#wonder what the final choice in de will be

[maryaandmorevna]

A Song of Swan and Dragons VII.

VII. Sīkuda (ao3 link)

Summary: Arianne's offer of truce is rebuffed, war is declared, and Aemond reaches a conclusion after a sleepless night.

Tw: There is explicit content in this chapter in Aemond's POV.

Words:88,263

Links to previous chapters: I., II., III., IV., V., VI.

Tagging @kyonkyon69, who is my most wonderful beta, and @lacebvnny, who got me into Aemond haha.

Love and war are the same thing, and stratagems and policy are as allowable in the one as in the other. - Miguel de Cervantes.

(Arianne)

Her face was burning.

Arianne dug her heels into the dirt, solidly on the ground at last. She breathed a sigh of relief before realizing one very problematic thing.

Her fingers were still clutching his tunic.

Aemond's hands were still on her waist.

Their warmth permeated through her silks, sending peculiar frissons up her ribs.

Frowning, she quickly let go of him, cradling her arms to herself. Aemond had seemingly watched her for a few seconds before tilting his head and sneering.

"You are the clumsiest woman I have ever met."

Arianne blinked, unable to ascribe any importance to the insult because he still held her, gods — and grasped his left wrist.

It was...utterly improper, touching his bare, warm skin. Yet, she had no choice, because he'd either forgotten to release her or did not want to.

She tugged on the sinewy thing to peel it away from herself.

His jaw tensed, and that sole, blue eye of his dragged down to where his hands were.

Abruptly, Aemond pulled back, as if astounded by his lack of decorum, setting her free from his hold.

For several moments, they just stared at each other, and her embarrassment finally caught up with her. Arianne straightened her spine and wiped her awfully clammy palms against her skirts.

She could not think about who saw her almost tumbling down like a sack of turnips, and she refused to admit Aemond Targaryen saved her from a rather humiliating experience. No, not because it had been Aemond, the insufferable boor, but because he could've released her immediately, as the propriety demanded!

He did not need to...hold her.

What if someone saw it as more than what it was? Arianne could not afford such a scandal. The facetious slander was one thing, but being seen so close to a man was another thing entirely.

She needed to be above suspicion.

Was he trying to ruin her life again?

Her eyes darted toward the dusty ground. The pebbles scattered around the courtyard mocked her — silent, impassive, but still somehow complicit in her humiliation.

Arianne crossed her arms.

"I merely...I would've found my footing. The ground was uneven." Her lips pressed into a tight pout as she pointedly avoided Aemond's gaze.

He hummed, the sound reverberating low from his throat.

"You could try swinging a sword at it, little swan. Teach it a lesson."

She narrowed her eyes.

Was he making a jab at her attempt to strike him or at her stumble?

Yet, there was something off about his voice; it was brittle, almost as if he too was struggling to keep composure. Arianne dug her fingers into the sleeves, trying to suppress the annoying buzzing beneath her skin.

The sickening flush encasing her neck.

Mother above! He IS a Stygian monster to make me ill with fever!

"I told you not to call me that! Have the common decency to respect it, Your Grace." She hissed.

Aemond was quick to respond. Almost as if he were glad she attacked him, rather than thanking him demurely.

"My lack of common decency is nothing compared to the treason that spills so freely from your lovely lips. I assure you, you'd not fare well down in the black cells, little swan." His shapely mouth twisted with scorn.

"Treason?!"

"Is it not treason to insult the honor of the King's son? To call a Prince, how was it?" He tapped his right temple with a long index finger, as if recalling a fine verse.

"—a vile liar,"

Arianne swallowed. Now, wait a moment!

"—a malevolent arse,"

Paled.

"—a prejudiced twat."

She shook her head. Not because the words were wrong, but because she’d said them aloud. And worse, he remembered.

All of it.

Arianne stared at him, utterly horrified because even a fool knew the mortal danger they would find themselves in should a Targaryen prince insist they were prancing around tossing insults his way. Her stomach dropped like a stone in water.

Aemond blinked, predatorily still.

His mouth curved at the right edge as if he were wholly amused at her dawning dread. She counted thirty pulses while he seemed to pore over her expression, savoring it.

Drawing out her loss like a fine wine.

Vintage Arbor gold.

"Some might find it a jest. Alas, I am a wretched, stodgy bore, am I not?" He finally asked, almost gently.

The sound made her shudder.

"Those were—" she began, but halted abruptly. Those were not insults, but descriptions, sounded like something treasonous too.

Arianne wanted to yank at her hair. Why was he so —

Why was he so unfair?

"I was defending myself! It is not as if I deliberately... You always start first! I was practically forced to behave in such a manner."

His brow arched.

"I forced you to insult me?"

"I merely responded in kind —"

"Oh, so now you appeal to reciprocity?" His tone was dry as old parchment.

Arianne grasped at her skirts, her heart drumming like a downpour.

"Offense begets defense. The first blow thus invokes the law of return. D-did you never read Thyrne?" She stammered, surprised that she even thought of that.

Something tumultuous flashed inside Aemond's sole eye.

His brief silence spurred Arianne to continue, as nervousness always made an expert blabberer of her.

"N-no? Well, tit for tat principle is older than the Hightower, or even the Old Pyramid of Ghis. It explains the behavior of men quite accurately, I'd say. He who strikes first, which would be you, my Prince, teaches his foe to sharpen their sword. I don't have a sword, but well, one must use what they have — and why should I suffer your cruel jabs like a castle under siege, and not fire back? The law of equivalent retaliation grants me the right to be as rude as you are. "

"Citing An Inquiry into Retribution grants you nothing!" Aemond snapped, appearing more offended than usual.

Arianne pursed her lips.

Oh, so he did read it. Was there anything he did not read?

Her fingers curled into her fists, nails digging into the softness of her palms.

"So, now you dispute —"

"Thyrne wrote about duels, matters between men." He stated levelly, much to her growing irritation. Her cheeks were burning, both from anger and something else that remained on her skin from when he'd caught her.

She should get away from him, lest she truly end up in the sickbed with butterfly fever. Mayhap, Aemond was not a demon at all, but some form of Naathi butterfly, spreading illness while appearing so...so wrongly handsome.

"Fine." Arianne bit out, loathing him with the might of a thousand storms.

"Do you want me to apologize? I am truly sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities, my prince."

She held his icy stare for several seconds.

“Mhm,” he hummed again, unimpressed. “Somehow, I find myself not believing you, Lady Arianne.”

Aemond brought his arm to rest idly on the pommel of a dagger sheathed at his side.

"Believe what you want." She hissed, squeezing her fists at her sides. "I have better things to do than converse with you. Go away."

He blinked.

Then again.

Her gaffe would not go unnoticed.

"You want me to vacate my own yard for your sake?" The condescension in his tone was laid so thick, he might as well called her a simpleton.

"No." Arianne shook her head. The command had slipped out from sheer frustration, not from any foolish hope that he would ever do the gallant thing and deprive her of his company.

"No, I will leave, of course."

She dipped into a low curtsy and headed towards the stone stairway. Well, this morning had been a colossal waste of time.

A thought struck her, as sudden and annoying as the man behind her.

Arianne could not possibly continue wasting so much time arguing with him when there were so many vital matters to attend to, including preparing Rhaenyra's banquet for Rhaenys, reading through scrolls on fund management Ser Tyland recommended, and, most importantly, making Jace jealous.

That required better planning, clearly, as Jace was nowhere to be seen, and she was stuck under the scorching sun with his malicious uncle.

Again.

If she were to avoid the training courtyard and Rhaenyra's drawing rooms, of course, she'd have to consider some different approach.

Maiden Day's ball, then. Just what on earth was she going to wear? And worse, she could not go with Myles Motoon, now that he had fled from her, so her options were either faking an illness or finding someone else. It was going to be a disappointment either way. In Stonehelm, she was always among the selected few ladies who recited the prayers and sang the hymns, preening in the centre of the castle's grand hall of white and black stone. 

Rhaena also mentioned something about the newest lady Wylde organizing a cyvasse tournament together with her husband, Master of Laws, which was something Arianne was most excited about.

She could not afford more social blunders, more failures, just because Aemond Targaryen had a penchant for targeting her! Not to mention the most important woman in the Realm just happened to be his mother, unfortunately, and it was the Queen's whim that decided one's standing with the Court.

More so for a young, unwed lady.

Especially so, for those who wished to marry someone from the royal family.

It would be prudent to settle this...this pointless animosity, because somehow the One-eyed Prince's mere presence kept ruining her carefully concocted schemes.

She pivoted abruptly, purposefully — her crimson skirts swishing around her.

"I propose a bargain."

Arianne declared, resolved to end this. End him — not literally, of course, though the thought was tempting.

Aemond, still lingering by the wooden rack, merely lifted one silvery brow.

"I will stay away from your precious courtyard." She offered, voice sugar-laced spite. His lack of reaction would not daunt her this time.

“No more… nefarious schemes, as you so charmingly put it.” Her hand gestured to herself with a mock flourish.

��I vow never to insult you again. In fact, I will do my utmost to avoid you altogether.”

Arianne inhaled, trying to read anything off the steely edges that made his face.

"In return, you'll leave me be. We needn't ever speak again."

The One-eyed Prince cocked his head, like one might when considering things, before he clicked his tongue.

"Daor." (No.)

She was already halfway to a nod, expecting a curt fine.

No!?

“B-but—” Arianne sputtered, irritation bubbling up her throat. “It would be a mutually beneficial agreement. You find me contemptible! You can even draw up a list of places I must avoid for your sacred peace!”

“A list?” Aemond drawled, lazily intrigued.

“Of places? Like my Keep?”

“It is the King’s Keep! Must you be so needlessly aggravating—?”

That damned smirk tugged at his mouth. Vain and wicked both, a testament to his enjoyment of her frustration.

She scowled.

“Why in the Seven Hells would you not accept a simple truce?” Arianne demanded, her voice rising an entire octave.

“Why indeed?” The One-eyed Targaryen gazed somewhere far off, a painting of genuine wonder.

“Is it because dragons don’t make bargains with songbirds?” His baritone dipped low.

“Or is it because you amuse me, Lady Arianne?”

Her nostrils flared.

"So, you'd scorn my peace offering and rather be my enemy?!"

Embers shimmered inside his sole eye.

“Your enemy,” Aemond echoed, rolling the word over his tongue, tasting it.

“And how do you plan to end me? Will you take up swordsmanship to challenge me in a single combat?”

He took three slow, deliberate steps toward her, each one heavier than the last.

“Or command armies from your solar? You have enough witless admirers for a battalion, I’ll give you that.”

Arianne had to tip her chin to meet his gaze now. Gods, he was tall.

Unfairly, so.

"Princess Nymeria commanded her army even if she never lifted a sword herself. It is a matter of strategy and tactics, not of brute strength."

“Nymeria,” Aemond scoffed. “A coward who fled and lost half her people during voyages.”

“Retreat is not cowardice!” she shouted, fire finally flaring.

“Am I to assume you’d have stayed and let yourself be scorched alive?”

He grinned, cocksure and a tad self-indulgent.

"Why, lady Swann, I'd be on the back of a dragon, doing the scorching."

Of course. Of course, he would be. How utterly foolish of her to ask.

"Charming..." Arianne muttered with a healthy dose of sarcasm. "But since I don't have a dragon, my solar will do just fine."

"War is not your domain," Aemond remarked flatly, gesturing to the toppled shield rack she'd stumbled into as if it proved something.

She stiffened.

"You are meant for comfort. For adorning a hall. For bearing sons. You've read Thyrne, so what was it that he wrote of your kind?"

Her jaw locked.

"Unlike you, I think for myself, so I do not agree with everything he wrote." Arianne recited frostily.

He didn’t even flinch at the insult — callowly pressing on.

“I agree with nothing that old fool wrote. Thyrne was a Septon who never fought, never bled. Nine scrolls on combat, not one scratch earned. Yet, you are the one who cited him, Lady Arianne.”

"What is your point?"

"That if you intend to use his words to defend your schemes, then I will use them to remind you of your place. As per Thyrne, you, my lady Swann, are in the wrong." Aemond was practically purring from satisfaction that he'd outmaneuvered her with this.

"It does not matter if you're as comely as Maris the Maid or as clever as Alysanne, because you are just a lord's spoiled daughter with a sly mouth and too many ideas above your station. And frankly," he drawled, glancing deliberately to the hem of her crimson skirts before slowly dragging his gaze back to her face.

"Why are you even reading so much? Thyrne would chastise you for it, you know."

Arianne’s mouth opened, stunned, ready to lash back, but he continued before she could inhale fully.

"He'd say you were made to be looked at, not argued with." Aemond added, deceptively mellow.

Wait a moment!

She squinted.

Arianne had read that particular scroll thrice, as Thyrne hailed from a village near Blackhaven, so her grandsire on her mother's side had all of his works. “The gods gifted beauty that it might be admired, not questioned. A woman’s loveliness is her highest art.”

Well, that did not make any sense; it didn't even sound like an insult or critique. It sounded...

She scrutinized the marble-like plains of his face for a sign of an incoming rude jape. Did he...did he just imply that she was beautiful? HIM?!

Arianne’s mouth went dry. Her palms itched, damp with rising heat.

"Forget the bloody Thyrne." She bit out.

 "As I've said, that law is older than anything. I read because it is useful to know things, and it is expected that one should know plenty if they find themselves serving on the Council —"

"You are a woman, no such thing is expected of you." Aemond interrupted, voice cold like the winter night.

"Nothing is, except to be a docile broodmare for your husband."

Arianne's eyes widened, his words landing like a strike. Worse. Like a lashing with a birch branch over her palms, which her Septa employed often while she was younger. It was an insult. It was dismissal.

"I do not expect you to know every single sigil of noble houses. Robb must, but you need not."

"Question me again, father, I know them now. Truly! Better than Robb."

Lord Donnel sighed.

A searing, hollow ache bloomed in her chest, pulsating in time with her rabbity heartbeat. How could he know? The secret grudges and pains she'd kept close.

Her lungs seized, a hot flash of humiliation laving her throat.

A docile broodmare?!

Arianne slammed her palm against the wooden rack beside her, fingers grazing the hilt of a nearby blade.

"Nothing is expected of you either." She bellowed, fury scorching her vocal cords like wildfire.

"It does not matter if you're The Perfect Knight come again, or as accomplished as Aegon the Conqueror, because you are just a spare. You will never inherit. You will never rule!"

The last sentence tumbled from her full lips with mundane cruelty.

He would strike her for this, she was certain, but found herself not caring because at least his reputation would be in tatters as well.

Aemond’s eye darkened — iris shifting from pale cerulean into Cape Wrath.

Storm-surge grey, violent, and vast.

His hand fell upon hers, caging it against the wood.

The callouses decorating his palm, warm and firm and unyielding, scraped the thin skin over her knuckles.

Aemond flexed his fingers — it sent disconcerting tingling up her arm, like the stabbing of pins and needles from a sewing cushion.

He'd done it almost eerily calm, a gesture of restraint rather than aggression.

Unmistakably deliberate.

The closeness of him reminded her of her stumble earlier. Right into his arms.

Arianne's face reddened to her hair, because the truth of the matter was very troubling. He'd touched her more than any man ever did.

Brushed his thumb over her knuckles while speaking of Lorath in flawless Valyrian, and that was...she'd explained it by some odd courtliness, but then he'd seized her wrist like it belonged to him, and just minutes ago held her waist, and now...

And now, this. This.

How was it that he,��the haughtiest, most infuriating creature the gods had ever allowed to exist, was the one she engaged in this strange skinship with? Did he think himself above the rules and laws of propriety?!

No, no, the only gossip she'd heard about the Queen's middle son was that he was boringly committed to rules and duties. A voice from the sunken gorge in the back of her mind taunted her with utter nonsense — he wanted to touch her more than he cared for propriety.

Arianne fought the urge to yank her hand away and run. Something in his darkened gaze told her that he would enjoy it.

That if she ran, he would follow.

And worse still, that he would catch her.

So she bit into the inside of her cheek and willed her hand to remain where it was. Trapped underneath his larger one.

Willed her thoughts into order, and willed her feverish skin into forgetting how he'd held her earlier.

This was —had to be — some contest of will. She could not lose. How could she hope to rule a court if she allowed herself to be cowed by Aemond Targaryen?

He made her cry several times, but Arianne would be damned if she was going to let him do it again! So she merely batted her lashes and stared at him.

At last, Aemond spoke, his tone thrumming with warning.

"Thread carefully, my lady." He leaned down until she felt his breath graze her cheeks.

 "You cannot win a quarrel with me."

The words slithered down her ribs, soft, because no, Aemond had not raised his voice at all.

She did not...She did not want to quarrel with him in the first place!

"I do not need to." Arianne replied tightly, following the deep scar splitting his left cheek. "As you've poetically put it, I am only expected to marry a man who will."

She felt silly for vocalizing it, because now he had another thing to humiliate her with. Her affection for Jace. But something else passed over his sharp face.

A surprise, perhaps.

Aemond released a low, dry laugh.

"There is no such man for you."

His brief stupefaction morphed into reverence.

"I am a Targaryen." He murmured, filled with ancestral vanity. "We are closer to gods than men, little swan."

Arianne spoke before she could think it through.

"There is." Her voice rang clear, all righteous fury. She could no longer control the torrent pressing against her teeth.

"It is you who should take care to treat me kindly, because I will outrank you one day."

That jolted him.

His shoulders went rigid, and Aemond's infuriating little lip tilt vanished, mere inches from her face.

She lifted her chin, pressing the momentary advantage of his surprise.

"When Princess Rhaenyra is Queen, Jace will be Prince of Dragonstone, and I will marry him." Her blood was boiling, thundering through her vessels like it wanted to erupt out of her skin. She could not... could not stop, even if his unnatural stillness prompted the cautious voice inside her mind into urging her to retreat and run far and wide.

Arianne stood on her tiptoes instead, so enjoying the tensing of his jaw and the way his pale eye widened. The way something brackish and furious was sizzling beneath his skin.

His hand was still wrapped around hers, a furnace of flesh.

"So that day, when he is King and I his Queen," She spat, reckless and heedless of the darkening grimace on Aemond's terribly close face.

If she moved any closer, she'd hit his nose with her own.

"— will come, and you’ll regret all this. I’ll have you exiled to Mossovy! To Cannibal Sands!"

Aemond did not move, but his fingers tightened, their shared warmth burgeoning between them.

It thrilled her that, for once, he was at a loss for words. If only she could think of how to utter it in the High Valyrian he cherished so — What’s the matter, Prince Aemond? Nothing to say?

The chink in his armor now crystallized in her mind, a path that led under his steel skin, just how his scathing comments always burrowed under hers, a tit for tat.

He clearly loathed being reminded of his unfortunate birth order. Behind Rhaenyra, behind Aegon. Not even second, because even his sister came before him, and all of her children...

Suddenly, Arianne had all these new ideas wanting to tear from her throat.

"And I will give him sons." She sang, swearing it like an oath.

"Many, many sons. And if you're still here, you can watch how my brood sits on the Iron Throne before you ever do."

Aemond blinked, just once, but his countenance altered subtly, horribly.

Suddenly, it was as if every ounce of vitriol from moments before was flushed away, carried by the violent stream of her declaration, to be replaced by equal parts astonishment and fascination.

His single eye widened almost imperceptibly, something volcanic shifting behind it. Something endless and consuming, permeating his gaze and burning through her heavy silks to settle low in her abdomen.

He looked at her as if he had never truly seen her before.

As if only now did her shape make sense to him.

Arianne shivered, waiting for the rude retort she had expected — venom, a sneer, the insufferable boor's usual arsenal of weaponized wit.

Yet, Aemond seemed engrossed in the movement of her face, like one might be in reading a fine scroll. Like her mouth was a particularly interesting paragraph. Like she was a riddle to be unraveled, made specifically for him.

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

Then, he somehow drew even closer, sending her heart into a frenzied spiral.

Her breath slammed against her sternum.

Surely not—he wouldn’t dare touch her like that—!

Unbidden, the idea that he truly would kiss her took sudden, tyrannical root, like weeds in her skull.

A treasonous thrill cascaded down her spine.

She squashed the errant thought like an irritating bug.

He hated her. He'd never.

Such perfectly shaped lips wasted on Aemond Targaryen, she mused wildly, stupidly, blasphemously — a soft lower lip, a parabolic curve of the upper bow.

Swallowing, Arianne lifted her gaze.

A mistake.

His eye gleamed like wildfire hidden behind glass.

"No. Bargain." Aemond hissed flatly, the words reverberating inside her skull.

Silence fell, and the air congealed between them. She could see the pulse in his neck thrashing vehemently, leashed underneath the ivory skin.

Then, so painstakingly slowly, Aemond pulled away.

His hand lifted, and the warmth vanished.

He glared at her for a moment longer before turning and heading towards the stone staircase, his long, silver hair snapping behind him like a war banner.

Arianne swallowed again, felt the strain in her throat.

Flushed and breathless and stunned, she realized one horrible truth:

She made a colossal, disastrous mistake.

A blunder of match-ending proportions.

She'd just set herself, a lone elephant, against the opposing dragon.

Aemond Targaryen now knew of her dream, of her wicked, covetous heart, and he would not let her be.

.

.

.

Arianne marched straight to her chambers from the yard, just so she could scream while holding a pillow over her face.

“Wretch!” she seethed into the feathers.

“Horrid, despicable dragon—”

She kicked her legs against the bedding like an angry child, the silks tangling around her ankles.

Aemond Targaryen accused her of scheming, and she told him...

How could she have told him those things?! Gone so close to his sharp, cold face, too close, improper, improper, contemptible — and told him she would be Queen one day. It was...unseemly.

He provoked her into behaving unbefitting of her station.

Seven take him!

What if he tells? It was enough that cruel tongues lashed at her about Saera Targaryen and Johanna Swann, now they would gossip about her complete lack of scruples and denounce her as a profligate grasper from the Marches.

The bed was too soft.

Too stifling. She threw herself off it and seized a chair with a sharp scrape across the stone floor, the sound grating in her ears.

Aemond Targaryen was going to kill her.

Or worse.

Her chest rose and fell in unsteady bursts.

He held her. Gods, he held her, like he had the right.

The heat suffused her face just remembering it, not just from humiliation, but from something molten, muddled, unwelcome.

Arianne furiously opened the scrolls on the variable tax that Ser Tyland Lannister lent her. Something, anything, to banish the image of him. Numbers and footnotes.

Structure.

Order.

Aemond Targaryen, with his insufferably fast reflexes. With those unbearably corded forearms that flexed every time he handled a blade...or her...

She scowled at the parchment.

How dare he?! State all those awful things and use Thyrne against her!

That old Septon might’ve been daft and entirely mistaken about some matters, but he was hers — a fool of the Red Mountains! Blackhaven’s library held his original texts. Her grandfather brimmed with pride when her mother brought her there to be presented to him, just shy of her fifth birthday and already reading! Of course, she was not reading An Inquiry into Retribution back then.

Some coddled princeling could not have outargued her like that!

Establishing regular markets increases trade, and once prosperous, the lord might levy fees on the passing traders. Stall rents are usually set from 2 to 20 percent, though gate fees could be used instead...

Despite the sheer amount of work she had to plow through, it was impossible to quiet her mind. It buzzed like a hive, stuffed full of wasps and that voice of his.

Arianne had to read the same line three times.

Her vision blurred, not from tears, but from rage.

You told that Stygian fiend that you would be Queen, what if he —

Arianne shoved the scrolls to the side and glared at the notes about market tolls she had made from them, a judgmental chorus of 'stupid, stupid, foolish girl' ringing behind her eyes.

Stonehelm sorely lacks markets. Also, legal protections for smallfolk should be placed in case of overzealous tax collectors.

She yanked at her hair.

How could she trip right in front of him?!

Seven, the indignity.

She’d touched his chest, she remembered, all lean muscle and heat beneath that black tunic, and now that knowledge lived inside her, terrible and permanent.

Arianne leapt to her feet again.

Her skin prickled. It felt too tight. Too small. Like it didn’t fit her anymore.

She couldn’t get comfortable inside herself.

The air was irritatingly warm. It was unbearable all around her, and even worse, she'd felt something shift underneath her ribs. The entire day it had simmered, pooling low in her spine.

Now it fluttered, sharp and aching, like the unfurling of wings.

Ever since she watched those damned duels. Watched him move in equal parts violence and grace. Observed how he carved through men, trained and twice her size, with the almost bored precision. War lived in Aemond's limbs.

And in the way he looked at her.

Arianne bit the flesh around her thumbnail, remembering the press of a calloused palm against her knuckles. Not gentle. Not overly firm. Just...there, claiming.

She loathed it, how he only flexed his fingers, and her entire body shuddered.

He could've easily hurt her.

She thought he had wanted to. But he only hovered too near, his heated breath ghosting across her cheek like a caress.

Her words rattled him; she saw it in the tensing of his jaw, in the tick of his cheek, in the whirlpool of his eye.

After several unsuccessful attempts, she managed to undo the lacing at her back, shimmying out of the constricting silk.

Why had she even worn it? Jace clearly cared not if she wore fine red gowns or the simplest woolen frock. Why hadn't he done what Aunt Johanna wrote about?

Why had Aemond done it?

Did he really have to hold her like that, long enough to be gossiped about?!

He was her enemy now; that much had become evident.

Arianne sat on the edge of her bed and pressed her hands to her cheeks.

She flinched.

Her face was hypersensitive, like it was sunburnt.

It had to be some kind of illness.

A food poisoning or a late summer's fever.

She plopped down, ignoring how even her shift and smallclothes felt off, and drew her legs to her belly. Her thighs squeezed together unwittingly, wishing for some elusive pressure.

Arianne thought again of Aemond's hand, the weight of it, the intent of it, how it steadied her, how —

The audacity! How dare he touch her and insult her!

Her pulse fluttered wildly, pounding all the way to the tips of her ears. Her chest ached.

Speak to her of the vilest things!

He'd said men imagined undressing her. Deflowering her.

Gods.

Gods.

The words were like teeth at her throat. Aemond was a man, wasn't he? Did he —?

Arianne gulped in air, horrified at the thought.  Horrified at herself.

What was wrong with her?

She shifted restlessly, one thigh crossing over the other, then uncrossing, then crossing again, as if there were an itch she couldn't quite scratch.

How dare he catch her like a chivalrous knight from a story, then lean so improperly close...as if, as if...

Her fingers splayed wide across her belly in an attempt to press the strange sensation down, to tame it into stillness.

Yet, her skin did not wish for stillness, no, it thrummed like it couldn't wait to chase after something.

Was she ill?

Or—

Arianne whimpered in horror.

Was it a sin?!

The one her Septa screeched about, a sin beautiful men inspire in maidens who aren't careful and pure of thought. The one that led Saera astray. The sin of wantonness.

No.

No, no, gods no.

She needed to be above such vile matters if she were to become Queen one day.

Arianne had done everything that was required and expected of her. She might have skipped a prayer here or there, but she went to the Sept regularly, feted every Holy Day of the Seven, she obeyed her parents and did her needlework, even if it was poor and ugly.

She prayed for a husband and spent no time entertaining debaucheries. Her refuge from idleness had always been books and games, cyvasse most often, but sometimes tiles and dice too. Though she disliked dice, her brother's favorite, as it was horribly unpredictable.

How did this illness come her way?!

She was overwrought. Delirious. Her shift stuck to her back from the sweat.

It was Aemond's work.

She should notify Her Grace Alicent Hightower that her son was spreading illness around the Keep. Perhaps she would send him away to be purified.

He was something sinful, of the valyrian variety — long limbed, and sharp-tongued sin, with tresses of moondust silver and hands as splendid and beautiful as the marble ones on the statue of a Warrior in the Royal Sept.

Or maybe he poisoned her?

Enchanted her?

There were some weird tomes she found in the library on Dragonstone, and it was a commonly told legend that Queen Visenya dabbled in dark rites and sorcery.

Prince Aemond had her dragon.

Maybe he had her potions too.

Arianne swallowed and attempted to pray, but her hands wandered without asking for permission — over her thin shift, down the slope of her stomach, pausing just at the edge of the shameful, tingling place.

A small sound escaped her throat when her fingers darted too low.

What in the Seven...?

She moved again. Slower. Curious.

It was...pleasant.

Arianne mused about being held, the heat on the small of her back, just above the lacing, what if Aemond had...?

He had looked at her like that, with that sole eye, that bottomless, tumultuous piece of the Sunset Sea — like she was a woman, something alive and volitant that might disappear if he didn't grasp firmly.

Like he was plagued by the same, dark reveries, he accused Myles Motoon of.

The suggestion was preposterous, and dangerous, and disgusting, and Aemond loathed her.

Yet, it thrilled her.

Would he kneel like bodies woven into those tapestries, if she let him undress her? Would he kiss her? He said that she was made to be looked at, so would he look? She imagined his shapely mouth would hiss and denounce her as a shameless courtesan, even as his gaze drank every bared inch. So, who would really be without shame, her, or the prideful prince on his knees?

