It was bad for your development.

“You should come live out here, they are vile creatures you know.” He comments every time you visit, though he never forces you to stay with him.

“It’s because I make them unhappy…” you explain sheepishly.

He shakes his head, thick brow arching as he rolls his eyes. “You are nearly completely mature now, you suck no happiness from your surroundings anymore silly girl.” Your confusion was palpable as he sighs and further explains, enjoying the squish of your tender flesh as he lightly squeezes you.

“While it is true fae infants are quite the hassle to raise, it isn’t as tortuous as humans make it out to be. In fact, most fae will take their child back if not treated well by their human surrogates.”

You hum, relaxing back against his warm chest and breathing in his sugary scent.

“So why wasn’t I—,” you stop short, brows furrowed but no longer speaking.

He doesn’t pry further, leaning his chin atop your head as he looks out at the lake.

“You won’t tell me?” You push, annoyed how he dances around your question endlessly. Your companion close enough that you feel insulted he won’t reveal it.

“My name is not to be uttered aloud, least calamity befall this land~” he’s teasing, you know he is, but still he refuses to divulge his name. “I gave you mine,” you argue again, huffing as he chuckles and lightly shoves you to your back on the grass, leaning over you and caging you in beneath him.

The moon is bright like the first time you’d met, illuminating his other worldly beauty.

“If you wish to call me something, call me Master,” he laughs, his sharp teeth no longer scaring you, but making your thighs squeeze together whenever he flashes them. He acts nothing like an immortal being, too immature and jovial to resemble someone having lived for thousands of years.

“So why do you get my name, but I don’t get yours?” You question in annoyance, avoiding his kiss to your cheek by jerking your face away. He huffs, sharp gaze daring you to dodge again.

You do. Earning yourself a warning nip to your collarbone as you yelp.

“Mean!” You cry, pushing at his chest as he snickers.

“Yes little flower, I am very, very, mean.” He rumbles, chest literally vibrating much like a cat does to purr.

“You give me weird nicknames…” you mutter, giving up as he licks your cheek. You don’t fight it, even as it feels foreign to you, trying to accept this side of your culture.

He licks your neck, lavishing the point where your pulse races with wet kisses and you tremble and struggle to act unaffected beneath him.

His smile is dangerous outside your view.

“Star!” You giggle, his rumble of irritation not the least intimidating to you as you roll away.

“That is an awful nickname.” He hisses, face twisted in disgust as you throw out the most horrendous names you could conjure in your pretty head at him.

“Lumi!” He growls.

“Then… Kitty?” He nearly bites you, careful not to play too roughly as he lightly tackles you down.

“If I give you a nickname, will you cease your little game?” He feels his anger fade as he wraps his arms around your smaller figure, easily pulling you into his lap. You don’t even flinch, too engrossed in your amusement to care where he handles you. You nod happily, your wish finally being fulfilled.

“Very well you stubborn creature,” he chides, “In addition to Master, you may also call me King.”

You frown. Clearly displeased by the lack of intimacy in the name. He laughs, amused by your obvious dislike. He kisses your puffed cheeks, over your pouty lips, and down to your vulnerable neck. Snickering as he goes, adoring how you so easily become pliant for him.

“I am teasing pretty flower, there was a time long ago I was called Ava, will you settle now?” He asks, voice husky as he sucks a mark into your skin, your little whine flaring his desires.

A strong urge to press you down and mate you nearly overpowers his control, but he merely holds you close and breathes your floral scent in to calm himself.

“I still prefer Kitty…” His eye twitches.

“Ava… this feels weird…” he pauses, looking down at your small form still cloaked like a human. Weak beneath him, partially nude as your skirt is pulled up to your soft belly. Your thighs are spread and shaking, his lips sucking another mark onto the thin skin of your inner thigh while you writhe.

He had your wet dripping slit open to the night air and his lustful gaze, begging for his tongue to taste.

“You don’t want to please me?” He asks, purring as you pout but deny. You were such a good little girl for him after all, so eager to learn and soak up his attention.

He resumes, licking down your thigh until his face rested above the warm mound you so sweetly offered him.

“You’re being so good for me petal, can you keep your legs open or should I help you?” He doesn’t need to look up to know you’re shaking in arousal and embarrassment. He can feel the tremors through the air as you struggle to keep your thighs spread as he asked.

“I-I need help…” you admit, feeling terribly hot as he keeps licking you, except where you seem to ache for him to lick.

He easily shifts forward, arms wrapping around you and letting your legs rest over his shoulders as he finally lets his tongue slip out to taste you.

You glance down, choking at the sight and feeling as he lets his entire tongue come out, the appendage inhumanly long and colored purple. It feels strange, the wet slimy feeling of his tongue slithering through your folds, but when he nudges the tiny nub hidden above your slit, you moan.

It sends jolts of electricity through you, hips canting up so he can to lick there again, earning you a hearty chuckle as he obliges. Licking and even curling his tongue around it, riling you up as your tiny hole leaks arousal and drips down your ass to the earth below.

“You’re making a mess petal, do you feel good? Should I stick my tongue inside you this time?” You moan, feeling the muscle prod at your unused vaginal entrance, too hazy to bother responding. He doesn’t wait for your answer, letting the thin tip of his tongue lap and taste your heady desire before poking and wiggling inside you.

It has your legs shooting straight, back arching as he holds you down with one large hand placed over your belly and chest. He groans as he feels the molten texture of your insides struggling against his intrusion, trying to force him out of your tight heat as he surges forward.

The tip of his tongue curls, swirling up and knocking the air from your lungs as a rush of hot liquid spills from your insides for him to drink down.

You shook and twitched, moaning and curling your hands around his curved horns like a handle.

The touch sends blood racing to his cock, as he moans and loudly slurps your cum down with audible squelching, enjoying the cries you released into the quiet night.

He lets you rest as he pulls back for just a moment, your body limp and panting as your high comes down.

“Good girl~” he praises, leaning over you to kiss softly at your sweaty skin, licking that too and tasting the sweet and salty mixture.

Then he’s pressing his lips against yours, forcing them open to sneak his long tongue inside your mouth, filling it and claiming that space too as his own. You’re helpless to resist, delirious on pleasure as he devours you, wiggling muscle curling and rubbing erotically around your own.

He tastes like sugar and something heavier, more musky, as you come to realize it as your own taste.

“Is this… really normal…?” You can help but ask as he pulls away, his lips still sticking close to trail kisses across your skin.

“It’s quite normal little flower, are you shy still?” He asks curiously, lifting one of your small hands and bringing it to his face, his size dwarfing you considerably. He lightly nibbles on your fingers, making a giggle bubble up as you smile and then squirm when he grins and licks your hand instead.

“A little…” you admit honestly. Always so honest and open.

He nods, as if completely understanding.

“That’s alright, we’re in no rush, I’ll teach you slowly…” there’s something else not said in his words, and you’re left drunk on his pheromones and lips as he distracts you. Then he’s kissing down, discarding your clothing and leaving you naked for his mouth and curious fingers.

Your breasts are lavished in his saliva, pebbled nipples sucked until standing upright before poked down with the tip of his tongue playfully. Always so playful, Ava nips and teases your skin, blinking innocently when you moan and glare accusingly.

“It’s not my fault you enjoy this so much petal~” he pouts, looking comical and so harmless, his glittery gold wings, almost translucent behind him, fluttering as if indignant to your silent accusation.

The golden tattoos which marked his skin more visible tonight, his clothing more minimal in his wish to feel more of you as he explores and plays.

Then he’s parting your thighs and throwing you into ecstasy again.

“Who did it?”

You sat curled around yourself, terror and dread swirling inside of you at the new side of Ava you’d never been graced with before.

The side you supposed was reserved for his enemies, but now showed to you.

Despite your fear, the tears spilling down your cheeks, and the injuries you bore, you still remained stubbornly silent.

He was going insane with rage and anguish.

You truly were a flower. So delicate and easily destroyed.

“Y/N… while I am being reasonable…Tell. Me. Who. Did. It.”

For all the times he’d made himself smaller, less alarming and more charming than his true nature called for, it made this time more appallingly. He stood to his full height, like an unwavering tree he did not budge or allow you to leave, golden eyes flaring and mixing with his red pupils to create something alarming. Even the markings which covered his dark skin seemed to glow and match his eyes, magic crackling in the air and silencing the night further.

As if the stars and moon were frightened too.

Still, still, you did not speak, even as he closed in on you, your fear so strong it almost choked him. Almost. He was too angry, too furious with the humans he liked to cast out of his mind. They needed to be taught a lesson it seemed. Their fear of the Fae renewed. They were becoming arrogant, as if their species was even in the same standing as them.

Your pretty injured face and form, battered from abuse and humiliation, was all the information he truly needed.

If you wanted to protect them, and not tell him, then he’d just punish them all as if they were the culprits.

It soothed him finally, his decision made as the ominous energy around him faded slowly. He let his rage dissipate, worry and concern bleeding through now as he crouched and shuffled towards you, claws spread and outstretched towards you.

“Come here Y/N, keep your secrets, but allow me to hold and comfort you…” his eyes darkened, the glow leaving behind almost a copper color, somber as he looks at you. There’s not pity in his eyes though, as you swallow and sigh in relief, grateful to crawl into his warm embrace where it feels safe.

He’s gentle as he wraps you in his arms, lips and tongue soothing as he tastes your tears and blood.

He grits his teeth, focusing on your scent and the feel of you to calm himself again, before letting his magic seep into your skin. You easily absorbed it, soaking it up like a sponge as your pain and injuries heal.

“Ava—?” Your eyes widen, amazement in their depths which stroke his ego as he taps his forehead against your own. His horns slightly tangling in your hair.

“Do you not want to drop the illusion on yourself?” He asks softly, staring at the human image your portray. He didn’t want to admit it, but it enraged him to see you still trying to live amongst them.

You seem surprised, before looking away nervously.

“It just feels strange… to not see myself anymore,” you confess, burrowing deeper into his chest while enjoying his ability to heal and soothe you. His sugary smell lightening your heavy heart.

He nods slowly, eyes staring at nothing over the still lake.

He holds you a little tighter.

Then you’re asleep.

The burns and screams of the people echo, the night come to life with flames and chaos.

Ava stands leisurely, smile filled with fondness as he watches the human village he’d followed and found to be your residence burn.

He’d spent all night playing with them, listening to them confess the awful things they’d done to you, said to you, and tried to do to you. They even thought of sacrificing you to some nonexistent deity, which only prolonged the nightmare he’d turned the populace into.

He laughed as the sounds swirled into music for his ears, the sharp points curling in delight as he hummed a tune older than the trees towering in this forest.

The night was still coming to an end sadly, and he’d need to return to your unconscious body still where he’d left it.

He didn’t want to let you wake in your new home alone after all.

His body covered in the blood of mortals he’d torn into and feasted on, Ava left them to perish.

Alone you woke. In a bed four times the size of any normal one, within the walls of a palace you’d only ever seen depicted in stories told by faraway travelers.

You glanced down, at hands unlike ones you were accustomed to seeing. You were nude, unable to hide from yourself as you felt tears begin to sprout. The illusion magic wasn’t working, and you couldn’t understand why.

This body was your true form, not that of the human you continuously tried to convince yourself you were. You hadn’t showed Ava, too afraid he’d see your appearance and dislike you for it.

While he was magnificent, you felt puny and odd.

A hiss snatches you from your self loathing, eyes flicking up to land on the one you’d just been thinking of.

He was covered in something, though you weren’t entirely sure what until he moved closer. The pearls lining his chambers glowed softly, his appearance more vibrant as he closed the distance between himself and the bed you laid on.

You sucked in a breath, realization dawning as the red contrasts against his skin. His lower face completely smeared in it, but his lips seemed clean. Until he grinned, red stained sharp teeth with chunks of dark meat stuck in between.

You remembered briefly him mentioning being mistaken for a demon.

You finally understood as a strange fear blossomed in your gut and you scooted away. Confusion and terror consuming you, but your body not catching up with your mind, because it recognized his scent and touch. You didn’t move quick enough, a clawed hand easily curling around your ankle and tugging you close. You slid smoothly over the cool silk, brought close to his body radiating heat. He only wore trousers, his taloned feet bare and ankles revealed as he’d cuffed them up to avoid bloody human fingers trying to grip them.

“Oh my little flower, look at you,” his eyes are swirling melted gold, enchanting and so disorienting. His beauty becoming savage with the blood and human flesh he adorned.

“A-Ava…” you want to ask, but you also don’t want the answer.

Did he find out who hurt you? Or was it unrelated? It seemed too coincidental.

Your chest constricted painfully as he stared down at you in wonder. Your true form so lovely it took his breath away, your image so fitting for you it was a wonder why you didn’t prefer this over your human mirage. Your ears, pointed like his own, were curled down a little with your emotions, as his eyes traced your face.

The shape was the same, your body still so small, and your eyes still expressed every little thought without fail.

He hated to admit it was even cuter, though he mused it was likely because he was the first to see your true form.

An abandoned young changeling, one he only took mild interest in, had him so thoroughly ravenous for all of you now.

“Isn’t this more comfortable petal? Instead of masquerading as a filthy human, aren’t you happier to just be you now?” His callous words seem off, but you can’t quite fathom it all as the shock settles in.

“My precious flower faery, are you scared?” Yes, you wanted to scream, as his bloody face and body near you, his sugary scent over powered by the scent of iron and death. Fae hated iron. He shouldn’t be comfortable.

You choked, jerking back and trying to crawl away from him, but he still had your ankle caged in his hand.

He laughs, but it’s empty and devoid of any true humor as he stares down at you with something dark in his gaze.

He yanks you back, harshly and sending a jolt of pain up your leg as you cry out, pulled back beneath him as he crawls onto the bed over you.

He’s too close, nausea consuming you as you smell and see the gore adorning him.

He finds your useless fear amusing and annoying all at once.

“I asked you a question little flower.” He grips your face, smushing your cheeks and making you look at him.

He rolls his eyes as the tears you so love to shed spill down your cheeks.

“Yes… I-I’m scared…” his smile softens, almost becoming sweet and familiar.

“Good. You should be.” Your blood runs cold.

He has the mercy to bathe, but not alone. You watch as the spray of water from some sort of piping turns pink as it disappears through tiny holes in the marble floor.

He’s nude, like you, and even though you cower and try to turn away, he easily stops any and all retreats with hardly any effort.

“I thought you didn’t like the blood? I’m still not clean petal.” His fluffy curls are flattened by the water falling above, the warm spray soaking you both as you try not to wonder why the sticky redness won’t just wash away with the water. The dried portions difficult to get off without physically touching and rubbing him with your soapy hands. You wanted to know why he was doing this, being so mean.

His ears look more distinct with his hair flat, onyx horns prominent against his forehead as his lashes hold droplets of water to frame his golden eyes.

You try not to show it, but as the blood clears and his dark smooth gold lined skin is revealed, you notice the hard lines of muscle and purple veins which protrude.

You only come up just below his chest, and you can’t look down, least you see it again.

He was making you nervous and scared on purpose, but you couldn’t understand why.

Like a coward you didn’t ask either, because you feared the answer even more.

Ava shifts, fingers coming up to cup your face in his hands and tilt your head up as he leans over you and blocks the water falling. His claws jut out beside your head, one lightly tickling your pointed little ear.

He licks his lips, loving the sight of you soaked and naked, your pretty form so enthralling to his eyes he struggles to contain himself.

“Do you want my help…?” His tone is condescending, eyes uncaring in the least about your inner turmoil.

“Here,” he drops one hand, engulfing your wrist and forcing you to plant your hand against his abdomen. “You have to wash like this—,” he teaches patiently, like none of this was happening and everything was fine. He moves your soft little hand back and forth, the soap quick to wash away as the water continues to fall. “You need more soap petal.” He informs gently, moving to stop the warm spray and letting you both stand in silence now, drops of water falling the only noise besides your breathing.

He sighs when you don’t move, your eyes trained on the corner of the spacious bathing room, where an in ground bath rests. He would take you to the hot springs later.

He fills the hand he has control of with soap, and amuses himself with using it like a washcloth, your little fingers curling as your lips tilt down into a frown.

“Since you need the help,” he goads, watching as those sweet familiar doe eyes flash up a glare from the corner of your eye.

He smiles, a nasty grin filled with something sinister as he chuckles darkly. “Don’t want to be my good girl anymore?” It’s a loaded question you’re unsure of how to answer.

It hardly matters as he forces your hand down, until you jolt at the change in body part you were touching. He forces your fingers to close around his throbbing length, unable to touch or fully wrap around it as your head jerks instinctively to look at what he was making you do.

“A-Ava—,” you try to pull away, but to no avail. He only hums, the soap like lube as he uses your hand to jerk his cock, amused as you stare in shock. He won’t let you go, not when the sight of your smaller form holding his leaking rod is so arousing he comes a minute a later. Hips thrusting with the timing of the squeeze he forces your hand to hold, hot ropes of his seed shooting out onto your chest and belly as he cages you with his free arm from moving away. He allows his purple tapered tip to smear the remaining pearls of his seed on your skin, ignoring your whine of protest as he paints you.

“Fuck, that’s it, be good for me pretty girl,” he growls lightly, chest rattling as he releases his pent up frustration on your confused form.

Really, you couldn’t be more adorable covered in his release looking dazed.

His golden eyes heavy lidded as he crouches down to catch your lips in a heated kiss.

You swallow nervously, staring at Ava as he stares at you from across his bed chambers.

You’d fallen asleep after… after bathing, if you could even call it that, and awoken later to find yourself alone again. Ava missing and your body covered by fine silk sheets while you slept.

You’d scrambled about the room looking for escape, finding nothing but a single exit locked, which Ava now stood before.

He wore a pair of silken sleep pants, tailored to his enormous figure as well as a matching robe left loose and revealing a majority of his chest and abdomen. His wings weren’t physical but a magic which naturally formed behind him, you’d learned.

The gold markings on his body were duller than earlier, his eyes less vibrant and more cool as he looks at you.

He seems more… familiar. Less of the Ava covered in blood and flesh of humans and more of the one you’ve befriended.

He’s silent, unmoving as he stands still in the doorway.

You don’t want to make the first move, unsure in this new environment, but you similarly disliked all of this distance and miscommunication between you both.

You moved cautiously, much like the skittish animal he likens you to in his mind, off the bed. You’d wrapped yourself in one of his sheets, his scent clinging to you the only thing stopping him from tearing it off you in annoyance. He stays put, muscles taunt and jaw clenched as you approach him like he might harm you.

He debated it.

Briefly showing you why you should be obedient and just listen, but dismissing it in favor of you liking him at least to some degree.

When you reach him, he merely stares down at you, face impassive unlike your nervous and awkward expression.

“Ava…?” He finally shifts, leaning down to close the distance a little but still not touching you. It’s you who initiates, because he’s certain he’s trained you well enough in your past touch starved state that you can’t resist the comfort and warmth he provides. You wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your figure to his while looking up with those honest eyes he adores.

He finally relaxes, your touch so addicting he was unable to resist wrapping you further into his embrace while lifting you up. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, warm bare cunt now pressed against his abdomen while your arms come around his neck. The sheet loosening and falling down to pool at his feet. He finally smiles at your flustered state, not letting you climb down to grab it, instead moving you both towards his—your—bed and easily laying you down to drape over you.

“You’re calmer than I imagined you’d be…” he murmurs against the skin of your neck, kissing up to your jaw. “Should I prepare for your wrath later little flower?” He muses, lifting up to look at your expression.

“Was that blood… from a human?” You look guarded but he isn’t surprised.

“Yes.”

“Did you kill them?” He affirms again.

“Was it because of… me?” Those sweet eyes looked so haunted as you asked, as if you knew what he was going to say.

“No. It wasn’t because of you.”

You check his face, as if he were a human and would lie to you as they do.

“Then why did you do it?” You breathed, sagging in relief beneath him. His lips twitch, molten eyes shining with adoration as he looks upon you.

“They greatly offended me.” He answers vaguely, but it was the truth. They offended him by breathing and walking the earth. It was a direct insult to him. They only met misfortune because they caught his attention.

You seemed happy to accept whatever rid you of any guilt, looking up at him less fearfully now that he was clean and not being mean to you. Though, you both shared very different definitions of being “mean”.

“Am I staying the night?” You asked him curiously. You had thought he’d brought you here as he didn’t know where your home in the village was when you’d fallen asleep.

He shook his head, lips curling higher.

“You’re staying forever.” He declares, sweet scent filling your senses as he comes close enough to kiss you.

Then he does.

You thought his teasing was funny, lips tilting up finally as the awkwardness dissipates and familiarity rises.

This is your Ava, warm sweet Ava that smells so good it makes you crave sweets you cannot afford.

He presses you further into the unfathomably soft bed, his lips demanding as you open for him.

“Ava,” you break the kiss, breathing heavier as he growls and nips at your bottom lip, a shiver wracking you as he leans back enough to meet your gaze. “What we’re doing… it’s what lovers and spouses do isn’t it? At least, this is what human lovers do…” your voice becomes smaller as he stares down as you with an expression you couldn’t name.

“And?” He encourages.

You look away for a moment, gathering your thoughts before remembering out of all the cruelty in the world, Ava was the outlier.

“Is that what we’re doing? Like lovers?” You felt too embarrassed to directly state it, to say it aloud, and equally scared this isn’t anything different than exchanging a handshake with another faery to him. It was different to you.

“Do you want it to be?” He leans down, placing a feather soft kiss against your temple so you couldn’t see his eyes glowing bright. “Do you want us to be like lovers little flower?” His voice is deeper than usual, strained almost as he holds himself perfectly still above you.

You take the time to think, much to his displeasure, but when you answer it was everything for him.

“I do.”

He places a chaste kiss to your lips, his own tilting higher and higher until he’s grinning gleefully.

“Then that’s what we’ll be.” He confirms, and you miss it.

You miss every little trap he’d laid, each tiny piece of the puzzle forming around you like a cage. You miss everything and it’s too late to go back now. Ava muses wickedly, as he kisses you more sensually, lets his claws drag so delicately down your soft skin, he thinks how stupid you are.

“I’ll be all yours if you ask for it Y/N,” he speaks directly into your pointed ear, hot breath making the tips curl as you whine. The way he says your name is different than usual, more serious and seductive. You realize this seems wrong somehow, the way he’s making you melt so easily like this, how your panic and fear evaporated so quickly. You aren’t given time to think further, when he shifts and sits up. He sneers when you attempt to cover yourself again, gripping your wrist and lightly pulling you up too. On your knees, you face his chest, eyes looking up to see his heated expression.

Ava cups your jaw with one hand, and pokes at your lip with the other.

He doesn’t ask before his thumb invades your mouth, and you fight not to bite down or jerk away with his pointed claw inside.

He’s exploring, squeezing your cheeks until you open wide so he can playfully run over your sharpened canines. Curiously playing with your tongue until he leans down licks it with his own. It felt strange and erotic, your body vibrating with nerves and budding arousal as he explores you.

“Ava…” you wanted to touch him too, but he didn’t seem to be listening as he lets his hands trail down to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your nipples as your back arches into them.

So you let your own hands wander, bolder than usual as you feel his solid form beneath you. His skin is much softer than it appears, strange markings and golden symbols flat. He had no softer points aside from that, muscles like stone and occasionally uncomfortable to lounge against due to it.

He squeezes your waist, smiling mischievous as you yelp and glare at him. He does it again, finally chuckling as he lets his hands slip to your ass.

This time his squeeze makes you gasp, as he parts your ass cheeks and allows your heated core to be exposed to the air. His claws so careful not to tear your skin open as he drags you taunt against him, rutting his hardened cock against your soft belly.

He moans aloud as he sees the tip poke out between you, your breasts above a delicious sight as he does it again and again.

“You drive me wild pretty faery,” he smiles, licking your cheek as he easily lifts you up to toss you to the center of the bed. You sink in, huffing but giggling as he crawls over you, looking like a dark angel as he covers you completely to capture your lips in a much more filthy kiss.

“I want to devour you,” he purrs, licking and kissing down your neck and chest, spreading your legs. “Make you mine completely,” you moan, feeling delirious as he finally licks your sloppy pussy.

You moan when you feel his fingers prod your entrance, sharp claws gone and retracted as he pushes one inside you while he laps at your clit. It feels different and firmer than his tongue, able to rub and stretch you better as he begins sucking on your puffy nub and purring deep in his chest. “Your little nub is hard~ are you feeling good?” He teases, wiggling the tip of his tongue over your engorged clit.

Then he’s pressing a second finger in, a mild burn heating your core as you gasp and try to shift away to no avail. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, spearing them into you, your soft gummy walls forcefully spread around the two digits as he noisily slurps. He’s being messy and a bit rough, but your moans spur him on as he groans into your pussy when you begin clawing at his hair and whining.

“Ava! S’too much! Can’t—!” You squeak and almost bite your tongue when you cum, pussy sucking his fingers deep and massaging them as you soak his hand and face.

He doesn’t stop, eyes glowing bright molten gold as he watches you squirm and babble senselessly while he stuffs a third finger into your poor overstimulated cunt. Your little hole stretched wide around him, and he’s content to watch as your greedy lower mouth takes it as he pumps them into you.

You’re less amused though, body thrumming as the pleasure becomes overwhelming and you panic.

“Stop, I’m gonna make a mess, Ava stop—!” You cry out, eyes watering before tears fall as you struggle to stop the powerful pressure building in your core, hurting you with the intensity as he pushes you further and further. “Your insides are steadily swallowing and sucking my fingers in, aren’t you a little lewd?” He asks, unaffected by your dull nails digging into his forearm, eyes trained on your drooling hole below.

He’s got an iron grip on your hip with his other hand, nails digging into your flesh every time you try to squirm away. “You’re so lovely like this petal.”

He’s fascinated when you break again, clear fluid squirting up and out from your squelching pussy as he continues to shove his fingers in.

You cum so hard it nearly causes you to lose consciousness, eyes rolling back as you twitch and moan as the dam inside you bursts open.

You whine as he pulls free, hand dripping in gooey arousal as he brings it to his lips and slurps it up without any decorum, appearing almost starved as he gazes down at you with the eyes of a predator. “Messy girl~ I’ll teach you though,” his lips pull back to reveal his sharp teeth, “When you feel so good you think you’ll break, you’re supposed to say I’m coming, do you understand?” He asks darkly.

“No more…” your weak plea only makes him smirk, kissing you softly as he slides forward and uses both hands to cover your hips and lift your lower half up.

Your eyes feel heavy as you force them open, slow to realize that his enormous cock is now laid over your pussy, pulsing and dragging back and forth through your slick folds. The thick veiny appendage causes your trepidation to rise, realization dawning that he intends to fit that inside of you.

“It won’t fit—,” you weren’t being cute or coy, because while you may not be human, your form was still the same size as one. He was much, much bigger, and his cock certainly fit his proportions. You try to catch his attention, unable to close your legs with his body between them. “Ava,” He’s truly not hearing you at all, too enthralled and excited as he lubes his massive length up with your juices. He’s shaking a bit too, heart beating rapidly in his chest as he coos down at you mindlessly, golden orbs almost unseeing at this point as he lines up with your entrance.

“So good for me petal~ you’re all mine aren’t you?” He breathes, and you feel the weight and pressure begin as his tip breaches.

“Wait, stop Ava—!” You whine as the sting becomes a burn and then you’re being filled to the point of excess as you struggle to breathe anymore.

“Shh—♡,” he hushes you, pained as well due to the pressure around him, strangling him as he grimaces and drags back out a little before surging forward. “You’re mine now petal,” he groans.

You’re unable to form words as he works his cock into you like a piece which doesn’t quite fit, bullying and stretching you open to forcefully fit himself.

He leans more weight down onto you as you struggle and writhe, noisy cries falling on deaf ears as he feels himself slipping deeper as your body finally gives up on keeping him out. His tip touches your cervix, before shoving even further and smashing it up as your stomach aches in protest.

You lay limp as he finally bottoms out, twitching with your mouth open and drool pooling down your chin as you feel nothing but the feeling of him inside you. He huffs a laugh, the way you look ruined before he’s even gotten started.

You look like a doll in his grasp, his cock extending your stomach a little as it twitches inside you. Your thighs ache as they’re naturally forced up, unable to spread fully enough for him to settle so he’d merely folded you and pressed you down to prevent escape.

“You did it pretty girl, look at you~” he grins, one hand leaving your hip to press on your belly, making your eyes widen and roll back as you whine. “You took every inch of me in this cute cunt didn’t you?” This male over you isn’t familiar, even as his sugary scent seems to increase and smother you, he seems foreign in his words and actions.

The inconsistencies are difficult to track as he drags himself out of you, the fullness replaced by feeling each ridge and bump of veins decorating his cock as he slides out.

Then he’s pushing in again, stealing your breath and ability to think as he starts to fuck you.

“Don’t worry petal, I won’t hurt you,” you can’t quite understand as he pushes his thick rod inside you, brain shutting off as you go pliant in his hold. “I’ll go nice and slow so you never forget,” he moans as you tighten and jerk, “who owns you.” He’s holding back with all his might as you spasm and grip him in inside of you, walls sucking him back in as he moves to exit.

You make him forget.

As you slick his cock up with your juices, he begins to slip in easier, folding you down further into a mating press as he looks down at your teary face. You make him forget all the time he’s spent alone. Your moans increase as he picks up the pace, pounding nice and deep inside of you and ridding you of any thought beside him. He slips a hand down between you both, claws retracted completely as he softly presses on your swollen clit and throws you reeling into another orgasm around him. “Say it petal,” he grits out, the feeling of you tightening drawing his own end. He’s hardly able to move inside you, short thrusts all he can manage as he drags you over the edge.

“I’m coming—!” Your head tips back, neck bared to his eyes as you cum for him obediently.

He fills you up right after, heavy engorged balls drawing up as he pumps his first load of the day into you. His thrusts not stopping as he rocks forward, expression relaxing as his magic swirls inside of you, his mating mark slowly sinking into your soul as he works to keep his seed deep within your womb. You’re too fucked out to notice, the pleasure and pressure overwhelming your senses as you try to rest now.

Except his cock doesn’t soften.

He thrusts hard once he’s sure his bond has settled, feeling you so much deeper in his soul as he drags his cock out almost all the way. “It’s like your little hole misses me already,” he smiles, watching as you flutter around his tip as if to tell him you don’t want him to leave. “Tell me petal,” he slides back inside, jolting you awake as you stare incredulously down at where you both connect. The slick sounds of him slipping into your sticky wet entrance haunting as you whine, hands digging into fine silk as you try to push away.

He only presses you down harder, cock burrowing deep as if to anchor you. His eyes are wild and swirling, the color so bright it’s almost blinding in the dim room. “How does it feel to lose?”

You blank. His question not making any sense as the room spins and you’re overcome again with pleasure so intense it makes your toes and feet curl in the air where they rest.

“How does it feel to be utterly mine for the rest of eternity?” You gasp, tearing at the sheets as he picks up the pace, balls slapping against your ass as he begins to truly fuck you now. Enormous cock working you into a frenzy as you yelp when two fingers pinch painfully around a nipple. “You’re not going back pretty girl,” he laughs, face wicked and beautiful as you look up through blurry eyes spilling tears. “You’ll not return to that filthy human village,” he releases your sore nipple in favor of loosely gripping your throat, feeling your pulse beneath his hand. “You are not in the land of Fae sweet flower,” he lets his lips ghost over yours, his tip bullying your cervix as you writhe and move to claw at his shoulders. “You are in my kingdom, ours, where the corrupted Fae separate themselves,” you’re lost, eyes crossing almost dumbly as you come again, choking as you cry out his name.

You can’t move even an inch, unable to even squirm as you’re forced to take each punishing inch of his cock and he ruts into you.

“Your pussy keeps tightening up when I tell you all the ways you’re mine. Do you like this?” He delights in your pathetic attempt to push at his chest, clearly finished despite his balls still being heavy with his seed he intends to spill into you.

“A-Av-Ava!” You struggle to form even his name, let alone any sentences as he keeps up his fast and brutal pace. Though, from his perspective he was still holding back as he moans and spills himself inside you again.

“Yes flower?” He coos, pushing your hair out of your sweaty face as he pulls out just enough to grip your thigh and turn you on your side, sliding back to the hilt again. He hugs your leg to his chest, working his cock at a new angle in your abused pussy still spilling cum from earlier. “I’m listening,” he chuckles, knowing you can’t speak, aware his cock was keeping you like this.

Words die down as he uses his hand not holding your leg up to grip your hip, holding you still while pushing his hips forward, railing himself inside your exhausted body. Your head rests against the bed, mouth open as your saliva soaks into the sheets, eyes staring at nothing as you feel another impending orgasm approaching.

Ava doesn’t mind, adoring the cute cock drunk expression as he uses you like a toy, filling you up over and over while you slowly lose your mind. “I’m sorry—Ava please, I’m sorry,” your slurred speech and delirious voice make him laugh. Genuinely amused by your rambling, “Why are you sorry petal? I’m not mad,” he catches your lips, tongue invading and swallowing your cries. He finds you so cute.

His cute, stupid little changeling, so trusting and unaware of his unsavory intentions.

You lose consciousness and count when he comes with his hips pressed deeply into your ass, pressing you belly first into his hand as he keeps you angled up to meet his thrusts. Your sensitive chest rubbing against the silk below, body limp as your world goes black and you convulse around him.

This time he lets you fall flat into the soaked bedding, taking his still hard cock out so he can pry apart your pussy lips and watch his release ooze out of your gaping hole.

His golden eyes flick up to your sleeping form, lips pulling as he coos, “Cute~♡” before he’s stuffing you full again, merciless as he leans on one arm to keep from crushing you as he continues to drill into you.

Even when you regain consciousness, trying to crawl away from his torturous pleasure, he only grips your arm and twists it gently behind you to hold. “You’re soaked and so hot inside, do you know how crazy you’re making me?” He groans, almost sounding like he’s in pain as you squeeze and come again. “I’m not letting you go, stop trying to run. You’ve already lost sweet girl.” As he lifts his hips, tip still encased by your wet hot heat, he eyes the slick mess which coats you both and connects you to him. “Go ahead and go crazy too, be good and listen.” He laughs, slamming back in and making your back arch as you nearly scream, feeling him so deep it makes you wonder if he’s going to break you. You really will go crazy, it’s a fleeting thought stolen by his cock once again, but you truly worry as he drowns you with euphoria and madness.