Arianne bit into her plump lower lip.

Would he curve those long, shapely fingers around the line of her waist to steady her? Would he kiss her...there? Like the kneeling man in the tapestry...

Would he be gentle? Or would he devour her whole like that ravenous glimmer in his eye promised?

She pressed the heel of her hand between her legs. And gasped, actually gasped, as a pulse bloomed there, white-hot and maddening.

Arianne bolted upright like a flame had licked her.

Gods.

She couldn't —

It was a sin.

A maiden must be clean of mind and body. Chaste in thought and conduct.

At first, she debated whether she ought to find a branch and whip her own palms, but then Arianne hurried to find something to wear, one of the simple, woolen dresses she could put on herself without Miriam's help.

Honest work is the best way to keep demons at bay, or so her Septa would say.

Her ankles were tangling more than usual.

She felt...ductile.

Unsteady.

Like a fawn learning to walk.

"Or is it because you amuse me?"

Hadn't Johanna mentioned in her letter that —

No.

She gritted her teeth.

She would forget it happened at all. From now on, she would avoid Aemond Targaryen at all costs.

.

.

.

Arianne was in far better spirits now.

She'd found the seneschal presiding over the kitchens and, after some careful haggling, secured the exact meats, sauces, and dishes she wanted for Rhaenyra's banquet with Princess Rhaenys.

She had brought her coin pouch, of course, as she did not have much faith in her charms. Gold was a universal charmer, however.

So was competency.

Perhaps that was why she was so thoroughly, so foolishly infatuated with Jace — handsome, yes, and second in line to the throne, but above all capable. When Rhaenyra had tasked him to resolve a squabble between two stubborn tavern owners in the village below Dragonmont, he’d done it in a single day.

Aemond —

No! Don't even think it!

He...

He read, almost as much as she did, he spoke High Valyrian effortlessly, and he moved so gracefully, tunics clinging to the broad shoulders and narrow waist, that unfair body she’d only accidentally touched for a second...

Prince Aemond fought so well. But only...only because he cheated! In a way... His mentor was of the Marches, and only marchers fought like that.

Scowling at herself, Arianne pushed the thought aside and hurried to not miss the evening meal. She had successfully bribed the seneschal, though she loathed to use that word.

Bribery was a sin, of course. She'd never do it, and the seneschal agreed her gift was most welcome.

For all the hard effort.

If he just happened to serve Rhaenyra's banquet hall with the suckling pig Lady Baela supposedly enjoyed, well so be it. It was not a feast by any means, no, of course not, they couldn't be hosted in the Keep, without the Queen's leave, under her nose.

The princess, and heir to the Iron Throne, Arianne insisted, was great with child and simply ravenous for meat, even though the Queen wanted poultry served for the days preceding the Maiden's Day, as it was the custom.

Rosey helped her, vouching that the lady was kind and discreet, truly! Of course, when someone helps you, you ought to help them back, so Arianne pressed two silver stags into her hand. She added a few copper groats once the woman mentioned her children had outgrown their clothes.

Absently, she wondered if she could bribe someone from the kitchens to serve Aemond a tray of strawberry tarts...laced with just a whisper of greycap. Enough to tie him to his privy for three miserable days. Nothing serious. She did, after all, like having her head firmly attached to her shoulders.

Grand Maester Aethelmure states the poisoner is beneath contempt, though.

The One-eyed twat had declared war upon her! What courtesy did he deserve?! The problem was that him being a member of the royal family meant she could not do anything to him.

Gods, she could not do away with him on her own!

She thought about telling Jace what had happened.

Decided against it a moment later, because Jace was already overwhelmed with reading on the previous inheritance disputes and perusing his family tree for dark hair.

As if hair were enough to declare someone baseborn!

Swanns were known for their green eyes and nigh-raven hair, which, she supposed, was how Johanna got the moniker — the black swan of Lys, for her dark curls, yet one Saera Targaryen was enough to ruin that. Her father was pale-haired, and though her mother had thick, dark auburn tresses, both Arianne and Robb ended somewhere in between.

All her cousins appeared more Swann than her.

For one madcap moment, she thought her father had liked Jace because their children could be born dark-haired and green-eyed, not like Targaryens at all, but perfect, little Swanns.

But, if Jace were truly... no, no she would not dare think that. Bastards were a treacherous lot, sired in sin. Jace was nothing like that.

Arianne shook her head, focusing on the problem at hand. She could not tell Jace, because there was nothing to tell, really. How would it even sound?

"Save me, my prince, from your loathsome uncle who thinks me a scheming tart?"

And anyway...What was Jace doing this morning? Why hadn't he approached her?

She had wanted him to interrupt her idle flirtation with Myles Motoon and...

Gods be good, why did Aemond?

It should have been Jace who pulled her aside, who glowered and chastised and looked at her like she mattered. Not his uncle.

If he held such a low opinion of her, why did he not just accept her bargain?

Arianne hated not knowing, hated all the little gnawing questions that wormed into her mind. So instead of forgetting, she tucked the matter away, neatly boxed and shelved for another day. As well as one other thing Aemond had mentioned that bothered her, concerning her grandmother.

She had to report to Rhaenyra about her success. Truly, the most wonderful of duties, Arianne thought morosely while crossing the drawbridge to the Holdfast, ensuring that Lady Baela feels comfortable while she flies off with my prince into the happily ever after.

"It would solve everything!" Arianne heard Prince Daemon shout before she even entered the solar. Rhaenyra touched his shoulder and hissed something quietly.

Arianne made herself useful, helping Lady Mathilda herd the younger children to table.

"Are they arguing?" she whispered, glancing sidelong as Rhaenyra swept after Daemon to the adjacent chambers, her skirts twinkling from all the rubies sewn into them.

Mathilda Strong shrugged.

"Prince Daemon wants to fly to Driftmark and behead Ser Vaemond before he can open his mouth in Court."

Arianne blinked.

That would be... unlawful?

"Oh, he also wants to behead the Hand after that." Mathilda added, tone laced with grim amusement.

Arianne, trying not to look as horrified as she felt, sat stiffly beside little Aegon and began cutting his honeyed turkey into neat, manageable bites.

She'd heard that Prince Daemon and Ser Otto Hightower were bitter rivals while they both served Viserys, but the Hand speaks with the King's voice and builds what the King dreams. Surely, the King does not want his grandson to be disinherited?

"Do you know...if the King has an opinion on all this?" Arianne asked carefully. "The Queen was presiding over the Council when they decided to hear Ser Vaemond's petition."

Mathilda shook her head.

"I don't. The princess thinks to bring Maester Gerardys here to help him...she does not trust the Hightowers. Or their maester."

Arianne was exerting considerable effort not to glance up as soon as she heard Jace and Luke arrive, Rhaena with her two ladies in tow. Tonight, she concluded irately, I am writing to Johanna and begging for some other advice. This ignoring thing is driving me mad!

Rhaenyra and Daemon had not returned, so she tried to nod along to Rhaena's excited monologue about seeing her sister after three whole months.

But her eyes followed how Jace cut into his venison — too tightly, his knuckles white. Those thick, inky curls were in disarray, one grazing his left cheekbone.

"You’re very daft sometimes," He snapped after Luke suggested they race their dragons against Baela above King’s Landing, and Rhaena's happy disposition melted away.

Oh.

How terrible that must be, to be the only one without a dragon.

"You’re just sour because you ended up wet earlier," Luke said cheerfully.

The girls looked up in confusion.

"A page tripped in the yard," He explained, grinning.

"Spilled a bucket of water right over him."

Arianne blanched.

Mathilda Strong giggled into her hand.

So that was why he hadn’t come to her.

Some clumsy boy, some fool boy with a sloshing pail, had ruined everything she had so carefully laid out.

Was it a jest from the gods? As a flash of animosity passed through her chest, she almost asked if the page had been punished for his stupidity.

Yet, there was something incredibly funny about Jace now, pouting and glaring at his younger brother.

Arianne met Jace's long-lashed, brown eyes and fought a girlish laughter on the brink of her throat. He was so princely handsome, even when seething.

She turned to Rhaena instead, inquiring about the writings of Elysar, who had been the Conciliator's Grand Maester. More importantly, he wrote a detailed account of her grandmother's scandal.

A topic always forbidden in her household, and Arianne had always respected that and her father's rules, but...something that Aemond had said tormented her, like a minuscule itch behind her ear.

"... everyone knows what happened the last time a Swann, a Motoon, and Saera played their games in Court."

No, that had to have been a deliberate slander on his part, because her grandfather was not at Court during that time! Her father might have been strict and hard to please, but he was no liar. He'd always insisted her grandmother was the corrupting, nefarious blight forced upon their family, a testament to the depravity and arrogance of the dragons.

Well, not that Arianne could blame him for hating her, she'd abandoned him before he could walk.

Her grandfather was an honorable man, a true Marcher, made of steel, stone, and war, and...

"I must know, Rhaena." She muttered, glancing at Jace, who was already staring at them.

Did he hear her?

"Perhaps you should ask Myles." Her prince declared acidly.

Rhaena blinked, and Arianne flushed.

Jace stood, plucking a goblet from the table, and lifted it in a mocking salute, his eyes trained on her.

"But I'd wager he can't even read."

 .

.

.

 (Aemond)

Aemond had returned to the Holdfast perfectly composed. His gait had been measured, his mind numbed from how wonderfully calm he had been, his breathing even.

He had answered a letter from Daeron, musing on how rare their correspondence had become. More strangers than brothers.

He had gone to check on Helaena after, and got roped by the twins into playing monsters-and-maidens with them. Even Aegon, bleary-eyed and reeking faintly of wine, had participated, tottering about the Queen's Ballroom as a shrieking maiden while Jaehaerys chased him.

His sister laughed at them, embroidering large, fat, black spiders. One of her ladies bounced little Maelor on her knee.

It had been a pleasant afternoon, in the way afternoons could sometimes be.

Aemond had had enough once he was relegated to playing monster five times in a row.

It suited him, perhaps. He was neither kind nor charming, and after that bastard had a go at his face, he thought he could no longer be called handsome either. Without all those blessings working in his favor, it was rather obvious why any courtly lady would chase after him.

Ambition.

Which she seemed to have in spades.

That sinful, dark glint in her eyes when she declared that she'd have sons — many, many sons — and sit them on the Iron Throne before he ever climbed there ignited something terrible and ruinous in his lower back.

He should have struck her for it.

He wanted to strike something for it.

Aemond grimaced.

But it had been a pleasant afternoon nonetheless because he was calm, and his mind was clear, and he did not have unwelcome thoughts about Arianne Swann, the sort that rarely plagued him.

Once he had returned to his chambers, he unbuckled his sword belt haphazardly, letting it hit the floor with a resounding clang.

So now that he was alone, lying on the chaise and perusing The Battles and Sieges of the Century of Blood, Aemond was focused and did not abandon the book five pages in, because he realized he had no clue what he'd just read.

How dare she say those words to him!

He paced his chambers in agitated circles.

Poured himself a cup of dry Arbor red and didn't drink it.

He should've let her tumble. Let her scrape her elbows bloody. Let her crack her obstinate, unreasonable skull.

Let her split open her pretty lip or muddy her ornate silks.

Instead, she fell into his arms — soft, warm, delicate —  and he held her. Steadied her. Felt her waist, the fine edge of her corseted spine, the heat of her breath on his neck.

The distractingly decadent scent that clung to her, jasmine or something else so flowery, something like woods after rain, when everything is wildly, unapologetically green. Yet, there was warmth underneath it that was obnoxiously soothing and made him want to bury his nose into her neck. Her hair.

He shouldn't have ever tread so close to feel any of those.

Now he was tormented by imaginings that should've forced him into prayer, had he found solace in the gods like his mother did.

Aemond was not calm, and he could not tear the memory of her nearness from his mind, no matter how savagely he tried.

It clung like barnacles down in the Blackwater Bay. It festered.

Sickening sweet and vile.

"...when he is King and I, his Queen."

Aemond ceased his relentless pacing and slumped into the chaise. The table before him was filled with books, scrolls, and a half-empty inkpot from his earlier correspondence.

At least it made sense. She made sense now. It was not some fleeting infatuation that fixed her so firmly to the eldest bastard's side, it was determination. Hunger.

Aemond realized why his japes struck so deeply. He'd told her the court would never accept her and Jacaerys as rulers when they conversed during the second banquet for his whore of a half-sister, and she practically trembled. Now it was clear, she took it personally.

It finally dawned on him why Arianne had lashed at him, even at the cost of her own lady's manners.

Not that she had any, he corrected himself.

She did not want comfort, docility, song, and dance — good for her, truly, since she was completely left-footed and clumsy as Seven Hells.

Seemingly, she did not even wish to pretend at swordsmanship, or play at some woman-warrior tripe, or freedom, or a grand, law-defying affair, or any such thing ill-behaved women often sought.

No.

Aemond exhaled through his nose.

She wanted queenship.

She wanted legacy.

Perhaps, lady Arianne was much more astute than he gave her credit for.

She was driven, like him.

There was something irresistible in her spirit, something that called to the black-blooded part of him, the dragon in his marrow.

She wanted power. He needed it.

She meant to rise. He would.

Perhaps she was like him. Not!

He hated the thought. Refused it.

A Queen.

She dared to say it out loud, without so much as a tremble in her voice. The audacity struck him like an open palm to the cheek. She stood on her fucking tiptoes to spit it at his face. Infuriating little wench.

Aemond removed the eyepatch, twirling the leather between his hands.

Did she plan to kiss him?! To ensnare him, rope him in with her considerable wiles so that he too, was her ally while she climbed. A co-conspirator of her ambition?

He tossed it onto the table.

The idea was preposterous, yet he found it easier to stomach than the alternative—that she completely dismissed him and did not look at him the way women looked at men when they wanted something.

The spare.

That she was mocking his forever-crownless brow.

Second son.

Gods, how he loathed her!

Aemond wanted to grab her shoulders and give her a good shake.

There was the third alternative, more preferable than the second. Less than first.

She saw him as a threat. He supposed that was fine, he was a threat to his half-sister and her brood of bastards.

Aemond's fingers drummed against the wood, restless and agitated.

"Many, many sons."

She'd spoken as if they were already nestled in her womb. It positively angered him. Because...she was right. Shall his half-sister be crowned, Jacaerys Strong-Targaryen would be King after her, and then those sons. Her sons.

Bastard's little bastards to steal the Iron Throne from the King's trueborn sons and grandsons. Aegon. Jaehaerys. Maelor. HIM. Daeron.

Him most of all.

Because he was deserving of it!

He should've laughed and told her to keep dreaming. He should've seized that insolent, lovely curl that always fell out of her braid and given it a good yank.

Or he should've turned away. A small, buried part of him almost wanted to tell her to be careful with her words and bold, little statements like the one she'd just thrown at him, because someone was going to do away with her. If not his Hightower grandsire, then his uncle.

No, Daemon fucking Targaryen would absolutely not stand for his wife passing the throne to her Strong whelp and Saera's granddaugher.

So, there had been plenty of responses Aemond could've used to take her down a peg.

But in that damned, cursed, utterly despicable moment, he just stood like a complete, horsebrained fool, positively riveted.

Thinking that she'd look even more defiant with his son inside her.

More queenly.

Beautiful while she writhes and moans underneath him, and parts her thighs for him.

His eye stung, pinpricks burrowing through his left temple.

Her sharp little mouth, tamed by pleasure.

His left hand had ached from restraint. From not crushing her bones underneath it.

His cock — Seven Hells — had throbbed like it had a mind of its own.

Aemond had to leave and extricate himself from that humiliating experience. It was disappointing that the best he could come up with was that he'd not give her that silly bargain she concocted. There was nothing in it for him.

His fingers stilled.

What had he done to deserve this torment?!

Aemond's jaw clicked. He bit into his lower lip until he tasted copper.

There was an illness in him, he thought. Some acrid, festering wound between his ribs that always opened, craving for what eluded him.

That inconsequential, infuriating lady Swann meant to provoke him — oh, and she had. Just not in the way she had expected.

Aemond cursed low in his throat, dragging a hand through his hair, tugging on it until his scalp prickled. He untied the ribbon at the back of his head and let it fall loosely, haloing his face.

He could now see her.

Proud, venomous, clever. And ripe.

He could imagine her fat with child. His child.

There was something so deliciously perverse in the idea. Corrupting her plans, taking what she meant for another, and making it his. Twisting her ambition until it was coiled around his. 

Him.

Arianne Swann hated him, or at least she claimed so. It would be a challenge. Aemond enjoyed challenges like one does a fine plate of snails in honey and garlic. Harsh ones, painful ones, difficult ones, grueling practice, and endless studying...and the greatest challenge of them all, approaching the largest dragon in the world in the middle of the night.

The adversity only made the triumph sweeter.

He gave up reading on the struggles plaguing Western Essos after the Doom and smoothed his palm over the cover of the book once more, tracing the title absentmindedly.

Aemond groaned irritably, the events from earlier playing in his mind over and over in seemingly an endless loop. He would have been pleased to say that it was her declaration of war he was lingering on, dissecting and scheming on how to best deal with her, insignificant as she was.

The truth was far, far worse.

His empty hands curled into fists. Then uncurled.

It was the sight of her lying helplessly in his arms that kept harassing his mind. Full, heart-shaped lips slightly parted, soft cheeks rosy, green, green, the greenest eyes wide and resplendent.

That daringly low neckline revealed the elegant line of her collarbones and the shallow hollow between them, a space just begging to be kissed. And lower...The valley of her breasts peeked above the dip in the center of her bodice. Pert and infuriatingly perfect, and, gods, he fought men with less effort than it took to keep his gaze from slipping below her throat.

The delightful curve of her lower back he'd touched.

The soft curve of her arse he hadn't touched.

The lissom curve of her waist she intended to ruin with bastard's whelps.

I should...I should kill her, Aemond nodded to no one in particular.

I should have her.

He tore at the clasps of his tight-laced leather doublet, yanking it off with far less decorum than he usually allowed himself. His tunic and breeches soon followed, as did his smallclothes, and Aemond found himself bare.

Kill her.

He threw himself onto the cool sheets, willing them to douse the surge through him. But his hips twitched of their own will. His cock ached, insistent and shameless.

His skin burned, even in the comfort of his bed.

Have her.

His good eye snapped shut.

No, it would be best if he could just ignore her entire existence.

Aemond rolled onto his stomach, wondering if he could just smother his arousal into the mattress.

He needed sleep.

Unfortunately, the One-eyed Prince had woken several times throughout the night and all of his attempts to discipline his body into obedience fell through, his cock throbbing harder and making it clear he would need to address the...issue the next time he woke.

He never had much qualm with pleasuring himself. It was perfunctory and kept him focused and away from female snare. Until now.

His...carnal musings had never been fixated on someone, but now this bastard-loving, whore-serving annoyance named Arianne Swann violently inserted herself into them.

He should really kill her.

It was not the first time he'd found release with her image in mind. He'd done it after that infernal dream in which they played cyvasse, on his bed, and lacking any form of clothing.

At the hour of the wolf, Aemond gave up and rolled onto his back. He glared at the canopy while concentrating on the lines the pads of his fingers left on his skin while they slid down his abdomen. His hand hesitated once he felt the sparse, pale curls.

Shutting his sole eye, Aemond felt the last shreds of his resolve vanish into thin air. What did it matter, truly? It was just mundane physicality.

His cock was terribly warm when he gripped himself, rubbing over the tip to spread the dampness around his length.

He thought about her full, bottom lip quivering with fury before she slammed her small hand onto the wooden rack. He thought of preventing her from ever opening her mouth to call him a spare, by kissing her.

Not gently.

But she'd like it.

Aemond moved along his length in firm, languid strokes, musing on how wroth and flushed she might've been then. She'd accuse him of stealing her first kiss with that shrill voice of hers, but they'd both know she would've been lying.

Because she wanted him to dare.

She was practically baiting him with that damned curl-twirl around her index finger. It was a simple law of reciprocity, which Arianne seemed to enjoy using to her advantage.

Then he'd dare more.

Until he had her bent over the wood, flipping those ridiculously heavy skirts up.

He'd remove her undergarments without much effort and hear her whine as the cold air tickled her bare skin. What a lovely sound that would be.

Perhaps he'd yank her stockings down and grip those shapely hips of hers. Perhaps he'd leave fingertip-shaped bruises, so she'd remember him whenever she dressed.

Aemond bit his lower lip as his pulse quickened, his breaths growing more shallow.

He would not take her immediately. During those few times, years ago, when Aegon pressured him to copulate with whores, he'd learned it was much better if a woman was wet. Sometimes, he loathed Aegon for that because he could scarcely recall a more humiliating moment than one of those visits.

Sometimes, he wondered if Aegon had truly thought he was doing him a favor, because he had called it a gift. A rite of passage. Laughing even as some unnamed woman, old enough to have birthed both of them, attempted to make him stiff with her hand. It would've been easier if his brother hadn't been right there, downing wine and attempting to cheer him on.

Horrendous.

At least he left knowing how cunts looked like and how it felt to fuck one. Warm and wet, and he wished to fuck one right now.

Not some paid whore's.

Hers.

Aemond bucked slightly into his hand, exchanging full strokes for shorter, firmer touches around his tip.

Arianne would shiver once he rubbed his clothed groin over her womanly flower, letting her feel everything that she was going to take. He would use his hands, too, if he felt generous.

And then —

Once his breeches were damp with her arousal, a darkened, wet spot right above the outline of his hardened cock she rutted against, he'd pull them down and —

Inch by agonizing inch he'd split her tight cunt open.

Perhaps she'd cry out and whine so sweetly, and shiver from being ruined so vulgarly.

Her precious maidenhead, taken by the second son.

Perhaps she'd curse him, Aemond, Aemond, Aemond you vile twat!

But he'd scarcely care. He tightened his grip, imagining how her untouched cunt would clamp around his cock.

Perhaps she'd ask him for more.

Aemond moaned, seeing one of his hands grasping at her hair, his fingers finding purchase in those thick, wild locks, the other digging into the soft, plush thigh to keep her in place.

The pinpricks of pleasure, molten, scorching, began to tighten the muscles in his legs, his abdomen, his loins.

Perhaps, she'd beg him for mercy.

Just a sliver of mercy for the undeserving, grasping girl from her dragon prince. She'd finally realize her place and beseech him while he tasted the creamy skin beneath her ear as he thrust into her.

"Kostilus, ñuhys zaldr��zes." (Please, my dragon.) Aemond almost, almost, wished he could imagine himself saying yes, why, when she begged so sweetly in his native tongue.

When he coaxed such exquisite, breathless whines from her obstinate mouth.

But no —

No, he'd conclude darkly as he ravished her. She was the offender, the uninvited scoundrel, she deserved no salvation from what she brought upon herself.

But he'd be kind. Kinder than he's ever been.

He'd give her his precious seed, every last drop of it, until it trickled out of her full, bruised cunny.

Aemond's lips parted as the pumping rhythm he'd set deteriorated. His hips stuttered, quick, jolting thrusts into his calloused palm.

Then, she'd turn around, glaring at him with those large, thick-lashed eyes, brimming with tears — from pleasure and desperation both, and admit he'd won.

His head snapped to his right, and the One-eyed Prince bit into his pillow to prevent guttural, completely crude sounds from escaping his throat. The near-constant pressure that was building up as he stroked himself erratically capped, and the rolling, violent waves of spasms crashed through his groin and thighs.

Aemond spent himself immensely all along the back of his hand and across his abdomen.

His cock pulsed for an embarrassingly long time and the tingles he felt all the way down to his feet.

He opened his eye, breath still shuddering.

For a few silent moments, he wallowed in self-loathing and the puddle of his own sweat and seed.

Aemond gritted his teeth and profaned all of the Seven and all of the Valyrian deities he knew for forcing this weakness of flesh onto him.

Then he cleaned himself and slammed the door to his chambers open, barking at a frightened guard to have someone fetch him water for the bath. The coldest water they could find.

"Yes, now!" The prince shouted. Must he truly repeat himself just because it was the middle of the night?!

.

.

.

Aemond felt much better today.

He'd never gone back to sleep after his bath, so he was up at the hour of the nightingale, striding out of the Holdfast to complete his drills.

At last, his mind was clear. It seemed all he needed was to release the pent-up frustration.

Yes, yes, obviously, now he was safe from Arianne Swann's nefarious designs.

Immaculate.

All focus and precise strikes as he parried.

"You're doing well, my Prince." Ser Criston nodded as he observed him.

"How did your sparring yesterday go?" The older man inquired, and Aemond muttered a response. He couldn't say much because Criston would notice. The man knew him better than his own father.

He was the only fixed male presence in his life, though the One-eyed Prince did not complain much about that. Criston Cole was the best sword in the Seven Kingdoms and fiercely loyal to his mother and family.

Aemond adjusted his stance and motioned for squires to change. He'd tired out this one, he could tell by the boy's profuse sweating. A shield was up again for him to strike.

"So, a lady did not fall into your arms as I've heard the first thing in the morning?"

Aemond blanched.

His grip faltered, and he missed the target completely.

Single cerulean eye snapping to Cole, he scowled.

"You are the last person I'd expect to gossip like a fishwife." His lips peeled back from his teeth.

Ser Criston merely observed him, arms crossed underneath his padded gambeson.

Gossip. Gossip! He loathed gossip, and now that wicked little swan had made him the victim of it.

"Easy, Aemond." The tone of the older man's voice was not judgmental, at least, which helped his temper.

"It is a good thing, helping a damsel in distress. The Seven encourage us to protect the weak. The celebration for the Maiden's Day is approaching, and she looks favorably upon those who offer protection."

Aemond was not sure Criston was mocking him, unlikely though as Criston was as much of a bore as he apparently was, or was he simply spending too much time with his mother to spring into the sermon whenever it was needed?

He even considered, very briefly though, asking Cole to give him advice on how to deal with Arianne Swann. It had been Cole who took him in after the loss of his eye. Cole, who hadn't given up on him and who trained him despite his glaring weakness.

When he ran to the Keep, crying, after that horrifying night on his thirteenth name day, it had been Cole who had found him slumped outside the empty council chamber, curled in on himself like a child. The whore, or another one, had taken his eyepatch. His cheeks were raw with shame and anger, like someone had welted him across them.

Cole, who never murmured useless comforts or pretended his half-sister and Daemon weren't coming for their heads. Aemond trusted him in a way he trusted few others, but asking him about Arianne felt like breaching some sacred line.

Cole would tell him to stay away from her altogether.

Or worse —

To be honest, decent, pious, and a load of other useless things.

If he were honest, Arianne would have won.

She asked him whom she had seduced, with that defiantly raised chin, and honesty would've forced Aemond to name himself.

Then she'd laugh at him, all the while twirling that infuriating curl.

No.

Absolutely not.

He must prevail over everything.

.

.

.

"Mother." Aemond's voice carried into the drawing room just after the midday meal. Alicent Hightower was perched on a comfortable oval settee, an array of tomes scattered on the low table in front of her.

She seemed deep in thought, glancing alarmingly up at the intrusion.

"Aemond. Have you eaten?" The Queen closed the Great Code of Septon Barth, which she had been scrtutinizing.

He furrowed his brow.

Amongst the tomes, he recognized several books of law and legal commentaries, The Seven-pointed Star, The Book of Holy Prayer, and a few crisp scrolls that smelled faintly of fresh ink and Oldtown.

"Yes." He answered, sitting across her.

"What is all this?" Aemond asked, gesturing toward the mess. Alicent released a sigh so tired it worried him.

Now that he truly looked, his mother did seem paler than usual.

She must've been exhausted and restless this past week. It had to be the presence of that cantankerous whore of his half-sister.

"Just...I need to be certain that I am doing the right thing. The just thing." He heard a mild tremble of vacillation in her tone.

What?

"Mother, are you referring to the petition for the Driftwood Throne?" He asked, incredulous. Aemond had assumed everything was set up to strip Rhaenyra's bastard of it.

Alicent nodded slowly, reaching for the scroll closest to her.

"Lord Corlys may still recover, and if he does..."

"Then the truth remains unchanged. Rhaenyra's sons are bastards." Aemond snapped, much harsher than he had intended.

"It is not the truth that disturbs me, it is the punishments for treason." She explained, her large, light-brown eyes scanning the parchment she had just unrolled.

Aemond leaned back in his chair, frowning. Those who committed the crime should think about the repercussions. Not his gentle mother. Hadn't she suffered enough already? 

"You haven't slept." He observed flatly.

Alicent waved the comment away.

"Mercy is the highest form of virtue. Would the gods want us to condemn Rhaenyra's children to exile or worse?"

"The gods are cruel," Aemond responded, thinking of his eye he lost, the scorn he bore.

"I thought that to be a requirement of godhood."

Alicent gave him a look that denoted she did not wish to debate the nature of divinity with him.

He bit the inside of his cheek before continuing.

"Besides, do we truly want a child loyal to my uncle at the command of the greatest fleet in Westeros?"

Alicent smiled wryly.