He’s hunched and leaning over your back, letting his tongue and teeth tease your ear so sweetly while he pounds you stupid, whispering to you things you won’t remember.

“You wanted my name so badly, didn’t you my lovely mate?” He knows you don’t understand, but it doesn’t stop him from speaking on, husky voice lulling you as you cry and lose yourself to pleasure. “I’ll tell you since you’re being so good, taking my seed so well~” he lets a little more weight settle on top of you, his cock nestling into your deepest parts with it.

“I am Avarice.”

Post dividers by @cafekitsune

[ilium-ilia]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Eleven: shear

tw: none

“What?”

It’s the only word your jittery mind can think to spew as you stare at John Price, shirtless, cornering you at your most vulnerable. Caging you like livestock. Like prey. Soft candlelight illuminates his skin—the pallid flesh that rarely sees the light of day, and the sunkissed forearms that flex as he stalks forward—but you know what lies beneath this superficial layer. This human-like facade that he so strongly carries upon his shoulders, like Jesus Christ carrying the cross that would bring his own demise. 

Masks can only stretch so far. They can cover the hair, the face, the body—but it cannot cover the soul. 

It cannot cover the cerulean of his eyes or the glint that betrays what he usually suppresses. 

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” he assures. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

There it is—finally. Your question flies off of your tongue, half-cocked and rigid as your fingers press into your shoulders, desperately attempting to save what little shreds of dignity you’re able to cling to. You watch with parted lips as John cuts through the numbra of the room, boots hitting heavy on the floor as he approaches the vanity. Sinking into the tub, you watch him from over the rim as he retrieves the washbasin. His hands cup it from the bottom, dwarfing the bowl, as he tilts his head. 

“Laswell had to step away for a moment to sort some business downstairs, and the boys all left. While I’m waiting, I figured we could visit.” He lifts the washbasin as if toasting a drink to you. “That, and I am in desperate need of a shave, little lamb.” 

Panic rises in your throat to strangle you as he steps closer, quickly closing the gap that lies between the two of you as he approaches the tub. Your hands flail, desperately covering your breasts with one arm and your sex with the other. You are shorn. Splayed out and on display, a lamb with no voice to bleat. 

Your eyes widen far enough in your skull to cause you discomfort as you witness John sink the washbasin in your bathwater, submerging it until it is full, then retrieving it. Thick drops of water splash back down as he pours out the excess, knuckles shining with thick gloss like dew. Before he returns to the vanity, he pauses to chuckle as he stares down at the bowl, then looks at you with a glistening gaze. 

“She sure went all out for you, didn’t she?” he says as he pulls a rose petal from the bowl and presents it between his forefinger and thumb. 

Tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, you watch in silence as John’s lips part. His fingers move between his teeth, pressing the rose petal into his mouth before humming, seemingly content with the flavor. You blink, flabbergasted as you watch his Adam’s apple bob while he swallows, consuming one of the few gifts you’ve been given in this ruthless world. 

“You have no courtesy!” you snap, the disconnect between your tongue and brain finally mending as your frustration boils over. 

“Sweetheart, I sincerely hope it hasn’t taken you this long to figure that much out,” John quips dully. 

Just as you go to disparage him again, John turns his back to you and you find your throat going uncharacteristically dry. Not even the dim candlelight can smother the divots in his skin—the long scars that wind like roads on a map, each with a dead end. They’re grotesque, and considerably out of place. Though John Price is a man to be reckoned with—a strong, wayward stranger who does not fear the barrel of a gun nor clenched fists—these marks are out of place on him. These were not earned through some unspeakable battle, some glorious fight. 

This was endured. This was scarcely survived. 

John plops himself down at the vanity where the candles illuminate every curve of his chest and the dark pavonine of his eyes. He makes quick work of the supplies laid out before him; complimentary items of a straight razor, clippers, and a shaving bar. He wets his face with your bathwater before lathering up the soap to apply to his throat and the apples of his cheeks, and you find yourself memorized by the strange ritual. 

You’re brought back in time several years as you watch John’s fingers glide along the flat side of the razor. When she was still alive, your mother would shave your father’s face for him on the front porch when the weather permitted. Neither of them would speak a word to one another for the duration of it. Simple gestures. Heavy sighs. Your mother would grip his face and move his head into the positions that were required to ensure she never nicked his skin—it was the only time you ever saw your father relent to anyone. 

It was the only time you ever saw a shepherd submit to his lamb. 

When it came to cleaning up the tender skin that lay along his throat, your mother always paused. Lips pressing together, eyes surveying the area, you always thought she was nervous. Scared to cause your father harm where the skin is thinnest; where the blood runs thickest. 

Now that you think of it, her thumb always pressed along the back of the blade, almost longingly. As if it were more than just a razor. A knife. 

A weapon. 

“Laswell is working on getting you a dedicated room here,” John says as he lets the foam sit on his skin. He looks strange, suddenly aged with the soap turning his facial hair white like the powdering of flour on sourdough bread. “Something a little long term until you’re able to get a place of your own. Or a husband. Whichever comes first.” 

It is a great feat for you to hold back the urge to roll your eyes at him. “Oh, how clever of you,” you mutter. 

“She’s also hosting us for dinner at her house tonight. Consider it a welcome to Grand Hollow party,” John continues as if you never spat at him at all. “I volunteered you to help with the food preparations. Figured you wouldn’t mind.” 

“Anything to get away from you.” 

John’s mirth is warm, and soft like worn leather. You watch him from the safety of your tub as he begins to work away at himself with a razor, ridding himself of the overgrown patches of hair that plague his throat and too high up on his cheeks. His neck contorts and his hand pulls the skin taut, leaving no room for his skin to catch; to knick. It’s hard to ignore the way rigid muscle moves beneath thick flesh—how his biceps curl and veins pop—but you force your gaze away in favor of bathing yourself. 

You decide that if you pretend that John Price isn’t here to witness you like this, then it’s not as much of a sin as it is. You are not being witnessed in some holy way—only bathing while a dog grooms himself on the other side of the room. Lathering your skin in more soap than is necessary, you pray that the suds that gather along the water’s surface is enough to shroud your body from impudent, prying eyes. 

Neither of you speak to one another as you complete your respective tasks, though you realize it’s difficult to keep your gaze where it ought to be. Wandering through wisps of steam, you watch him. He cleans up well—as much as you hate to admit it. Beard trimmed and shaped, his jawline grows rigid, and his eyes seem brighter. He is less wild; a tamed creature. 

As much as a wolf can be tamed, anyway. 

“Your gaze is heavy, Lamb,” John hums. Using the provided hand towel, he cleans his face of any remaining foam, wiping himself clean, before tossing it back onto the vanity and twisting to you. Somehow, his eyes feel sharper—enough to draw blood. “If your right eye causes you to stumble, pluck it out and throw it away.”

Baffled at his quote, you shake your head. “What? No, no I’d never,” you say as if insulted he would ever insinuate you would look at him in such a lascivious manner. Despite the humidity in the air, your mouth goes dry as he leans his elbow on the vanity, spine curling forward, body shrinking. “No I… forgive me, I know it isn’t right, but your back is very… peculiar.” 

Despite the weight of your words, John doesn’t flinch. Instead, he nods before leaning back to look in the mirror and continue grooming himself. Like an animal licking old wounds, he runs his fingers along his hair, smoothing down the inky strands before humming. 

“Yes. A gift from my father.” 

Stunned by his words, you blink as if that will change the course of the past, but it doesn’t. He’s still here in front of you, the most wounded you’ve ever seen him. He attempts to hold himself together, to not fall apart at the seams of each scar that lines his skin, but you see right through it. It’s the first time John Price has refused to look at you.

He’s never relented before, not like this. 

“Your father?” you repeat, nearly tripping on your words. 

John nods. “A belt if I was lucky. The buckle, if I wasn’t. His cigars when he was bored.” 

Each word he speaks brings about unwanted visions—a terrible make-believe reality that leaves a sour taste on your tongue. “Why would he do such a thing?” 

Finally—finally—John looks at you. His gaze is the softest you’ve ever seen, yet his lips are tight as he smiles. “Same reason your daddy did what he did to you. Some men love a silly book more than they do their own blood.”

Floorboards squeaking beneath his weight, John stands before stalking towards you. He does not bear his teeth at you, and still your heart thunders in your chest worse than summer rain or a horse galloping in haste. Once more your hands move to cover your body in an effort to conceal yourself, but John does not seem at all interested in your body. 

Gentle fingers that smell of warm wood brush against your bare shoulder before traversing down your arm. Your vision tunnels as you stare up at John, utterly helpless, bending to his whim as he removes your arm from the tub. You whine, and if he hears it he at least has the decency to ignore the sound as he takes your hand into his, thumbing over your knuckles one by one. 

“But you already know all about that, don’t you, love?” he muses, eyes picking apart the scars on your hands. “Preaching to the choir, so to speak.” 

Blinking, you look at where your hands are joined. He holds you similarly to how he did when you first met, collapsed next to their campfire, fresh tears still on your cheeks. “I don’t think our situations are comparable. Daddy never… never did anything like that to me.” 

“Maybe not,” John hums. When he releases your hand, his fingers trail back up your arm, over your shoulder, and along your collarbone. As he dips between your breasts—tracing your sternum—you nearly shriek. Instead of doing anything nefarious, he grabs your necklace. “Is that why you still hold onto this? Your silly god? Because you think that torment wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been?” 

You look down at yourself—at where his fingers hold the only memento that remains of your mother. “It’s my mama’s. It was, anyway. Consumption took her away from me when I was a kid. Daddy locked her up and never let me see her. Said she was too sick, and that I’d… only make it worse. This is all I have left of her. That’s why I keep it.” 

John drops the necklace back against your chest. “Do you think she went to heaven? That she’s up singing with the angels?” 

His question is facetious—and still you answer. “I hope so.” 

It’s not the correct answer. It’s the type of answer that would have your father bending you over his lap and spanking you bare with a spoon if he heard such a thing ever leave your mouth. But it’s not wrong—it’s the truth that burns in your heart where grief and hope coalesces into poison. Tongue wetting your lips, you look up at John, and you’re not sure if you’re comforted by the softness in his eyes or not. 

“I hope so,” you repeat. “I don’t think I could handle it if there was any other answer. If there’s nothing for her.” 

The two of you stare at one another for so long you think the world may have stopped moving. Wide eyes study you as if gauging how far he would have to spread his maw in order to fit you all in, to grind you between his molars until nothing but dust remains. Instead, he hums, and turns his back to you. 

“Enjoy your bath, Lamb. Don’t feel as if you have to rush.” He stoops downward, fingers snatching his discarded shirt before slipping his arms back through the sleeves and buttoning it up properly. “When you’re finished, come find Laswell and I downstairs. We’ll put you to work.” 

You’re hardly able to get a confirmation out of your throat before John flees through the door, shutting it tight behind you as if he suddenly cares about your privacy. Your bath suddenly falls quiet without a wolf to howl next to you. Swallowing the tears that threaten to surface and strangle you, you find your hand reaching up for your necklace. You clutch it close to your chest as you mull John’s words over in your mind. 

You suppose that—after all—the two of you are not too different. Both of you cry to the same moon in some capacity. 

The water has gone cold by the time you finish scrubbing yourself clean of all things that ail you. Dirt, grime, the rage of your father. When you pat yourself dry, you throw yourself into a new chemise before donning a sky blue dress and fixing yourself in the vanity. You appear like a whole new woman. Tidy, standing tall, and without a scab in sight. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you look like your mother. 

When you arrive back downstairs, you notice a glaring disturbance in the crowd that was not present when you had cut through previously. A maid huffs over what appears to be the splintered remains of a chair and fine china while a man in ragged clothes nurses a bloody nose at the bar. The chatter has quieted to dainty whispers, and everyone’s eyes shift uncomfortably the moment you enter. Deciding to keep your mouth sewn shut, you return to the back of the hotel to find John, just as you were instructed. 

Yet you hardly arrive at the door and raise your hand to knock before you’re stopped in your tracks. Hushed tones, biting words—desperation. Chagrin bleeds through the seams of the door heavy and thick like crude oil, and just as noisome. It chokes you. Freezes you in place and pries your ears open. 

“I’m sorry, John, but I can’t help you. You’re on your own for this one.” 

“Please. I need something. Someone. Just for the trip. None of the boys or I will be able to step a foot into that bank without alerting everyone in the whole goddamn town.” 

You’ve never heard John like this before; pleading. Begging. The tone sounds odd coming from him, the man who’s never been denied anything for the entirety that you’ve known him. The man who takes what he wants because he simply won’t take no for an answer. 

“Things between Shepherd and I are already shaky as is. If I send one of my own with you, at best he’ll send their head home with you, at worst he’ll level this entire building to the ground,” Laswell says, staying steadfast in her denial. 

“Don’t you understand?” He’s almost yelling, now. Words sharp like a knife, booming just as loud as the rifle he taught you to shoot—he breaths. Exhales loud enough for you to hear it. “Kate, if we break into that bank you won’t have to worry about Shepherd anymore. None of us will! This tyranny of his in Blackpeak will be over!” 

“He’s gotten stronger since you left. His manpower? Twice than what you remember it being. If you go into that city, you’ll die there, John. You, Simon, Johnny, Kyle—you’ll be lucky to return in coffins, if at all.” 

“You know better than to underestimate me,” John snaps. 

Silence. Aching, tangible quietness. It’s enough for you to hear the very blood dragging through your veins, slow and steady, like waves upon a rocky lake shore. 

“Your days of being the hero are over, John. You and I both know that. I’ll take Lamb off your hands, but I’ve got something worth sticking around for, now. I can’t throw that all away in the name of vengeance,” Laswell says firmly. 

The integrity of the upright guides them, but the crookedness of the treacherous destroys them. 

You’ve lingered too long; listened where you shouldn’t. Swallowing, you step away from the door as if you can run from the words you’ve heard, but you’re frozen in place as they rattle in your brain like screams echoing off of cave walls. Bank. Shepherd. Blackpeak. 

Well, that’s none of your business, now is it, sweetheart? 

Before you can betray them any further, you finally muster the strength to knock on the door. Silence falls faster than rain on the other side, and then feet approach. Laswell opens the door, and you sheepishly stare at her, shame evident on your face. She does nothing more than blink at you before crossing her arms. 

“John says you’re interested in helping prepare for dinner tonight,” she says. 

Eyes glancing past her, you find him sitting at the table. He leans far back in his seat with his fingers running over his freshly trimmed beard, but he does not look at you. Disappointment radiates off of him like steam from boiled water—you’re surprised he’s not as scarlet red as burning coals. 

“Yes,” you say with a decisive nod. 

“Good. Come on, let’s get you settled.” 

John does not speak a word to you as you’re led away from the door and out the building. As you step foot back onto the streets of Grand Hollow, Laswell gives you a quick rundown of your task, but most of her words seem to flow in one ear and out the other. 

Cart… Lottie… dinner… 

Your mind spins—you can feel the very earth give way beneath your feet. There are too many people around you, too many smells. All the love of a small town has vanished but the filth remains. Beggars line several corners on the street, children peddle newspapers, women sneak men into shady buildings—Everything is grey. Terribly grey with man made structures, stone lined streets, russet brown buildings—where are the flowers? Like the ones your mother planted? You begin to think it may have been better to stay home. At least your father’s violence is predictable, and the streets smell familiar. 

“Hey, are you listening to me?” 

Laswell’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts and back into your body. You’re standing on the corner of a street with a topless carriage awaiting you. Blinking, you bring your attention to the woman before you and swallow. 

“Sorry, I…”

“I understand. Must be a lot for a country bumpkin like you to take in,” Laswell humors. Giving you a soft smile, she gestures to the carriage behind her. “My driver will take you to the house. You’ll find Lottie there, and I’m sure she’ll have plenty of work for you to do. The boys and I will be back around six for supper.” 

You nod. “Yes. Alright, that will work. Thank you so much, again. For everything.” 

Uninterested in your praises, she waves you off and motions for you to climb into the carriage. The driver does not turn to greet you, but nods when Laswell barks portarla a casa. Sighing, you settle back into the seat just as the horses begin to move forward, jostling the carriage as the wheels squeak into motion. 

Just as you turn your head to watch Laswell fade away into the crowd, something catches your eye. Parchment. Thick paper. Black ink. There, sketched into a small box, you see the unmistakable features of John’s face pinned to a wooden board. The curve of his nose, the budding apples of his cheeks, the sharp cut of his beard—the only thing missing is the hue of his eyes. That blue that contends with the sky above your head and all the paintings you’ve ever seen of the sea. He’s nestled between various other pieces of paper that jitter in the wind, and the confusion almost makes it impossible to decipher what the poster even is. 

But then, you see it. The words. Your stomach twists as you read them—over and over and over again—before the carriage takes you too far and it fades in the distance. 

WANTED: JOHN PRICE DEAD OR ALIVE FOR THE BLACKPEAK COAL MINE SLAUGHTER

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[coca-cola-brainstorm]

Stronger in the dark

prologue:

When it was just you and your mom, she seemed different. Perhaps she was exhausted because she had to do everything alone. You didn’t know your dad—your mom once shared that he didn’t want you in his life. She had a past as a dancer, and he believed she was just trying to take advantage of him for his money. The day she confided in him about this was the last time he ever saw her face to face.

At first, Greg didn’t seem so bad; he knew what he was signing up for when he started dating your mom. The excitement of their marriage brought a new spark to your life—having a dad was something you had yearned for, and for a while, everything felt like a fairytale. Laughter filled the house, and happy memories were made.

But like many good things, that happiness began to wane. The warning signs were there: the subtle cracks in their relationship slowly became more obvious. You noticed your mom starting to wear down, her smile fading a little more with each passing day. The nights were filled with hushed, tense arguments that seeped through the walls, creeping into your dreams.

It felt as if she were transforming before your eyes, becoming a stranger in her own home. Every change chipped away at the warmth you once felt, leaving you in a whirlwind of confusion and sadness.

You could sense that something was off; you noticed the little twitches she would make. Some days were manageable, while others felt overwhelming. Greg got worse—his anger seemed to boil over at the slightest thing. You grew up quickly because you had no choice; you learned to take care of yourself. Just like your mother before you, you didn’t rely on anyone else.

Years sped by, and by the time you turned twelve, life in Gotham had woven a complex web around you. Your mom was a ghost in the house—physically present but emotionally distant, consumed by her own struggles. You learned to navigate the world largely on your own, spending long hours in the shadows of your cluttered home, your academic achievements a protective facade against the chaos outside.

Gotham was a harsh, unforgiving place, where survival often meant making choices that blurred the lines between right and wrong. You had become adept at fitting in with the city's underbelly, taking on questionable jobs that required a cunning mind and quick feet. Each task was just another means to get by—a way to blend into the background of a city that thrived on secrecy and subterfuge.

Your small frame was both a blessing and a curse; it allowed you to move stealthily through crowded streets, slipping unnoticed through the cracks of society. With nimble fingers and an instinct for evasion, you learned to dodge the watchful eyes of those around you, honing your skills in a world where the difference between safety and peril was razor-thin. Yet, beneath the surface, the weight of your choices lingered, a reminder of the reality you faced in a city that rarely offered a way out.

You had witnessed Gotham endure its fair share of hardships, but at that time, you still felt invincible in your youth. Then, everything changed in an instant when tragedy struck: your mother died from an overdose. The funeral was a blur, a hurried affair devoid of warmth or healing. You didn’t cry; in fact, you felt a strange detachment, as if the woman who had brought you into this world was a stranger. You had long stopped calling her “Mom,” instead settling on a cold, clinical distance that mirrored your fractured relationship.

It was as though she had vanished from your life long before that fateful day, fading into the shadows of neglect and chaos. Your stepfather seemed equally indifferent; he moved through life like a ghost, often present at home but never truly there. When you crossed paths with him, he offered nothing more than a dismissive glance, and you had come to accept that silence as a comfort rather than a burden.

You learned to exist in your own bubble, navigating the world independently, because relying on anyone else felt like a weakness. You didn't need him or your mother; you had forged a path for yourself in this unforgiving city, believing that self-sufficiency was the only way to survive. The scars of loss and neglect had made you resilient, but they also left you feeling isolated in a world that continued to spin around you, indifferent to your struggles.

You made it a priority to take care of yourself, regardless of the circumstances surrounding you. The nature of your jobs often lingered in the shadows—some were shady and perilous, filled with risks that could leave you bruised or worse. There were nights when desperation drove you to steal, taking what you needed to survive and thrive. Despite the precarious path you walked, you operated in a way that kept you under the radar; no one ever caught you in the act. Yet, that didn’t mean you were invisible. People noticed you. The local law enforcement was all too familiar with your name and face, and the city’s criminals recognized you as well, aware of your resourcefulness and endurance. You navigated this world with skill, knowing that both sides kept their distance, intrigued but cautious of your determined nature.

Years passed, and you were now sixteen, navigating the gritty landscape of Gotham City. It was an ordinary day, the kind that blurred together in your memory—a typical school day that surprised even you with your decision to attend. As the final bell rang, the familiar rush of students pouring out of the building filled the air, but you lingered for a moment, feeling a gnawing hunger in the pit of your stomach.

Stepping onto the bustling streets, the scent of street vendors and distant coffee wafted toward you, teasing your senses. You wandered aimlessly, the chaos of Gotham all around you, the sounds of honking cars and distant sirens muffled by your racing thoughts. With little money to spare and an insatiable craving for something to eat, you slipped into your usual habit. Being a bit of a kleptomaniac, you navigated through the market stalls and shops, your heart racing as you discreetly snatched a few items—some snacks here, a soda there.

In the back of your mind, you believed your actions were unnoticed; after all, Gotham was a city where shadows could easily swallow a person whole. But that day, you felt a prickling sense of unease, an instinct whispering that you were not as invisible as you thought. As you turned to leave, the sensation of being watched hit you with sudden clarity, and you realized—perhaps you weren't as stealthy as you believed.

As you stepped out of the store, a wave of adrenaline coursed through you, but before you could fully process it, reality struck hard – you were under arrest. The chaos unfolded in a blur. Perhaps the thrill of getting away with it too many times had dulled your senses, or maybe you had simply let your guard down, becoming too comfortable with your choices.

Once at the precinct, the heavy door clanged shut behind you, echoing the finality of your situation as they ushered you into a cell. You felt a strange calmness wash over you. Handcuffs were not new to you; you had danced this dance before. As you peered through the bars, you recognized several faces among the officers; some were familiar from your previous encounters, while others eyed you with a mix of boredom and judgment.

Then, one officer approached you, a noticeable figure in the sea of uniforms—Officer Gordon. His presence felt oddly familiar. You had crossed paths with him on multiple occasions in Gotham; he was always earnest, often attempting to steer you toward the right path. His gentle nudges to pursue an education and make better choices rang in your ears, a stark contrast to the cold steel of your current reality. In that moment, you could see the disappointment in his eyes, and it made you question just how far you had strayed from the dreams you once held.

He leaned forward, curiosity etched across his face as he asked you a series of questions about school. You forced a smile, lying through your teeth, claiming that everything was going well, even though the truth was that you rarely attended. When he inquired if there was anyone who could come to pick you up, you hesitated for a moment before mentioning your stepdad’s name. However, deep down, you knew he wouldn’t be able to help since he hadn’t answered his phone all day. The atmosphere grew heavier as the situation turned serious; they proceeded to explain the necessity of conducting a blood test to verify your identity, a routine but unsettling requirement that left you feeling more isolated than ever.

You didn’t care much in that moment. You figured Officer Gordon wouldn’t find anyone significant, or if he did, they could simply swing by, scoop you up, and you’d go your separate ways without a second thought. The tension in the room was palpable as you waited for the test results. When they finally came back, Officer Gordon’s expression shifted—it was a mix of surprise and concern. He quickly excused himself to make a phone call, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts.

Minutes later, he returned, his demeanor more serious than before. “Your father is on his way to pick you up,” he informed you, and you felt a flicker of anticipation, expecting it to be Greg. But when the door swung open, it wasn’t Greg who stepped inside. Instead, it was Bruce Wayne, a figure who radiated an air of authority and confidence, instantly transforming the mundane atmosphere into something charged with weighty implications. Your heart raced as you absorbed the reality of the moment.

[mariacallous]

Delve into the gripping and eye-opening world of Men Who Hate Women, as acclaimed feminist writer Laura Bates presents an unflinching examination of the pervasive misogyny that plagues our society.

In this thought-provoking and meticulously researched book, Bates fearlessly uncovers the dark underbelly of a deeply entrenched issue, shining a spotlight on the various manifestations of misogyny that continue to harm women worldwide. With razor-sharp insight, she navigates the complex web of toxic masculinity, gender biases, and harmful stereotypes that reinforce damaging attitudes toward women.

Through extensive interviews, real-life stories, and compelling statistics, Men Who Hate Women unveils the deeply disturbing prevalence of sexism in everyday life, challenging us to confront uncomfortable truths and reevaluate our collective responsibility in fostering a more equitable world.

This powerful work not only serves as an eye-opener but also as a call to action. Bates thoughtfully explores ways we can all contribute to dismantling the patriarchal structures that enable misogyny to thrive. By empowering readers with knowledge and understanding, she paves the path for meaningful change.

Key Topics Explored:

Toxic masculinity and its consequences

Online harassment and cyberbullying

Sexist tropes in media and entertainment

Workplace discrimination and the gender pay gap

Rape culture and victim-blaming

Intersectionality and its impact on marginalized communities

Men Who Hate Women is an essential read for anyone seeking to comprehend the deep-rooted issues affecting women's lives and striving to build a more inclusive, just and equal future.

[the-dragon-hearted]

Part 1

There is a universe, somehow, where everything aligned just perfectly and left four desperate children on Silco's doorstep. A universe where Piltover is just a bit more ruthless: where Vander's connections aren't trustworthy and where his foolish sentimentality wins.

Vander's arrested, in Vi's place. He's so proud of her for trying to do the right thing - but he'll not make a sacrifice out of Felicia's daughter. The violence in the streets has to stop and Piltover won't stop until it has someone to blame for the theft. So the Hound becomes a sacrificial lamb.

But remember, his agreements are flimsier, and the trust between enforcer and undercity is as thin as the razor blade Mylo keeps in his pocket. The gold-trimmed enforcers aren't happy with a Hound dressed in wool - they want the girl. The one Jayce identified. Some pink-haired snot-nosed filthy brat. The thief. The terrorist.

They labeled her a terrorist: Vi. For a near-harmless explosion in a district she would've been beaten in, just for the grime in her hair.

And the Hound won't have that.

For the second time in his life, Vander's knuckles are stained with enforcer blood and the undercity begins to burn. Vi's next to him, eager to fight, but scared. She's just a kid after all. Always eager. Always scared.

Claggor, Mylo, and Powder come running as they limp back to the Last Drop. Powder's too busy crying into Vi's shirt to pay much attention to the screams outside. Reinforcements are just a few minutes away. The rats of the undercity retreat to spare themselves from the brutality beneath an enforcer's heel and the streets grow quieter and quieter. They all know how to slip away when the time demands it, but this is more than sneaking through the sewers and waiting for the storm to pass.

The enforcers, the council, Piltover: they'll keep coming. The blood on Vander and Vi's hands ensures that much. And they don't want him -

He looks to where Vi is hugging Powder back, a: "Sorry Powpow," being breathed. "Didn't mean to scare you -"

He can't let that happen. He can make himself the bigger problem - the biggest threat and that will buy the kids time and give those rich bastards a victory.

But then... it'll just be them.

Claggor's strong, Mylo's sly, Powder's clever, and Vi is brave. They're all tough as nails and they'll make it. At least until this underbelly starts ripping itself around. Vander's a smart man who knows what will happen in his absence, the cannibalistic tendencies of desperate people who need scapegoats.

And Vi's already willing to play the martyr. She proved that much. No, if he leaves he needs to leave them with something. Anything. Something that's as willing to fight for their future as...

That's when he gets the terrible idea. Right around the same time he hears the tell-tale racket of enforcers running down cobblestone. He grabs a bar napkin, and Claggor bars the door. He fumbles messily around for a piece of graphite or a damned pen.

Vi pushes Powder behind her and grabs a half-empty bottle from a table. There's a shatter as she arms herself with razor glass. These kids are well versed at making weapons, they have to be.

They'll only get better at it if he finishes this note. He's signing their lives away to a different demon. There's no guarantee they'll live long enough to give him the note. It's a terrible idea -

"I'll never betray Zaun's children"

Powder's climbing behind the bar with him, clinging to his leg. Mylo climbs over the other side, fiddling with a collection of rusty steak knives. Claggor's grabbed a chair and broke it, two wooden beams in either hand.

Suffocating in the streets is better than dying on a bridge.

"Take this," he gives it to Vi before slipping on his knuckles. "Find Silco. Ask around, and he'll find you."

"What?" it's a challenge from her. She's ready to fight to keep what she has.

She doesn't realize that every fight comes with a loss. And eventually, it's going to take everything from her. Once you bloody those knuckles you never stop - not really.

But not today. Today it'll only take him, and hopefully, she'll remember what they talked about. She'll remember that despite this shitshow - he's proud of her for finding a peaceful solution. He's proud of her for putting down those fists.

But there was no way in hell he was going to let her go.

"Take care of each other," he orders slipping on his other gauntlet. Mylo and Powder stare at him with wide eyes. Claggor's lip is trembling.

"Remember. Remember, to look out for each other!" he orders.

"No!" Powder seems to understand now as Vander pulls the bracings away from the door. She scrambles over the bar with a muffled wail. Mylo stops her right as Vander throws the door open.

"Vander!" Vi screams, but the hound is loose.

He's in the streets and he's set about making these fools remember why they follow the light. Why they fear the undercity so badly they chase its children to sate their fury. Dark things live in the undercity. Zaun's children are raised in air so heavy it turns their lungs to iron. Her streets sharpen their teeth and build calluses over their knuckles until the only thing they feel is the warm crimson in their wake.

Vander had hoped he'd never do this - be this. But jaws shatter under his fist faster than glasses fill with his whiskey. He's good at this. Always has been. The kids slip away - he knows that much.

Everything else is a bit of a blur. He glimpses Ekko, once, on the rooftops. The boy heads after the other four and Vander is thankful for that. Benzo didn't survive the first wave... he doesn't have much chance to reflect on that because there's another enforcer in his grip and a new scream in the air.

He buys the kids plenty of time. Too much time.

Enough time for all of Zaun to hear the news: the Hound's fighting back! Five enforcers are dead! Six! Ten! Enough time for Vi and Mylo to find their informants.

Silco isn't exactly a subtle name. He's well hidden, that's true, but a familiar blond limped his way over to one of the abandoned warehouses after Vi kicked the shit out of him. Word on the street is that he's in with someone named Silco. Doesn't mean much to the informant or to Vi.

It's enough. They slip into one of Zaun's many industrial districts just as Vander finally falls.

Piltover's attack dogs got him - they would eventually, he knew that much. A wild hound is fierce but numbers always win. Part of him's happy to die on familiar cobblestones. Better than the cool stone of prison - better than anything Piltover had in mind for him. This way, the kids would know what happened to him. They wouldn't do anything stupid.

Well... they'd probably still do some stupid things. He coughed out a laugh, blood hacking out of his lungs as it all began to fade. Good. They deserved to be a bit stupid. They were kids...

Just kids.

Hopefully, Silco remembers that...

Silco? Oh, Silco remembers. He'd been making a plan revolving around that. Kids are foolish. Kids are loyal. Children are painfully easy to manipulate and kill. Children are easy to make disappear.

Killing Vander and his children was quite literally on his upcoming schedule. It was going to be a glorious sort of revenge, making Vander watch it happen - helpless to stop it as he drowned in his own pacifism. It was going to be inhumane. The final nail in Silco's old coffin.

So pardon him for taking a moment to stare at the victims delivered to his doorstep. Half of him wants to laugh. The other half feels like he's been shoved back into that damn river.

The children only stare back, wide-eyed and curious. Scared too... haunted in some wonderfully poetic way.

"Can I help you?" Silco demands cooly after his disbelief has been satiated.

The pink one steps forward, naturally. She's Vander's little favorite, his poster child: basically a replica. Taking charge is probably laced in her veins.

She hands him a napkin.

"He told us to come here," she breathes, and it almost sounds like a prayer.

Silco cannot focus on anything but the napkin.

"Well... not here," the wily boy in the back disagrees slowly as he gives a scathing glance to a dead mouse in the corner. "He told us to find you."

Silco watches them carefully and then unfolds the napkin. If this is a trap it's ridiculous and definitely not Vander's idea. Perhaps these children are simply suicidal - or stupid.

He reads it.

Pauses. Reads it again.

He glances to that pink one again: Violet. Felicia's daughter. The other one is to her right, clinging to the elder's bruised knuckles. Powder... right?

Mylo. And Claggor.

Vander's children.

Vander's children!

He reads it one more time.

"It is kind of messy," Claggor's sheepish tone contradicts his appearance sharply. "He was in a rush -"

"I can read it," Silco snarls. He whirls around and plunges further into the bowels of the warehouse.

The children follow, blindly. Because they were told to. They follow the devil into his den because Vander told them to.

Why Silco let them, he'll never be able to explain. Never. Why he didn't finish was Vander started: destroy all remnants of their old life, including those damned children - he'll never say.

He can't. Because Vander sent him his children and a note. It changes nothing.

Except it changes everything.

[littlefireball]

Hii, can I request Joong/woo/yuyu/hwa w a doctor au something not necessarily smut

first time to write something fluffy 😗

ʏʜ|ɪ'ᴍ ʜᴇʀᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜ (ꜰ)

ᴇʟꜰ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ ʏᴜɴʜᴏ x ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ʜᴜɴᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ʙᴀᴛᴛʟᴇ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2.2ᴋ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴏꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏᴜɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ꜰᴀʟʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀᴛʜꜱ ᴄʀᴏꜱꜱᴇᴅ

Masterlist

Yunho meticulously organized his gear for another expedition into the forest to collect medicinal plants, driven by the recent surge in demand due to troubling events in nearby villages. Studying his list, he felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume needed, especially with many volunteers depleting local vegetation.