"Ser Tyland and Lord Wylde have already voiced such concerns. And your grandsire, too." She returned to her reading, and Aemond idly reached for the Great Code, flipping through its pages.

His thoughts, unwittingly, came back to Lady Swann and her irritating arguments. Perhaps he should write her a detailed refutation explaining why she was the offending party, and why, then, the law of equivalent retaliation did not apply.

She was utterly ludicrous if she thought to best him with shallow snippets of child-level philosophy. He was not some barely literate nonentity from Maidenpool.

Like the Motoon squire she touched and laughed with.

Aemond scoffed under his breath.

He hated that he stewed while watching them talk, his fingers gripping the balustrade. He hated that her little declaration affected him and that he'd spilled in his hand with her name in his throat.

"Why are you scowling so much?" His mother interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Alicent had lowered her scrolls, studying him now with narrowed eyes.

Aemond blinked, clearing his mind.

"Because I loathe to see you losing sleep over them." He stated, smoothing his expression into one of dutiful concern.

Our enemies.

.

.

.

Aemond was furious.

After leaving the Holdfast, he was inspired to find a solution for his Arianne Swann problem. He debated visiting Septon Eustace, his mother's confessor, and baring his soul to the gods. He had plenty to complain about.

Perhaps, he could find a refuge in the Seven. Perhaps, there were things the Hightowers did better than the blood of the dragon.

Because his Targaryen blood surged through his veins, thick and sizzling and frenetic.

Arianne.

He hated her name. It sounded a lot like Alysanne, and it only brought back her bold declaration to the front of his mind.

Aemond wondered if she felt as fevered as he was, because they did share blood. Exactly through their great-grandmother, The Good Queen.

Or if she was as cold, calculating, and smug as he imagined.

He realized that if the Great Council his great-grandfather assembled had somehow decided on her father, as Saera's child, not that it ever could've happened as he was from the female and youngest line both, Arianne would've been a princess.

Aemond also remembered that she mentioned a brother who got bored with trying to destroy her defensive cyvasse formation. Tough luck, he grinned, there goes your crown, little swan.

Unless she wed her brother and bore him many, many sons —

Why did she sound as if she imagined spending days in his bastard nephew's bed?

The One-eyed Prince scowled.

Enough.

He was becoming vexingly fixated.

Aemond had long been obsessive. He was aware of it.

As a child, he could not stop himself from attempting to claim a dragon. Even Dreamfyre, who had already been bonded with his sister. Rationally, he knew it was futile, but Helaena flew less than Aegon, and she was perfectly happy while collecting bugs.

He was miserable on the ground.

Aemond crossed the yard toward the tall, round building. The Royal Sept was notably smaller than the Grand Sept atop Visenya's Hill.

He had forgotten how crowded it would become now that the Maiden's Day was almost here. Dozens of women had begun to visit for daily prayers, carrying candles and flowers for the offering.

Then, the worst thing that could have happened, happened.

There, among two dark-haired women who held more resemblance to his nephews than Velaryons, walked the object of his ire, dressed in a simple, gray frock, carrying a white candle.

Aemond stilled.

Her hair was down.

Unadorned.

She giggled at something one of the women had said and plucked a flower from the other's basket to add it to her candle.

It was a pretty, girlish sound.

Aemond had quite the mortifying awakening — He wanted her. Even when she was dressed modestly, and when she did the most mundane thing in the world, like laughing.

And he didn't know how to stop.

It was not even her beauty, though she was truly lovely. The court was filled with comely maids. Perhaps it was not even her clever mouth, though he quite enjoyed that too.

It was her raw, brazen desire to matter.

Once he was at the threshold of the Sept, he realized he was irreparably fucked.

Arianne was kneeling before the altar of the Maiden, head bowed low, arms raised in prayer. He couldn't hear her over the many others, but it was evident she knew it well.

She appeared...prim and proper.

Pious, little offering.

He couldn't find anything to criticize. 

Aemond turned on his heel and left before someone questioned him being there.

There goes that, he concluded irritably, he couldn't even have the gods because she got to them first.

He didn't need gods.

There was no conclusive proof of their interference on anyone's behalf, and besides...Aemond was no craven to seek refuge from anything. 

Retreat was cowardice.

Losing was unacceptable.

And he would have her.

.

*For my show-only readers: Blackhaven is the seat of House Dondarrion, so Arianne's mother is a Dondarrion. They are also from the marches, and funny thing, Criston Cole's father is/was a steward for House Dondarrion.

Maelor is Helaena and Aegon's younger son. For some reason, he doesn't exist in the show.

**just to answer one of the prior questions: Arianne calls Johanna "aunt", but Johanna is not her aunt, as her father is an only child. Johanna in canon was a niece of Lord Swann when she was enslaved. That Lord Swann in this story is Arianne's now deceased grandfather, so Johanna is more like...her second aunt/grand-aunt?. I do not want to get too verbose with describing Arianne's family tree, but her grandfather had brothers/sisters, so she has Swann cousins.

[diazmaximoff]

I just realized how similar the final decision is in every mainline Life is Strange game: barring the specific context of those decisions, each one revolves around a choice between staying in a familiar place or stepping into something unknown.

In the first game, Max spends a lot of time in Arcadia Bay which is her childhood town, but if she chooses to save Chloe, they both drive off into the sunset, heading into the unknown.

In the second game, most of Sean and Daniel's journey takes place in the U.S., but if Sean chooses to cross the border and Daniel agrees, they leave for Mexico, somewhere they've never been.

In the latest game, Alex is trying to build a life in Haven Springs, but if she chooses adventure, she ends up traveling to new, unfamiliar places.

Each game shows you one side of the story—Arcadia Bay, the U.S., Haven Springs—but leaves the other part, the unknown, up to you. It’s your call whether to take the risk and explore or stay in the comfort of what’s familiar, always wondering what could have been.

[limerlove]

≛ THE APPLE'S ROTTEN STRAIGHT TO THE CORE!

❝ ABBY!CENTRIC ONE SHOT ❞

♪ ˚. THE BRAT CHALLENGE ♱ ⋆.˚

feat. drummer!abby x fem!reader x footballplayer!ellie

warnings. eighteen+, nsfw content: switch!abby (kinda), jealousy, cheating, abby’s pierced nipples, reader desc. feminine, fingering, munch activities, toxicity ensuing, voyerisum, strap sex.

THE APPLE'S ROTTEN STRAIGHT TO THE CORE, ellie williams, sporting 88’ on the back of her jersey, the world renowned football player from the united states. the overly competitive blood runs through her veins, passed down from her father, just as well as an overpowering ego the size of texas. she has the girl of her dreams, the most important game of her life in sight, but what happens when one drummer threatens to wreck it all?

wc. 10k

It’s easy to feel safe and comfortable with her, slipping into a simple life. Traveling the world with your favorite soccer player, the auburn-haired five-foot-five of pure talent, as soon as her custom cleats step foot on the field. 

When the crowd echoes chants of her name, the rumbling of the rowdy fans, aggressive shouts cursing the other team. With crushed beer cans, sunflower seeds are spat on the ground, and they are begging for a goal. The 88’ jersey was littered across the stands. Every fan in the arena went to see her, yet you aren’t here. 

It was one of the biggest games of her career, and you would not be seen anywhere, especially after the past week. She doesn’t blame you; Ellie could only blame herself but needs her good luck charm. The events replaying in her mind, haunting her while she tries to get one wink of sleep, but the look of horror in your eyes, the shoulder check you left her with, green eyes pleading to reason with her, but you refused. 

Let me know when you want to grow the fuck up and tell me what’s wrong with you. 

The words running in her mind, haunting her as she sleeps at night, wondering if today is the day the stone will be unturned or if she’ll actually tell you everything bothering her. But she doesn’t. Never had she seen you like it; rage carries higher than the waves of a tsunami, and all of it, every drop of water, seems to be crashing over her. 

Every drop of it suffocates her until there is no oxygen left to breathe. 

When she gets home, she scours the apartment for a trace of you, yet half of your belongings are absent. Ellie starts to wonder if she’s pushed you too far this time. Always, she’s betted on you sticking around through thick and thin but maybe you finally had enough. 

Has she pushed you too far? Are you too far out of reach? She has no choice but to let you drown with the devil itself, succumbing to your own needs for once, not hers. 

The side of the closet holding your belongings was in disarray. Ellie could see that your favorite belongings were absent. All the sweaters, hoodies, hell, even the flannels you would steal from her were meticulously folded and placed in the corner. 

Ellie thought you would give her the benefit of the doubt. She thought you would let her explain why she had taken the job offer without consoling you. Now, considering what she seems to be losing, there’s nothing she wishes for more than to take it all back. 

Any success is so trivial if she has no one to celebrate it with, not without you. 

From the very start, you’ve been right there by her side. From the very beginning, it wasn’t as picture-perfect as she imagined. The fairytale began with what she thought would be a never-ending love story. 

Something so pure, it could never turn rotten. 

—

Growing up on the outskirts of New York had its perks. The small town was busy, yet the countryside tucked an hour away gave you a sense of solitude. Entirely predictable suburbs, the cul-de-sac tucked in the back of the neighborhood reeks of disturbed suburbia. 

Everyone knew everyone, and you knew Ellie. 

You were ten the day the two of you became friends, and you’ll never forget it. Clumsily, you had just fallen off your bike, knees skidding by the concrete as the skin had been peeled, the wound viciously open. 

“Did you fall—” the girl shakes her head at herself, curses flying into the wind. “Of course you did. God, so stupid.” 

She continues talking to herself as you weep slightly in a pathetic manner. Affectionately, the mysterious girl who also happens to be riding her bike past the park in your neighborhood pats you gently on the shoulder. 

“I'll be right back. Stay there. I'll be back. Promise.” 

She disappears on her blue and red bike, red hair flying in any direction the wind takes, but returns just like she said — a girl of her word. 

“Here, let me fix you.” She grabs the first-aid kid from the bucket on her bike. Ellie kneels on the ground. You notice her bright blue Converse with red laces, which match her bicycle perfectly. 

“Yeah, okay—” you sniffle, wiping away your tears as the nice girl tends to your knee. “Thanks.”

She grabs the needed tools, “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. Well, I used to fix my dad all the time. He's a soccer player and gets hurt a lot. 

You stay silent as she rambles on. 

“One day, going to be just like him, but better. My old man got too old before he decided to be good. I'm going to be the best player ever.” 

“I bet you will be.” your eyes find hers, the sun making them shine like an emerald diamond, just like the one your mom wears on her ring finger. 

“My coach says I'm good already but tells me not to get my hopes up.” 

You realize Ellie has already cleaned your wound; her small hand applies pressure with the gauze as he wraps it away. She's so concentrated but simultaneously rambles away about her dad, the last soccer game she played in, and jokes to get your mind off the pain. 

“How does it feel?” Ellie asks, the corner of her lip upturns, a soft smile gracing her freckled, full cheeks. 

“Better,” you thank her, smiling shyly. She observes you as you hop back on your bike, ensuring you aren't in pain. Curiously, her mind drifts to how cute you are, and she wonders why her stomach is in complete knots. 

She confuses it for sickness. 

“You’re welcome.” Ellie stretches the nape of her neck, and her short hair sticks to her skin from the heat. “I'm Ellie, by the way.” 

“I know.” You offer your name as Ellie blushes, her cheeks tinted pink. The love you feel is etched right into her heart, and she feels it from the first moment your name is said. 

In a cliche, obvious way, the rest was history. 

The two of you were best friends until college, bringing out the best in you—platonic love blossoming into something sweet, a one-in-a-million love you can only hope to find in someone else. 

The tricky thing? It works. The two of you fit better than you could have ever dreamed of. The incredible bliss of youth leaves your faith blinded, corrupted by the true love you have for Ellie. Oblivious to flaws, all you see is her. Assuring you follow her around like a lost puppy; anything she wants, she gets. The skeletons in the closet are no match for the two of you, each being dragged out one by one. 

But not by either of you. 

— 

One Week earlier…

“Would you stop so we can talk about this?” Ellie nearly shouts at you, granting her another eye roll, she’s lost count on how many you’ve thrown at her since the two of you left the club. The longing looks, her wandering olive eyes on someone else all night, gawking at the muscles, making you feel envious of someone you couldn’t have. 

Your girlfriend’s attention. 

But this is all your fault, right? 

“Talk about what? How you, Ellie, made a decision to make a life altering decision without me? Yeah, okay, let’s fucking talk.” You have a bite in your voice, one Ellie has rarely heard, the sweetness diluted with her consistent need to keep you in the dark. “Fucking talk, please. I’d love to hear the bullshit excuse you’re gonna give me.” 

“Why are you making this a big deal? It’s my career, not yours.” You bite your tongue as the words leave your mouth. Instantly, you feel burned by the person who thought loved you more than anything. Even in the heat of the moment, you figured she would give you the benefit of the doubt, even when you’ve been blind sided by her teammates. All because she was too much of a coward to tell what she’s already done. “Right. Foolish of me to think we’re a team.” 

Spitefully, you throw your belongings in your tote, ignoring when she tries to grab your wrist, dodging her quickly. She tries again but stops when you tell her to. The only boundary she leaves untouched it seems. 

“We are a team.” Ellie tries to convince you, but you don’t budge. Not an inch of you believes the shit she’s spewing at you. 

“Oh! Well, that’s a surprise to me. If we’re such a team, why don’t you tell me why you won’t have sex with me….for eight months?” You raise your eyebrows at her, giving her an opportunity to speak but she stays silent like she always does. “If we’re such a team, why did you accept a job offer on another continent without even giving me the respect to tell me about it before you accepted the offer?” 

Ellie stays silent, finding the hardwood beneath her feet more interesting. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

You change into something more comfortable, slamming the bathroom door shut as you do, gathering other toiletries, different necessities you would need for the next few weeks. 

You find her sitting on the edge of the bed in tears, as much as you want to hug her and give her the comfort she probably needs, there’s no good will in your heart. As much as you love her, only the boiling anger can be found. Blistering frustration, the one someone has when their girlfriend won’t touch them, kiss them, or even warrant them the truth. 

“I love you, okay? I just need to figure some things out.” Ellie pouts, eyebrows furrowed as she says enough to get you to look at her. She sees the tears threatening to spill over, but you won’t let them fall in front of her. Never have you liked crying in front of others. Just as if she was anyone else, you would wait until you were in private to lick your wounds. “I just need some time, I just don’t know what’s happening to me.” 

But all sincerity is lost, all you see in front of you is lies and deceit. Someone backed in the corner with no way to manipulate their way out. 

“Well…figure your shit out, Els. Right now? It doesn’t seem like you do.” You grab your bags, slipping your shoes on, “I’ve had enough for now. Let me know when you grow the fuck up and let me know what’s wrong with you.” 

— 

Still, your blood boiled from last week’s exchange, the venomous words crawling up your throat like bile, as if this wasn’t what she wanted, what she started. All of this had been her idea. 

Time and time again, dismissive words found their way into your heart, making a home before you had enough time to catch them. Sure, committed and faithful, she says. Then, she does this, makes your decisions without consulting you, and scolds you for getting upset about it. You craved space, so you did what any rational person would. 

Swiftly packed your bags and flew to the other side of the country. 

The fresh feeling is still swarming through your head, and the lingering words are aimed at your heart with more impact than you could stand. When they were told, Ellie regretted them the second they left her heart-shaped lips. Yet she stands there as she analyzes your tense frame, avoiding her at all costs. 

You leave her with a soft murmur: staying at a friend’s. What you neglect to mention is that your friend lives on the other side of the country, tucked away in the safety of New York. Luckily, the nightlife is an easy distraction and does its job. 

Intentionally, the first few nights are spent drowning yourself in liquor, letting yourself be grinded on by other drunk girls until they buy you shots, walking up back in your hotel room alone — then the cycle repeats. 

The tranquility of a life forgotten, the gift of Don Julio, so like anyone else, you chase it. The drinks are free, the girls flirting with you are prettier than you’d ever seen but maybe that’s just the loneliness eating you up from the inside out. Yet, you find yourself itching to venture beneath, allow yourself to drown in someone else. Was there black lace? Possibly white or navy green boxers underneath? But you couldn’t, and you won’t. The guilt would eat you alive. 

You told yourself it was just a fight, but was it? It’s when the second thought seeped in, invading the pessimistic part of your brain and feeding into malicious tendencies. Maybe you do want this? Something new? 

Someone who wasn’t Ellie. 

The thought alone sends shivers down your spine; an agonizing dread fills you. Never had you ever been provoked to leave, but the longer the silence welcomes you with open arms, the more the affliction lingers. 

No text. No calls. No voicemails. Nothing.  

Part of you ached for resolution. Even if it meant a means to an end, you could somehow soothe the aching in your chest. On the seventh day, she reached out. 

A lazy effort of a text — couldn’t even be bothered to call. 

elsbaby: can we talk, baby? please. 

Perhaps if it had been the day after, two, three, even four — you would have the compassion to empathize. When she comes crying a week later after she spewed the most severe insults you’ve ever heard come out of her mouth? Any need to reconnect has dissipated at the drop of a hat. 

this is what you wanted. 

It shouldn’t make you spiral, but it does. You end up at a show; a rock band takes center stage at The Wolfhouse, and upcoming musicians try to make a name for themselves. Sitting at the bar, letting the vibrations of the base and the thumping of the snare drum infiltrate 

Solemnly tapping the beat of your healed boot to the beat of the drum, you take in the singer on the stage. Black raven-haired beauty with a prominent nose and beautiful lips. She made the stage her own as she worked every angle known to man. 

A firm belief is settled in your heart and everyone in there. She was born to be up there. You were too entranced, enjoying the music too much along with the cocktail in your hand, and you didn’t even notice the blonde making her way up to you. 

As soon as you felt someone next to you, the first thought in your mind was how hellbent you were to be left alone. Even if it physically put you in distress, fuck, you couldn’t even remember the last time Ellie and you went on a date. The last time she touched you, kissed you, fucked you within an inch of your life. 

It’s a pathetic, good for nothing excuse. 

The line of morality blurs whenever your eyes latch onto eyes so gray the blue almost fades into them. Gorgeous freckles scattered across her smooth cheeks like twinkling stars in the galaxy. 

Slowly, she takes your figure in, examining you up and down before smirking. She says nothing to you as she orders a neat whiskey. She hands her silver credit card to the bartender, “and whatever she wants for the rest of the night.” 

You think for a moment she’ll talk to you, but she winks before settling into a booth with four others who look oddly familiar. The rest of the night, you’re met with tranquility and the steady and skilled bump of the bass guitar. It reminded me of when you were young, ambitions were the only thing on your mind, and you were lost in the never-ending need to be someone. It’s when you still believe something is worth living for, more than beating your drum to someone else’s tune. 

You sipped on three Mexican martinis throughout the night and got lost when you walked up to the bar. The beefy, muscular blonde was there to greet you. This time, you got a clear look at her. Her rugged and toned frame shows off her commitment to the gym. 

Yet, her deep blue pools are more charming than you would like to admit. A delicate edge to her jawline pulls you in as you admire the septum ring decorating her freckled nose, the bump in her nose making you smile softly. 

You’ve always loved a girl with an intense nose for many reasons. 

Mouth-watering, luscious, bliss - are all the words coming into mind when you’re looking at her. She’s wearing as little clothing as you would expect someone who leans masculine to wear, but fuck does she know it works for her. Black leather vest worn in, eating you up from the inside out, the musky scent filled with mahogany and a dash of vanilla. 

The mysterious blonde's lack of undershirt adorns her body and steals the show. Immediately, she commands attention in every conceivable way. As mesmerizing as the raven-haired beauty appears, you would pay a lot to see her front and center on that stage. The shape of her small breasts is the real show in your mind, and the broad and toned torso gives you much to gawk at. 

Nearly, you salivate at the defined four-pack she’s sporting. A pretty enticing deep v disappears delectably into her black leather pants as if she’s a modern-day adonis but with divine feminine written all over her. Without one doubt in the world, she knows she’s the hottest piece of ass in this bar, and for some unknown reason, she’s made you her target for the night. Wined and dined you all night without saying more than a sentence to you, and it seems she’s here to collect. 

In the forefront of your mind, you believe it’s to serve some self-serving action to get off from what’s between your thighs, the sweet treat every girl has chased in this long week, but your long-term commitment tying you down like handcuffs to the post of your bed Ellie has kept you in. 

Petrifying you to your bones, you aren’t sure what to make of the thrill building up; you can’t deny the longer you look at her, the more your thighs rub together in sync with the other. 

“So—” With her tall stature, decisively, she steps forward, lips pressing against your ear with her hot breath seeping under your skin, “Are you wet because you know who I am or because you can’t stop looking at my tits?” 

“Who are you?” Your eyebrows quirked up, and you wondered why it was a factor. Was she someone you were supposed to know? Now that she said something, there was something familiar, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. “Why would I have any idea who you are?” 

Though your pussy has a heartbeat and seems to have a mind of its own. You forget about everything else when the woman gives you a toothy grin, which is too perfect. 

“That’s cute, but see, everyone knows who I am—” Abby takes matters into her own hands and begins to nibble on the side of your neck, harshly biting and sucking lightly, taking in the taste of your skin as if she’s trying to find the perfect vein to puncture with her pointy canines. If it were the case, you’d let her suck the life out of you if you got to keep her to yourself for the night. “Don’t worry pretty girl, you’ll know by the end of the night.” 

She’s passionately driven when her skilled lips and velvet tongue continue to make a mark on you as if you are hers to own, hers to please as she sees fit. You don’t even know her name, but the raging storm of lust isolates you within her honey trap. All of it feels too finite, everlasting, even if it’s just solid concrete to stand on for the night. 

Then, you remember Ellie. The longing text sent to you, not even a call. The love of your life, or so you’d always hoped, couldn’t be bothered to call you this entire week. The fallout of an inconceivable aftermath only now did she try to reach out. 

“Tell me why you’re soaking wet, baby girl.” 

You try to push her back, but she doesn’t even move; her frame is too strong. Now, your warm, firm hand places itself on her defined abdomen, pressing against the clearly defined muscles. 

You can’t deny how flushed you’ve become. 

This time you are drooling; her thumb wipes away the liquid before she sucks it back into her mouth. Her grin is even more wicked, knowing she has you right where she wants to be. 

It’s when you notice the mirrored scorpions, one on either side, her muscular biceps littered with tattoos, and the front of her neck — practically having fuck me written all over her. 

You should leave. 

You fucking should. 

She has an appetite for something else, pulling you by the waistband of your pants, her finger securely wrapped around the belt buckle. Pelvis to pelvis, grinding against you swiftly to see how much you move, and the smile she’s wearing is satisfying enough. 

She’s always liked them needy, messy, and so damn right horny they’re putty in her extensive and capable hands. 

“I’m waiting.” Her hunger is evident in her tone. She is ready to relish her sudden craving, at least to you. 

“I-I don’t even know your name,” you confess, hoping it will steer her away from you, but it’s a pathetic attempt. 

“Abby. What else is your concern, babygirl?” Her knee sneaks between your legs, applying pressure to your cunt. 

“I—” Almost with a soft thrust of her knee, Abby pushes against your cunt, damping her leather with a fucking desirable slick she’s dying to taste. Although it’s clear you like the chase, she gives it. 

Had you had sex in the past eight months, you might have pushed away the overly cocky specimen, but it has been that long. Only making the patch in your panties grow as she teases your pussy. 

Abby’s frame blocks anyone from seeing what she’s doing to you, your skirt riding up so much she can see the rounded cheeks slipping out, the black fabric slightly exposed under the bar's dim light. The more she presses, the faster your hips move against her. 

Without a care in the world, you slid so far back, and you’re on her thigh, strong arms wrapped around you, whispering filthy nothings in your ear as you get yourself off on the stranger’s muscular body. If the bartender notices, she doesn’t mind. Pretends like you’re not even there. You’re not sure which is more embarrassing. 

“Fuck, move those hips. Just like that, yeah.” 

The high, the one you’ve wanted from your girlfriend who doesn’t even want to touch you, is so close. There’s a burn in your throat infused by sheer guilt that someone else will bring you to head. Some stranger you don’t know, one handsome stranger, yet when she pushes your panties to the side and thumbs your clit it’s so challenging to care about anyone but yourself. 

You moan her name as she touches you, a skilled touch as she lightly pinches and soothes the sensitive bud. She completely enraptured you with the light touch she had to offer. Terrifyingly so, it shouldn’t affect you the way it does. 

The look in her eyes would have sent you reeling. Her musky scent is already doing enough for you. You find yourself tangled in the webs of honeydew, suckling until you’ve had enough of the sweet sensation. 

You’re just not sure how long it’ll be until you do. 

“God, acting like you haven’t been fucked, baby. Such a dirty slut letting me do….well, whatever I want.” 

Abby uses her free, dominant hand to guide your hips at a pace she sees fit. A thrill shoots down her spine as your incessant need grows like a flower at the dawn of spring—a tiny seed that is useless unless it bears root flourishing from where it’s planted. 

“So, what’s it going to be?” Abby questions. A glimmer of assurance fills her ocean eyes. She was playfully biting your exposed shoulder blade. 

“I can get you off right here, or you can come home with me.” the incredible sensation of her pierced muscling punching your skin with a chill, the stainless-steel ball adds a new sensation you weren’t expecting. She suckles and bites, marking you the more bruises as if she’s decorative for her enjoyment. “Or both. I think someone is close. I bet you’re ready to spill on my thigh. Wanna give me every last drop like the whore you are.” 

“Your home?” you manage to spit out, trying to ignore the filth she spits, but it only brings you closer to your much-needed euphoric bliss. Abby’s efforts double over as if she’s fucked you before, bouncing her leg as as you ride her thigh, knowing exactly what you need to cum all over her. 

Typically, the thread of your orgasm wouldn’t have been so easy to pull, but it seems she’s the one who placed it there in the first place. Months of not being touched left you in the hands of this Greek god who could make you feel whatever you wished for. 

She’s cocky, confident, and the sexiest woman you’ve ever seen. Yet, the answer is still hard to find. 

“Yeah, angel, my place.” You nod, unable to make a verbal confirmation. 

“Gotta hear you say it.” Just then, the feeling that was bubbling spills over and all over her hand as she cups your cunt, thumb continuing to rub at your puffy clit. 

“Yes, Yes, Yes.” you curse, chants of ecstasy fumble from your loose lips. Carelessly, you’re focused on the intense heartbeat between your legs, your body convulsing against her. 

“What's that? M’not sure if I can wear you over your weeping cunt.” Repeatedly, Abby slaps your cunt as punishment. 

“I-I want to, fuck, shit. Oh god, yes. I want to go home with you.” Your body slumps against her as she holds up your weight, and your high fades. Still, you feel blissful against her touch. Any other worry plaguing your mind dissipates, and all you think is her and strong muscles keeping you upright. 

“Good girl,” she whispers before paying off the tab and putting the lace material pack in place. You feel the white liquid stick to you, filthy, resting against you—the once taintless fabric coated with the pleasures of your sin. Dizzy, unsteady, breathless — it’s everything you feel. 

She thrives on knowing you need her. Even if it’s for tonight, the purpose will be served. Regardless of what she needs, this will be even more of a thrill, and the only thing she uses is her hand—not even her dominant one. 

Abby moves your skirt down so your ass is covered again. “C’mon, pretty girl. let’s see how much of a slut you are." She leads you outside while she makes quick work of her phone, and suddenly, there’s a sleek black car, a Cadillac, you assume, with a driver in tow. The windows are tinted enough for you to wonder if it’s even legal. Silver rims, with a diamond emblem in the center shining so bright under the moonlight that it nearly takes your attention from the woman who has you in her grip. 

“Last chance? I can have her drive you home.” She smirks, knowing you won’t take the out that’s being so generously given. Perfect, beautiful, she thinks, eyes still dilated from you getting off on her thing and the continuous swipe of the pad of her thumb. 

It’s there. The smidge of penance you feel you’re obligated to ask for. Regardless of how amazing it feels, there’s something about the ending. This will be the end of all fuck ups; maybe, there’s still hope for the two of you if you go home. Call Ellie in the morning before the need to suppress the shame. 

But don’t you deserve this one thing for yourself? 

Everything under the sun has been for the auburn-haired beauty who has held your heart from the moment she patched up your bleeding knee. The moment a total stranger managed to win your heart, an adolescent love that knew nothing of the lesson of heartbreak or the years you chased after Ellie while she was chasing others. 

How she let her feelings hover over the friendship of years with no consequence, especially after her long-term high school girlfriend, the one whose heart she broke into a tiny million pieces. Tragically, there still stood an existing fear for you. She was just a kid, but would she move on as quickly now as she did back then? It was as if they meant nothing to her, moving from the next one as if the time spent together had been insignificant, meaningless, just an ease to pass the misery of time. 

You feared you would be the same. 

Falling under the same umbrella, but you hope you are different. There were talks of marriage and settling into the countryside once she could retire. A shared dream, you thought. Perhaps it was a foolish sin to keep close to your heart. 