"Come on, keep going, Yunho!" he urged himself, noting that the remaining plants were deep in the Eastern woods, home to dangerous creatures. Doubt crept in, but he steeled his resolve; he was the bravest at the hospital, and if he didn't take the risk, no one would.

With determination, he hoisted his pack and ventured into the Far East Forest. The cheerful sounds of nature faded into an eerie silence, broken only by his footsteps. The air thickened with the scent of damp soil and rare plants as he scanned the underbrush for the herbs he desperately needed. As time passed and the sun set, his pulse quickened at the sight of the first hint of the rare herb.

Out of the darkness emerged six massive monsters, their eyes glowing with a fierce intensity. Yunho froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He had heard tales of these beasts. The monster tensed, ready to pounce. But before they could strike, you rushed from nowhere and lunged forward, swaying your long blade and plunged it into the monster's side, striking true.

"You…" you spun around, your gaze icy and fierce. "This forest is dangerous;how can you come alone? Leave immediately." "And what of you?" he inquired. "I am unscathed. Just go." "What? You're injured." "I said…!"

The abrupt onslaught of a colossal black monster silenced your voice, as you fought to wield the long sword gripped tightly in your hand. The blade grazed its underbelly, yet in that same moment, its razor-sharp claws raked across your arm. Blood from both of you erupted, mingling in a chaotic dance, rendering it impossible to discern the source. Vivid crimson splattered across the forest floor, while the nauseating scent of blood permeated the air, enveloping the surroundings in a macabre embrace.

Yunho's heart leapt into his throat as he watched you struggle against the massive black monster, your movements now fueled by sheer determination and adrenaline. Despite the gushing wounds on your body, you stood tall, unyielding, your sword a blur of silver as it clashed against the beast's jaws.

"Run!" "I cannot leave you like this!" Yunho declared, springing into action. While his expertise did not lie in the arcane arts of battle, he possessed a modicum of knowledge. He lifted the sword, channeling his energy into the blade, which shimmered with a radiant golden hue.

"Stand back!" You instinctively averted your gaze as he hurled the sword with precision, embedding it directly into the monster's brow.The creature let out a deafening howl of pain and collapsed to the ground, twitching in its final moments.

"Tsk…" Yunho observed the tremor in your hand, a testament to the agony coursing through you, as numerous jagged wounds marred your skin.

You swayed, your strength fading fast. Yunho rushed to your side, supporting you as you stumbled. "You saved me," he said, his voice laced with gratitude. "I should be thanking you, not the other way around."

"It's nothing," you replied, your voice weak. "Don't speak, let me help you."

—---

The tantalizing scent of culinary delights wafts through the air, stirring you from your slumber. Time seems irrelevant as you awaken, your body heavy with fatigue and discomfort. You find yourself cocooned in an adorable quilt, clearly designed for a child, infused with the invigorating essence of blooming flowers. Just as you prepare to rise, a sharp, searing pain grips your abdomen, causing you to wince in agony. Glancing down, you notice blood seeping from the bandaged injury once more.

"Hold on, hold on! You mustn't leave the bed!" Yunho hurriedly approached, setting down a bowl as he rushed to your side, gently urging you to recline. "Oh my goodness, your wound has reopened. Let me help you"

Just as he reached to loosen your bandage, you halted him with a firm grip. "What are you doing?" you inquired, a hint of apprehension in your voice. "Calm down. I'm merely here to assist you," he replied soothingly. Despite your confusion, your hands remained firmly clasped around his wrist.

"If you continue to bleed, you might lose consciousness again." His words prompted you to reluctantly release your hold, allowing him to tend to your wounds. With a delicate touch, he worked to stem the bleeding, his fingers grazing a small pouch of healing powder. Without a moment's hesitation, he sprinkled it over your injuries, intent on halting the crimson flow.

"Who are you?" you asked, your curiosity getting the better of you. "I've never seen anyone like you in these woods before."

He hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. "I'm Yunho," he introduced himself. "I'm a healer from the nearby town. I came here to gather medicinal herbs for the sick."

"Then what about you? Why are you here?"

"My name is Y/N," you said. "I've been living in these woods for as long as I can remember. I've learned to fend for myself, to survive." Yunho nodded, understanding now why you were so skilled in combat.

"You shouldn't come to the forest alone. It's dangerous." You warned. "But what about you? You're alone, too." "I'm different. I can fight with those monsters." "But you faint. What if I am not here?" "I…I can leave by myself." "Don't do something silly and dangerous." He patted your head as a small punishment, making you pout. "Okay, done." He stood up straight and brought you the bowl. "Eat. You may feel better." You looked at the disgusting green soup, feeling nausea. How can you eat this?

"Hmm…I have to eat this…?" "Yes. It's good for you." He knelt down to keep eye level with you, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you like the kid in the hospital who refuses to take medicine?" "I am not a kid!" "Then eat the soup. It's not bitter~" You pouted and looked at him with bubba eyes. He found you so adorable, a blush even creeping up on his ears. "Do you want me to feed you?" "No, no,no! I eat it myself."

You reluctantly picked up the spoon and brought it to your lips, taking a tentative sip of the green soup. To your surprise, it wasn't as bad as you had anticipated. In fact, it had a subtle sweetness that lingered on your tongue, masking any hint of bitterness. Yunho watched you with a small smile, clearly pleased that you were finding the concoction palatable.

"See? I told you it wasn't so bad," he said, his voice warm and reassuring. "This soup is made with herbs I gathered specifically for your injuries. It will help you heal faster."

You nodded, taking another sip, and then another, until the bowl was empty. As the warmth of the soup spread through your body, you felt a sense of calm wash over you, easing the ache in your abdomen and the fatigue that had been weighing you down.

"Thank you," you said, looking up at Yunho with gratitude. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

"It's what I do," he replied, shrugging. "Helping others is my purpose. But you should be more careful in the future. The forest is full of dangers, and not everyone is as skilled as you are in defending themselves."

As you lay back down, Yunho began to gather his things, preparing to leave. "I should get back to the town," he said. "There are more sick people who need my help."

"Wait," you stopped him. "Maybe you can go back tomorrow morning. The monsters are active at night." Yunho nodded, and put his bag back to the ground.

"By the way, where are we now?" "It's an abandoned wooden house, I don't know. But I remember how to get back." "Good to hear." Even though you find yourself in an unfamiliar environment with an unknown companion by your side, a surprising sense of comfort washes over you. Perhaps it's the warmth of companionship that breaks through the solitude you've grown accustomed to, reminding you of the joy of being cared for after so much time spent alone.

"Are you really human?" Yunho asked, lifting the glass of water and setting it gently on the coffee table nearby before easing himself into a chair. "Hmmm…only partially," you murmured, your gaze dropping. "I'm a dragon hybrid…" "A dragon?!" he exclaimed, eyes wide. "Relax, I'm not here to snack on humans." You straightened up, a thrill of excitement coursing through you, but in your eagerness, you inadvertently aggravated your injury.

"Easy, easy." Yunho swiftly moved to your side to assist you in reclining gently. "I'm not scared of you. Just caught off guard. I thought dragons were just tales." "I don't have any dragon features, no claws, no tail, no wings. So I was expelled. I saw this wood as my home and I promise to protect it." "I'm sorry to hear that." "It's fine."

"I'm not human either!" You gazed at him as he posted comically. "I'm spider-man, whiz~" He bent over the ground, mimicking the sound of shooting spider webs to make you laugh. "Okay, kidding. I am an elf actually." "I know." You cried out because you laughed so hard. "I know when you used the magic."

"Oh really?" Yunho grinned, his heart lifting at the sight of your smile. Even though this was your first encounter, an unexpected connection sparked between you, igniting a warmth deep within. As the days rolled by, you discovered a swift recovery, aided by Yunho's comforting soup and your own inner strength. With each passing moment, the bond between you deepened, hinting at a soulmate connection, though the truth remained unspoken.

On the day he left, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, intricately carved wooden pendant. "Take this," he said, placing it in your hand. "It's a token of my gratitude for your help today. If you ever need me, just hold it and call my name. I'll come as soon as I can."

You looked down at the pendant, feeling a sense of warmth and comfort emanating from it. "Thank you," you said, slipping it around your neck. "I'll take good care of it." You continued to explore the forest, always keeping the pendant close to your heart.

You would find him.

—----

"Hey, bbyongming, climb down from the tree." "Sandeoki, don't bite hetmongi!" "Wooyonyang, give it back to ddeongbyeoli!" Yunho found himself immersed in the demanding task of caring for the children, a pursuit that left him extremely exhausted. Despite the modest number of eight little ones, the challenge was formidable, particularly considering they disobey at all.

"YAHHH!" Yunho couldn't help but growl and guess what? They stopped for a second and kept playing. "Fine. I'm done." As he sat down on the sofa, he heard a special voice calling his name─your voice.

"Y/N?" He rushed to the door and found you standing in the clearing. "I felt your call," he said, rushing towards you. "Are you alright?"

You smiled, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "I'm fine," you said. "I'm here as a gift." "Gift?" "Yah. You saved my life and I naturally repay you." Yunho smiled back, his eyes shining with warmth and kindness. "But how can you find me?" "Your scent." "Huh?" "I mean your necklace, it tells me." "Oh yeah. It has my scent. Want to have a seat?" He rubbed his hands nervously and his ears turned red again. "Sure."

It was evident that he was not extending an invitation for you to sit, yet you found yourself assisting him with the children. They were all hybrids, to which you were surprised, though they were unlike your own kind. Had you not spent an extensive time hunting in the forest, your energy reserves would surely have been insufficient. Nevertheless, they were so adorable, particularly that black cat named Wooyonyang, who seemed to cling to you. Now, you recline against the sofa, seated on the floor, observing the peaceful slumber of the little ones at your feet.

"You are so good, Y/N!They all listen to you.." Yunho remarked, drawing near enough for his shoulder to brush against yours. "Perhaps it's because I am hybrid, too.." You felt an overwhelming fatigue, as if merely keeping your eyes open drained every ounce of your energy. "Maybe you should visit more often… Y/N?" Yunho sensed a gentle pressure on his shoulder, discovering you drifted to sleep, resting against him.

He gazed at your visage with adoration, captivated by your exquisite beauty. The gentle rays of the setting sun caressed your skin, casting a delicate luminescence that was a world apart from the first moment he laid eyes on you. Your enchanting scent enveloped him, igniting an irresistible fascination. He leaned in once more, drawing near enough to savor the warmth of your breath. He cupped your face, gazing at your rosy lips, slowly got closer and pressed his lips against yours.

"I'm here for you, no matter what." He murmured, parting from your lips. But before he wanted to kiss you again, a shout cut off him. "AHH!!Dr.Yunho kissed Y/N!!" "WHAT?" Sandeoki and Wooyonyang shouted together, making everybody awake.

Okay, now Yunho just wanted to kill them.

[pxnsneverland]

Something Immortal | Biker!Austin Butler x OC (part 5)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13

plot summary: In the gritty underbelly of a city ruled by werewolf biker gangs, Austin Butler reigned supreme as the ruthless leader of his pack. A man of unwavering ferocity, he lied, killed, and stole without remorse, living by a code of violence that defined his kind. Yet, even Austin harbored a secret weakness – his childhood friend Bonnie Barlow, the one woman he had loved in silence for years. Bonnie's father had once been part of Austin's gang, but after his death, she fled the treacherous world of the werewolves, unable to stomach the endless cycle of crime and brutality. For five years, she remained a fugitive from her own nature, until a fateful night when her life took an irreversible turn. Freshly released from a two-year prison stint, Austin returned to his pack, reveling in the debauchery of their den. But his revelry was cut short by a frantic call from Bonnie, pleading for his aid. Rushing to her side, he uncovered a grim truth – in a desperate act of self-defense against her abusive boyfriend, Bonnie had taken a life, awakening the dormant werewolf within her. As the next full moon loomed, she would undergo her first agonizing transformation, a fate she had always dreaded. Defying the pack's ruthless code, Austin sheltered Bonnie, guiding her through the excruciating metamorphosis that tore through her body each lunar cycle. In the depths of her torment, their bond rekindled, blossoming into a love they had long suppressed. Nights of shared laughter and reminiscence gave way to stolen moments of tenderness, their connection deepening with every passing moon. Yet, their newfound bliss was a fragile thing, forever threatened by the harsh realities that governed their world. For Bonnie was branded a deserter, her very existence a betrayal in the eyes of the pack. If Austin's treachery was uncovered, retribution would be swift and merciless.

pairings: biker!austin butler x oc

word count: 2116

warnings/notes: little steamy :)

Chapter 5: Unveiling Shadows

Jerry's fingers drummed an erratic rhythm on the worn bar top, creating a staccato beat that echoed through the dimly lit bar. An unsettling feeling clung to him like the mist that crept in with the evening tide, shrouding the city in a cloak of mystery and intrigue. There was something off about Austin, something hidden beneath the carefully constructed veneer of normalcy, and it gnawed at Jerry's insides.

"Something ain't right," Jerry muttered under his breath, his gut instincts screaming at him to pay attention to this nagging doubt. It felt like a splinter under his skin, impossible to ignore or shake off.

He needed someone who could see through the fog, someone cunning and unburdened by ties of close friendship. Victor "Viper" Sanchez came to mind—a man whose nickname forewarned his lethal bite. Viper was a shadow among their gang, always lurking on the outskirts, observing and waiting for his moment to strike out for a better position.

Jerry made his way over to Victor, who as usual, was lingering in the shadows of the bar. He was halfway through his second pint of beer but still appeared razor-sharp and alert. When Jerry approached, Victor looked up at him with a sly grin.

"Talk to me," Victor's voice slithered like a serpent, smooth and expectant.

"Viper, I need your eyes on someone. Discreetly," Jerry stated bluntly, wasting no time on pleasantries.

"Got a mouse scurrying in your pantry, huh?" Victor chuckled, but there was no amusement behind it. "Who's the target?"

"Austin," Jerry replied, tightening his grip on his own bottle of beer. "There's something he's not telling us."

"Intriguing." The word rolled off Victor's tongue like a predator sizing up its prey. "And what's in it for me?"

"Find out what he's hiding, and you move up. You have my word on that," Jerry offered, knowing all too well the currency of ambition among their kind.

A brief pause, then, "Consider it done. I'll sniff out whatever secrets he's burying."

"Good," Jerry responded with a curt nod. Victor was a serpent, but for now, he was Jerry's serpent. Until they knew what lurked behind Austin's carefully constructed walls, this alliance was necessary.

Austin led Bonnie through the thickening woods, his footsteps barely making a sound against the undergrowth. The air was crisp and filled with the rich scent of pine and damp earth, the moonlight casting a silvery glow through the tangle of branches overhead. He carried a worn backpack on his shoulder, packed tightly with all the necessary items for Bonnie's transformation that was to come.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Bonnie's voice trembled as she glanced at the darkening sky. With each step, she could feel the pull of the moon, like an insistent tide against her senses.

"Bonnie," Austin said, slowing his pace and turning to face her, "I've done this more times than I can count. We're going to be fine."

His hand found hers, warm and comforting.

She managed to nod, but her breaths were shallow and choppy with anxiety. The inner beast within her was restless, pacing like a caged animal awaiting its release.

As they walked, Austin began recounting memories from their childhood, his voice a soothing melody that contrasted the wildness stirring within her. "Remember when we built that fort out of fallen branches? You insisted it was our secret base, impervious to all attacks."

A faint smile crossed Bonnie's lips. "And Jerry tried to barge in, and you stood at the entrance like some kind of pint-sized warrior king."

"Nobody breached Fort Bonnie while I was on watch," Austin said with a hint of playful pride. He squeezed her hand gently. "Just like nobody is getting past me tonight. You have my word."

The memories washed over Bonnie like a warm wave, each one a testament to the bond they shared. There had been scraped knees, stolen cookies, whispered secrets beneath the stars. And now, as night descended upon them, Bonnie realized something crucial: Austin had always been her shield, her unwavering guardian against the chaos of the world—and of herself.

"Thank you," she whispered, feeling the weight of her own vulnerability and the depth of his loyalty. "For everything."

"Always, Bonnie," he said simply, his gaze never leaving hers. "We'll face the moon together."

As they approached the old bomb shelter, a remnant from a bygone era, fear and gratitude warred within Bonnie. But as they stepped into its shadow, built to withstand disasters of a very different kind, she felt a surge of courage. No matter what the night would bring, she wouldn't face it alone. Austin stood by her side, just as he always had, ready to weather any storm.

Austin's muscles strained as he pushed open the heavy door of the shelter, its creaking groan echoing through the empty room. The only light came from a single lantern, casting flickering shadows over the stark concrete walls. The room was barren except for the cold metal hooks that protruded like statues, waiting to fulfill their duty.

"Here," Austin said, his voice low and urgent as he picked up one of the chains lying in the corner. "We need to do this now before the moon rises any higher."

Bonnie's heart fluttered in her chest, torn between a primal yearning for freedom and a deep-seated dread of what was to come. She held out her arm to him, feeling the cold metal of the shackle clamp around her wrist with an eerie finality.

"I still remember my first transformation," Austin whispered as he secured another shackle around her other wrist. "I was so scared, didn't know what to expect. But my father was there, just like I'm here for you. Although I won’t be yelling at you to suck it up."

Their eyes met, and Bonnie saw a reflection of their shared past in Austin's gaze—the pain, the struggle, but also the unspoken bond they had always shared. "It's hard, chaining up your own kin knowing what they're about to endure. But it's necessary for our safety. First transformations are always the hardest."

As Bonnie listened to his voice, filled with understanding and compassion, she felt a pang of guilt twist in her gut. It had been five years since she left without a word, abandoning not just her family but also her identity and heritage.

"Austin," she began hesitantly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry—for leaving, for not explaining why. I thought I was protecting myself from... this." She gestured helplessly towards the chains that now bound her. “I couldn’t face it. I knew what my father did. I had heard the stories of the blood and the murders and the news reports of animal attacks. I never wanted to become like that, but Dad always said I wouldn’t be able to control it once I turned.” She looked down at her hands, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable.

"I thought if I just ran away...I could escape it all. Go somewhere where no one knew me, where there were no gangs or werewolves."

Austin finished securing the last shackle and stood up, facing her with a mix of hurt and forgiveness in his expression. It was a tapestry woven together with threads of time and affection.

"Bonnie, when you left, it felt like a piece of me was torn away. It hurt, a lot." He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face with gentle fingers. "But deep down, I knew you had your reasons." His voice was soft and filled with understanding. "And I would have waited for you. Another 20 years if that's what it took."

In the cold shelter, bound by chains, Bonnie felt an unexpected warmth bloom in her chest. No matter how far she had run or how long she had been gone, the bond between her and Austin remained unbreakable. It was a love that transcended distance and time—patient, enduring, and unconditional. And in that moment, she realized that nothing could ever sever what they truly meant to each other.

Austin's piercing blue eyes locked with Bonnie's, the intensity of their gaze igniting a fire deep within both of them. In that moment, it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving behind only the raw and unspoken desires that charged the atmosphere between them.

"Bonnie," his voice rumbled with a passion that sent shivers down her spine, "I have something to tell you. Something I've known for a long time, but never had the courage to say." His words hung in the air, heavy and tangible.

His words hung in the air like a tangible force, electrifying and intoxicating at once. As she looked up at him, she couldn't help but feel both excited and apprehensive about what he was about to say.

And then he spoke those four words that changed everything: "You are my mate."

The weight of those words hit her like a bolt of lightning, awakening something primal inside her that she never knew existed. Mate. It echoed in her mind until it was all she could hear. Mates had a bond that was so strong and so rare there were few wolves alive who even believed it existed. Memories flooded her mind—moments shared beneath starry skies, stolen touches and secret glances, the unbreakable bond between them that she had always felt but never fully understood.

"I think...I think I've always known," she stammered, her heart racing with newfound understanding and aching with lost time. “I think I felt it even before I left. All this time, I never forgot the pain of leaving you behind."

Her words seemed to unlock something within Austin as well, for he moved closer until there was barely any space between them. His fingers traced her face delicately before tangling in her hair, pulling her into a passionate embrace.

Their lips met in a frenzy of pent-up longing and desire, each touch setting off sparks that spread throughout their bodies like wildfire. All around them ceased to exist—the coldness of the shelter, the impending transformation, the dangers of giving in to their urges during this heightened time—all of it faded away as they surrendered themselves to each other.

Hands roamed freely over familiar yet somehow new territory, rediscovering every inch of skin with a renewed sense of wonder and pleasure. Their kiss became a dance fueled by the pull of the full moon and their undeniable bond, two souls finally coming together as one.

But as their passion reached its peak, a nagging thought broke through their haze of desire. With great effort, Austin tore himself away from her, both of them gasping for air as they clung to each other.

"Bonnie, we can't..." His voice was filled with equal parts longing and restraint. "Not now. It's too dangerous with the moon rising." He had to go meet with the pack for their monthly hunt. The wolf in him urged him to keep going, to claim her, to mark every part of her body and make sure everyone understood who she belonged to. Fighting it was even harder with the full moon.

She nodded in understanding, even though every fiber of her being protested against the idea of leaving things unfinished. But for those few fleeting moments, they had found pure bliss amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their situation. And that was enough for now.

The distant howl, carried on the wailing wind, sent shivers down Bonnie's spine. She held onto Austin's warmth, his touch imprinting itself onto her skin as he slowly untangled himself from her embrace.

"I'll return as soon as I can," he promised, his eyes speaking volumes beyond his words.

With a final look that spoke of longing and regret, he departed from the room. The door creaked shut behind him, the sound echoing through the empty space along with the deafening click of the lock. Bonnie was left alone with only the flickering lantern for company.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she braced against the cold metal shackles that bound her. Fear and anticipation battled inside her as she waited for the inevitable transformation. The first change was always the most brutal - when you lost control of your senses and body to the primal beast within. Closing her eyes, Bonnie prepared herself for the excruciating pain and the terrifying loss of self. And then it came, like a searing fire from the depths of hell, ripping through every fiber of her being until she couldn't contain her screams any longer.

Stay tuned for part 6!! Click HERE to view!

[theink-stainedfolk]

New WIP!!!

Scintilla

---

In the neon-drenched underbelly of a bustling city, where shadows hide secrets and every crime tells a story, two brilliant minds collide in a dance of intellect and obsession. Cài Rúmíng, a task force lieutenant with a knack for unraveling mysteries and, leads his team with unshakable resolve. But his carefully guarded world tilts when Sòng Ēnruì, a razor-sharp consultant with a past shrouded in whispers, steps into his orbit. Ēnruì’s genius is matched only by his devotion to Rúmíng.

As they tackle a string of cryptic crimes, Rúmíng finds himself both drawn to and wary of Ēnruì’s intensity. Every glance, every calculated touch, pulls him deeper into a game he didn’t sign up for.

But when danger strikes too close, the line between ally and adversary blurs. Ēnruì’s carefully crafted mask begins to crack. Rúmíng must decide if he can trust the heart behind—or if he’s already too entangled to care. In a city where truth is as elusive as the criminals they chase, one thing is certain: love, like crime, leaves traces that can’t be erased.

---

Character Introduction

CÀI RÚMÍNG

Age: 33

Birthday: January 14

Zodiac Sign: Capricorn

Ethnicity: Chinese (Han)

Height: 183 cm

Build: Lean, strong, precise—like someone used to shouldering burdens

Eyes: Deep brown, often sharp but softens around Ēnruì

Hair: Clean-cut black, always tidy

Skin Tone: Warm olive-tan

Dominant Hand: Right

Style: Understated and functional—rolled sleeves, dark tones, sharp watches,Practical yet polished—crisp button-downs, tailored trousers, and sturdy boots for fieldwork. Prefers muted earth tones (olive, navy, charcoal) but occasionally wears a bold tie chosen by Jiāhǎo as a joke. His only accessory is a simple leather wristwatch, a gift from his late mentor.

Moodboard: Dusty case files, cracked asphalt, rose milk in a thermos, a worn-out pen, city rooftops at dusk, a dog-eared mystery novel, a half-smoked cigarette.

Appearance:

Rúmíng exudes quiet strength, with a presence that commands respect without demanding it. His broad shoulders and steady posture suggest reliability, but his hazel eyes hold a spark of mischief when he lets his guard down. His hair is perpetually slightly messy, as if he’s run his hands through it during a case. A faint scar on his left knuckles hints at past fights, and his rare, crooked smile is a weapon in itself, disarming even the most guarded.

Past:

Raised in a working-class family, Rúmíng learned early to value discipline and loyalty. His father, a retired cop, instilled a sense of justice, but his death during a case left Rúmíng with a quiet resolve to protect others. He climbed the ranks through sheer grit, earning his lieutenant position by solving a high-profile case that others deemed impossible. His rivalry with Ēnruì began as professional tension, but over time, he saw past the consultant’s sharp edges to the man beneath—a realization that both unsettles and intrigues him.

Personality & Traits

✔ Jaded realist who doesn’t believe in fate—but keeps being drawn to it

✔ Rational, grounded, emotionally guarded

✔ Fiercely protective when it matters

✔ Excellent at reading people, but blind to his own impact

✔ Loyal to a fault

✔ Has a deeply buried romantic side he rarely indulges

✔ Often more shaken than he shows—especially by what he almost lost

Hobbies:

Reading mystery novels, annotating plot holes.

Cooking simple comfort dishes, like congee, for stress relief.

Running at dawn, clearing his mind.

Collecting vintage pens, a quiet obsession

Quirks:

Rubs his left wrist when stressed, an old injury’s reminder.

Hums off-key tunes when he thinks no one’s listening.

Keeps a tiny notebook he’ll never share.

Always checks his watch before making big decisions.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅Likes:

Late-night drives with no destination

Quiet bookstores

Being trusted, even if he doesn’t deserve it

Honest conversations

Dogs that don’t bark too much

Watching Ēnruì when he thinks no one notices

❌ Dislikes:

People using trauma as manipulation

Authority for authority’s sake

Victims slipping through the cracks

Disorganization in his case files

Being lied to

Seeing Ēnruì retreat into himself

Nosy superiors

Favorite Food:

Wonton soup

Salted duck

Grilled mackerel

A Line That Defines Him:

"If I hadn’t found you that day, the world would’ve lost someone it didn’t deserve. I don’t plan on making that mistake again."