Then there was Abby, a heavenly distraction from all the dread waiting for you. Everything you must pick back up eventually if you want to stay tucked into the nightlife of New York is just your dreams hanging up on the shelf, totting away with the relationship. An expiration date was labeled on the two of you, and an impending doom you could only fall through. 

Everything was always for her. 

Ellie. Ellie. Ellie. 

“What’s it going to be, princess?” She pulled you towards as she spun you around with ease, back pulled to her chest, her lips kissing your ear. All you could focus on was how strong she felt. Her strong hold bending you to her will wouldn’t be a challenge. If she wanted to, she could do whatever she liked. You are sure no isn’t a word she’s used to hearing. 

But it went further than just how she looks. 

It’s in the way she doesn’t even have to lift a finger to have you hooked on her. It entices you, thinking about how long she’d been staring at you all night. The curve of your ass in your tight, little skirt — was she staring at it? Did she think about all the ways she could fuck your perfect little hole if you would let her do everything she’d been thinking of? The way your hardened nipples poked through your mesh top. If she said anything, you could blame it on the draft, not just her sheer presence making them protrude through the fabric. 

She did no work whatsoever to make you cum, letting you use her to get yourself off. There was an ease to it. One you hadn’t experienced before. 

Here she is, using it against you again. 

“Am I coming in the car with you, or will you rub your clit, alone, wishing you’d let me fuck you in all the ways I’ve been dreaming?” Her hands sneak under the lace, pinching your nipples between her thumb and forefinger, enjoying the way your hips buck up, aching to be touched by her again. 

“Just give in, baby. I know you want to.” Her dominant hand abandons your nipple, leaving the other to tease it. While she escapes underneath your skirt once again, “So wet for me already, huh?” Harshly, she grips your cunt, a finger sliding up your slit, but she’s intentional about not letting it slip in. 

“I-I shouldn’t, shit, oh my g—” You try to think of an excuse, one good enough to convince yourself you should not go through with this. “I really shouldn’t.” 

“And?” Abby’s canines dig into the side of your neck as she teasingly bites the flesh, soothing it with a velvet tongue, making more marks on the side she hadn’t touched tonight. “Are you taken?” 

“That’s a complicated question.” Abby grins at your response with a sinister smirk. 

“Well, if she’s not making you happy, let me do it for her.” Abby tilts your jaw, forcing you to gaze at her. 

“Let me guess, no one has touched this perfect pussy in a long time. So, fucking neglected, huh?” 

“I didn’t say I had a—” 

“It doesn’t matter to me.” Your pussy dripping with shame at her words. 

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” You admit. Abby continues to torture you with the split of your slit, the two of you starting to draw attention, but you think it just excites her even more. “I haven’t felt—” 

The moment you say the words, Abby spins you around. You whine at her touch leaving your pussy, but she makes up for it slightly when her hands palm your ass. “Tell me. Look me in my eyes, baby, and tell me what you need. I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.” 

Your hands weave themselves into her golden locks. You are intertwined with the waves that disguise themselves as shimmering waterfalls. But you look down as you try to think of some excuse to leave and make yourself leave with dignity. 

Big mistake. 

The happy trail, the blonde hair travels inside her pants, leaving you in awe underneath the moonlight. Abby’s leather vest pushed off slightly, her tits still covered with black pasties. 

“Why don’t you take them off? Wanna see my pretty tits, baby?” You nod with too much eagerness. Abby chuckles. 

She watches with a smirk as you take them off. The silver, shining barbell has you moan at the sight of them—the sight of her. Smudged black eyeliner makes her appear even more irresistible, hooded eyes gazing at you; a gentle hand finds your throat, applying pressure with her thumb, constraining your breathing slightly. 

“Fuck, they are perfect.” You confess, your eyes gleaming at her pink nipples exposed before meeting with her eyes once again. 

“Yeah, they are, but they would look even better with your pretty lips around them.” 

She will not give up. 

“This is such a bad idea.” Abby knows your mind is made up, and you’ll come home with her. Even if the guilt swarms like a bee to a honey hive, it’s all the same to her. “But, God, you’re so fucking hot.” 

Your hands roam her toned, tattooed torso, the scorpions so delicious you want to outline every detail with your tongue. The thought of being strong has worn off—only the woman before you is on your mind. 

“Well, to me, it seems you can’t keep your hands to yourself.” Fingertips grazing her tits, her nipple hardening underneath you touch. “I’ll let you do whatever you want after I’m done with you. Well, if you still have the energy.” 

A grumbling of frustration leaves your lips — you aren’t sure if it’s a desperate plea, a sigh of relief, or something else entirely. 

“Like what?” You can’t stop touching her breasts, continuing to tease her pink nipple, but you meet her eyes. Abby’s positive you’ve never seen a smirk so wide. 

“What do you like?” Abby pushes your hair back, fuck me eyes looking up at her. The ones that hadn’t left from the moment you laid eyes on her. She leans down just a little so her lips are pressed against your ear, “Do you wanna fuck my ass? Want me to sit on your gorgeous face while you eat me out? Fuck me in front of the mirror and watch my face when I cum?” 

Grabbing your hair, she yanks it. Exposing the expanse of your neck. She’s grown so fond of marking. The slick between her thighs continued to blossom as you let her do whatever the hell she wanted. Like a whimpering bitch in heat, you took everything she had to offer. 

Fuck it. 

You cradle her face with her palms, smashing her lips to yours. It’s all tongue and teeth. Rough palms squeezing your ass, making you grind into her again. Your force casually lets her stumble into the car but you don’t let up. Whimpering and moaning into her mouth like there’s no tomorrow, as if this moment will slip right through your fingers. 

Her breath smells of fresh mint, her tongue casually dominates yours, staking claim to what she already believes to be hers. It’s then you realize your forever doomed because you feel the fluttering in your stomach as she growls in your mouth, animalistic — your pelvis grinding against her much more defined one. 

You pull apart for one moment, unable to take one more moment away from her. 

If you don’t get it, her tongue, her cunt, those pretty fingers decorated in silver jewelry, hell, you would settle for her pierced nipples rubbing against your clit. 

“Abby?” She stops, opening her eyes to see you. You’re even more fucked out than she is. “Yes, baby?” She hums into your mouth, the sweet sensation vibrating your entire body. 

“Let’s stop giving everyone a show and give me one.” Abby nods, the first sign of her eagerness as she opens the door for you, unable to keep her hands off you. 

“We better go before you soak my car then, hm?” She slaps your ass as she leads you in. 

— 

As she has you in tow, hand in yours leading you towards the elevator in her building, the most luxurious one you’ve seen, one so high you’re sure it’s the highest in the skyline of New York City.

 It isn’t surprising she has her own driver, or she lives in the penthouse of the building, even the plaques decorating the wall — a shrine to her evident success. Everything just…makes sense. Yet there’s a pit in your stomach, crawling and feasting. It's swarming within you, a nagging incessant fly buzzing around warning you to run. You don’t have much time to think about how horrible of an idea this is. 

Alone with someone who could easily overpower you, at the mercy of a complete stranger yet when she puts her arms around your waist, all of it seems to melt away. She’s given you no reason not to trust her. You’re just thinking too much. 

That’s all it is. 

The little voice chants in your head, trying to make excuses for yourself as to not go through with this but they dissipate when her calloused palms find home on your waist. Soothing over your delicate skin, enticing you into her impenetrable web. Everything about her intoxicates you. Making every thought vacant your head, even more so when she starts playing with the hem of your skirt. 

“Let me get you a drink.” She kisses your temple before going behind the makeshift bar in the dining room. An assortment of every liquor component known behind her. Part of you thinks she’s doing it for show, the way her biceps flex as she shakes the drink in the silver canister, pointingly making the drink you’d been ordering all night long. 

So, she had been watching you all night. You knew if she wasn’t as hot as she is, you’d be creeped out. But it’s hard to be creeped out when she’s still shirtless, the black leather vest doing very little to cover her. Any time she moves you see her pink pierced nipples, nearly making you salivate. 

With the Mexican martini in her grip, with her own in the other, you’re stuck. You didn’t think she’d actually want to have a conversation with you. Leading you out to the balcony, almost the entire view of the city before your very eyes, practically causing you to freeze in your footsteps. 

“Wow.” Unable to conceal it, you voice your immediate awe. Abby chuckles, the first sign of sincerity you’ve seen all night. Everything else only seemed as a woman trying to get a needed fuck but right now but she hasn’t even tried to even so much as kiss you. Taking small sips of her whiskey, hip touching yours as the moonlight reflects from the water to her blue eyes, nearly as vivid as the moon itself. 

“Yeah, it’s quite a view, think it’s the only thing keeping me coming back here. I’m on the road so much, it’s nice to have some stability.” Abby smiles softly, the confession tumbling from her lips before she can catch it. ”A pretty penny for me to keep it but it’s worth it.” 

“Is this your move then?” You know the martini is doing the talking for you, if not you’d be a mumbling mess unable to form one sentence that even sounds remotely coherent. Abby quirks one of her blonde eyebrows upwards but keeps her mouth shut, waiting for you to continue. “Is this what you do with everyone?” 

Abby takes a step closer to you, giving you all her attention. She plays with the chain on your neck, pulling it lightly to bring you closer to her. Carefully eyeing you up and down, smirking as she does, “Do you want the truth or do you want me to lie like I do with everyone else?” 

It’s more than you expected her to offer. A careless lie would have suited her more. If there is one thing you know for sure, Abby could get anyone she wants and she wouldn’t have brought you here if she didn’t want you to be here. 

“Are you capable of the truth? M’not sure you are.” For once, Abby is a bit silent. Carefully, she contemplates on what to say next. She isn’t sure what she should say. Usually she’s the one laying the honey traps for the swarming bees but right now? Abby feels like the control is slipping from her grip. 

She can’t have that. 

“Which one is going to make that guilt easier on your conscience?” Abby smirks as the shame fills your eyes. “It’s a girlfriend, isn’t it? It always is.” Anyone else would take two steps back, maybe even see themselves out but you want to prove a point. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” The immediate rejection of your very real girlfriend fills you with even more shame than you know what to do with. Abby chuckles at the omission, the way your voice shrieks out the statement with a sense of urgency. A desperate action to cover the truth. “Sure you don’t.” 

“I’m telling the truth!” Your voice raises as you lean into Abby, her firm hands on your waist as you both face each other. Abby nods, tongue poking through her cheek, pulling at your necklace once again. Admiring the curve in the E, the gold chain shining. It’s a pretty necklace, probably one your girlfriend gave you but Abby makes no comment of it. 

“Yeah, okay, and I hate pussy.” Abby giggles. You think it’s so cute, it shouldn’t even be funny, but it is. Just like earlier in the night, you’re so close to her, nothing as slim as a sheet of paper could fit in between the two of you. Without even thinking about it, you rest your hand on her abdomen again, her strength tangible as you feel her up once again. Truly, you’re unable to stop touching her. Every part of you wants this to happen, even if it comes back to bite you in the ass, the curiosity and your fluttering cunt can’t really think of anything else. 

“You can still walk out that door. Just say the word and my driver will take you home.” Abby whispers into the busy street beneath you, it’s so faint from the distance but the two of you can hear it. “Or you can let me slide your pretty little skirt up and let me make a slut of you, babygirl.” 

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it’s your throbbing clit, maybe it’s the lack of contact in months, most of all maybe it’s the fact Ellie took so long to reach out, but you give in. Throwing your arms around her neck, pulling her lips to yours, regardless of the possible consequence looming after you, threatening to tear apart the picture perfect life you thought you’re living. 

All of it happens in a blink of an eye. Abby’s tongue staking claim, dominating in ways you didn’t know were possible before she’s pushing your front against the balcony, placing your hand on the railing. With ease, she maneuvers your body in just the way she wants. “Gotta tell me yes pretty girl, that’s the only way this is going to start.” 

Facing the view, the buzzing city filled with nightlife and wonder, endless possibilities on your fingertips but you’re thinking about her hands. How much you want them inside you, fucking you full, or the strap in her pants you’d be rubbing against earlier. The thoughts of her slipping her cock inside you, claiming you in a way no one has in awhile. Making you feel wanted, needed, even if it was a fleeting feeling just for the night. You deserve it. Just one, stupid, decision — you were owed at least one. 

“Yes, s’what I want. You.” That’s all it takes before Abby pushes your skirt to your waist, sliding off your panties as she allows you to step out of them. 

“Are you sure?” Abby questions you. She pushes off from you, you hear her zipper being brought down as you look back at her, her vest being chucked to the lawn chair by the pool. 

Fuck. 

If she’s even half as good as she’s claiming to be, you are so fucked. 

“I’m sure.” 

Abby wraps her hands around your waist again, hands dipping under your shirt as she squeezes your breasts, teasing your hard nipples with her fingers. You sigh instantly, loving the stimulation she’s providing. You feel the barrel of her tongue piercing as she lightly sucks behind the sweet spot behind your ear, as if Abby's the one to place it there in the first place. 

“Good.” Abby teases your entrance with her cock, your body shuddering as it slides over your folds, using your slick as lubricant. Already, you’re grinding against her, just like before as she guides your hips in the pace she likes. “Do you like getting off on my cock, baby?” 

“Mhm, yeah, I do.” It’s all but a whisper. Abby still hears you speak, slapping your ass playfully, blunt fingers digging into the skin. She can’t believe anyone not wanting to touch you, not wanting to make you feel good. You’re the hottest person she’s ever fucking seen. Your ass, your tits, the moans spilling from your mouth, it’s been in her filthiest dreams. 

“What about now?” Abby lets her cock slip inside you, stretching out your walls as you take everything she has to offer. It’s been so long since you’ve been filled like this, your cunt greedily taking every inch has she slides in further and further. With a tight grip, you hold onto the railing as she thrust with her strong hips forward, your back arching so deep as she places her hand on your lower back, forcing the bend. 

“Oh…” Abby grins at your desperate moans, “You really do know how to be a good girl and take it.” Her name falls from your lips like a stuttering prayer, as if she’s the god you’re praising at the altar. With each thrust, Abby back more of her strength into, packing a powerful punch to your cunt. Pulling at the strings, already making you see stars as you take from the angle. 

“Fuck!” With no warning, Abby pulls at your hair, your body conforming to her will. She could do as she pleased and you would let her. You wonder if you even had a chance or if this is what was meant to be. Her speed grows rapidly, your stomach doing flips as she penetrates you, fucking you until you’re irrevocably spent. 

“See? You’re just a whore. My whore. Got you cock drunk for me. Don’t I?” Abby thumbs with your clit, making you see stars. Lost in the effortlessness of her actions, calloused fingers playing you like her drums set. With ease, from memory she pulled out a performance, just like she did at every show, aiming to please her audience. 

“Do you—” Abby draws circles on your puffy clit, your growl as you attempt to push through your words. “Shit, I’m—” 

“Hm?” You hear it, the sound of your cunt being fucked blending into the busy street, her hands pulling you on her cock over and over. “Didn’t think I’d take it easy on you now, did you?” 

“I just didn’t think you’d actually feel this good.” With one particular hard thrust, Abby has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body begins to shake at her ministrations. 

“We’re just getting started but I wanna see that gorgeous face.” She pulls out of you as she sits on the nearest lawn chair, “Hop back on, babygirl, s’all yours to use.” You remove the rest of your clothes, the E chain the only thing adorning your body. 

Messily, Abby spits on her large palm, mixing your slick coating her cock making sure she’d be nice and ready for you to slide right back on. You grip her soft, freckled shoulders as she helps guide you, her blue eyes darkening as she sees the bliss written all over your face. Sinking on her cock is a sight Abby wants to replay in her mind, the high pitched moan that releases from your body is food for her soul. 

“Fuck yourself on me, babygirl. Mhm, show me how much you need it.” You lean her forehead against yours, look in her beautiful blues, feeling a strange sense of intimacy as she fucks hours brains out. Abby likes the fact you have no idea who she is but you’re riding her like no tomorrow. 

When you start bouncing on her cock, Abby loses all coherent thought. Your not so subtle bounce of your tits, she loves them so much she cranes her neck to suck on your nipples, her tongue piercing adding a new sensation, unable to stop your pussy from gushing around her. 

“Does your girlfriend fuck you like this? Mhm, I don’t think so. My sweet babygirl, so frustrated, and all you need is some good fucking cock, huh?” 

“All I need is you.” Abby thrusts her hips into you, her heavily ring hand slips her pinky ring off, the shimmering gold is placed on your clit, your body jerking from someone so cold on your throbbing bundle of nerves. 

“Since you can’t feel the little ball on my tongue right now, I suppose this will have to do.” 

“Is that so, baby? Need me?” Abby glances over your shoulder before looking back at you, before she continuously meets the roll of your hips with her thrusts. “Dirty fucking slut, so horny for your cunt to be fucked properly. It’s why you came out tonight, why you got off on my thigh at the bar, why you couldn’t stop looking at me, s’why your hands have been over me all fucking night.” 

“Abby, shit, keep talking like that.” 

“Hm, you like when I call you my dirty slut? When I tell you how needy you are for me? Bet you would have let me bend you over the bar and fucked you right there.” You’re groaning, you scream her name so loudly, Abby can’t help but grin with a sinister smirk. 

“Yes, would let you do anything.” Abby hums approvingly, the cool sensation of her diamond encrusted ring doing wonders to bring you over the edge, “Please, don’t stop. Don’t ever—” 

One particular hard thrust has Abby wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you up as your body nearly becomes deadweight, her head making home on your shoulder. It’s when she steps into the light, met with Abby’s darkness. The night she had perfectly curated to fully benefit her, the strategic planning of a rotten apple, split right down the middle when push came to shove. 

— 

Three Months Prior…

“You said you would tell her.” The frustration written all over Abby’s face, her voice only raising an octave higher. Abby has never been so disgusted with herself, stopping so low, thinking she would get chosen over the long term girlfriend. 

Stupid. 

“I know what I said. I’m telling you, I can’t.” Ellie pinches the bridge of her button nose, trying to concentrate as Abby makes no move to do anything else but continue to fuck Ellie’s cunt. 

“Oh no?” Abby slips a third finger in her pussy as she shoves her face between her slender thighs. “You don’t wanna tell her why you won’t fuck her anymore? All the light night calls with your manager are flights to come to my penthouse and get your pussy fucked out?” 

Her tongue dips into Ellie’s pussy, she flattens her pierced tongue, the cool golden ball adding stimulation to the weeping woman’s clit, her body jerking at the action. “She’s too fucking good for you.” The speed of the bigger girl’s fingers send Ellie into godspeed, flirting with another dimension as she allows Abby to play tricks on her pussy. 

The reason she comes back, no one makes her cum like she does, not even you. Abby wants more but Ellie refuses to give it, not willing to leave you even if you know what she’s been doing, all the lies she’s told in order to fuck Abby, you’d never look her way again. “She can't do this though? It’s why you keep coming back, you need my fingers stuffed in your pussy.” Abby’s fingers are reaching so deep, kissing Ellie’s cervix as she grips onto her wrist, bucking her hips up into the rockstar’s fingers. 

“Maybe I should give them to her instead. I’m sure she would be more grateful.” Abby spits sloppily on Ellie’s pussy, kitten licking her clit until she sucks it in her mouth, tongue rapidly flicking over her bundle of nerves. Abby tsks, “Selfish slut, cum on daddy’s tongue like you fucking mean it.” 

Like the greedy whore she is, Ellie squirts into Abby’s mouth and the blonde doesn’t waste a single moment, she slurps obnoxiously on Ellie’s cunt. “Fucking whore.” Her tongue flattens as he licks from her puckered hole to her clit, every drop dispersing into mouth. 

Ellie’s entire body shakes, barely registering when Ellie throws on a robe, leaving it open and she lights up a cigarette on the balcony of her bedroom. Ellie whines for Abby. 

“This was the last time.” With a flip of a switch, Abby’s tone changes, her cunt with her blonde pubes making her pussy appear even more irresistible, all she wanted was to get on her knees for Abby, repay the favor but the stoic look on her face tells her she won’t be getting anywhere near her tonight. 

She exhales a puff of smoke, her sun kissed skin reflecting off the moonlight, every defined line of muscle making her even more beautiful. “But why? Did you suddenly grow a conscience?” 

“No but I’m not interested in being someone’s side piece. I’m the main fucking show.” Abby shrugs her shoulders matter of factly, “Show yourself out, Williams.” 

— 

The memory flashes before Abby’s eyes, she’s sure it’s crossing Ellie’s mind, her worst nightmare playing in front of her. Her girlfriend, screaming her mistress’s name, as she clings onto Abby like a second life line. The look of horror in her emerald eyes, she would know your body everywhere, it’s you. 

“All mine, my pretty pussy baby, m’babygirl gonna cum soon? yeah? can you do that for me?” Every word spoken was salt in the wound, smearing in as Ellie stood frozen still. The text was deliberately sent tonight for her own demise. Using Ellie’s needy nature against her, but it seems someone else was quite needy, but fuck was she prettier. 

Ellie is a fucking idiot, Abby thought. 

Knowing how much she loved it, Abby brought her finger to her mouth, sucking on the digit, then she teases your puckered hole and you’re begging to convulse. Letting yourself be held by Abby, but your hips don’t stop moving. 

No. 

You’re fucking yourself even harder on her. 

“Mommy, please? Make me cum, fuck, need to cum all over your cock. Gonna dump her for you, please. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t stop, don’t ever stop.” With her finger only slightly slipping into your ass, you see pull on her golden waves, allowing yourself to slip into the hold of rotten intentions. Ellie has seen enough as she slams the door on her way out but you’re too fucked out to even clock it. 

“Good girl. Let it go. Mommy’s got you. Mhm, give it all to me, baby.” When she’s don’t fucking you into another dimension, Abby lays back on the chair, feeling quite satisfied with her successful plot of revenge. 

Even better, she has you. 

You fall on top of her, still stuffed full, when she finds sucking on her nipples. Your tongue toying with the barbell, pushing and pulling as Abby takes a sharp intake of breath. 

“Sorry, I've been wanting to do that all night.” You giggle lightly, Abby drawing random patterns on your exposed back. She doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt as she lets you suck on her tits, marking her porcelain skin. You’re already more of a giver than Ellie, she smiles at the thought. 

“Don’t have to apologize. Never going to say no to a beautiful girl sucking my tits.” 

She’s entirely mesmerized by you, in ways she hasn’t been before. Truthfully, she almost came from seeing you cum. Never in her life has someone brought her so close without having her pussy in their mouth. “Do you want the driver to take you home or do you want to go for round two? I’d like to fuck you on my bed, feel your dripping cunt on mine, make you forget about that pathetic girlfriend of yours.” 

You forget she’s still inside you because you sit up fully and you’re moaning, again. 

“I’d like that but let me give you another ride, yeah?” 

Unbeknownst to you, the rotten apple lays beneath you, the same E chain hidden beneath the countless chains adorning her neck but sometimes they can taste just as divine as the sweet one. Sour or sweet? That’s for you to decide. 

Bloody, intentional, reckless — Abby Anderson has brought it all. 

Showing Ellie just how sweet something rotten could really be if preserved for someone else.

reblogs and extra thots are appreciated! hope you enjoyed ♡

taglist: @plutolovesyou @brackishkittie @only4theweeknd @tlouloser @marvelwomenarehot0 @grey-jedi12 @r3starttt @bittersu1te @pxgeturner @maxinephobia @marsworldd @aouiaa @mytwoseater @cherrybunny @twopeoplee @i-lov3-w0men @lvlymicha @half-of-a-gay @pa-co @rkivedpages @lucidfairies @vxqen @liizzygrant @ivka165-blog @yourfriendlyneighboorhoodeden @lluvme9 @wifeoftish @wildcatsgs @skzhoiic c @sheadoreshannah @angelynn-nicole @dizzy-dyke @crackhead237 @fairydxll @ellieusedtampon @bottom4butches @slxtcity

sorry if you aren’t tagged, my tumblr likes to be a butt. </3

[laligraves]

sweet angel agency

dark!joel miller x fem!reader

[18+] | wc: ~2.3k summary: Joel mistakes you for the escort he ordered. masterlist | AO3

warnings: dark!Joel, TLOU AU, noncon/dubcon (im so serious don't read if it makes you uncomfortable), older!joel/no outbreak, not proofread, no use of y/n or too many details on reader's appearance, reader has hair joel can pull, reader can be picked up by joel, fingering, squirting, unprotected sex, creampie

a/n: happy october! i have these three serial killer!joel WIPs i keep jumping between but idk which one to finish 😭 so i wrote this instead lol

“No, no, no. Shit!” 

Your car emits a loud creaking sound and begins to shake. Thinking quickly, you drive into a small cul-de-sac, away from the main road and fast cars. It rolls to a stop with one final groan, shutting off completely. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, “are you kidding me?” 

You grab your phone from the center console, noticing the 3% battery, and shoot a text to your friend that you’ll be late to the Halloween party. 

It dies as you press the send button and you throw it to the passenger seat in exasperation. You look around the rows of houses. There’s a Halloween event in the city, which probably explains the lack of cars in the driveways and the turned off porch lights. 

Well, all except one. 

A pickup truck with tools and materials in the bed, is parked in the driveway of a home. The porch light is on and you can see the flicker of the TV through the closed blinds. 

You hope the family is nice enough to let you use their phone or even if by some miracle, one of them knows how to fix your car. As you step out of the car and smooth down your dress, you pray they aren’t judgmental of your outfit choice. 

It’s a tiny, silk dress complete with angel wings and thigh high stockings. You pull the dress down in an effort to cover your thighs but it only brings it down from your chest, accentuating your tits. 

With no choices left, you ring the doorbell to the house. There’s no noise aside from the crickets and the TV, until you hear the heavy thuds of boots walking towards the door. 

It swings open, revealing a tall, older man. His hair and beard have streaks of gray and his brown eyes are lined with soft wrinkles. The button down he wears stretches over his broad chest and as he leans his arm on the door, the bottom of his shirt rises to show a slight belly and a happy trail. 

In other words, he's handsome. A quick scan of his left hand shows no wedding ring. 

You give him a pretty smile, not above using your looks to get what you want. 

“Hi,” you say as you give him your name, “sorry to bother you. My car broke down and I was wondering if I could use your phone to call a tow truck?” 

His eyes do a slow sweep of your body, lingering on the lacy band of your thigh highs, then back up to your eyes, 

“Didn’t realize you came with a story.” 

Your eyebrows pinch in confusion. “Uh–story? What?” 

“And the angel costume… I guess that’s expected.” 

“May I use your phone?” you ask again.  

He pushes the front door wider, motioning for you to walk in. “It’s in the kitchen.” 

You walk inside and accidentally brush against his body. Aside from his confusing comments, the deep rumble of his voice caused goosebumps to rise on your skin. You walk into the hallway, stopping at the entrance of the living room, waiting for him to lead you to the kitchen. 

“Are you… home alone or–” 

You feel his hand snake through your hair and pull you back into his chest. His other hand slips under your dress and cups your pussy, rubbing over the thin material of your panties. 

“What the fuck–” 

You lift your hands to scratch and push him away but he only holds you tighter. 

“Stop playin’ games, little girl,” he growls, “we both know why you’re here.” 

His fingers, rough and calloused even through your panties, glide over your panty-covered slit in rough strokes. You’re frozen in his arms, unsure of what to do. 

Your heart pounds fast in your chest and you feel warmth spread through your body. 

“I don’t–please, sir–” you stutter. 

His fingers slip into your panties and you bite your lip to muffle your moan. He swirls his middle finger at your entrance, gathering the slick that’s dripped out of you, and drags it up to circle your clit. 

You gasp, the sudden jolt of pleasure taking you by surprise. 

“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he growls, “can’t wait to sink my cock in ya’, angel.” 

Your hands try to dislodge his arms from around you, but he slips his hand around your neck and squeezes, cutting off your air supply. Your wings bend in his hold and the plastic middle digs into your back. 

“I told them I wanted you to call me Joel,” he murmurs, loosening his hand to allow you to breathe, “but I like sir.” 

“What are you talking about—” 

Joel interrupts you again, ripping your panties in a stinging snap and spinning your around to face him. You teeter and almost trip on your heels, but he crouches and swings you over his shoulder. 

He brings his hand down on your ass, ordering you to stop squirming, girl, while you feel the cool air brush on your naked cunt. 

Joel walks you through the hallway and into a room, dropping you on his bed. You try to scoot away from him, but he grabs your foot and yanks you back down. 

“No, please,” you cry, “I don’t know what this is–” 

“We won’t be needing these,” he says as he slips off your heels. 

“Sir–” 

Joel grabs the top of your dress and rips it half, maneuvering your body so he can untie your wings, leaving you in nothing but your stockings. 

You don’t like the way your belly tightens with each stroke of his rough hands over your heated skin or the way your cunt drips with need every time he calls you a pretty angel. 

He laughs at your attempts to kick or shove him away, and easily overpowers you. Joel pushes your hands back and nuzzles your breasts, gliding his nose over one, sliding to the other, until he suckles a peaked nipple into his mouth. 