"I don’t need a reason to protect you. I just will."

~~~

SÒNG ĒNRUÌ

Age: 25

Birthday: October 8

Zodiac Sign: Libra

Ethnicity: Han Chinese

Height: 178 cm

Build: Slender but deceptively resilient

Eyes: Jet black, intense and unreadable

Hair: Silky black, often left tousled in deliberate disarray

Skin Tone: Pale ivory

Dominant Hand: Left

Style: Quiet elegance—long coats, layered textures, soft neutrals, never flashy but always carefully curated. Sleek, tailored, and deliberately curated—high-collared silk shirts, slim-fit trousers, and long coats in dark jewel tones (onyx, charcoal, deep burgundy). His silver wireframe glasses are a signature, adding a scholarly edge to his predatory charm. Accessories are minimal but precise: a single silver ring on his left index finger, a leather-bound journal always in hand.

Moodboard: Black silk, cityscapes, cracked porcelain, osmanthus flowers, a fountain pen dripping ink, fogged glasses, a knife glinting under streetlights, a half-burned cigarette.

Appearance:

Ēnruì is a study in contrasts—elegant yet dangerous, like a blade wrapped in velvet. His sharp jawline and high cheekbones give him an almost aristocratic air, but his eyes betray a restless hunger. He moves with a catlike grace, every gesture calculated, whether adjusting his glasses or brushing a stray hair from his face. His pale skin seems to glow under lights, and his rare smiles are both disarming and unsettling, as if he knows a secret you don’t.

Past:

Born into a family of academics, Ēnruì was a prodigy who outpaced his peers early, mastering logic puzzles and languages by adolescence. But brilliance came with isolation—his intensity alienated friends, and his parents’ expectations suffocated him. A shadowy incident in his late teens, involving a betrayal he never speaks of, left him distrustful and sharpened his edges. He reinvented himself as a consultant, crafting a persona of charm and control to mask the chaos beneath. Meeting Rúmíng during a case was a turning point.

Personality & Traits

✔ Emotionally repressed, except around Rúmíng

✔ Obsessed in silence—dangerously good at hiding it

✔ Highly intelligent and intuitive

✔ Eerily calm under pressure, until triggered

✔ Deeply wounded and quietly desperate for meaning

✔ Meticulous, secretive, and strategic

✔ Sarcastic with a slow-burning, haunting charm

Likes & Dislikes

✅ Likes:

Fine stationery and fountain pens

Rainy days that smell like petrichor

Organizing things when no one's watching

Psychological thrillers

Vintage cameras and old case files

Cài Rúmíng

❌ Dislikes:

Being left alone for too long

Having his past mentioned

People touching his belongings

Certain perfumes

Unfiltered sunlight

Being seen as fragile

Favorite Food:

Osmanthus jelly

Cold soba noodles

Black sesame tangyuan

A Line That Defines Him:

"You were the only person who made the pain quiet. So I made you mine—in here." (taps his temple)

"You made me want to live. So, I stayed alive just to orbit you."

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @keeping-writing-frosty @oliolioxenfreewrites @vesanal @orphanheirs @dauntlessdraupadi @oros-ash3s @pheonix358 @loveyouloatheyou @write-with-will

[f0xtrots]

    ¹          ✱        𝚃𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙻𝙾𝚅𝙴   𝙸𝚂   𝙶𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙽'   𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙳   𝙾𝙵   𝙳𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝙾𝚄𝚂   .   𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝚂   𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴   𝙸𝚃'𝚂   𝙰   𝙻𝙾𝙰𝙳𝙴𝙳   𝙶𝚄𝙽   ...   𝙸𝚃'𝚂   𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴   𝙰   𝙲𝙻𝙾𝚄𝙳   𝙾𝙵   𝙳𝚄𝚂𝚃   ,   𝙼𝚈   𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃   𝙰𝙻𝚆𝙰𝚈𝚂   𝚆𝙰𝙽𝚃𝚂   𝚃𝙾   𝚁𝚄𝙽   . ◞

 ★   ‧₊˚   ⋆   barry   sloane.   cis   man.   he/him   …   now   playing:   white   horse   by   chris   stapleton   —   oh   ,   that   ?    might   be   cooper   riley   ,   an   forty   three   year   old   professional   hockey   player   (   boston   yellowjackets   center   ,   captain   )   who’s   been   hanging   around   wicklow   ridge   for   two   weeks   ,   just   long   enough   to   stir   up   some   trouble   if   you   ask   me.   they’re   a   regular   at   old   willow   trail   ,   always   going   on   about   “   careful   ,   love   ,   lookin'   at   me   like   that?    it'll   get   you   into   trouble   you'll   beg   me   to   finish.   ”   like   it’s   gospel.   around   town   ,   folks   say   they’re   charming   &   magnetic   —   but   when   they   think   no   one’s   listening   ?   it’s   more   like   foolhardy   &   arrogant.   are   the   rumors   true   ?   maybe   not   …   but   it   sure   makes   life   around   here   a   little   more   interesting.

𝐈.   ⠀   𝙰𝚃   𝙰   𝙶𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴   ⠀   [   …   ]

 full   name.   cooper   riley   nicknames.   bear,   bear-bear   age.   forty3   date   of   birth.   may  fourth  place   of   birth.   moss   side   manchester   uk   ethnicity.   white   nationality.   british-american   gender.   cis   man   pronouns.   his/him   occupation.   hockey player (   captain of the boston yellowjackets   )

 mother.   vanessa   riley   father.   edward   riley   siblings.   mavis   &   jack   riley   spouse.   lol   children.   bigger   lol   pets.   cat   named   eggy

 fc.   barry   sloane   build.   solid   and   broad-shouldered,   narrow waist   height.   6’4”,   towering   over   most   people.   hair.   dark   brown,   streaked   with   silver   at   the   temples.   it’s   usually   kept   neat   but   not   overly   styled.   eyes.   a   steely   gray,   sharp   and   observant,   but   softer   when   he   lets   his   guard   down.   facial   hair.   a   neatly   trimmed   beard   that   accentuates   his   rugged   appearance.

 style.   dresses   practically   —   dark   jeans,   work   boots,   and   flannels   or   henleys   layered   under   a   leather   or   canvas   jacket.   he   prefers   function   over   fashion   tattoos.   a   few   understated   ones.   scars.   faint   lines   across   his   knuckles and   a   jagged   scar   along   his   ribs.

 𝐈𝐈.       ⠀       𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙾𝙽𝙰𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚈       ⠀       [       ...       ]

 cooper   riley   is   a   man   caught   between   contradictions ,   equal   parts   sharp   edge   and   soft   underbelly.   “ bear ,”   as   his   family   calls   him,   might   as   well   be   shorthand   for   the   way   he   moves   through   the   world   —   gruff  ,   heavy-footed  ,   but   fiercely   protective.   he’ll   tell   you   outright   he’s   no   hero,   though   the   trail   of   people   he’s   quietly   helped   might   suggest   otherwise.   ask   him   how   he’s   doing,   and   you’ll   probably   get   a   shrug   or   a   quick   quip ,   something   to   steer   the   conversation   away   from   himself.   he’s   good   at   deflection ,   better   at   evasion ,   but   stick   around   long   enough  ,   and   you’ll   catch   glimpses   of   something   deeper.   something   kinder.

 he   wears   his   guilt   like   a   second   skin,   though   he   hides   it   behind   a   wall   of   sarcasm   and   scowls.   cracking   a   joke   at   his   own   expense  ?   easier   than   confronting   the   fact   he’s   still   haunted   by   mistakes   he   can’t   undo.   his   humor   is   dry  ,   sharp   as   a   razor  ,   but   never   malicious — unless   you’ve   earned   it.   cooper’s   the   kind   of   guy   who’ll   fix   your   broken   radiator   without   asking,   but   don’t   expect   him   to   stick   around   for   a   thank   you.   he   doesn’t   know   what   to   do   with   praise  ;   it   fits   about   as   well   as   a   shirt   two   sizes   too   small.

 he’s   a   fixer  ,   through   and   through.   cars  ,   tools   ,   people   —   he   likes   his   hands   busy  ,   likes   the   satisfaction   of   taking   something   broken   and   making   it   whole   again.   but   for   all   his   skill  ,   he   struggles   with   the   one   thing   he   can’t   fix:   himself.   he's   stubborn   as   hell,   too  ,   always   convinced   his   way   is   the   right   way  ,   even   when   it’s   not.   if   he’s   ever   wrong  ,   don’t   expect   him   to   admit   it   anytime   soon.    

 cooper’s   heart  ,   though  ,   is   bigger   than   he   lets   on.   he’ll   grumble   about   helping   someone   but   still   show   up  ,   shovel   in   hand  ,   before   you   even   finish   asking.   it’s   the   little   things   that   give   him   away   —   a   carefully   packed   lunch   for   his   mom  ,   a   hand   on   your   shoulder   when   you   need   it   most  ,   or   the   way   he   always   makes   sure   the   porch   light   is   on   before   you   get   home.   despite   his   best   efforts   to   seem   aloof  ,   cooper   feels   deeply.  and   while   he   might   not   say   the   words  ,   you’ll   know   you’re   cared   for   in   the   way   he   sticks   around   when   it   matters   most.

 cooper   the   kind   of   man   who   loves   the   chase   more   than   the   catch.   he   flirts   like   it’s   second   nature  —  effortless  ,   playful  ,   and   always   with   that   sharp   glint   of   mischief   in   his   eye.   he’s   the   type   to   charm   a   woman   with   a   well-timed   smirk  ,   a   dry   joke  ,   or   a   slow   drag   of   a   cigarette   between   rough   fingers.   there’s   an   ease   to   him,   a   devil-may-care   swagger   that   makes   it   seem   like   he’s   the   kind   of   man   who   could   fall   in   love   a   hundred   times   over.   but   he   never   does.   because   at   the   end   of   the   day,    it's   all   empty.    

 women   came   and   went  ,   none   of   them   staying   long   enough   to   be   anything   more   than   a   warm   distraction.   he   never   made   promises   he   didn’t   intend   to   keep  ,   never   whispered   words   of   forever.   his   affections   were   fleeting,   his   hands   always   quick   to   unbutton   a   blouse   but   never   to   hold   onto   something   real.   it   wasn’t   commitment   he   feared  — he   simply   knew   that   nothing   would   ever   compare.   so   why   pretend  ?   cooper   drifted   through   affairs   like   a   man   chasing   a   ghost,   always   seeking   but   never   finding,   always   craving   but   never   truly   satisfied.   he   was   reckless   with   his   own   heart   and   careless   with   others’ ,   not   out   of   cruelty  ,   but   because   deep   down  ,   he   believed   he   had   nothing   left   to   give.

𝐈𝐈𝐈.       ⠀       𝙳𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙴𝚁       ⠀       [       ...       ]

 some   shithole   in   manchester   —   that’s   what   cooper   riley   would   tell   you   if   you   asked   where   his   damn   accent   was   from.   moss   side   ,   to   be   exact.   a   place   where   the   air   reeked   of   factory   fumes   and   short   fuses.   his   dad   ,   edward   ,   was   a   ghost   in   his   own   house   —   clocked   in   ,   clocked   out,   and   only   showed   signs   of   life   when   he   was   pissed   off.   his   mom   ,   vanessa   ,   though   ?   she   was   the   heartbeat.   a   cocktail   of   tough   love   and   sleepless   nights   ,   holding   her   family   together   on   nothing   but   sheer   willpower   and   burnt   -   out   cigarettes.

 cooper   was   the   eldest   —   “ man   of   the   house ”   by   the   time   he   was   old   enough   to   ride   a   bike.   that   meant   guarding   his   siblings   from   flying   tempers   ,   learning   how   to   cook   pasta   three   different   ways   ,   and   figuring   out   how   to   throw   a   punch   when   necessary.   when   he   was   sixteen   ,   vanessa   scraped   together   just   enough   to   get   them   out   —   two   suitcases   ,   four   plane   tickets   ,   and   a   borrowed   dream.   they   landed   in   a   working   class   town   in   upstate   new   york   ,   far   from   manchester   ,   far   from   edward   ,   but   not   far   enough   from   the   past.

 vanessa   took   up   shifts   at   a   local   divebar   with   sticky   floors   and   regulars   who   never   tipped.   cooper   hated   the   place   ,   hated   the   fake   smiles   she   wore   for   strangers   who   called   her   “darlin’”   and   stared   too   long.   but   it   was   steady   work   ,   and   it   kept   them   fed.

 school   was   hell.   cooper   was   the   “   british   kid   ,   ”   the   one   with   a   chip   on   his   shoulder   and   fists   he   didn’t   mind   using.   but   he   had   something   else   too   —   speed   on   the   ice.   grace   ,   even.   he   picked   up   a   hockey   stick   like   he   was   born   with   it   in   his   hands.   the   local   high   school   coach   saw   it   right   away.   so   did   the   scouts.

 by   graduation   ,   cooper   was   already   being   whispered   about.   raw   talent.   a   little   rough   around   the   edges   ,   but   promising.   he   got   recruited   into   the   nhl   at   eighteen   —   a   winger   with   a   mean   streak   and   a   slapshot   that   could   take   your   teeth   out.   over   the   years   ,   he   bounced   around   a   few   teams   ,   known   for   being   good   in   the   locker   room   ,   better   on   the   ice   ,   and   terrible   at   letting   people   in.

  at   twenty  nine   ,   the   boston   yellowjackets   picked   him   up   in   a   trade   no   one   saw   coming.   within   the   year  ,   he   was   named   captain.   hasn’t   let   go   of   the   “ c ”   since.

 to   the   public   ,   cooper   riley   is   the   face   of   the   franchise   —   sharp   jaw   ,   sharper   wit   ,   and   a   highlight   reel   that   gets   better   every   season.   but   behind   the   post   game   interviews   and   the   smirks   is   a   guy   who   still   flinches   at   raised   voices   and   hasn’t   called   his   mum   in   weeks   ,   mostly   because   he   doesn’t   know   what   he’d   say.   milport   —   the   sleepy   town   in   scotland   where   she   lives   now   —   keeps   tugging   at   him.   so   does   the   guilt.   he   visits   sometimes.   quietly.   never   long   enough.

 and   now   ?   he’s   in   wicklow   ,   of   all   places.   coach   decided   the   team   needed   “   time   in   nature   ”   to   recalibrate   during   the   off-season.   said   they   were   playing   like   a   group   of   mercenaries   ,   not   brothers.   so   here   they   are   —   the   whole   damn   team   crammed   into   an  airbnb   ,   doing   trust   exercises   ,   hiking   trails   cooper   didn’t   ask   for   ,   and   eating   granola   like   it’s   a   food   group.

 cooper’s   not   a   nature   guy.   bugs   annoy   him   ,   the   sun’s   too   hot ,   and   he   doesn’t   understand   why   the   nearest   coffee   shop   closes   at   3   p.m.   but   he’s   trying.   kind   of.   he   joins   the   hikes   ,   grumbles   through   the   group   meals   ,   lets   the   rookies   rib   him   about   being   the   “   grumpy   old   captain   .”   some   of   the   guys   are   growing   on   him.   others   still   treat   him   like   a   statue   in   a   museum   —   something   to   admire   ,   but   not   get   too   close   to.   he   can’t   decide   which   is   worse.

 there’s   a   quiet   here   that   he   doesn’t   quite   trust.   the   kind   that   lets   your   mind   wander   into   places   you’ve   been   trying   to   avoid.   old   wounds.   bad   decisions.   people   you   miss   but   won’t   admit   to.   still   ,   there’s   a   piece   of   him   that   likes   waking   up   to   birds   instead   of   sirens.   that   likes   the   way   the   mountains   catch   the   sunrise.   that   wonders,    just   for   a   second   ,   what   it   might   be   like   to   stop   running.

 he   won’t   say   that   out   loud   ,   though.

 because   at   the   end   of   the   day   ,   cooper   riley   is   still   that   kid   from   moss   side.   too   proud   to   ask   for   help   ,   too   guilty   to   sit   still   ,   and   just   trying   to   keep   his   head   above   water   —   whether   it’s   in   manchester   ,   boston   ,   or   some   sleepy   mountain   town   with   too   many   pine   trees   and   not   enough   decent   whiskey.

 but   there’s   a   storm   brewing   —   not   in   the   mountains   ,   but   back   in   boston.   the   media’s   circling.   they’ve   been   calling   him   “   veteran   captain   ”   for   a   couple   seasons   now   ,   but   lately   it’s   edged   toward   something   colder:   “   outdated   ,   ”   “   slowing   down   ,   ”   “   ready   to   pass   the   torch.   ”   the   whispers   are   louder   this   year.   analysts   picking   apart   his   stats.   headlines   wondering   who   the   next   captain   should   be.   one   article   straight   up   asked   if   cooper   riley   was   holding   the   team   back.

 he   doesn’t   talk   about   it.   not   to   coach    ,   not   to   the   boys   ,   not   even   to   himself.   but   it   sits   there   —   in   the   back   of   his   mind   ,   in   the   stiffness   of   his   knees   after   a   skate   ,   in   the   way   some   of   the   younger   players   look   at   him   like   he’s   already   halfway   to   retirement.

 wicklow   was   supposed   to   be   a   break.   a   reset.   but   the   quiet   here   doesn’t   drown   things   out   —   it   amplifies   them.   every   crack   in   his   armor   feels   louder.   he   still   leads   the   team   runs ,    still   pushes   the   rookies   in   scrimmage   drills   ,   still   shows   up   first   and   leaves   last.   but   the   fire’s   burning   different   now.   less   rage   ,   more   reflection.   he’s   not   just   thinking   about   the   next   season   anymore.   he’s   thinking   about   the   end   of   it.   and   what   comes   after.

 no   one   tells   you   how   to   stop   being   the   guy.

 so   yeah   ,   he’s   here.   trying.   sort   of.   and   maybe   ,   just   maybe   ,   he’s   starting   to   realize   that   letting   go   doesn’t   mean   giving   up.   it   might   mean   making   space   —   for   something   new   ,   for   someone   else   ,   for   himself.

[aldryrththerainbowheart]

I appreciate the way you write for D and Alucard Tepes so much it is unreal! I saw your prompt list and I’d love it if you’d be fine with writing how each or either of them kiss and how they like to be kissed. They both deserve so much good, and when I have the time I’ll come back to check out the rest of your prompt list(s)!!!!

Hello anon 🖐️ It makes me really happy you liked them! I've already wrote this prompt with Alucard, it's right here. As for D, I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you'll like it 😘 They both deserve all the love. My ask box is alway open and I love receiving messages like these. Definitely send some more requests my way, beautiful.

He caught himself staring at your lips more times than he’d like to admit. After meeting, the vampire hunter was privy to emotions that he never felt before. Jealousy, nervousness, lust, longing. He was threading an unknown waters and he didn’t like i tone bit. You were too distracting, yet he can’t bring himself to push you away. You tempt him in all the ways imaginable and the most infuriating thing is you don’t even realize it.

First one to initiate is you, naturally. He’s too…shy. Unsure of what to do and how to do it. You say he spends too much time in his head, contemplating everything for too long. He says that you jump into everything head first and ask questions later. He’s never more grateful for this trait of yours as he is now.

The careful, slow brush of your lips is almost too much to handle.You’re both frozen for a moment, but then thankfully, you tilt your head and press another sweet kiss to his trembling lips, this time you stay there longer. D forces himself to stop thinking and just feel, and do whatever feels right. He kisses you back. Cold, pale lips caressing yours. He tilts his head in opposite direction and his hair cascades down his shoulder like a black curtain. One if his hands finds its way to your face, fingers holding your cheek until they slide to your hair. He listens to the little sound you make in the back of your throat. Warmth spreading from his chest to the rest of his being.

You are the one who always initiates the kiss on the lips. He’s always in awe that you’ll so readily envelop in a kiss mouth that hides a razor sharp fangs. D is always so careful not to point them out. Speaking softly and quietly as to not show them, seeking privacy when feeding, trying his hardest not to by overcome by his beastly instincts. But you, oh you, you were never afraid of them. Nor his red glowing eyes or his inhuman growls and hisses in the face of danger. You press your lips against them, tongue licking into his mouth, searching for them while he tries to fight desperate groan  thrumming in his throat.

While he is hesitant to kiss your mouth, the rest of you is not safe from his adoration. D revels in those heartfelt moment when he reuniets with you. He brings you closer to his chest as he presses a small kiss on your head, inhaling the scent of your hair. The slow, deliberate press of his mouth against your temple when he has to leave to the places you can’t follow. A quiet promise of his return.

The vampire hunter won’t verbally express his desire to be intimate with you. He doesn’t need to. He pours all of his passions into that one kiss on your neck, and just so his intentions are clear he places another one here, and another one. Gently pulling your head to the side to shower the expanse between your ear and shoulder with affection.

He places one secret kiss over your underbelly or the inside of your thigh as one last innocent adoration before diving between your legs and showing your the full expanse of his love for you. Or that kiss on your ankle accompanied by a possessive nip of his fangs as he holds your legs over his head? Don’t worry darling, that’s just little something to remember him by while he’s away…

[watchnrant]

Quake: Veil of Deception #1 – Shadows of Madripoor

The neon-soaked streets of Madripoor pulse with an eerie, unnatural glow, casting long, ominous shadows over a city steeped in corruption and danger. To Daisy Johnson—perched atop a crumbling rooftop—those shadows are more than just darkness; they’re a manifestation of the doubts and fears that gnaw at her soul. Once a proud agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., Daisy now stands alone, haunted by the fall of the organization that was her family. But despite the darkness within, she’s driven by a singular mission: uncover the truth behind the Power Broker, a figure whose influence is spreading through Madripoor like a cancer. For Daisy, this isn’t just about stopping a villain—it’s about proving that S.H.I.E.L.D.’s legacy still matters, even in a world that’s forgotten its heroes.

A soft chime interrupts her thoughts—a secure, encrypted message from an old ally. It’s a brief, cryptic note, but the implications are vast: advanced weapons are flooding the black market, and Madripoor is ground zero. Daisy’s objective is clear: infiltrate, investigate, and dismantle the operation before it escalates. Yet, doubt lingers. S.H.I.E.L.D. was her backbone; without it, can she truly stand against the looming darkness?