It gets you to stop fighting and instead you whimper in his hold, pushing your chest up so he can get more of your plump flesh into his mouth. 

He makes room for himself between your thighs, grinding down his bulge onto your bare pussy. The rough material of his jeans contrasts the softness of his mouth and your brain short circuits. 

“Always the same with you sluts,” he growls, “beggin’ me to stop but look at ya’, soakin’ my jeans.” 

Joel props himself up, giving a kiss to the tip of each breast, and holds your mouth open with rough fingers to shove your panties inside. With your now torn dress, he uses the silk to tie your hands together. 

“Can’t get away from me now, little girl. You’re all mine.” 

Your knees are bent and thighs spread open, giving him a perfect view of your cunt. He uses one hand to thumb your tiny hole while the other unbuckles his belt. 

“Prettiest pussy i’ve ever seen,” Joel says, “gonna make a mess in it.” 

Joel pushes his jeans down and fists his cock, squeezing the thick length in his hand. A pulse starts in your cunt at the sight and you unconsciously tighten your inner muscles.

You push the inappropriate thoughts out of your head, reminding yourself that this is a stranger, one that you wanted help from–but the dribble of pre-cum on his purple tip makes your mouth water. 

His cock is thick, angry-looking, and curved slightly. A patch of curly hair, silver streaked just like his head, covers his base. 

Joel slips a single finger inside of you and you both groan, him from the snug fit and you from the stretch. Your back arches and you cry out from behind the gag. 

“So fuckin’ tight,” he murmurs, “how am I gonna fit in here, angel?” 

He slides his finger out and notches the tip of his cock to your slick entrance. You cry, no, no, please, through your gag, but your resolve slowly slips. 

Joel holds your thighs open and thrusts in with one firm push, lodging himself to the hilt. It takes you a few moments to react, but you scream behind the gag.

“Fuck, fuck,” he says, “that’s—fuck. You’re fuckin’ perfect.” 

You flutter around his length, trying to accommodate his size, feeling every veiny and bumpy ridge on his cock. 

He stills, clutching your thighs and sliding his fingers beneath the lace band of your stockings.

“Grippin’ me so well, angel,” Joel groans, grinding down. “Meant to be, yeah?” 

No, you scream in your head, but your body quivers in excitement and you breathe in the scent of his cologne and sweat, wanting him but, at the same time remembering how you ended up here.  

“Look at cha’,” he laughs, “impatient little thing. Already fuckin’ herself on my cock.” 

You try to deny it, that you’re currently not swiveling your hips, bouncing with the little room you have, trying to get him to move, but it’s no use. You’re chasing the warmth that simmers in your belly and you purposefully clench around his length.  

Joel moves slowly, sliding out, watching the flicker of emotions on your face. 

It barely fits, and it borders on pain. But the heat in your pussy only grows with each growl or moan that spills from his mouth. 

You’re embarrassingly wet, making it so much easier for him to pound into you. He watches your joined bodies, eyes half closed but focused on the way your inner lips grip him, on how your slick drowns him from tip to base. 

“Should I keep you, little girl?” Joel groans. “Chain you to my bed so you never leave?” 

The image flashes in your mind—you, naked and sweaty, covered in his cum and spit, completely at his mercy. 

He doesn’t need a verbal answer to know the idea excites you. Little slut, he says, as your inner muscles tighten around him. 

Joel pushes your hands above your head and presses his face into the exposed column of your neck. He stretches over you, trapping you under his heavy weight. 

Even if this isn’t the first time you’ve been fucked—it is the first time you’ve been fucked like this. The sounds you make, whines, screams, pretty whimpers that have him holding you tighter and fucking you harder—it’s all new. 

“Deep,” he whispers in your ear, “so goddamn deep.” 

There’s something strangely intimate about this. He stays fully clothed, only giving you his bare cock to feel, while you lay beneath him, completely nude except for the thigh highs.  

Joel, if that even is his name, is a complete stranger. Yet he pounds into you like he owns you. 

His lips trail from your neck, licking the droplets of sweat that gather on your skin, leaving kisses on the corner of your mouth, uncaring of the drool from your gag. 

Your thoughts jumble from the overstimulation and soon you’re sobbing, filled with his big cock, dominated by the sheer force of his entire being. 

“So fuckin’ tiny,” Joel grunts, “take me cock, little girl. Take it, take it.” 

His breathing becomes erratic and he thrusts harsher, hauling your thigh higher so he can move quicker. He’s close. It might be your mind playing tricks or, his cock could actually be swelling inside of you, ready to fill you with his cum. 

His thumb swipes over your clit in fast circles and you ripple around his length, coming in sticky, wet spurts. Your scream, caught by surprise by the pressure of your orgasm. You tremble and cry in his hold, squeeze him hard enough that he groans in pain. 

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mutters, “gonna make this pussy mine.” 

And he does. Joel fills your clenching, little hole with his cum, spilling his seed in your unprotected womb. You remember too late that you’re no longer on birth control, but it’s no use. You have no way to stop him from painting your cunt white, so you let him make a mess inside of you. 

His hips piston with enough force to sink you into the mattress. You’re not quite sure if your orgasm ever ended, but your cunt pulses with another wave as Joel fucks the rest of his spend inside of you. 

“All full of me, little girl,” he murmurs, dropping down to lay partially on top of you. 

You won’t be able to walk tomorrow, or maybe for the next few days. Your entire body feels sore and your mind is delirious. 

Joel gently slides out of you and places a kiss on your chin. He unties the silk from your hands and removes the wet panties from your mouth. You hear him walk out of the room, but fall asleep before you’re able to drink the glass of water he brings you. 

-

Joel’s POV.

He’s glad he followed Tommy’s advice and switched to a new escort agency. 

The others aren’t usually so responsive or reactive to his touch. They’ll play along to his fantasy, throw out a few no, please stop, but it never feels real. 

You’re different. 

You kicked, scratched him, drew blood from his skin. It felt real, bringing out the primal side of him that he’s so desperately tried to repress. 

Joel walks into the kitchen to grab you a glass of water and his phone, intending to order you food, when he sees an email from Sweet Angel Agency sent almost two hours ago. 

Dear Mr. Joel Miller, 

We apologize for the late notice but our Angel will not be able to make it to your residence tonight. We will be providing you with a full refund. Please wait 2-3 business days to see that reflected in your bank account. 

For any further questions or to schedule another appointment, please contact us. 

Thank you, 

Sweet Angel Agency

“Who the fuck is in my bedroom?” Joel says after reading the email. 

But as he walks back into the room and sees you spread out on his bed, your inner thighs soaked with your combined juices, marking your heated skin in white and clear streaks, Joel realizes he doesn’t really care. 

He strips out of his sweaty clothes and climbs onto the bed with you. Now that he knows you aren’t from the agency, there’s no reason to let you go just yet. 

- - -

a/n: i know there are probably a few fics out there with similar tropes however if anything in this one is similar in plot to another, it is purely by coincidence! i would never steal someone’s work and i appreciate each and every fic writer out there who does these for free and takes time out of their day to give us amazing fics 🤍

[lessi-lover]

tied to you II a.putellas x reader

you thought you'd left alexia behind, but it turns out she was holding the strings more than you ever knew.

warnings: light smut, silk ties, dub-con, sub!reader, dom!alexia, power play, past toxic relationships, toxic alexia, choking, slight breath play, biting, hair pulling, edging.

tied to you II a.putellas x reader

travesura, venir!" you looked up from the large stack of wine cases at the shout of your name, your manager's voice cutting through the loud chatter coming from the bar.

grabbing a tray, you began to collect empty glasses that had found the top of the counter, the bar had been unusually busy for a sunday night and it seemed more and more people just kept flowing through, the rush seemingly endless.

the name trouble suited you almost too perfectly. you had attracted the attention of almost too many people who visited the bar and the nights that seemed to follow after those conversations with hopeless bar goers were ones that your manager was almost too aware of.

"need something?" you smiled, leaning on the door of the back room as your manager continued to lift box after box onto the high shelves, ones you had been told to lift, but you could never reach anyway.

"sí, puedes traerme un par de botellas de ese nuevo cabernet?" the man asked without looking back, but you could tell that the usual flex in his brow was strained as he concentrated on counting. "nos estamos quedando cortos y creo que la multitud de esta noche lo agradecerá."

james didn’t glance back and that was just fine with you. there weren't any feelings here. his gruffness was something you’d gotten used to over the course of the few last years. you owed him much more than you could ever give. though you weren’t sure that he saw it that way.

the man had been there when you'd made the move over from england, couldn't speak a word of spanish and could barely afford to keep your flat for a month. he'd taught you most of what you know and you spoke to each other in a mix of spanish and english.

he'd offered you a job as a bartender that you had no choice but to accept and had let you work in his bar, which was enough work to keep you running in a foreign country.

"por supuesto. also if you were wondering, your amiga from last week is sitting out back. looking very solitaria..." you teased, laughing at the way the man's face flushed and he immediately raised his hands to push you out the room.

james never had a smile on his face, he was just a local just barely keeping his business afloat. so it was rare that somebody, let alone you, was able to make the old guy crack a smile.

as grumpy as he could be, james never let anyone disrespect you. it wasn't uncommon that men at the bar would become a little too friendly at times as they drank more and more.

so it also wasn't anything new that old, lonely men would come onto you when you clearly weren't interested, but james always steps in and shows them out.

james knew about the other job thought. he never brought it up, but you could tell he was aware that you were off most nights during the week because of it.

your choice to be an exotic dance was one that he couldn't get you out of. james understood that the money was too good for you to pass up, and a little extra money never hurt anybody.

the look he gave you sometimes when you clocked off at night was pained, like he wanted to say something but decided against it. he didn’t judge, didn’t ask you questions, but he made sure nobody in the bar made your jobs collide. you'd come to realise that maybe that was his way of looking out for you.

the looks from past customers of yours that came into the bar didn't make you uncomfortable anymore, it came with the job and if you wanted to continue living solely, it was the price you had to pay.

besides, you really were into women anyway.

you finished wiping down the last sticky table as the bar started to clear out for the night. the crowd had finally thinned, leaving behind only a few regulars that were desperately nursing their drinks and talking to anybody who had the guilt to stick around. the shift was almost over, but you had another job waiting for you.

you briefly glanced at the clock as discreetly as you could, packing away the last of the washed dishes. looking down in relief you put your tag to sign out with just enough time to make it for your appointment.

“saliendo?” james asked, still not looking up from the boxes he was stacking. his voice sounded surprised, but there was something in it that told you that he knew where you were going. “yeah,” you muttered, grabbing your bag from behind the counter.

“got something lined up.” james didn’t need the details. he never did. he just nodded, eyes directed to the floor as you walked toward the door. "bye, james."

the cool air hit you hard as you stepped outside, the sound of the bar fading behind you. you pulled your jacket tighter around your figure, a familiar tightness settling in your stomach as you glanced at your phone.

the text was already there, glowing on your phone. an older man named rick, hotel off the main strip, room 204. your stomach tightened, but you kept walking. it was just another night, just another client. you really needed this money.

rick was just another man, another person's eyes you’d let blend into the blur of all the others. by the time you would wake up tomorrow, he would be a forgotten memory. just like the rest.

it was a routine now, a practiced charade and you had learned well not to let it get to you because it always seemed to hurt you less.

james.

your thoughts strayed to him more often than you cared to admit. he never told you off for it, but the concern in his eyes always made you wonder if he wanted, which was enough to tell you that he cared.

your little 'side job' was certainly carving into you now, but maybe it was better this way, -better that james didn’t say anything to you.

letting it slip through the cracks of what was meant to be a professional relationship, because if he did pry and the question was asked, you knew you couldn't hide behind the truth anymore.

but it was better this way, wasn’t it?

better that james never brought it up. better to keep the two worlds separate, let him believe you were just the friendly bartender, who had everything coming up and could handle herself. as long as he didn’t ask, you didn’t have to admit anything, which wasn't one you could easily walk away from.

you’d met plenty of men in this line of work. they were all the same. men who felt trapped in their boring marriages, chasing a grand escape for just one night a week. most of them weren’t looking for anything more than a distraction, a fleeting dream to make them forget their lives back home.

they craved attention, validation, someone to make them feel like they mattered, and as long as their egos were large, you could have them wrapped around your finger.

after a year of this work, you’d become an expert. faking interest, or even pleasure. it was just part of the game and you were always the willing one to play. to be honest, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel any sympathy for them, you didn't care. as long as the cash was there, you let them believe whatever they wanted.

if they needed to feel like the centre of attention, you were more than happy to help out, so long as you got paid at the end of the night that's all that mattered truly.

most people your age couldn’t even imagine making even half as much as you had in such a short time. sure it wasn’t glamorous, having to put on a show for strangers five nights a week but the money was good. and that was what mattered. the fleeting discomfort was a small riff in the financial freedom you had.

"estas aqui," he said with a crooked smile that barely reached his eyes. he stepped aside to let you in, his gaze lingering a little too long on you as you brushed past him.

you didn’t miss the way his eyes trailed over you, like he was already imagining the things he wanted to do. "i wouldn't miss a call." you said, your voice low as you placed your bag on the small table next to the bed.

you glanced around the room, the typical hotel setup: a large bed with perfectly tucked sheets, the smell of air freshener trying to mask whatever had happened before you had got here.

rick was still hovering awkwardly by the door, clearly nervous. he wasn’t new to this, but that didn’t stop the awkwardness that came with each meeting.

it was awkward because you both knew this was wrong. he had a wife, and you were sure she wasn't aware of his little weekly 'escapades'. he walked over to the minibar, fumbling with a cheap bottle of whiskey.

"drink?"

"no. no, thank you." you replied as politely as you could, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. your mind had switched into autopilot, the routine you’d perfected over the months taking over. it was better that you stayed sober, it was never safe to drink on a job like this.

besides the less time you spent dancing around, the less time you had to spend with him. rick poured himself a glass and took a large swig of the glass, clearly trying to calm his nerves. he sat down on the chair opposite the bed, avoiding eye contact for a moment before finally speaking.

"you, y-you look even better than i remembered. tan hermosa."you smiled, the same practiced one you’d given a dozen men before him. "thanks, rick." there was an awkward pause, the silence thickening as he tried to figure out what to say to you next. this part was always the same.

they always wanted to talk, to feel like they weren’t just paying for something purely emotionless. they wanted the connection, but you weren't the type to give it away for free. he just wanted to fill the silence with something before he got what he came here for.

"why don’t you… por qué no vienes aquí??" rick's voice was calm now, the anticipation of what he was paying for clear in his eyes as he waved you over, his hands already reaching out toward you.

you stood, keeping your movements smooth, detached. just another night, just another client. his touch scratchy against your skin, the stale smell of his cologne. it was all part of the job.

you let him pull you onto his lap, his hands tentative at first, then more confident as they slipped around your waist. "realmente eres algo, aren’t you?" he murmured to himself, you weren't sure if he intended to say it so loud as his fingers traced the line of your arm.

you felt a shiver run down your spine, but not the kind you think he was hoping for.

he wasn’t the worst client you’d had, just another man who didn’t know what he wanted but needed to feel like he did. his breath was hot against your neck as he leaned in, his hands fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.

you closed your eyes, letting your mind drift away from the situation, away from him. your head blurred as you slipped away, your body moving without letting your mind stay present.

your mind was elsewhere. the room suddenly felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in. you needed to escape, if only for a moment. you felt the air claw up your sides and enter your throat, cutting away your breath as the nails scraped the edge.

"mind if i use the bathroom?" you asked, your voice firm, already stepping toward the door at the back of the room without waiting for his answer.

"uh, sí," rick mumbled, still distracted as he let go of his hold on you. He stood up and started sorting the money. you didn’t need to see how much it was, just the sound of the notes being pulled out of the wallet was enough to comfort you.

the money. you needed it. this was what you were here for and you just had to get through this, let rick have his fun with you and you can pay off the deposit.

just as you were about to leave the bathroom, a sudden knock echoed from the hotel room door. your body tensed. rick hadn’t mentioned expecting anyone, and a part of you hoped he wasn’t the type to have a wife show up unannounced.

you pressed your ear against the bathroom door, trying to make out more of the voices. rick was stammering, trying to explain himself, but it wasn’t until you caught the low, familiar voice of the woman at the door that your heart dropped through your chest.

"you really should’ve known better, estúpido." she said, her tone calm but deadly. that voice. it was one you’d never forgotten, one that still haunted your thoughts at the oddest times.

your ex. alexia.

your pulse quickened. how the hell did she end up here? "no es lo que parece!" you heard rick stammer, but the rising pitch in his voice betrayed him.

"no es lo que parece!" the woman spat, her voice dripping with venom and you could feel her glare from the other side of the hotel room. “escuchar, i don’t want any trouble-" he tried to explain, but she cut his excuses off. "just go. take your money and leave."

what the fuck were you meant to do now. you're in a skimpy outfit meant for somebody else's eyes and the one woman you'd hope to never see again is standing on the other side of the door.

your heart stopped the second you stepped out of the bathroom. there she was, lounging on the edge of the bed as if she belonged there, her legs casually crossed, the same cocky grin plastered on her face that you’d tried so hard to forget. "miss me, amor?"

alexia.

the name alone made your chest tighten. your ex. the woman who’d somehow always had a way of spinning your head round, leaving you reeling no matter how hard you’d tried to move on.

"cat got your tongue?" you blinked, your mind struggling to catch up with the shock of seeing her here of all places.

“what, - what are you doing here?”

she just laughed, that same low, throaty sound that used to make you weak in the knees. “what, no hello? no long time, no see? you wound me, bebe.” you stared at her, throat dry, trying to process the feelings crashing over you.

it had been months since you’d last seen each other. hard months of trying to convince yourself that you were over her, that you didn’t need her in your life anymore.

but there she was, sitting in front of you like nothing had changed. like you hadn't left her for good, left a written note and bolted from her apartment. like she hadn’t torn you apart every time she drifted in and out of your life, leaving you to pick up the pieces every time she left.

“how did you even-” you started, but she cut you off with a wave of her hand. “rick? oh, i sent him on his way,” she said, her grin widening as she gestured toward the door.

“paid him off. he won’t be bothering you anymore.” your stomach twisted. “alexia you can't do that. this is my life to live, not yours." her eyes softened, just for a second, before the grin returned. “but you’re mine, and you know it.”

there was that possessiveness that you had tried so hard to escape. jealousy does read it's truest colours.

the thing that had always pulled you in, even when you knew better. even when you knew it would only lead to more heartbreak. you swallowed hard, trying to keep your body steady. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to just show up and-”

“and what?” she interrupted, standing up now, crossing the room in a few quick strides until she was standing right in front of you, her taller form towering over you so close that you could feel her breath fan your face as she stared down. “and remind you how good we were together?”

“we weren’t good together,” you whispered, but even as you said the words, you weren’t sure if you believed them. not entirely. the blonde smiled, leaning in closer, her lips just a breath away from yours. “do you want to rethink that one for me?”

and for a moment, just a split second, you were so tempted. tempted to fall back into her, to let her take you over like she always did. but then you remembered all the times she’d left. all the times she’d broken you down and left you wondering what you’d done wrong.

you stepped back, putting some distance between you. “you can’t just walk back into my life whenever you feel like it, alexia. i’m not- i’m not your plaything." she raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a small smile as she leans in closer, her breath ghosting over your skin.

“can’t i?” your heart pounds in your chest, and you hate how easily she still obviously affects you. breaking up with her was supposed to give you clarity, allow you to make your own choices, but you always wound back in her arms one way or another.

“you know, it’s cute how you think you can just.. run away from me. but that’s not how this works as much as you thought it would. eres mía tanto como yo soy tuya." her hand lightly brushing the skin of your neck, gripping down hard, before softening again.

that was always her way of showing up; mess with your feelings and play with your mind in a way that no one else ever could.

“i’m working, alexia,” you say, your voice barely steady as you try to keep control of the situation. “you can’t just come in here and send away clients like it’s nothing. i built this up. it’s not another thing for you to destroy.”

her grin falters, but only for a second. the familiar flicker of defiance flashes in her eyes, as though she’s debating whether to take you seriously or not. “you call this work? tonto.” she scoffs, her eyes dark and challenging.

“baby, you're worth so much more than anything those men could ever give you.”she takes another step closer, her fingers brushing against the sleeve of your jacket, the gesture soft but charged.

"and i'm not here to destroy you, it hurts that you think that, amor." you flinch at the patronizing tone, your heart thudding as you stand your ground. “i think that’s all you ever do, alexia.”

her eyes narrow, the playful mask slipping as a hint of something more dangerous creeps into her expression. “i’m not the one who walked away, remember? you did that. you left. you destroyed what we had. not me."

“because you were toxic.” you snap, surprising yourself with the sharpness in your voice. the words hang heavy between you for a moment. “whatever we had is done alexia." you stammer out, trying to step back. but before you can finish, alexia catches your wrist in her grip, her large hands wrapping firmly around it.

her brown eyes flash with anger, darkening as she steps closer. “i never agreed to that,” she says, her voice low and dangerous. "the letter you wrote me never asked me, it's not fair for you to decide that for us, amor."

without thinking, you twist away and attempt to run past her, grabbing your bag. but alexia is an athlete and her reflexes are quicker. her hands catch you before you can reach the door and she pulls your back into her chest.

you gasp as her hand wraps tightly around you throat, cutting off your air and she presses her mouth to your ear. “where do you think you’re going, pretty girl?”

“you can’t just run away from me. you're mine. don't let yourself forget it.” she whispers in your ear, her hands leaving red marks on your neck as you wince from her grip.

you try to loosen her hands, shuffling your feet in a desperate attempt to make her let go, but her grip remains unwavering. “let me go, alexia, please.” you plead, her hand wrapping around you hair as she pulls your neck to rest on her shoulder.

"alexia you're crazy. let me go. you can't keep me here." you cry, tears falling onto your dress. her laughter is unsettling, sending a chill down your spine that feels dissimilar from the one you felt an hour ago.

“oh, but i can. you’re not going anywhere, sweet girl. not until i say so.” she presses her lips against your neck, softly kissing the skin before roughly biting down.

“you like this, don’t you? deep down, you know you do.” she drags you over to the bed, gently lowering you and it's now that you realised she's going to tie down as the soft silk wraps around your wrists and she once again lets her hands grip your throat.

"i missed you, amor, missed every inch of you." she smiles down at you, her hands combining through your hair as you move your head away from her touch. she slides down your dress and it bunches at your hips.

her cold rings made you shiver as they slid against your chest, her eyes locking with your own as she kissed the corner of your mouth.

"you can't resist me forever, my love." alexia whispered, her blonde hair falling onto your skin. "i know what you want, what your body craves. and I'm going to give it to you."

you hold in a whimper as she slides off your heels, her mouth making contact with you ankles and you hear her chuckle at how desperate you're trying not to sound. she kisses up your thighs, her hand coming underneath your waist to gently take the dress off.

"so beautiful, amor." you try to resist, every part of you flinching as your skin makes contact. alexia begins sliding her lips down your stomach, torturously slow as she cups your breasts over the black lace, her thumbs teasing, but she is sensitive to your sounds.

any attempt to deny how her touch made you feel was shut down by the way her lips felt against your skin. she takes off your bra with her teeth, grazing your skin as she takes it down your body.

her tongue slides over your nipple, earning herself a muffled moan as you try not to let her see how much it affects you. her mouth was hot as she threw the rest of the lace over her head without turning, her hips grounding into your own as she stopped you from moving.

"don't fight it. i know your body better than you." you couldn't disagree, her hands felt familiar and every touch was purposeful because she knew exactly how to break you down and she was using it to her advantage.

her hand tangled in your hair, tugging your head to the side to give herself access to your neck. "fuck. don't stop, ale." she pressed harsh kisses to the skin, her other hand travelling down your stomach, tickling the skin lightly only to slide into your folds.

your eyes fluttered closed as her lips smashed roughly against your own, her tongue exploring your mouth as you felt your head spin in circles. she had you exactly where she wanted you, dazed in a haze of your own pleasure.

once again you were reminded how possessive alexia could be. she wasn't marking you for her enjoyment, she was marking you as territory. your stomach flipped as she gripped the side of your neck again, the blonde biting your bottom lip as she pulled away.

"please." you breathed out as continues to tease you, whining as suddenly her fingers left and wiped against your stomach. "admit it. admit that you need me and i'll see about that pleasure you want so bad, mocosa." her teeth grazing your ear as you went silent, "admit it." she smiled, caressing your face softly.

alexia's eyes darkened as she studied your movements, your body sprawled out on the bed, your wrists securely fastened unable to get free. you had been a brat today, been a brat since you had left, pushing alexia's buttons in all the wrong ways since the moment she had read your note.

your body squirmed beneath the scratchy feel of the sheets, hips bucking slightly as her hands ghosted your skin. comforting but not where you wanted to be touched.

"come on, alexia." you whined, frowning as she completely removed her body from yours, only leaning over to see your reaction.

she knew exactly how to handle you. of course she did, she always knew. the blonde slapped your cheek and you gasped at the impact, cheeks flushing red in embarrassment at how easily she could unravel you.

alexia leaned, lips brushing against your cheek. "oh? does that turn you on?" your cheeks flushed further, biting your lip between your teeth to stop yourself from gasping. she didn't respond to your reaction, but the way she smiled in response spoke volumes.

"hm, you're not very patient, are you?"

your eyes rolled back as her fingers slipped into your folds once again, her other hand forcing your legs open as you tried to close them. "ale please. don't do this. just let me have this." you begged, your eyes pleading with the blonde to let you off this once.

"begging is not a good look for you, amor. i prefer it when you give me what i want." she murmured, her voice thick with desire. your eyes snapped open, glaring up at alexia, as she only smiled back condescendingly.

"whatever the fuck you want," you spat out, voice strained. ignoring your words, alexia slid her hand down, teasing the sensitive flesh with her fingertips. your body responded instinctively, hips bucking in an attempt to escape the touch.

alexia's laughter was dark and seductive as she held you down, her thumb circling your clit with just enough pressure to make you squirm. "you're such a fucking tease, you know that?" you gritted out, glaring up at her.

her response was to grab your hips and yank you back where she wanted you, her teeth sinking gently into the soft skin of your hip.

"maybe begging is a good look for you." she whispered against your ear, her voice a low growl that sent shivers down your spine. your breath hitched, but you remained silent as alexia looked to you in challenge.

alexia knew you were close, she could feel the tension from your body, the way your muscles tightened and released. "you should know me well enough by now." she murmured, her voice sweetly spoken but it belied the firmness of her touch, "i'm going to edge you for how much of a brat you were tonight."

~

[armandsbf]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗗𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗗𝗮𝗺𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 𝗙𝗮𝘄𝗻

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ʟᴏᴜɪꜱ x ᴏᴄ x ʟᴇꜱᴛᴀᴛ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: ᴡʜᴇɴ ʟᴏᴜɪꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇꜱᴛᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴀ ʜᴜɴɢʀʏ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴀʀᴛɪꜱᴛ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴀ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ʟɪᴠᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ʟʟ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʜᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ ᴄᴏꜱᴛꜱ.

ᴛᴡ: ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴇxᴜᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ᴘʀᴇᴅᴀᴛᴏʀ/ᴘʀᴇʏ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄ, ᴛᴏxɪᴄ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘꜱ

an: this one-shot is inspired by a few iwtv fics I’ve read on here, but I tried to give it my own twist. I hope y’all enjoy my precious little monsters! Btw, it’s basically x reader but I have her a name and little bit of a backstory cause it makes things run a little smoother while writing.

Running was the only option. That's what she told herself as she stood in the darkness of the docks. The night was foggy and she would've been blinded by night had it not been for the lampposts. Her body shook with fear. They'd find her, she thought to herself. And if they didn't, they'd hunt her down, but now she was free. She was finally free.

If Andrea had one regret, it would be leaving her dear girl. Her light, her beauty, her Claudia. She had no idea what her parents had done or who they were. She was a happy little monster, and she deserved her freedom. She hoped she wouldn't hate her and that one day, she'd find her and let her explain.

It wasn't suppose to be this way. She was meant to be free after working at the Azelea. Make her money and take herself and her bother, Julian, far away from this place. They wanted to go to New York. That dream was long gone.

Andrea was never supposed to be wrapped up in Louis and Lestat's damned relationship. She wondered, briefly, if she'd ever even had a choice. She knew if she had, this would never had happened. She was wooed, seduced and then taken into that home without any knowledge of what that would be.

Running was the only option.

She knew this to be true. She would only remain human for so long, and she still wanted a taste of her freedom. For whatever reason they'd refused to turn her, especially so early. She was only twenty-five, and they enjoyed her innocence. The kind of innocence only a human could have. They liked her wide eyed optimism, and it made them feel less like the monsters they were.

Her innocence had been depleted into nothing but empty, inky blackness. She felt nothing but fear and despair now.

Her memories started coming back the more Claudia asked about her past and the more she drew blanks. Louis and Lestat would comfort her and fill in the gaps for her, but it never felt right. Her hands shook with fear as her memories settled back into her mind.

4 years ago

Andrea never thought she'd be working at the Azelea. She was a bright young artist with a point of view, her paintings were her pride and joy. But money was running low and Julian could not provide for both of them. He would never know what she did at night, or perhaps he did, but he never complained about the extra cash.

He wanted so badly to protect her, but he couldn't do it any longer, not when they were barely scraping by. She had to learn to fend for herself.

Luckily, the Azelea was a well kept establishment and she wasn't treated badly. Her boundaries were her boundaries and the girls there protected her when it was needed. Especially since she didn't like going past simple favours.

The true height of her nights was the two men who she got to lay her eyes on every night. The owner of the club and man about town, Louis de Pointe du Lac and his paramour Lestat de Lioncourt. How could an artist glance at them and not see what magnificent they exuded? They quickly became her inspiration after a few long glances.

Those long glances would soon turn into longing looks. When Lestat played the piano at the club, he'd lock eyes with her and then with Louis, as if he was playing for them. When Louis walked around the club with a cigar between his lips, he'd keep his gaze trained on her even as he talked to others. Andrea blushed and giggled when they did that.

What she didn't know at the time was that they knew every sickeningly sweet thought she had about them, and those gazes and winks were teasing, almost beckoning her to come closer. They watched her every night as she debased herself for lecherous men, but refused to go all the way. It was something she really didn't allow herself to do, and as there was no shortage of girls at the club, no one ever mentioned it

She'd find herself painting them on her nights off, which had become more and more frequent. For whatever reason, her work had become sparse and men no longer approached her. She felt she was doing something wrong, something that made her undesirable. Was it her resistance to do more than what she offered?

It wasn't so bad at the time, but she saw Julian's dejected face every time she got home with empty pockets. She couldn't stand it anymore and so to reduce the cost, she'd spend nights at the Azelea in that one room that was always free. Coincidentally it was the room she kept her painting supplies in.

The night had come to a close, even though it was still dark. Fake moans could be heard from most every room, but the band had cleared out and the tables were empty. Andrea was painting again and this time, she'd taken her appreciation for the two elusive men's beauty a bit far, portraying them as heavenly angels.

Given what they were, it later felt like a perversion of the holy paintings she'd seen all her life. But now, all she knew were that they were divinity incarnate, with eyes like church windows.

That's where she struggled the most, her brush strokes becoming more meticulous with every second. Their faces were sculpted like marble, each highlight and shadow falling perfectly into place. She sighed as she looked at the half finished work.

A knock at the door broke her out of her haze. "Andrea, I'm coming in!" According to him he had knocked twice prior to entering, but Andrea hadn't heard Louis.

She jolted and almost backed up entirely into her pairing. Thankfully, she barely managed to hide it from the smiling face of her angels. Louis had come in with Lestat behind him, grinning mischievously.

She giggled nervously. "M-Mister du Lac! Mister Lioncourt! How can I help you?" She had never truly spoken with them, having been hired by the head girl who everyone called Bricks. Andrea silently hoped they weren't here to talk about her lack of business, or to let her go.

Louis heard her thoughts that night too, and had internally scoffed at the idea that they'd ever let her go. He'd been the one who had made her off-limits to touch. Both he and his companion had quickly grown attached to the bright young girl, and seeing her be caressed and violated by random dirty men filled them with rage, so he'd put a stop to that.

"You seem nervous, Andrea. Trust me, nothing to be nervous about." Louis reassured, removing his sunglasses and placing them into his inner jacket pocket.

Lestat hadn't spoken a single word, only taken in the room around him. It seemed Andrea had built her on world in that room, and he wanted to know everything about her world. Her mind was a wonder to him, a cavern of artistic inspiration and a view of the world he hadn't seen in decades. It was so pure, just like her and just like her paintings.

She sighed, relieved. Then Louis looked down at her hands, stained with paint. "Painting again, huh?"

Her cheeks grew red with shame. "Y-you noticed that?"

"Of course, I did." His hand reached out and grabbed the side of her neck, his thumb brushing over her throat. Her breath caught in her chest as he pressed into her skin firmly, eyes wide at such a bold gesture. He huffed a laugh at her pure reaction, as if she'd never been touched before. He liked how sensitive she was and how curious her eyes grew, desperate to look at his actions but unable to. When he pulled away, there was emerald paint on his thumb. The colour of his eyes. "You've got splashes of colour all over you." He said slowly. She didn't speak, still shocked at his actions. "I've never seen a finished painting though." Was that an invitation? Did he want to see her work? She didn't know.

A presence was felt behind her and she jumped away. "The spirit of a true creator, and the instincts of a frightened fawn." The velvety baritone of Lestat spoke, she turned to face him, her back now facing Louis and her painting exposed. "Fascinating. Almost as fascinating as your most recent work, ma petit faon." My little fawn.

His eyes were glued onto the painting as Louis neared them from behind her. She could feel the coldness of his body, his chest almost settling into her back. His shining eyes settled onto the portrait of him and Lestat, specifically on the angel wings on their backs. The longing looks in their eyes and the intimacy of that.

"Angels? You painted us as angels?" He asked quietly. He was an angel to her? Truly?

Lestat smiled softly. "Closely entwined heavenly bodies. Is this how you see us, cherie?"

Andrea was still trying to stutter her words out, looking from Louis to Lestat as if one would help with the other. But they only stared at you with soft expressions on their faces. "I-I—" she cut herself off, gathering her thoughts. "On the nights I don't get much business," which was every night now. "I paint. I see you every night, the way you look at each other, the way you enjoy yourselves, your eyes. Unearthly eyes. Like stars." Her rambling had gotten the best of her. "Apologies, Mister du Lac, Mister Lioncourt, that was out of line—I shouldn't have—"

Louis placed his hand on her arm and pulled her closer to him, grinning down at her. "Careful there, sugarcane. If you keep talking like that your tongue's gonna fall out."

Her back was pressed into his chest, and she was silenced again.

Lestat stood before her, looking to the portrait one final time before glancing back at her. He placed his hand on her cheek with a certain finality in his eyes. If only she'd known what that meant. "It's enchanting. No, more than that, magnificent. You are a being of extraordinary talent, and extraordinary beauty."

Everything felt so hot. Andrea was breathing heavily at the feeling of being so intimately between these two men who she'd admired for so long. This moment could've lasted forever, it was art in itself. The Divine Damned and Their Fawn.

Lestat hummed. "I'd like to pay you for your work. Have this masterpiece hung in our home."

She jolted. "What?"

"Name your price and I'll take it. You'll have to come see it mounted of course, I'd like your keen artistic eye." His smile turned into a smirk at the thought of her in their home.

Andrea couldn't believe it. Someone wanted to pay for her work. Someone actually wanted to have her paintings in their home! This was amazing!

"Are we getting an answer anytime soon, Andy?" Louis asked with a laugh. Andy? That was new.

Andrea laughed nervously. "Mister du Lac—"

"Louis." He corrected. "You can call me Louis."

What was happening? She hadn't even spoken to them before tonight. Why were they being so kind? Something felt wrong.

"Louis." She said slowly. It tasted sweet on her tongue. "I can't possibly take your money. It wouldn't be right!"

"And why not?" Lestat asked. "You've created something of worth here and I'd like to see it appreciated. You must be compensated somehow. Unless you'd prefer another form of payment." He gave her a lustful glance up and down her body. She shivered.

"Lestat." Louis chided. "Pay him no mind, sugarcane. He can get haughty."

"Horribly untrue, mon cher. I'm only being honest." The Frenchman scoffed. "Your price, beautiful Andrea?"

"I couldn't possibly—"

"How's three thousand?" Louis piped up, not even blinking.

"Excuse me?!" She shrieked.

"Four thousand?" Asked Lestat. Her mouth was agape. "No, how about five?"

"Stop saying numbers!" Andrea interrupted loudly, immediately feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry, I am, I don't—"

"Five thousand it is." The blonde continued. "We'll come back in a week. Have it done by then, hm?" And then he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Shall we, mon cher?"

Louis nodded. "A week, Andrea." He reminded before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

And then they walked away. Seven days from that night, her entire life would change.

_______________

They'd come to collect a week later and with all her free time, she'd managed to finish. They'd both marvelled at the painting and immediately insisted she come to their home and tell them where to place it.

Andrea shied away at the prospect. She'd told her brother about them and Julian had asked her to stay away. He didn't demand anything of her, but he strongly advised against getting involved with them. He'd told her of the rumours, that they were in cahoots with the devil. She'd scoffed at that, but agreed something was off about them. There was no way to be so otherworldly and slightly off putting and still be normal, or completely human even. But she shook those thoughts from her head.

Of course they were human! They were right there in front of her, flesh and blood! It was silly to think otherwise, but then again they were just so fascinating. People usually weren't so.

She promised herself she'd only stay for an hour, but when they guided her through the door, her painting under Lestat's arm, she'd been accosted by a lovely girl with a large shining smile. She shrieked with excitement, jumping from her seat on the couch. "Oh, is this her, daddy Lou?" She asked him.

He nodded. "Yeah, this is her. Andrea, meet our daughter, Claudia."

He'd spoken of her a lot over the past week whenever he and Lestat came to visit her room. According to him, she was a lovely little horror that kept them on their toes every day. She'd laughed at that and told him she used to dream of being a mother to a girl like that.

That had made both him and Lestat incredibly excited.

"They talk about you a lot, Miss Andrea!" The girl confessed, giggling. "They said you were gorgeous and talented and you are!"

"Claudia." Lestat chided. "Calm yourself, ma petit. Lovely Andrea needs a moment. Don't you, sweet girl?"

Andrea just broke out into chuckles. "On the contrary, she is just as you described, and I love it!" She said. "It's lovely to meet you."

"You too!" The child said honestly. "Is that the painting? Can I see?"

After that night, visiting Louis, Lestat and Claudia had become regular for her. She'd spend her every moment there, teaching the young girl to draw and paint when her parents were busy and then passing the rest of her time conversing with the two men.

___________

"No!" She shook her head on one of these nights. "No, no, no! I'm sorry, Louis dear, but there is no way you truly believe that anything could come close to the brilliance that is Wuthering Heights! That's nonsense!"

He laughed at her passionate words. She was laid on the couch with her head in Lestat's lap and her legs on Louis', discussing their favorite novels. It was heaven.

This home was so cozy, so sweet. She loved it there. Her head was fuzzy from the champagne they'd fed her for the last few hours, fingers and face stained with charcoal from drawing with Claudia.

"Just because it's your favourite doesn't mean it's the best, sugarcane!" He rebutted kindly.

"No." She said simply. "It is the best. And yes, simply because I say so."

Lestat laughed loudly at that statement, pinching her cheek slightly. "What a brat you are, my girl. Never wavering from your opinions."

She pouted. "So you disagree then?"

"With you?" He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her nose as Louis caressed her thigh. "Never." He said dramatically.

"Oh, so it's ya'll against me now, is it?" The younger vampire cut in playfully. "I see how it is."

Andrea pulled his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. "We haven't unionised just yet, Louis. Don't you worry your pretty little head about it."

"Not yet?" He asked. "So you will eventually?"

"She already has me in her thrall. I might not have a choice, mon cher." Lestat weakly defended himself.

"Not my fault." She mumbled lowly.

Louis chuckled. "He was right, you are a brat!" He said, and then pinched her side. She squealed and jumped. "Oh, you're ticklish, aren't you?"

"Louis, don't you dare!" She said. A meaningless warning as he began attacking her skin with a tingling sensation as she thrashed and laughed. "Lestat!"

"I'm not getting involved. This is far too fun to watch!"

"You monster!" Andrea said playfully.

She'd never been happier than in that moment.

__________

As of late, the moment she was left alone with Lestat and Louis it felt like everything was right in the world. She'd feel a title between her legs she had felt with so few people, but also a sense of safety.

"You two love each other, right?" She'd asked one night, lying in their bed. She didn't know how she got there between the drinks and jokes, but there she was, cuddled between them. Louis held her and Lestat had his head rested on her stomach, letting her play with his hair. The younger vampire would occasionally press kisses against her head and Lestat would whine and cuddle closer into her.

Lestat nodded. "Yes, we do, mon cherie. Very much." He answered. "Have you ever been in love?"

Andrea shook her head. "No. I'm only twenty-one, Lestat. I haven't lived long enough to fall in love."

They laughed at the reminder of how young she truly was. A lick and a promise in vampire years, truly.

"I hope I will." She confessed. "I'd like to. Fall in love, have a family."

We could be your family, Lestat wanted to say.

"At the club," Louis spoke. "The girls told me you don't do a lot."

She suddenly remembered that this man was not just her friend, but her bosses boss. Her cheeks grew red with shame and she moved away slightly even as his grip around her kept her firmly with him. "I-I'm sorry. I just—I couldn't—"

"I'm not sayin' it's anything bad, sugarcane. Don't worry." He smiled at her concern. "I just wanna know why?"

This time her cheeks were red with bashfulness. "I've never..." she paused. "I wanted to save it—"

"For a special occasion?" Lestat filled in, looking up at her with mischievous eyes. "That's sweet. Perhaps you shouldn't have taken up work as a prostitute then."

"Lestat!" Louis chided.

"You own the establishment, you don't get to play holier than thou." He scoffed. He then turned back to Andrea. "It truly is a sweet sentiment, though. It's a special thing."

"I think so." She said. She suddenly realised just how close Lestat's face was to the heat between her legs. She felt flushed and nervous.

Louis smirked at her, listening to her shallow breaths and her quick heartbeat. "Huh. Are we special to you, Andy?"

She nodded, unknowing of their thoughts. "Yes."

"How special?" He asked.

"Incredibly. You're my muses." She answered honestly, her head fuzzy.

Lestat's hand snuck under her dress, caressing her calf gently. He began to slowly bunch her dress up and pull it up, up, up her thighs.

Louis pressed a kiss on her forehead, and then her eye, her nose her cheek and finally her lips. She gasped at the two sensations, Louis dominating her mouth with his own and taking her in like she belonged within him. He held her neck with one hand and caressed her chest with his other. He pulled away and she whined.

Lestat bunched her dress over her hips and pulled her panties down her legs, throwing them haphazardly somewhere in the room. Another whine left her lips.

"You sure about this?" Asked Louis, lips swollen.

She nodded once at him and then down at Lestat. "Yes. Yes. Yes."

"Truly?" Asked Lestat.

"For tonight only, yes. I trust you." For tonight only. As if they'd let her slip from their grasp after this.

Given her profession, she wanted to get this over with soon, and now she had someone to do it with. Someone to guide her, to care for her and talk her through it. She knew she'd be leaving for New York soon, so didn't allow herself to think of any deeper relationship developing, and she thought she'd made that clear with her statement. For tonight only.

Louis' mouth was against hers again in a flash and Lestat went to work devouring her.

That night they took her in every way they could, and in their minds, had laid claim to her body as they had to her mind.

____________

Julian did not like the fact that she was with them so often. Not only was she with strange men at late hours, she wasn't bringing home any money. The money they'd given her for the painting had quickly run out and she couldn't find it in herself to ask for more.

"You can't keep doing this, Andrea." He'd sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I know you're enjoying yourself, and that's fine, I'm happy for you, but they ain't good for you, I swear."

She looked up at him from her seat on the floor of their apartment. "I like them. They're very nice to me." Andrea said, nervously playing with her hair.

He kneeled down in front of her with a concerned look on his face. "I know." He said, cupping her face. "I know that. But we gotta start buckling down. We're getting so close to New York." He said happily.

She gasped. "We are?!" She jumped to her feet, giddy. "New York, Julian! New York!"

"New-fucking-York!" He hollered, joining her in her excitement. "Woo-hoo!"

"Yes, finally!" She cried, years of stress falling off her shoulders. "How much more do we need?"

When he told her the number, she sighed in relief. All she needed was one more client to make that much. Sure, no one in the Azelea approached her anymore, but for this she'd be the one to initiate. Just a little more money, that was all, and they'd be free.

"I can get that." She told him confidently. "I swear to you, Julian, I'll get us that money, and we'll be out of here."

He sighed. "Andrea, you don't have to—"

"I do though." She interrupted. "And I will. I promise. Let me take care of this one thing, please."

And reluctantly, he let her.

That night she walked into the establishment with a goal, not even noticing the looks of confusion she got from Louis and Lestat. Not noticing them at all really.

She set her sights on the drunk man who was sat in the corner and had zeroed in on her the moment she walked through the doors. He was from out of town, she was sure. She hadn't seen him before that night, so he was perfect.

She didn't know the eyes trained on her as she finished her work and was given the money. Her body felt used, but she couldn't bring herself to care. She had the money now, and immediately went to speak to Bricks, so she could quit.

The older woman had looked her up and down sceptically. "You sure about this?"

"Yes. I am, Bricks." Andrea had said with a large smile. "I've got the money now. Me and my brother and I are heading to New York."

Her brows furrowed at those words. "Mister du Lac know about that?"

"Louis?" Andrea said, slightly shocked. "I'll say my goodbyes to him before I go. I don't see how he's part of this exchange."

"So he doesn't know." She filled in. "You might wanna talk to him before you quit."

"Why?"

But Bricks couldn't answer that. Or rather, she wouldn't. She hesitated to say anything, but knew her boss would want to be told as soon as possible.

So instead of supplying an answer, she just shook her head. "No reason. Just to let him know he's losing one of his girls." She clarified. "Good luck in New York, muffin."

She sighed, relieved. "Thank you, Bricks."

____________

When she'd arrived home, Julian had already started packing. She'd shown him the money and he'd thrown his arms around her with such glee, she never wanted the feeling to go away.

They laughed and teased each other as they threw their clothes into the suitcases, making plans for what they would do in their new city. Andrea had never been so happy before.

A knock sounded at their door. Julian furrowed his brows. "Expecting company?" He asked her.

She shook her head confusedly. "No. You?"

He shook his head as well, and then went to asked the door. She shrugged and continued packing.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, can I help you?" Julian asked their unexpected visitors.

She couldn't hear the rest of the conversation, it was quiet and muffled but then she made out the sound of Julian shouting.

Julian never shouted. He was a calm man with a good head on his shoulders. What had gotten him so out of himself?

She put her clothes down and walked out of the room, eyes immediately landing on the scene before her.

It was her angels, Lestat and Louis. The former had Julian up against the wall with his hand around his throat, and Louis just watched her.

She shrieked at the sight. "What are you doing?!"

Louis just shook his head at her and pointed his finger. "New York?" He asked accusingly.

She only nodded, confused. "What?"

"You're going to New York? Seriously?"

She swallowed her fear. "I was going to come say goodbye before we left, of course I was—"

But that wasn't the problem. He sped in front of her, his face so close to her own she could feel his angry huffing against her skin.

"After you made your money, right?" He seethed.

She shook. "How did you—"

"Before we could rip that dumb fucker off of you and chop his hands off?" It came out like a shout and she flinched, her ears aching.

She looked away from him and directly at Julian. "Lestat, please get off him!"

He only laughed mockingly and pressed her brother harder against the wall. "I don't think so, ma petit faon. He's the reason you want to leave, yes?"

She shook her head urgently. "No, no, we've had this plan for years—"

"But it was him." Lestat continued. "If he wasn't with you, you wouldn't even have thought about it. You'd be content with us."

"With you?" She repeated, fear and confusion getting the best of her. "It was one night, I told you it would be! I don't understand! Please just let him go!"

The blonde tilted his head, as if thinking. "Alright." And then Julian was thrown onto the other side of the room.

Andrea cried out. Her brother was hurt, hurt by the man she considered so horribly important. He must've broken something, bruised some other parts, and when she saw the blood staining his head she jolted forward. She needed to take care of him, to get him away from these people he'd been right about, she needed him to be better, she could make him better.

But Louis would not let her.

He wrapped his arms around her waist as she thrashed in his hold like a wild animal. "Sh, sh, sh, sh. It's okay. It's okay." He cooed in her ear. She was horrified, kicking and scratching at him but he didn't even blink.

"No, no! Julian!" She screamed. But he was unresponsive, minus some slight groans falling from his lips.

Lestat sauntered before her, flicking his wrist and looking down at her brother. Then he looked directly at her, placing his hands on her face like Julian used to. He pressed his lips to her temple and inhaled her scent, an angry hiss like sound leaving his lips. "I can still smell him on you." He sneered. "You really thought you could leave, sweet girl? This is your home, we are your home." He insisted.

Andrea still struggled against Louis' hold, tears streaming down her face. "He's right. Andy, he's right." She other spoke into her ear. "Please, just listen."

She wept as he spoke. "What are you?"

They paused at the question, Louis looking down in shame but Lestat ready to answer.

"Vampires, dear girl. We're vampires."

That sounded ridiculous. But she thought about it for a moment; they were only out at night, she never saw them eating, some men seen at the club once were never seen again, and their strength. The strength to throw Julian across a room without blinking an eye. There was no way, no possible, tangible way. But it was true.

Angels. She'd seen them as angels, when they were exactly the opposite. Their beauty was unearthly, but not divine. It was damned.

She breathed heavily, panic shooting up and down her chest. She thrashed even more, screeching like a wild monster. "Let me go! Let me go! Julian!"

Lestat's eyes grew soft and full of pity. His poor Andrea. His poor, beautiful Andrea who did not deserve to feel any of this pain. If only she'd told them before hand, and they couldn't removed this ridiculous notion from her head.

"Don't concern yourself with him." He cooed. "Soon enough, he'll be gone, and you'll be with us."

"Just listen to him, sugarcane. We'll be happy, I promise." Louis spoke softly into her ear.

He nodded towards his companion, a secret promise for something that must be done. As long as Julian was alive, he would haunt her every memory, even if they made her forget him. Even if they made him forget her, he'd see the pictures or read his diaries and look for her. He needed to be taken care of, so Andrea could be taken care of.

"But for now," Lestat said, walking back to the groaning body of her brother. He wrapped his hand around his neck again, twisting.

"No!" She cried, sobbing.

"Rest." Said Lestat. The last thing she heard before her eyes shut was a sickening snap! and the horrifying promises of her new life.

_______________

Present time

They'd made her forget it all. Replaced her memories of her brother with memories of a childhood friend who'd passed when they were young. Julian no longer existed to her, or to anyone at all. Until things began to click.

All she remembered was changing her mind about New York and running to their townhouse to confess her love, and they'd taken her in with open arms. Over the last four years, they'd crafted somewhat of a perfect relationship. They all worked together so well, and Claudia had been beside herself when Andrea had become a permanent fixture in their home.

It took no more than a month for her to refer to Andrea as Mama. Andrea was finally a mother, and her child was perfect.

But she was leaving. On the night the three of them had gone hunting together, she'd laid in bed and searched her mind for every one of your hidden memories, finally breaking through their brainwashing. She'd panicked immediately, grasping at her chest and finding disgust in every inch of the home, her paintings included.

They were hanged all over the house, in the coffin room, the living room, the hallways. Lestat said it was a shrine to her greatness. She wanted to puke.

She'd packed a bag and gotten a ride to the docks before they'd come back, buying the next ticket out. She wasn't even sure where the boat was headed, but knew it was far away from New Orleans. Perhaps she could make it to New York someday, fulfil her brother's dream. Honour him somehow. Guilt clawed at her chest. She should honour him, she'd gotten him killed. Her and her stupid love for those creatures.

She waited impatiently. She looked around her, and something suddenly felt very wrong. There was no one there. It wasn't odd at this time of night, but weren't there people working at the docks? It was so, very quiet, hauntingly quiet. She thought it was impossible to hear silence until tonight.

Panic grasped at her chest and she set her suitcase on the ground beside her. "Hello?" She called out. "Hello?" Again. No answer. She walked away to find another, perhaps safer spot.

A flash somewhere in the distance. No. They couldn't have. But they did. They found her. They'd fucking found her.

She ran, her suitcase long forgotten. But she couldn't run for long. They were vampires, apex predators with an all seeing eye. She would be caught and shoved back into her gilded cage soon enough.

But she still had hope she could run. She still had hope for her freedom. How stupid she was.

She kneeled between two crates, trying to keep her whimpering to a minimum but could not help her frightened noises. What would they do if they caught her? Would they hurt her? No, no, they wouldn't. They couldn't. Could they? She heard quick steps and angry breaths from near her and slapped her hand against her mouth. Her eyes widened and she curled into herself.

They would not get to her. She was alright, she deserved to make her own decisions for once. They wouldn't take it from her this time. She'd sooner die than let her take the last bit of herself she had left. But she was so afraid, so horribly afraid. It rung in her ears like a wasps nest, the constant ringing of a threat nearby. Her instinct was to flee, but they would catch her faster if she did.

Only when she heard the steps move further away, did she raise herself to her feet and carefully move away.

That was the wrong decision.

She bumped into something immediately, and then hands shot out to grasp her forearms. "Andrea? Oh, thank God."

It was Louis. He seemed so relieved to see her. It disgusted her to her very core. She reacted immediately, slamming her heal onto his toes. It didn't hurt, but it shocked him enough for him to suddenly release her. He cried out and she ran into a clearing. She didn't know where it led, but it was far away from him.

"Andrea!" He roared from behind her.

For a moment she thought she lost him, but she knew better than to be hopeful.

"Bonjour, ma petit faon." A voice spoke from beside her ear. She jumped to face him, but he simply held her to him tightly, her face pressed against his chest.

She shook in his hold, and thrashed slightly, but he grasped her arms and held her in front of him like a prized calf. "Oh, my precious girl."

"You killed him. You killed Julian, you monster!" She pushed her hands against his chest.

He just nodded slowly. "Yes, I did. And I did it for you. Just like I do everything for you."

"No, you did it for you! For you and for Louis! You killed him, you fucking killed him!" She was wild now, unforgiving, with nothing left to lose but her own life.

His face was now full of rage as he tugged her closer. "It was an act of love. The truest kind. I did what was best for you, I won't have you deny this."

"Let me go, Lestat!" Andrea begged.

He looked her up and down, as if considering something. A long pause between the two of them.

"Alright." He said. "Run."

"What?" She breathed.

"I'll give you your chance." He said simply, his face growing feral. "Run."

The game was beginning. His sweet fawn wanted to run, he would let her. He was a hunter, after all, and a hunter needed his prey. She could run all she wanted, her pretty little feet would tap against the ground and she'd search for safety, doe eyed and lost. He'd take her, bind her and bring her home. Home.

He dug his hand into her hair and pulled. "Run." He hissed.

So she did. The lovely little prey with two monsters on her tail.

She tried her best to slow her heartbeat, blood rushing into her ears and her throat closing up with unshed tears.

He took pleasure in this, she was sure. Two pairs of steps were behind her, and now she knew Louis had joined in and he was fucking pissed. While Lestat was playful, the other truly angry.

She ran? She actually fucking ran? How dare she, he thought to himself. They'd done everything for her, welcomed her into their family, and Andrea ran.

He'd get her, they'd get her, and make sure the thought of leaving never crossed her mind again.

She hid behind another crate, just to catch her breath for a moment.

"Come on out, sugarcane!" Louis called out, tired of this chase.

Lestat chuckled deeply at his anger. "What do you think, Louis?" He opened one crate with a flick of his fingers. "Is she in here?" It fell against the ground loudly. Andrea almost shrieked. "No. Our little fawn has sprinted further away."

"I'm getting real tired of these games, Andrea!" Louis huffed.

She carefully lowered her hand from her mouth and swallowed her fear.

Everything went silent and for a moment she thought she'd gotten away.

Then Lestat was before her again, a mocking, self-satisfied smirk on his face. "There she is."

Defeated, she just curled into herself. "No, no, no. Please just let me go."

"And let you slip between our fingers? Go where we cannot find you? I don't think so, dear girl." He shook his head.

Louis shot out to grasp her forearm and pulled her to her feet. He looked her up and down, anger pulsing from his body. But then his eyes creased in concern. "Are you hurt?" He asked shakily.

She shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes. He nodded. "Good. Good. That was a stupid thing you did. You scared me. Claudia's worried sick." And then he pulled Andrea into his arms, cradling her head like she was made of glass.

Her body shook with sobs, feeling so utterly undone, that she could no longer fight them. She'd tried and failed to get away. She didn't even want to think what they'd to to her now.

He pulled away and his face was confusing, half fuming half depressed. She didn't understand what he wanted her to say.

"That was fun." Lestat chimed in before he took her jaw in his hand with an iron grip. "But never again, Andrea. You don't run from us." He demanded. "Say it, you don't run from us."

Tears ran down her face. "I don't run from you."

"Good girl." And then he kissed her. It stopped her breath, but he didn't care. He wanted all of her, wanted to consume her being and take it into himself. She was him and he would be her once he had his way.

Before she could catch her breath, Louis kissed her as well and his kiss was desperate as if he searching for something within her that would satiate his hunger. She'd almost slipped away from him, and perhaps here and now he could show her how much he needed her, but he wasn't sure she'd ever know.

She was their light in the darkness, their rose eyed beauty who saw them as angels. Who saw them beyond their vampiric nature, and understood that they too could be good.