As she prepares to descend from her perch, her gaze catches a fleeting reflection in a nearby window—a flash of blonde hair, a shadow moving swiftly through the neon glow. It’s gone as quickly as it appeared, but something about it unsettles her. Shaking off the unease, Daisy leaps from the rooftop, cushioning her descent with a focused pulse of vibrations that ripple through the cracked pavement. The city seems to breathe with malevolence, each shadow a potential threat. But she presses on, her senses razor-sharp, until she’s cornered by a group of mercenaries—hardened, ruthless, and eager to prove themselves.

But Daisy is not in the mood for games. With a flick of her wrist, she sends a tremor through the air, disorienting the thugs. Before they can recover, she’s on them, her voice a low growl as she demands to know who sent them. One mercenary, trembling, spills a name—a broker who deals in secrets at an exclusive club frequented by Madripoor’s elite. It’s a lead, but in a city built on deception, Daisy knows better than to take anything at face value. Still, with no other options, she heads for the club, her mind already working through the layers of lies she’ll need to peel back.

Disguised and ready, Daisy steps into the club, the air thick with the stench of wealth and vice. The patrons are a who’s who of Madripoor’s criminal underbelly, each more dangerous and unpredictable than the last. As she navigates the room, her eyes scanning for potential threats, she fails to notice the figure watching her from the shadows—Sharon Carter. Once an ally, now something far more sinister, Sharon is the Power Broker, her ambitions having twisted her into a formidable adversary. She observes Daisy with a cold, calculating gaze, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. There’s a moment, just before Sharon approaches, where Daisy’s instincts flare—an almost imperceptible tightening of her grip on the glass in her hand. But the moment passes, and she dismisses it as nerves.

Sharon approaches with the practiced ease of a predator, offering assistance cloaked in seemingly benign intentions. Her words are laced with subtle manipulations, each sentence a carefully laid trap. But Daisy, focused on her mission, fails to pick up on the undercurrents, her desperation blinding her to the danger at hand. She accepts Sharon’s help, unaware that she’s being drawn deeper into a web of deceit.

The investigation intensifies, with Daisy chasing leads through the maze-like alleys and labyrinthine corridors of Madripoor. Each new clue seems to bring her closer to the Power Broker, but the truth remains frustratingly out of reach. The neon lights reflect her internal turmoil—flickering and distorted, much like her sense of self as she struggles to reconcile her past with the person she needs to be. Occasionally, as Daisy pushes forward, she notices the lights flickering more intensely, as if they’re echoing her growing doubt and the ever-looming threat she faces. This symbolism ties the city’s corruption to her own internal struggle, making Madripoor a living representation of Daisy’s state of mind.

Eventually, her search leads her to a dilapidated warehouse on the city’s outskirts, where the air is thick with the scent of salt and decay. Inside, rows of crates stand ominously, filled with advanced weaponry that once bore the S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia. The sight of them stirs a deep ache in Daisy’s chest—a reminder of what she’s lost. As she moves through the warehouse, a sudden memory surfaces—an old S.H.I.E.L.D. project she once overheard in passing, something classified, something called “Project Quake.” The name was cryptic, but the urgency and secrecy surrounding it had always bothered her.

But before she can process the gravity of the situation, the shadows around her come alive. She’s ambushed, and a fierce battle ensues. Her opponent is skilled, a mere pawn sent to test her mettle. Each strike Daisy lands is fueled by her doubts, her fears, and her lingering grief. But she refuses to yield. Even as the fight pushes her to her limits, her resolve only hardens. The Power Broker may be elusive, but Daisy is determined to see this through.

After the battle, Daisy stood alone in the warehouse, battered but unbroken. She knew she was being played, but she was no longer the same agent she once was. The shadows might be deep, but Daisy Johnson was prepared to face them head-on. Just as she began to catch her breath, a sudden realization hit her—among the crates, there was a hidden compartment. Inside, she found an old S.H.I.E.L.D. file with her name on it. The words “Project Quake” were scrawled across the cover in a familiar handwriting, one she never thought she would see again.

Daisy paused, her heart pounding, and for a moment, she felt the weight of the world pressing down on her. The mission, the shadows, the corruption—it was all converging, forcing her to confront not just the external threats but the internal ones as well. She was changing, hardening, becoming someone who could survive in this new, darker world. The neon lights outside flickered one last time, and she knew there was no turning back.

Meanwhile, somewhere nearby, Sharon watched in silence, her confidence wavering as she realized just how dangerous Daisy truly was. The game was on, and in this deadly contest, there could only be one victor. But now, a new question lingered in the air—what exactly was “Project Quake,” and why did the Power Broker have it?

[thephilosopheroftheboudoir]

PAUL REUBENS WAS AN HONORARY PUNK

My earliest memory of Paul Reubens was his role in Cheech and Chong’s Nice Dreams where he played a coke dealer. Cheech and Chong give him all their money to buy some toot but Pee Wee disappears. They track him down, only to find he is a patient at a psychiatric hospital and they have to wander through a crowd of lunatics only to find that he is mentally too far gone to tell them what he did with their money. If you watch any DVD’s of this movie that were made after 1988, you will notice this scene has been permanently deleted.

So a few later, I was getting involved with the small but growing hardcore punk scene in my city. Pee Wee’s Big Adventure was released in the theaters around then. It was an instant success and I went to see it three times. By the second and third viewing I started to recognize that more and more audience members were people I knew from the punk scene.

Many of us in the counter-culture loved Pee Wee. For one thing, many of us rode bicycles. It was our second favorite form of transportation behind skateboards since most people we knew couldn’t afford cars back then. City buses were still the primary method of movement in a dark city where wind, rain, and snow were the norm. But when the sun came out, we rode around in packs on our bikes. Any time there was a show, you could see them chained up by the dozens somewhere near the venue. They were our vehicles out of our world. We rode them in the moonlit cemeteries. They were safer than public transport when we went off to buy drugs. Sometimes we rode out to the suburbs to go pool hopping; that meant skinny-dipping, uninvited of course, in people’s back yards while they slept comfortably in their beds. That stunt ended one night when some guy fired a shotgun at us from his bedroom window.

Being the city kids that we were, we got used to our bicycles disappearing. It was always the same. No matter what kind of lock we used, somebody from the deep inner city used their ingenuity to find some way to pick the lock or cut the chain and they always left a beat up old bike in its place, the kind of rickety thing that looked like it had been stripped of all its parts, beat down and battered to the point where some kid knew if he didn’t ride it one last time out to the edge of the city to steal a better one, he would be bikeless for a long time to come.

When Pee Wee Herman’s bike got stolen, it resonated with us punks like nothing else ever could.

Pee Wee was one of us. It wasn’t just that his bicycle got pinched in Pee Wee’s big Adventure, he was also an inherently subversive character. He lived in some nether-world where he was not quite a child but not quite a man. His friends were all unapologetically freaks and weirdos, some of which were of other races and some of which even had mohawks. When his bike got stolen, he lost his soul. It was a hero’s journey through the underworld of America, the story of a man who knew when he found that one missing piece all the magic would return to his life. Punks were often people who felt that same absence, When we spiked our hair, ripped out clothes, donned combat boots or Chuck Taylors, drove pins through our noses, and sliced up our arms with razors, we were embarking on our own journey through the underbelly of the world, one that involved drugs, alcohol, slam dancing, record collecting, and sex between cars in restaurant parking lots. If you ever wonder why your car door handle is sticky, I can tell you there is a sickly humorous reason for that. Sometimes we spent nights in jail and had fist fights on street corners with conservatives who didn’t approve of our way of living free in a supposedly free society. If you think the MAGA crowd is anything new, you are wrong; these Republican maggots started crawling out of the rotten woodwork all the way back in the 1980s. But our bikes were like magic carpets that, at times, could transport us to some place better.

It gets deeper than a stolen bike though. As punks we called ourselves anarchists. However wrongheaded and naive that might have been, it’s what we thought we were and we hated the establishment. Pee Wee’s bike was stolen by Francis, a perfect symbol of capitalist greed. Francis was an immature, trust-fund baby and a bully who could use his dorky father’s money to get anything he wanted. What he wanted was Pee Wee’s bike so he payed some 1950s rocker with a greasy DA and a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the short sleeve of his undershirt to steal it. In the end, Francis didn’t really want the bike. What he really wanted was for Pee Wee NOT to have the bike. See, the bicycle is the one thing that made Pee Wee Herman happy and happiness was what Francis coul not have because, true to the nature of a capitalist pig, he always wants more than what he has. He dealt with his misery by making others miserable and so the bike got stolen and sent away. Pee Wee’s jounrey to find it began there. If there ever was a prototype of Rush Limbaugh, Francis was it. This movie came out four years into the Reagan administration so it doesn’t surprise me that it sticks a finger in the eye of Republican party economics. Seeing Francis get his come-uppance made us cream in our jeans.

Along the way to Hollywood via the Alamo, Pee Wee Herman made friends with a whole cast of characters and all of them were outsiders. He hitched a ride with an escaped convict, for instance, and together they outsmarted the police. ACAB. He shared an intimate moment with a waitress who dreamed of escaping from her marriage to a redneck and flying off to Paris the way Dorothy dreams about some where over the rainbow in the colorful land of Oz. (Try watching Pee Wee’s Big Adventure and The Wizard of Oz back to back and notice all the parallels). Pee Wee also got inducted into an outlaw motorcycle club.

Pee Wee even makes friends with a homeless man while train hopping, something us punks could relate to as well. We liked hanging out with the bums in our city. One of them used to shoplift porn magazines and sell them to us at discount prices so he could buy bottles of Thunderbird or Mad Dog. That’s the kind of $3 rotgut that will fuck you up even worse than a 40 oz. malt liquor. While no two bottles of Mad Dog ever taste the same, the flavor approximates some unholy combination of cough syrup, vomit, and rubbing alcohol. Some say that at higher quantities of consumption it can even be hallucinogenic. And then there was also an African-American guy with blue eyes named Ulysses; we used to drink Bully Hill with him in the alleyways and he was one of the most kind-hearted and humorous men we’ve ever met. We’d buy him food just to hear the stories he’d tell. Then one day I saw him well-dressed and selling newspapers on a street corner. The headlines said something about UFO’s coming to save Black people from white America. Ulysses had joined the Nation of Islam. Oh well, at least he is now sober and off the streets. I wish you the best, Ulysses.

And punks always loved animals. We loved our dogs. We loved our cats. Some of us kept rats, iguanas, and snakes as pets. So speaking of snakes, what did Pee Wee do when he saw the pet shop burning? He rescued all the animals and in the end he even rescued the snakes even though he obviously didn’t like them. Punks were the snakes of American society and Pee Wee was on our side.

Finally, what could be more punk than sticking your middle finger in the face of the Hollywood establishment? Pee Wee’s bike ends up as a prop in a Hollywood movie. He snatched it and rode away, wrecking movie sets as he went. Instead of arresting him, they decide to make a movie based on his life. But look at the movie they made. It is a pretentious, no-brain blockbuster with perfect looking actors that bear no resemblance to the real life events that inspired it. The movie uses postmodern framing by using the medium to critique the fake and shallow medium of the Hollywood film industry.

Then there is one final question. Who was Pee Wee’s family? Did he have any parents? How old was he anyways? Punks were part of the latchkey kid generation. We either grew up in a one-parent home or else both our parents were absent from our lives because it took two working adults to support a family with children. As teenagers we ran free and encountered the adult world at a very early age. Pee Wee Herman appeared to have no role models in his life and had to find his own way around. That was what hardcore punk was all about. We couldn’t fix the world’s problems so we created our own scene and did things our own way. FTW (fuck the world). If you didn’t like us you had best stay away.

Pee Wee’s Big Adventure become one of those movies you can watch over and over again without getting bored, making frequent appearances at cult classic film festivals, revival theaters, and occasional TV reruns. There were many times we watched it through the bleary haze of bong smoke and blurred whisky vision, maybe while coming down from an acid trip or two or three. It is like an old familiar friend that is always happy to see you for the sake of sharing old memories and telling half-forgotten jokes.

Pee Wee Herman’s next move as an honorary punk came in the late 1980s when his television show Pee Wee’s Playhouse went on the air. The Residents played the theme song. How cool was that for underground music fans? Although it was meant for kids, some of the jokes were a little bit naughty. Pee Wee and the genie’s head in a box sang a song about hiney-holes and a female dancer lifted one leg in the air while standing on the toes of her other foot and Pee Wee took a peak up her skirt, only to be given a reprimanding look from the dancer when she saw what he was up to.

A couple years later the big bombshell hit the news. Paul Reubens had been caught masturbating in an adult movie theater in Florida. My immediate reaction was not, “Oh my god, what a pervert.” Actually I was just shocked that they still had adult movie theaters in Florida while they had gone the way of the dodo bird everywhere else. Hadn’t people there ever heard of VCR’s? Florida must be a pretty fucked up place, I thought. I still think so to this day. The fact that Pee Wee played with himself in the porno playhouse never really phased me though I still wonder why it is a crime to whip it out while in a darkened theater, watching movies of people fucking. America sure does have some stupid laws. Don’t even get me going on the legality of drinking alcohol like how dumb it is to make the drinking age 21 thanks to that asshole Ronald Reagan or why we are obsessed with hating drunk driving while so few bars are within walking distance of people’s homes. Europeans sorted these kinds of things out centuries ago. It is like the government wants us to get caught screwing up. Rich capitalist pigs like Francis are getting their miserable way at our expense.

Soon after the arrest of Paul Reubens, I went to a punk show at a bar. The singer of the band called out, “I don’t know how many of you heard, but Pee Wee Herman got arrested for jerking off in a porn theater. How many of you hate him more know that you know this?” About half the audience cheered. Then he asked “How many of you love him more now?” Again, about half the audience cheered. Oh yeah, we loved him even more because his mugshot made him look like a Hells Angel. The biggest audible difference between the first and second cheers was that the former was mostly women and the latter was mostly men. By 1991, the mean-girl Andrea Dworkin style of anti-porn feminism had infected the punk scene like an STD. If you think polarization in America is a Trump-era phenomenon, guess again. It just seems that way because internet pundits and the media keep drawing our attention to it even though the hate has always been there.

Just a few years ago, I heard an interview with Paul Reubens on NPR. They asked the question of what message he wanted to send to the world. His answer, and I paraphrase, was “It’s OK to be different. You don’t have to be like everybody else.” It’s so simple, so true, and so sad that so few people understand what this means. And it's so "punk-is-an-attitude" up your fucking ass.

Good bye Paul Reubens and thank you for the memories. Thank you for the wisdom you shared. Thank you for being an inspiration, an idol and an icon for those of us who follow Jimi Hendrix’s advice and wave our freak flags high. You are forever an honorary member of the hardcore punk community.

[midnight-moth-musings]

Rocket Queen

Captain John Price x mechanic reader, slight enemies to lovers

Part 2

---

If I say I don't need anyone, I can say these things to you

'Cause I can turn on anyone just like I've turned on you

I've got a tongue like a razor, a sweet switchblade knife

And I can do you favors but then you'll do whatever I like

John Price knows almost everything about everyone on base--part of his job as Captain is to always be informed. So when he walks into the cafeteria one morning and finds someone new sitting next to Soap and Gaz, he is utterly perplexed. He steals glances at the boisterous young woman engrossed in conversation with the two young men as he makes his coffee. Long, choppy hair frames her face wildly almost as if the tendrils have a life of their own. John searches for any clue as to her rank but finds nothing--the woman is dressed in black overalls with a grey long sleeve beneath them. Quite unprofessional, John tells himself. The edges of her shirt lift as she reaches over the table for pepper to reveal the swirling black ink adorning her wrists. She tilts her head back to laugh loudly--hair becoming messier by the second. What could possibly be so funny?

Here I am, and you're a Rocket Queen

I might be a little young, but, honey, I ain't naive

Here I am, and you're a Rocket Queen, oh yeah

I might be too much, but, honey, you're a bit obscene

The woman leaves the table seconds before John arrives--seconds before he is able to learn who she is. Soap and Gaz seem to notice the faraway look in their Captain's eyes and answer the question before he even has to ask it--

"You've never met the base mechanic, hm, Captain?" Gaz grins up at him in between mouthfuls of his food.

"Aye, she's proper fun." Soap winks, nudging Gaz with a laugh. John sits down next to the two and simply grunts in acknowledgment. He mentally takes note of this small bit of information--curious to learn more about this mysterious woman.

---

I've seen everything imaginable pass before these eyes

I've had everything that's tangible, honey, you'd be surprised

I'm a sexual innuendo in this burned out paradise

If you turn me on to anything, you better turn me on tonight

The sweet sound of Guns N' Roses blaring from an old speaker on my desk fills the garage as I work on the repairs of a Humvee that has seen far too much action in the field. Nonetheless--Gaz and Soap insist that its their favorite one, so of course I'll make sure the old beast is running until it falls apart. Dust and grease coat my arms in heavy strokes as if given by Van Gogh as I fiddle with the underbelly of the great beast above my head. I am jolted from my focus as a pair of boots walks into view from my place below the Humvee. I kick my heels to roll out on my creeper and wipe at the sweaty locks of hair sticking to my forehead.

"Music is a bit loud." I look up from my seat to see the unamused face of Captain John Price staring down at me.

I stand up with a grunt, wiping my hands on my overalls. The man standing before me crosses his arms as he still looks down on me. Damnit, why's he so tall? Makes him even more intimidating. I choke out a nervous laugh, ruffling a hand through my bangs. "Yeah, well, no one ever comes down here. Figured I could play my music as loud as I wanted."

Anxiety bubbles in my stomach as the man looks over me. "Right. Well, I wanted to come down here and introduce myself. Seeing as we haven't met before and you must be new. I'm Captain John Price." He holds out an arm and I take his hand, shaking it. His hand practically envelopes mine--squeezing tightly in greeting, before disconnecting.

"I've actually been here for five months." His eyes widen in disbelief at the revelation and I have to hold back a laugh. "Sergeant Y/N L/N, base mechanic, sir." We stand in an awkward state of silence for a moment--save for the blaring of my speaker. The captain glances pointedly at the speaker and I walk over to my laptop to pause the music. "Right, sorry sir."

He places his hands on his vest, gripping the straps tightly before stepping closer to me. "Interesting taste in music." He leans forward to glance at the screen of my laptop showing my playlist. I watch as his eyes flicker down the screen--before he nods in approval.

"Interesting? Is that good or bad, sir?" My words come out more defensively than I had meant for, but the captain's mouth quirks up as if trying to hide a smile.

Clear blue eyes meet mine when he turns to look at me and I find my heart skipping a beat. "Good." My cheeks heat up and I have to remind myself--this is your captain, pull yourself together. "I'll let you get back to your work then." He takes a few steps away before looking back over at me hesitantly. I watch as his eyes trail down my form and I suddenly feel self conscious of my ripped, greasy overalls. "I'd like for you to find a more...standard uniform."

My eyes immediately narrow and I cross my arms to stare back at him. "Standard uniform? I never realized mechanics were required to wear standard issue. Not many soldiers even follow that rule." The air between us thins as we lock into a stare.

Immediately, the captain's demeanor changes. I hold my breath as he grips the straps of his vest tighter--voice lowering an octave as he replies. "Are you questioning an order, solider?"

I bite back a snarky reply. "No, sir." The edge of his mouth twitches and I imagine I am about to receive a verbal warning--certainly not the first of my career. Instead, he simply nods. The captain turns on his heels and walks away--leaving my head spinning as to if I'm more irritated or intrigued by him.

---

Part 2 will be coming tomorrow. I wanted it to be one part, but I have a bit of a headache at the moment so I decided to post part of it :)

-P