Unfortunately, Andrea was aware how delusional this was.

When Louis pulled away she finally breathed, tears streaming down her face. Lestat held her close and kissed away her tears. They loved her, in their own horrible way, they loved her.

"Home." Lestat said. "Let's take you home."

And home they went.

_______________

They didn't let her go out much after that, and hadn't bothered to erase her memories. She'd just find out again, and would try her luck in running once more. They'd rather keep her as she is, with the reassurance she wouldn't try and escape.

They'd also forbidden her from telling Claudia what had happened, and they said they'd know if she did. They'd lied to her and just told her that Andrea had lost track of time while painting in the park.

Andrea was relatively numb these days, except when she was with her daughter. She was in bed with Claudia, holding her tightly to her chest.

She watched her mother carefully, concern etched on her features. "Mama, what is it?"

"Nothing, baby." She assured with an unconvincing smile.

Claudia didn't believe her. "It's something. Did you fight with Daddy Lou and Uncle Les?"

It wasn't a fight, it was a fucking hunt. But she couldn't say that to her daughter. "No, Claudia. I'm just tired, I promise."

"Then I believe the time has come to sleep." They heard Lestat from the doorway. He leaned against the frame, a satisfied expression on his face. He was content, it seemed. "Say good night to Mama, Claudia."

The girl vampire frowned but pressed a kiss to her mothers cheek. "Good night, mama. I love you."

Andrea cupped her face. "I love you too."

She got off the bed and walked towards Lestat who held a hand out for his companion. She took it, but did meet his eyes.

He held her close as they made their way to the coffin room. She was already in her sleep wear, same with the other two. Louis walked into the room after them, having said good night to his daughter before joining them.

To the side of the coffin they shared, another one of her paintings lay. It was dark and stormy, two bodies falling through the sky, completely disfigured and angry. Angels wings turned leathery and rough, blood dripping from their mouths, but it was also a bit too blurry to truly make out. It was horrifying.

Louis took one look at it. "New painting?"

She didn't reply, only nodded.

He tried so smile at her. "It's nice."

Lestat pressed a kiss to her head and then allowed her to settle beside him in the coffin. "You've always been so talented, ma petit faon. It was your artistic eye that made us fall for you, I think."

Louis laid on her other side, making it an insanely tight fit, but they would have it no other way.

If they had looked at her painting a little longer, they would've noticed the eyes of the demons she had painted. One pair a disturbing emerald green, and the other an unsettlingly light shade of blue.

[hiddenreamers]

I was in your music video - f1 drivers x singer!reader

SUMMARY: They say that if a poet loves you, they will write you into immortality. But if you date a musician, they might write you into the Billboard 100. Which is exactly what happens to your driver boyfriend.

Featuring: Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz Jr, Max Verstappen, Charles Leclerc, George Russell

Note: Yes, two songs are sung by male artists. Yes, I'm going to ignore that fact and you should, too.

Lewis Hamilton

He's been in the room maybe five times. The space always felt strangely sacred to him - this is where you write, compose and practice songs with your band; this is where the magic, so to speak, happens. Walls are absolutely covered with tour posters, polaroids and printed-out articles. There's a large mirror that seems to be a message board considering all the sticky notes and words written with a marker. The only somewhat de-cluttered space is surrounding the setup. It's an unspoken testament to being a musician in a band.

There's a certain tension inside the driver. You've never asked him to listen to a song before it's finished. Sure, he has listened through your albums before they were officially released but it was always just that - a recording, not a live version. So what's different this time? Why is it vital he hears this song early?

Walking through the room, Lewis has to carefully watch where he's going. He doesn't want to accidentally break something by stepping on a cable or kicking a box with unknown contents. Inside a garage, he knows what not to touch but a recording studio and instruments are pretty much an unknown world to him.

Lewis is standing around a tad awkwardly, hands in pockets, when the bassist pushes a big black box closer to the driver.

"Have a seat." The musician points to the chest.

Lewis frowns. "On the box?" he asks, unsure. "Is that okay?"

"It's the Lucky Chest, Hamilton," the bassist announces. The other band members snicker at the title. "You have to sit on it."

"What's lucky about it?" Lewis inquires. More than the seating choice, he's interested in the reason for laughter.

"The first time we played at a big festival," the guitarist begins, her story slightly interrupted by her tuning the guitar, "we were sitting on it and listening to Green Day's stage, wondering 'how the fuck are we supposed to play after them?'."

"We were doing like a punk-rock tribute thing," adds the drummer. He's adjusting his seat and judging by the constant up-and-down movement, he can't make up his mind. The process is finally over when he reaches to tap the high-hat and nods to himself, content.

"After we finished our set," you take over retelling the story, "Billy Joe Armstrong came up to us and said we did great."

"So now it's the Lucky Chest," concludes the bassist.

Perhaps it's another testament to being a musician in a band when multiple people together tell one story without cutting details or creating chaos. A true harmony, though a joke a little on the nose.

"Well, I'm honoured," Lewis says. An airy giggle escapes him as he's still thinking about how easily teamwork comes to you and your band.

"You should be." The guitarist points her finger at him in a joking but accusatory way. Then she looks over her shoulder. "Whenever you're ready, drummer boy."

Music fills the room and Lewis is instantly captivated by you. He noticed it the first time he saw you on stage, how something inside you changes the moment you hear the instruments playing. Intensity, fire - passion in its most primal form. But this time around, the look in your eyes is different. You're no longer looking at the audience but him specifically; instead of singing a song, you seem to be telling him something.

So he listens.

I'm a desert, you're an ocean It's your motion that I need Without you I am broken, left to thirst out in the heat

And how strange he suddenly feels: all of the sentiments he already knows but now that you've put them into words for the whole world to hear, he can't help but find some revelation in them. For a moment, there's only the two of you and your confession of desire. Every word resonates with him and Lewis feels like he could say all of those things about you, too.

The song is far from over but he has already decided - he will listen to it before every race.

Lando Norris

Nothing seemed different about that day.

Lando is streaming while you're still at the studio. In an hour or so, you will come back, he will end the stream and the two of you will sit down to eat something. You will talk about your day, he will say something silly and both of you will laugh. Just like you always did.

To his credit, Lando couldn't have known about the song because you never told him. Some part of you thought it would be a bit dramatic to announce that you've written a song about him but can't play it yet because it's not finished. It would spoil the fun, wouldn't it? Therefore, you decided to tell Lando only after he listened to the final product. Perhaps you also wanted to seem a lot more nonchalant about the whole thing, planning on giving him just an off-hand comment of "oh, by the way, this one's about you". Life, however, rarely turns out the way we plan and that's exactly what happened that night.

If it was just one or two people calling Lando "honeybee" on the stream, he probably wouldn't even notice. But even he will pay attention when the comments are going on hundreds if not thousands.

He can't help but grow flustered at the pet name born out of his visceral fear of insects.

"Who told you that?!" he yells in a comically angry tone, a poor attempt at hiding embarrassment.

The comments come flooding again, explaining the situation only in variations of your name and the title Espresso. And like a detective following a crime, Lando immediately searches the internet.

"I feel lied to," he speaks up. "She didn't tell me she has a new song coming out. Why am I the last one to know? When I literally live with her? This is so unfair, I'm obviously the biggest fan, I should know first!"

Lando plays the music video. From the first line of "he's thinking about me every night", his bashfulness only gets worse. What starts as an excited smile, grows into a flustered, giggly mess. Although his pride is on the line, he can't deny any of the claims you make in the song. Yes, he couldn't sleep one night thinking about you and texted you about that. Yes, he does call you often even though he hates making phone calls. And yes, Lando Norris is, in fact, wrapped around your finger. What a horse is everyone can see and similarly, everyone can see and define who Lando is when it comes to his girlfriend:

"Simp?" he reads one of the comments. "Look, maybe I am but at the end of the day I'm dating her and you're not so who's the real loser here?"

Lando can only laugh his heart out when the chat gets flooded with identical comments: You.

"Okay, I admit. I'm down bad for my girlfriend and I'm proud of that."

Tomorrow's headlines are bound to be interesting...

Oscar Piastri

Although Oscar has seen you in musicals countless times, this situation feels a lot weirder and more uncomfortable. When he comes to watch your show, he's in the audience and you're on the stage. Now you're sitting side by side on the couch in your shared apartment, about to see your first movie. You're both the audience and the creator, which leaves you unsure how to act.

Unfortunately, your discomfort only grows. Oscar seems to be enjoying the movie but joy is not granted to you on this day. With each minute, you know your big part is coming. Oh God, what is he going to think?

Then, you suddenly pause the film. Oscar looks at you confused.

"There's something you need to know before you watch this scene and listen to the song," you say before he can ask you about your strange actions.

Oscar's frown only deepens. "You're making it sound really serious."

"Because it is. The thing is... " you hang your voice, unsure how to put words together. How do you tell someone this without making things awkward? "This is more embarrassing than I thought it would be but the song you're about to hear, I wrote it thinking about you."

He's trying to smile but the shadow of embarrassment on his face doesn't go unnoticed. You can only hope it's good kind of nervous.

The movie is resumed. As your discomfort is barely tolerable, you're looking away from the TV, fidgeting ever-so-slightly. Once or twice, you glance at Oscar, trying to see his reaction. The problem is, he's sitting unbelievably still. True, Oscar Piastri tends to be on the calmer side but right now it feels off. As if lost deep in thought, he appears to be diligently contemplating the scene in the movie; picking apart the words that came to your mind while thinking about him.

When the song comes to an end, you pause the film once more. A tense silence falls between you and Oscar, both longing to say something and yet neither willing to.

"So?" you begin hesitantly. "What do you think?"

Oscar shifts awkwardly. "Erm... I don't really know what to say."

A nervous giggle escapes your lips. "It's really sappy, I know." You try to downplay the situation, fearing that his reaction is born out of something negative. Does he think you're clingy? Obsessive? Too dramatic to handle?

"It's not that," he quickly denies. "Well, okay, it is kind of sappy but it's good sappy?" Oscar's tone raises slightly, revealing that he's unsure whether it's the right choice of words.

"Good sappy?" you repeat.

It feels as though woe has weaved a nest inside your viscera. "Good sappy" sounds like a lovely, diplomatic euphemism used not to hurt someone's feelings.

"Yeah, it's just..." Oscar doesn't finish his sentence. He runs his hand through his hair, then rubs the back of his neck nervously. Finally, he looks at you but not in a way you're familiar with. There's something ethereal in his gaze, a glint of inexplicable emotion that would escape a less observant eye. "It's really beautiful," he says. "The fact that you feel this way about me?" You could swear there are tears in his eyes as he lets out a flustered giggle. "I can die happy now."

Carlos Sainz

As old tradition entails, the Thursdays before a race weekend are meant for golfing. And who is Carlos Sainz to not give in to the custom?

He's sitting in his car, impatiently ploughing through the traffic of the city centre. Why are people out and about at this time, anyway? Shouldn't they be at work? Wanting to get his mind off of the fact that he's going to be quite late to the game, Carlos turns on the radio. The man is mindlessly skipping through the stations until something catches his attention - the announcer introduces you as today's guest.

"Hello again, pretty girl," Carlos says to himself. A small smile enters his face.

"First of all, I'd like to thank you," the radio host begins. "Unfinished Business is just the album I've been waiting for this year. And not only me! Have you seen Billboard 100 lately?"

Your flustered giggle is just as adorable as always. "Yesterday evening, I think?"

The broadcaster sighs dramatically. "Then you have ancient news. I have the site pulled up now and check it every few minutes. Let me tell you, Unfinished Business has climbed twenty spots since morning."

"Oh, shoot."

"Indeed." The announcer laughs and Carlos does with him. It's such a familiar theme for the driver - you being more humble than you really should be, surprised by the success you entirely deserve.

"Now, to address the elephant in the room or rather on the music charts. Over and Over Again is like a love letter all of us have written but never sent. Tell me all about it!"

"I guess 'love letter' is a pretty good description," you explain. Curious, Carlos turns up the volume. "For some time, I was trying to put my thoughts together and tell someone how I felt but never could quite do it. I can write good songs but in real life, I'm pretty terrible at speaking my mind and talking about feelings. I just don't want people to misunderstand, you know?"

"What are you saying, hermosa?" Carlos asks aloud, although there's no one to answer him.

"At least you can write a song about it! We regular folk are stuck with memes and playlists."

"Thank God, I can!" You laugh and, as embarrassing as it may sound, Carlos feels a sudden warmth spreading through his chest. "I was struggling with saying what I wanted to say to him, so at some point, I just decided I could put those words and feelings into a song. He likes to listen to the radio when he's driving so he might even be listening right now."

Although nothing bad or negative is going on, Carlos feels himself growing tense, nervous. There's no doubt the "he" you keep mentioning is him but what exactly is it you've been trying to tell him? Is there something he's missing?

"Did you tell him you've written a song about him?" the radio host asks.

"It might have slipped my mind," you answer coyly.

The announcer only laughs. "Oh dear, what a way to find out! Without further ado, let's hear your love letter to the mysterious man. I really hope he's listening to us right now. Don't you dare change the station, you lucky guy."

To his own surprise, Carlos recognizes the melody - you've been humming it for weeks now. But as you begin singing, the words leave him in disbelief. Do you really... mean all of that?

Carlos is lost in the song, feeling as though the lyrics aren't just lyrics but your genuine confession; a true love letter, as you have said yourself. He's brought back to reality only when the car behind him honks and Carlos is a hair's breadth away from picking a fight with the other driver. Nothing requires more haste or attention than his girlfriend exclaiming to the whole world that he will always be the one for her and that she will love him over and over again.

Charles Leclerc

You don't hear Charles coming in - you're too lost in your own thing to remember there's an entire world outside of the song and the piano in front of you. On the other hand, Charles doesn't announce his arrival as he doesn't want to disturb you. To be perfectly honest, he's a little too curious to interrupt you. It happens very rarely that you practise outside of the studio and so Charles doesn't really get to hear your more casual singing, not an embellished performance for the audience.

As quietly as he can, he makes his way towards you. Charles casually leans against the doorframe, your back turned to him as you continue playing the piano. He barely bites back the smile that creeps onto his face whenever you effortlessly sing the high notes - they are difficult for professionals and yet you execute them so cleanly, they appear almost too easy.

The lyrics haunt him but in a truly delicious way. A particular note of sincerity in your voice makes the words stick to him like rain does to a reckless passerby. Sure, they will slip away, although not before drenching him; their vital piece will forever lie with him.

When the song comes to an end, Charles (without thinking twice) gives you a hefty applause. The surprise makes you almost fall off the chair.

"Shit, you scared me!" you yell at him. It takes a couple deep breaths and your boyfriend's apologies, to collect yourself. "How much did you hear?"

He shrugs, suddenly realizing that he wasn't supposed to hear even one note of the song. "Pretty much all of it."

Your expression must not be joyful as Charles resumes his apologies and poor attempts at excuses. Suddenly, you cut him off. "How'd you like it?"

For a moment, he only hums and mindlessly knocks at the doorframe, looking for the right words.

"I loved it," he confesses. A strange tension in his voice proves he's telling the truth. "It's a beautiful song."

"Good," you answer absentmindedly. Quietly, you nod to yourself before looking back at Charles, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "It would really suck if you hated a song about yourself, you know?"

His eyes grow wide and Charles seems to forget about blinking for a good minute. Judging by the changes in his expression, you can tell the exact thought process he's experiencing: realizing you've written a song about him, joy caused by that, remembering the lyrics and finally taking them personally.

The more observant fans might notice a new addition to his helmet: "Claire de Lune" written in elegant lettering.

George Russell

Common sense might tell you that a race car driver must have no fear. And that would be correct, although quite imprecise. They must have no fear on track, yes, but daily life is quite different from racing, isn't it? Or maybe George is discovering a range of emotions he has not known before.

Your relationship is fresh but that isn't to say it's not serious. The weight of the connection the two of you share is a major part of the reason why George has been dead set on taking things slow. The other part is him knowing what media circus will play out once the news breaks. It's hard to blame him for wanting to keep at least some aspect of his life private, especially one that means so much to him.

As understanding as you are, George's apprehensiveness is tiring. You perfectly understand his reasoning and to some degree share the sentiment but at the same time, you are just somebody in love - you itch to scream it to the whole world. Or, at the very least, share a picture of the two of you. Both of you haven't been middle-schoolers for quite some time now, so why act like ones?

George, like the supportive boyfriend he is, loves to see you in your element. He watches the music videos, yet, but he much prefers the dance practice videos, where you're visibly enjoying each second of the choreography. Therefore, when you upload a new dance video for your song, he's probably the first person to play it.

It's a catchy tune that makes even the most boring people want to dance a little. With his head moving to the rhythm, George doesn't focus much on the lyrics until something in the second verse catches his attention:

So used to hiding We built our kingdom around The right timing

The lines, understandably, hit a little too close to home to be a pure coincidence. Now suspicious, George replays the video - this time, he's actually listening to the words instead of focusing on your dancing. Any hesitation that he's the true recipient of the song is gone with the first line of "Say you want me". The desperation in your voice is simply too candid to be just an act for the sake of the performance.

With the song loudly playing on a loop, George is scrolling through his phone's gallery in search of the best pictures of the two of you. He can't help but mouth the lyrics along with your singing, only to randomly giggle as the thought once again settles - it's about him.

Your phone can't stop vibrating. The notifications are coming nonstop. What on Earth happened? Upon opening Instagram, the mystery is solved. The internet seemed to be set on fire when George posted a series of pictures of the two of you with a caption that earned a giddy chuckle from you: "Setting us in motion".

Max Verstappen

Max and you both understand how much support can change. Sometimes just knowing that this other person is out there, watching and cheering, can change everything. As such, the two of you try to attend each other's events as much as you can. Unfortunately, the universe isn't always kind and you end up on the opposite ends of the world. The only support you can offer then is watching the live-streamed event - just like Max is doing right now.

He's sitting in his driver's room in Singapore, while you're at an award show in the USA. Quite the distance. There's something unbearably humbling about having to watch your performance like most of the world, when Max is, without a doubt, not most of the world.

In the back of his mind, Max is still thinking about the conversation he had with you earlier. Although he never misses your performances, you made it a point to tell him to watch this one. In your own words, he's supposed to look out for something fun, like a detail that will make this show different from the others. So as though he is a hawk, or more of a vulture, Max is hyperanalizing everything that's happening on the screen. He's not about to miss your little surprise.

The song begins and as much as he wants to enjoy watching you in your element, Max is a missile on a mission. Nothing specific seems to catch his eye but that t-shirt you're wearing...

Max knows it all too well. Theoretically, it's his t-shirt but considering you wear it more often than he does, it's practically yours. Now it's styled to fit the concept and image of your bandmates but the colour, the logo, the number, are all unmistakeable. Considering how much you're touching the article of clothing, compared to other dancers, he's convinced he's found what he was meant to look for.

Before he can wonder why you've chosen to wear his t-shirt for your performance, it's you who gives him the answer through the lyrics:

I feel like for the first time I am not faking Fingers on my buttons and now you're playing Master of anticipation, don't you keep it all to yourself

Max Verstappen doesn't get flustered but if he did, he'd be beyond flustered right now. The realization hits him like a derailed train - the song that everyone has been obsessed with through the summer and that has pretty obvious sexual lyrics is actually about him.

And if he did get flustered, the emotion would be rather short-lived, giving way to pride. After all, the core meaning of the song is that he's a generous lover, right? Clearly, he's been taking good care of his girlfriend.

Now, each sung line of "Just the touch of your love" makes Max all the more frustrated that the two of you are so far apart. He's earned his title of "Master of anticipation" and he intends to keep it.

[charmedreincarnation]

When I say that this journey is real, and our struggles are not in vain, I am shouting it from the rooftops. A month ago, I woke up with my dream life. Obsessed with the "void state", I woke up one day being the same person but with an entirely new life. All because I chose it.

Your efforts aren't going unnoticed. The universe is always on your side. You are the universe. It's been a month, and I still feel overwhelmed with joy and wonder every single day.

I was once poor and battling depression, a reality many can relate to. But we found the law because we knew we deserved more. You can be ordinary, flawed, even unkind, but you can choose to transform and have it all. And I did just that. My parents, who were illegal immigrants working underpaid jobs, are now wealthy and respected figures. My last name alone garners recognition, and I am a socialite earning money just by being me.

I used to live in an attic infested with cockroaches. Now, I reside in a four-story mansion, complete with exotic cars, house help, cooks, drivers - all treated and compensated fairly. We also own three other houses across the United States.

I was once insecure, severely underweight, and bullied. Today, not only am I stunningly beautiful, but I am also praised for my fashion sense. I was once a dull person, but now I am radiant with positivity.

I attended an underfunded school where I was bullied, and teachers lacked resources to intervene. Now, I study at a prestigious private school that assures my entry into an Ivy League university. Finally, I am respected and appreciated.

I was lonely and uninteresting. Now, I am vibrant with a close-knit group of friends and a man who seems straight out of a Wattpad story. He's perfect, and he's mine.

This transformation happened overnight. And I've been on this journey since 2020. But how??? I surrendered to my imagination!

The void was overwhelming, but now I can easily navigate it. I was tired of giving my power away. So, I gave in to myself, to my dreams. I knew I deserved it. Even if I didn't believe it at times, I made the choice. If you desire something, it's already yours. It's done.

I didn't have a list or anything of my desires, just a vision of happiness. I didn't know what it looked like, but I knew how it felt. Now, I embody that feeling every day. My life is a series of plot twists. It's not perfect, but my worst days now are what I once prayed for. That old life? POOF It's gone. All I have is now, and I'm living it to the fullest.

My advice?

Stop seeking proof. If you're looking for proof, you'll never manifest your dreams because the only thing that needs to change is self. Doubt is a reflection of your disbelief in yourself. When I surrendered to my imagination, it didn't matter who was lying or telling the truth, because I had my truth. The burden of proof lies within you. It's called the law of assumption. You might harbor some doubt, but you must have faith like the devout. They believe without proof. You can too! We all can! Believe in yourself, and the universe will conspire in your favor!!!!

I agree! Your words resonated with me a lot. Faith, particularly self-faith, is such an important tool in shaping our realities. The ability to trust ourselves, our desires, and our potential is essential in manifesting our dream life, and it’s only so beautiful to slowly see yourself give yourself all your trust when you’ve never even liked yourself.

You're spot on about the issue of seeking confirmation from others. It's an unnecessary hurdle that we give ourselves but it’s human nature. Our truths and dreams should not be validated by anyone else but us. As you said, why should it matter if someone lied or told the truth? We are the creators of our own lives and thus, the only validation we need comes from within.

And I wholeheartedly agree with your point about deservingness. We don't have to earn our desires or prove ourselves worthy of them. If we want something, that desire alone makes us deserving of it.

More importantly I am very proud and happy for you !!!! You’re a testament of what our own imagination can do for us and I hope you only keep getting happier and happier <3!!!!

[millieisawriter]

By the fire

javier escuella x reader

summary: one calm evening you find javier — the newest addition to the gang — sitting alone by the campfire. despite the language barrier still being there, the man finds a way to charm you

wc: 1k

all pics taken from pinterest

♡this was requested!♡

a/n: the song is made up cus i couldn't find any existing song that fit, it's actually a poem i once wrote about a girl i had a crush on lmao this is happening sometime shortly after javier has joined the gang because i thought it'd be cute if y'all didn't know each other's language lol if you know spanish my bad just pretend you don't i guess, but i'd love to write latina reader sometime too

The gang has put up their camp somewhere in the state of Colorado. The day had been tiring, as it always is when you're moving, and everyone must have been wishing for the moment they can finally go to sleep. It didn't surprise you when before midnight everyone had already retreated to their tents or wherever they slept.

Everyone, except for one person. Your eyes caught a glimpse of a silhouette sitting by the scouting fire, away from the center of the camp. The night was dark, but judging by the guitar resting in his lap, you assumed it was Javier.

"You good?" You approached, sitting down next to him. Thankfully, you didn't have to sit on the bare ground, because Pearson had made those rugs of goat skin.

Javier looked up at you, his fingers momentarily stopping their movement on the strings. "Sí, sí, just... muy tired, you know?"

"Me too," you replied, leaning back and stretching your legs out, "me too..."

Javier made so much progress these past few months he's been running with the gang. The day Dutch had brought him into the camp, you wondered how did they even manage to communicate, maybe Dutch did speak some Spanish after all.

"And how are you..." you tried to search for a simple word, but none came easily, "adjusting? Adjusting as... how do you holding up, living with us?"

"Is good, más good than life on my own. Alone is no good. Here with you all I have food, place to sleep. And gente who care, I think."

"Of course we care," you smiled at him, "honestly, I can't imagine the gang without you and your music now."

His lips twitched with a playful smile. "I keep playing then?"

"Yes, please, I'd love to hear more."

"What you want to hear, querida?"

You paused, considering his question. Truth be told, you just loved to hear him play. It didn't matter what the song was about. Most of the time, you didn't even know since he sang in Spanish, so you would catch a few words at most.

So you gave him the choice. "You choose."

Javier's grin widened, and his eyes glistened with a brilliant idea. He adjusted the guitar in his lap, strumming a few notes before looking back at you.

"You know, in Mexico when a man has something to say... something from... el corazón," he placed a hand over his chest, "he sings."

"And what do you have to say, Javier?" You asked, feeling warmth cover you both from the fire, and from this tingling, warm feeling inside your chest.

But instead of answering your question, Javier started playing the guitar. Soft notes of the instrument filled your ears again, and you subconciously smiled wider, even allowing yourself to close your eyes for a moment.

And then, when you thought it can't get any better, Javier started singing. "¿Cómo puedo empezar a decir lo que siento, si mi corazón se detiene al escuchar tu nombre?"

[How can I start to say what I feel, if my heart stops when I hear your name?]

The melody was light, but you could feel he's singing about something that held big significance to him.

He continued, "Quiero perderme en las estrellas de tus ojos, y contigo no quiero esperar al amanecer."

[I want to get lost in the stars of your eyes, and with you I don't want to wait for the sunrise.]

You didn't understand every word, most of them you didn't understand, but the emotion behind them was overwhelming. Javier's words, whatever they meant, reached right into your chest, gently eveloping your heart.

"Dejemos que la luna nos muestre el camino, no hay prisa, solo el latido de nuestros corazones. Contigo, no necesito respuestas, porque tú eres la verdad que siempre he buscado."

[Let the moon show us the way, there is no hurry, only the beat of our hearts. With you, I don’t need answers, because you are the truth I have always looked for.]

The last note faded away, the night became quiet once again, and you opened your eyes, looking at Javier.

"What you think?" He asked.

You struggled to find words that could match the beauty of what he had just shared. "Javier, I..." you shook your head, smiling, "I think that, even if I didn't understand it, I felt it. In my el corazón."

Javier chuckled at your attempt at Spanish, "Maybe next time I teach you the meaning."

You smiled. "I'd like that."

For a while, neither of you said anything more. The quiet night wrapped around the two of you as Javier continued playing some notes on the guitar but none of them hitting you as hard as the song he sang just for you.

"By the way," he decided to speak again, "you don't add el after my. Is just mi corazón."

"Ah, I butchered it." You laughed with embarrassment, even though you knew he didn't correct you to be mean.

He found it very endearing. "No, no, is just... if you want to learn, you learn correct, sí?"

"Fine, fine," you took a deep breath, exaggerating your effort, "mi corazón." You nailed the pronounciation almost perfectly.

"Muy bien," he said, giving an approving nod, "now try gracias, Javier, tú eres el mejor."

You let out a fake groan of annoyance, having an idea what this phrase could mean. "Really?"

"What?" He raised his hands up in a mock innocence. "Is good practice!"

You rolled your eyes playfully but obliged. "Gracias, Javier. Tú eres el mejor."

"Perfecto! See? You learn fast." He applauded you for the effort, clearly very amused.

You sat there with Javier a little longer, the warmth of the fire spreading between you, but it was the warmth of his smile, his laugh, and his song that stayed with you long after you retreated to your tent.

[shanastoryteller]

happy valentine Shana!!! I can't believe i made it finally jgfcjjcgjgx i would love to see some fma (Sacrifice is free/ed&ling betrothed/What They Expect) or more of Lord Arthur De Bois, or time travel Jiang Cheng/drarry, or Avengers' Three Faced Goddess! (can anyone tell I Cannot choose favourites? They're all so gooood) and if none of those sound appealing, dealer's choice! thank you!!

continuation of 1 2 3 4 5

It's sort of awkward, because Eden insists on thick tights and long sleeves and keeps her gloves on, but Catherine takes it in stride and doesn't react with anything more than a single raised eyebrow. Maybe she thinks she has some sort of terrible skin condition on her limbs, or something, because she's perfectly fine with plunging necklines and the lacy bras Catherine shoves at her.

She hasn't worn anything besides a sports bra since she's had breasts. They're not exactly comfortable, but compared to the constant, background ache of the automail it doesn't even make a blip on her radar.

Besides. They make her look like a girl, shoving her breasts up front and center, and their size had been an annoyance when passing for a boy and a comfort when she looked at herself naked in the mirror, searching for the girl she was rather than the boy everyone saw, but this is different.

"Wow," Catherine blinks, tilting her head to the side.

Eden flushes and wishes that at any point she'd learned how to talk to pretty girls outside of life or death situations. "I hadn't realized they - I'm not used to wearing, um, girly stuff."

"You look good in it," she says, touching Ed's back and shifting her to face the mirror.

She's in black tights and boots with a chunky heel, taller than the ones she normally wears and sleeker, stopping just below her knees. She's wearing a dark green dress with a deep neckline. She's used to be hard lines and sharp edges, but she looks soft here, her hips and breasts curving out from her waist and the dress somehow minimizing the breadth of her shoulders, or maybe it's just that with all the skin on display in the center, her shoulders just don't get as much attention. She'd had to build them up, to make the automail balanced, to make sure her body could support it, and she'd always hated how masculine it made her look. But looking at herself now, she wonders if that just wasn't in her head.

Green's never been a color she gravitated towards, but the dark color makes the gold of her hair shine, brings out the warmth of her eyes and the pink of her lips.

"You're really good at this," she tells Catherine, throat tight.

Catherine grins. "You are a beautiful canvas, Eden. It was not difficult." Ed's face burns. "Do you have plans for dinner? We could have it at my home. I am, honestly, dying to curl your hair."

Ed hesitates, because her shade of blonde is rather distinctive, then takes a second look at herself in the mirror. No one is going to think she's the Fullmetal Alchemist looking like this. "Okay, yeah. Sure. That'd be great."

~

Catherine knows that Eden is military at first glance, seeing her elder sister in the way Eden stands and moves. She looks young, but she can't be that young, not when she has the stance of someone who's been enlisted for years.

She figures that Eden is looking for clothes to wear outside of her uniform for the first time and something in her softens at how insistent Eden is on keeping certain parts of her body covered. Her siblings have scars too.

When they get to their home, Eden seems slightly surprised at the grandness of her home, but gets over it quickly, which Catherine almost expected. She hadn't looked at a single price tag as they'd been shopping and had paid for her bags of purchases with a nonchalance that spoke of a familiarity with money, although that leaves Catherine to wonder how she ended up in the military in the first place. She hadn't gotten a last name out of her, but Catherine is familiar with most military families, and she would have heard if any of their daughters had enlisted.

"Your bedroom is so pretty," Eden says, looking around at her pink, frilly room filled with flowers and clothes and gilded in gold with a soft wistfulness.

Catherine loves her. "Thank you. Here, sit at my vanity, let's play."

Eden laughs and pulls her hair out of the hasty ponytail she'd pulled it into, letting Catherine run her hands through it and carefully brush out every knot. It's gorgeous, thick and silky and the most wonderful shade that Catherine's never seen on anyone else.

People always act so oddly with her because of her family, even those similarly situated looking down at her for her choices, to be neither an officer nor married to one, but that's just not what she wants right now. It's nice to hang out with another girl that just treats her like a friend.

"MY BELOVED SISTER HAS RETURNED!" booms from what sounds like the first floor.

She sighs.

Eden goes rigid in her chair, eyes wide. "What - why-"

"It's just my brother," she says soothingly, concerned with how pale Eden has gotten. "He's harmless, really."

"Brother," Eden repeats. "Fuck. Fuck! I'm so stupid-"

"It's okay," she says in alarm, "Eden, what-"

She gets to her feet, grabbing her hands and looking at her a desperation that Catherine doesn't understand. "He can't know I'm here. Who I am. Do you understand? It's important."

She doesn't understand. "Eden-"

There's the sound of heavy footsteps heading their way and Eden wrenches herself away, bolting for the other side of the room. She claps her hands together, then presses them against the wall, and in flash of light she's disappeared.

Catherine stares. mouth agape.

She's familiar with alchemy. The skill has been passed down her family for generations.

Eden didn't use a circle.

"I HEAR YOU HAVE MADE A FRIEND, DEAR SISTER!" Alex shouts, flinging open her door and flexing in the doorway. "I WISH TO MEET YOUR NEW COMPANION!"

She picks up a pillow from her bed and lobs it at him, hitting him right in his stupid curl. "We're having girl time, go away!"

"Ah, girl time!" he says. "A storied tradition that has been passed down the Armstrong family for many generations!" He looks around, seeing her empty room, and his eyebrows dip together.

She grabs a makeup brush, holding it up threateningly. "You know what else has been passed down our family for generations? The art of knocking! Go bother Momma!"

"Where's," he starts.

Catherine throws the brush, pointy end towards his eyes.

He ducks, retreating to the safety of the hallway and closing the door just in time for the brush to hit it.

She takes a deep breath, calming her racing heart and smoothing her hands down her skirt. She crosses the room, knocking against the wall and whispering, "Eden? He's gone."

There's nothing for a moment and then there's light and heat and she's looking at the the inside of her house, pipes and insulation, and Eden standing there in the center of it, eyes blown wide and lips trembling.

Eden, who won't let her look at her limbs and doesn't know how to wear girly things and uses alchemy without circles and recognizes her brother from his voice alone.

"I'm sorry," Eden whispers, arms wrapped around herself, trying to make herself small. "I just wanted-"

Catherine interrupts her, reaching out to place her hand over the arm Eden had been careful not to let her touch and is unsurprised to feel hard, unyielding metal. "The art of secret keeping had been passed down the Armstrong family for generations."

Eden's eyes snap to hers and Catherine smiles, squeezing her arm and hopes that she can feel it. Slowly, wondrously, Eden returns it.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

YASASHII NO DE

HE CAME IN 20 PULLS……………….. ……… ….. …. . … …. .. .. . . … . .. . .. . . . TRULY YASaSHii OF YOu, GOOD SiR 😭

***Crowley Groovy, chibi sprite, lesson lines, and vignette spoilers below the cut!***

Unfortunately, we do not get any more details on his profile. It’s the same as the profile he had before the update. Age and birthplace unknown, 185 cm tall, favorite food is wild game, and his hobby is vacationing.

SDFHEGYOGYFQEN;jkhaCWIDODB A LOT OF CROWLEY'S LINES ARE VERY CHILDISH OR GOOFY... Like he has one where he complains about Grim eating his snacks, tells on students who are sleeping in class, and gets distracted by shiny objects (which, I guess, is par for the course for a crow).

Crowley cannot attend Alchemy class and does not have Chats. His Buddies are Deuce, Vil, and Grim (with Grim being his Duo Magic partner). Deuce and Vil are interesting choices, I wonder why those two in particular... (Some friends and I were memeing earlier about how "all those characters have single parents so Crowley must be a single parent" and, "Vil is the Evil Queen and Meleanor is a princess of evil", etc.) Crowley can, however, attend the other lessons and it’s every bit as awkward as you think it is. (He has a pre-lesson line where he expresses surprise taht he has to do homework 🤡)

THE CROWLEY DOPPLEGANGER ALLEGATIONS ARE TRUE 💀 He can just straight up run into a clone of himself during lessons… THE DEVS KNEW WHAT THEY WERE DOING, they even goofily have Crowley say, “Oh! Hello, me!” while the other Crowley is in class for the special lesson… THEY KNEW HOW DUMB THIS WOULD BE 😭 (The dialogue states the Crowley that barges into class is a magical projection…?)

Here are some of his chibi sprites, as well as his Groovy candy. Crowley is not only very yasashii, but also very cute!!

He does, in fact, have vignettes but they are unvoiced. The first part is him running an assembly with the dorm leaders present. Crowley discusses the health of an adolescent apple tree in the school's courtyard, and no one seems to be interested in his speech. Malleus barges in late and, in a fit of anger at having not been invited, starts unleashing lightning. Wow, just like how Meleanor shoots lightning at Lilia... Like husband, like wife/j Everyone retires to their dorms, leaving Crowley to deal with an upset Malleus. The second part features Crowley having lunch with the other staff members (Sam included!). Each staff member is eating something different (Vargas is of course having eggs), and Crowley is revealed to have a great appetite in spite of his age. Crewel and Trein wonder how many decades old Crowley is, since he was apparently still headmaster when Crewel was a student and when Trein started teaching at NRC. Finally, Crowley is walking down main street and spots Yuu, Grim, and some mob students skipping class… so he uses his Lash of Love to discipline them! He binds everyone together and proceeds to drag them back to class. (It was surprising, we haven’t seen the Lash of Love since like… what, the prologue? I almost forgot about it.) Crowley alludes to the fact that even though the students joke about him, he is actually a very powerful mage that shouldn't be taken lightly, you know?? The vignettes end with Crowley referring to his students as "apple trees" that he is nourishing and watching over as they grow, which rounds us nicely back to the apple tree he mentioned in his first vignette.

BUT ANYWay HEREmS thE GROOviY in JUICy DETAIL INkjoW YOU WERE ALL WAiTING FOR

It’s so pretty AaAAaaaaaaaAAAAAAAaaAaaAHHHHH 🥺 His grotesquely detailed hand reaching out to the viewer, who appears to be awaking from within a coffin… and do I have to mention the parallel between Crowley here and the mysterious hand that is offered to us in the mirror at the very beginning of the game????? Which could imply that Crowley is beckoning/summoning us into another world... The dim room, light spilling onto the Mirror of Darkness… So atmospheric!! If Crowley knows how to do one thing well and consistently, it’s drama~ The Groovy totally reminds me a lot of the prologue when Crowley tells Yuu to go before the mirror to get sorted. Omg guys... He's posted like Masquerade Malleus/j

One detail I super appreciate in this illustration is that you can see the dorm leaders in the background! If you squint, you’ll realize that there are 5 of them posing exactly like how they are in the following promotional artwork:

The one without a matching pose is Idia, who is present via his tablet. Though… I feel like we’re forgetting something 🤔 … Eh, I’m sure it’s nothing, nothing at allllllllll~

[boobamilktease]

“Studying”

Aemond Targaryen Modern AU! x Reader

Warnings- Smut, filthy, oral, p in v sex, creampie, leg shaking, somebody lock me behind bars for this

——————————————————————————

Aemond Targaryen was a man not easily swayed, especially not when he knew it was wrong. But, his eyes couldn’t help but greedily look at your exposed legs. He had invited you over for you weekly study sessions, but if anything he wasn’t focused on the calculus work in front of him. He was focused on the way your lips wrapped around the eraser part of your pencil, nibbling on it with concentration. God he imagined those sweet lips wrapped around his cock, sucking him so sweetly.

Gods, he knew he shouldn’t be thinking about you like this, he knew. You were his best friend, his sunshine in his darkness. Hell you met his dysfunctional family during the holidays, and they loved you. His mother Alicent was happy that her son had a good friend to rely on during college. If only she knew the way his cock hardens whenever he sees your tongue peak ever so slightly out between your lips.

You groan, feeling your brain is too numb to work on the calculus equation, effectively snapping him out of his embarrassing daydream. Fuck….he knew he was doomed if she saw his boner in his grey sweats. He saw you sigh and take off your sweater, leaving you in a small tee, and it took everything in him to not roll his eyes and fuck his hand like he’s a teen boy who just saw a pair of tits for the first time.

Aemond can feel a heat rise, sweat forming on the back of his neck, and he swallows hard. He bites his lip subtly, and stares at you with eyes clouded with lust. You stand up, stretching, causing your shirt to ride up exposing your stomach. His eyes burn the sight into his memory, happily. You yawn and walk over to the kitchen part of his dorm and grab a glass of water. Aemond asks for one too, his voice hoarse.

He watches you, eyeing you like a predator. His cock is so hard, it almost hurts. He watches as you set the glasses of water down and take a large gulp of water. He watches the way your throat moves and wants nothing more than to shove his cock in your mouth and facefuck you, but he refrains, biting down on his lip.

“I just don’t understand this problem Aemy. It’s too hard.” You say and Aemond nods, not listening to what you’re saying at all, only watching your lips. “I mean I thought since I was taking a degree in fucking education I wouldn’t have to do math!” You rant and Aemond just stares at you with lust in his dark eyes. “I’m so stressed and finals are coming up and this is supposed to be on the final and ugh this is the worst!” You say, groaning.

Aemond finally speaks up. “I know how you can de-stress.” You look at him confused, your head tilted ever so slightly to the side. “What do you mean Aemy?” You ask, to which he retorts. “I know of a way that you and I both can de-stress….would you be interested princess?” You can’t deny the way his pet name for you makes your thighs clench together slightly.

Aemond pushes his chair out from the table, giving you a good look at his clothes bulge. It massive…just how long has he been like that? You wonder. You bite your lip slightly and stare at his bulge, feeling yourself become aroused at the sight. A small blush coats the tops of your cheeks, causing Aemond to chuckle darkly.

“It’s your choice princess. We can have a good time or we can forget this ever happened and go back to studying.” Aemond says, placing a hand on his inner thigh, close to his bulge. Your thighs rub together as you think over the choices, before settling on one. Aemond was hot, you knew it and he knew it. You can’t remember the last time a guy looked at you with a fraction of affection and love.

You swallow slowly and nod, standing up from your chair and making your way to him. Aemond leans back in his chair and feels himself get harder, if he even could at that point. Once you’re in his vicinity, he grabs your u waist and places you on his lap, your clothed pussy right above his throbbing cock. He lets out a soft groan feeling your warm body on his.

Aemond’s hand caresses your cheek before gently grabbing your chin and placing a hot kiss on your lips. His lips move against yours feverishly, wanting to devour you whole. His hands roam, landing on the curve of your ass, fondling gently. You kiss him passionately, feeling his tongue meet yours in a fiery kiss. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling his pecs before making their way to his hair, gently tangling them in his silver locks.

He leaves hot open mouthed kisses trailing from your lips down your neck. Aemond leaves hickeys on your neck, claiming you as his. He pulls away to remove his shirt, revealing his toned body. He is built like a Greek god. His abs look so pretty in the soft dorm lighting. He goes back to kissing your neck, whispering against your skin, “fuck..you’re so fucking pretty Princess… do you feel how hard I am for you?”

You let out a soft moan as he grinds his cock against your pussy. You feel wet in your underwear, only making you more horny. His hands roam down your body and they go up your shirt, groping your tits gently. He groans and kisses your neck, sucking a pretty hickey on your neck. Aemond tugs at your shirt and says “fuck baby I need this off..”

You take off your shirt and throw it to the side somewhere in his dorm. He groans and his eyes roll in the back of his head, seeing your gorgeous tits. You unclasp your bra and fling it to where you put your shirt. When Aemond sees your bare tits he almost cums.

You were so pretty, and he wanted you to know it. He gently reaches up fondles your tits, rolling the buds around, making them perk up. You moan feeling his warm, wet mouth on your pebbled nipple, sucking. He kisses and suck’s your tit, while fondling the other, and then he switches to the other tit.

He moans, looking at your swollen and perk tits. His cock is screaming to be let out and he gently pushes you to your knees, kneeling in front of him. His pushes his pants and boxers down to his ankles, revealing his throbbing dick. He’s leaking precum, the tip red and super horny.

His cock was so pretty, long and with the right amount of girth to make you see stars. He was neatly shaven, and his balls were heavy. He gives himself a few pumps before gently grabbing your chin and bringing you closer to his throbbing dick. You swallow, salivating at the sight. You place a hand on his inner thigh and press a kiss on the top of his cock head. He flexes his stomach slightly, needy for your mouth.

You spit on his tip, watching the saliva run down his hard dick. You pump him with the new lubricant and watch as his head falls back and his mouth opens in a silent moan. You then put his tip in your mouth, kitty licking his tip. He groans and says “baby quit fucking teasing me” and you comply.

You slide his dick in your mouth, feeling his tip touch the back of your throat. You want to gag, but seeing him fall apart all from your mouth is enough for you to bare it. You hollow your cheeks and suck his pretty cock, reveling in his pretty moans and whimpers. His eyes are shut in pleasure and he moans your name. “Fuck baby…you feel so fucking good..keep sucking me like that…fuck!”

You start to play with his balls, massaging them in your hand. His moans increase and for a moment he forgets he’s in his college dorm. He places a hand on the back of your head, forcing you to deepthroat his cock. “Fuck princess…I’m gonna cum soon if you don’t stop!”

He moans, and he flexes his stomach, resisting the urge not to thrust his cock in and out of your mouth. With an audible pop, you remove your mouth from his cock and he groans at the loss. He looks at you with hooded eyes, completely covered with lust. He watches you remove your shorts and underwear, noticing a wet spot in them.

He grins looking at how horny you are. “Fuck princess…you’re soaking.” He says rubbing two thick fingers over your slick pussy. He gathers the slick and rubs it over his cock. You climb on his lap and he searches his drawers in order to find a condom. “I’m on the pill, and healthy.” You say and looks at you with a soft smile.

“You’re too good for me baby..c’mere.” He says and places a sweet kiss on your lips. You two kiss for a moment, grinding against each other. You moan as his cock head catches your clit a few times. “I should stretch you but you’re so fucking horny I don’t think you need it.” He says, slowly lining his cock to your entrance.

With a nod, he thrusts in gently, watching your face carefully for any sign of discomfort. He bottoms out, and rolls his eyes, wanting to thrust his cock in your pussy feverishly. He bites his tongue and waits for you to say that he can start. You say, feeling so full from his cock. “You can move Aemy…”

Aemond begins thrusting slowly and then picking pace hearing your moans. He fucks you like an animal in heat, you’re seeing stars from how good he’s fucking you. His balls are slapping against you with every thrust he makes, you moan and Aemond slaps your tits gently, loving the way they bounce when he fucks you full with his cock.

He’s so close to cuming but he won’t stop. He wants you to cum around his cock. He wants to feel your pussy tighten against him and cream all over his dick. He wants to fuck you full of his seed and watch you be pregnant with his kids. Fuck he’s so close, as he rubs your pearl just right, bringing you closer to the edge. “Aemy! Fuck I’m so close!!” You whimper and Aemond flips the position to where your face is in the pillow and your ass is in the air.

He fucks you from behind with such force, the headboard slams against the wall, but neither of you care. He make you feel so good, he makes you feel like your in heaven, even if your doing the unholiest of things. You feel so close to cuming, and he knows it by the way your pussy is clenching around his dick. He slaps your ass as he thrusts from behind, loving the way your ass jiggles as he thrusts.

Aemond groans and as you clench around him tight, screaming as you cum. Tears are rolling down your cheeks as he fucks you through your orgasm, trying to catch his. He follows soon after thrusting deep into your cervix and cumming. His body shakes and his mouth falls open in a silent scream. He pulls out and he has to resist the urge to get hard watching his seed leak from your swollen pussy. He smiles and checks up on you, before grabbing a warm washcloth we and cleaning you up. He then puts on a pair of clean boxers and sweats, just as the dorm door is knocked on. He makes sure you’re covered, and opens the door, leaning against the door frame.

“Cregan, how can I help you?” Aemond says looking at Cregan, blocking his view of you. Cregan smiles and invites Aemond to a frat party, to which Aemond declines and says that you’re over. “Oh, what are you two doing?” Cregan asks and Aemond says with a sly smirk. “Studying..”

[sgiandubh]

Anon rebelde.

Detecto un nerviosismo muy revelador en Mordor. La finalización del rodaje abre un escenario nuevo acerca de las posibles interacciones de Sam y Cait fuera de esa burbuja de trabajo, ya sabes, solo es fan service por lo tanto nuevo tablero de juego con unas fichas que se pueden mover, hasta cierto punto porque no olvidemos que queda todo lo relacionado con la 8 y última temporada, libremente. Y hay una cosa que me intriga acerca de los planes futuros de Cait. Mordor da por hecho que va a permanecer en UK ya que esa casa que compró va a ser su residencia habitual pero las ultimas noticias de hace ya tiempo era que esa residencia estaba inhabitable y me pregunto si ese factor ya está resuelto. Por supuesto dejo en tus manos actualizar esta duda.

Dear (returning) Anon Rebelde,

Lamento mucho la respuesta tardía a tu mensaje. Como siempre, el otoño parece ser esa época del año en la que las cosas se aceleran, por algún motivo aún oscuro, hasta ese agradable paroxismo navideño. Pero, sin más dilación, traduzcamos primero lo que me enviaste:

'I'm sensing a very revealing nervousness in Mordor. The end of filming opens a new scenario regarding the possible interactions between Sam and Cait outside of that work bubble (you know, it's just fan service), and so we've got a new game board with pieces that can be moved, to a certain point, because let's not forget that everything related to the 8th and final season still remains open. And there is one thing that intrigues me about Cait's future plans. Mordor assumes that she will remain in the UK since that house she bought will be her habitual residence, but the latest news from some time ago was that that residence was uninhabitable and I wonder if that factor has already been resolved. Of course, I leave it up to you to update this doubt.'

I don't think we need to comment more on the nervousness (you're elegant, I would rather call it hysteria) across the street. If these people are so damn RIGHT about everything, how come they seem to have completely blown a fuse, five minutes after their well-oiled, mean routine came to a brutal stop? Smooth operators (remember? LOL for an entire geological age) they are not, and never were; still, it's a thing to behold, just seeing the amount of clones trying to step into my backyard. You'd never make me believe that an entire battalion of newbies suddenly follow me, with empty pages and a whole list of shipper contacts to boot. And then we have those Anons, whose dull, morose perseverance is only matched by their obsessive cruelty. Anons who, mind you, are pretty much transparent in their style, punctuation and stylistic mannerisms - all of these always betray them, and yet they keep going on and on and on. Pretty mental, if you ask me.

The dubious advantage of answering late is that now we know C was eventually (and predictably) spotted in London, at an intimate dinner hosted by Jessica McCormack, a jewelry creator and Zoë Kravitz, Lenny's daughter and an actress in her own right. No family vacay in the sun with McGill and as soon out of Scotland as S - their pundits are worthless. We could logically assume a hefty part of her life will be spent in London, where all the glitz and the glam and the networking are, rather than in rainy and industrious Glasgow. And I cannot help but wonder what do all these people make of their own relationships, and the immediate vision I have is one of a very monotonous life, eons away from all that glamorous gypsiness. Which is quite alright, if you ask me. What is ridiculous, however, is to naively assume that everyone makes the same choices as them.

But you asked me about that house and I think it's time to share with you what I can share at the moment. For obvious reasons, I have obliterated the address and kept from the single document I am about to quote (there are several more in my possession) only the essential parts. The researcher I was, once upon a time, cringes at the thought. But it's better to be safe than sorry: encouraging stalking is certainly not a responsibility I am willing to take, even if the new address is known by all the factions of this fandom and even if the documents are public, therefore usable.

For context purposes, let's just remind that C's new "residence" is a high profile carriage house built in 1841 (featuring a wine cellar!), that one can see even on Wikipedia and in all the architectural guides of the city.

As such, it is protected by the national legislation and local regulation on heritage - the Scottish competent authority being Historic Environment Scotland (https://www.historicenvironment.scot/). They have a three-tiered listing system, with more or less flexible protection criteria and regulations. C's house is an A listed property ('outstanding example of a particular period, style or building type'):

It is a criminal offence to make any alterations to an A listed building without prior proper consent, on top of all the other planning permissions applications:

Any update or repair must, therefore, be vetted by the local city council, after a rather lengthy procedure of public consultation, where anyone (NGOs, but also private persons) can send comments. Quick aside, here: why would someone as private as C buy such a prominent property, situated on top of an elevation, nonetheless? I have my own idea about it, which is easy to guess, I suppose.

The house was bought in December 2022, for a hefty amount exceeding 2 millions GBP, way above its asking price of 1.6 million GBP:

Permission for further alterations was duly sought, several times. I will just mention one of those applications, which I could almost find comical (but no, I don't, really). Let's see where this takes us.

It took the new owners almost four months to submit the first application to the City Council. You'd say the architect's office was probably busy: fair enough. But then, this lackadaisical rhythm carried on, almost as if no prior strategy to address existing problems of the property and/or maximize the profit of a very expensive acquisition had ever existed. Almost as if one of the owners, or both of them didn't really GAF about the whole affair - and it is true and readily available online, that all the applications have been managed by ahem... The Manager himself or his appointed agents. C seemingly had nothing to do with the entire process: a bit curious, don't you think?

The second application (and the one I am going to talk about, here and now) was sent for consideration in July 2023, almost seven months after the sale was concluded. Curiously still, it aimed to widen the driveway entrance and make substantial changes to the entrance of the property. Discretion be damned, of course - how odd, huh?

It was flatly refused in September 2023 by the City Council, pending three objections from a neighbor and two national and local heritage protection charities/NGOs (Architectural Heritage Society of Scotland and Friends of Glasgow West):

With a bit of patience, you can read all the documents - they are not that hard to find, after all. I will not comment further upon them, as I find the above clear and enlightening enough. There is, however, one detail that definitely made me smile, remembering what brought me here first:

This, to be exact: 'the paving of the driveway (...) could lead to potential surface water/rainfall discharge onto the public footway and carriageway'.

As compared to this (remember? LOL):

[Remember: https://www.tumblr.com/sgiandubh/720483288334090240/it-all-starts-with-a-smoke-alarm]

There seems to be something odd going on between McGill and water damage. Carelessness, perhaps? I wouldn't dare presume.

Anyways. The entire permission tango with the City Council ended early March 2024. Since then, radio silence. The Taj Mahal stands empty, with not a sign of busy kerfuffle, as far as we know. I am well aware that the owners have three more years to go until the permission would be useless and they'd have to reapply again, but given the nature of the other planned updates (vacuum glazing, anyone?), I would doubt it is okay to wait until March 2027.

I hope this answered your question and I am once more grateful for your patience, Anon Rebelde.

[patrixjia]

Velvet Chains (Part III)

Plot Overview:

Y/N is caught between her father’s crumbling empire and Chan’s rebellion. As she help Chan track down missing operatives, their bond grows, leading to a deadly confrontation that forces Y/N to question her loyalty. Chan offers a chance to dismantle her father’s empire, and though torn, Y/N chooses to join him, starting a dangerous journey to reshape their future.

Warnings: BangChan!Mafia, Mafia!AU, mature themes, emotional distress, angst, violence, dangerous situations, strong language, mental health struggles, (the smut will be in the next chapter🤭)

PART I, PART II, PART IV, PART V, PART VI, FINAL PART

Author note:

Well, well, well, look at us—third chapter in, and I’m still alive to tell the tale! 😂 This chapter? Yeah, it’s a beast. I’ve never written anything this long or complex, and honestly, I’m half-wondering if I’ve accidentally started writing an entire novel instead of just a chapter. But here we are, diving into some serious emotional roller coasters, plot twists, and the kind of chaos that makes me question my sanity.

I really hope you all enjoy this wild ride as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it (even if it has given me a few grey hairs along the way). Your support means the world to me! So buckle up, we’re just getting started. And, as always, drop me a comment if you’re loving or hating something—I’m here for all of it. Let’s keep this adventure going! ✨ Also, just a little heads up… the next chapter is going to get a little smuttier 😉.

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The first rays of sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, the muted warmth doing little to soften the chill that lingered in the room. You stretched, pushing off the weight of sleep with a growing restlessness. The space was luxurious but sterile, the kind of calculated opulence that screamed control rather than comfort.

When the door creaked open, breakfast was placed on a table near the window, and the figure delivering it slipped out as quickly as they’d come. You ignored it, slipping through the door before it could click shut. You weren’t going to spend the morning caged.

The hallways were quiet, the air filled with a faint hum of electricity. The mansion was sprawling but not ostentatious, its corridors lined with muted artwork and design choices that reeked of deliberation. It wasn’t your father’s world of obvious power and intimidation. It was colder. Subtler.

You found yourself wandering into a study. Unlike the other rooms, this one felt alive. A faint coffee scent lingered, mixing with the tang of paper and leather. A massive map dominated one wall, scattered with colored pins and strings. You moved closer, scanning the markings.

It didn’t take long to piece together what you were looking at. It was a blueprint of Victor’s empire—supply chains, strongholds, key distribution hubs. The red pins marked locations already compromised, while others, still green, pulsed with potential. A web of alliances and pressure points sprawled before you like an open wound.

You leaned forward, your eyes narrowing as they landed on a cluster of yellow-marked routes near the northern sector. The shipping lines there were irregular, crisscrossing in ways that screamed inefficiency. You could see where Chan’s strategy was stuck—his carefully laid plans bottlenecked by gaps he hadn’t yet closed.

Your fingers brushed across the documents scattered on the desk—financials, coded logs, surveillance notes. Victor’s empire wasn’t just cracking; it was being dismantled piece by piece.

“You’re full of surprises.”

The sound of Chan’s voice cut through the stillness, low and smooth. You straightened but didn’t turn. “And you’re full of shadows. How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to wonder if I should be worried.” His tone carried its usual casual confidence, but his eyes flicked toward the papers you’d been studying. “Finding everything to your liking?”

You turned, leaning back against the desk with deliberate nonchalance. “Interesting work. Though I can’t tell if the overcomplication is intentional or just your style.”

Chan stepped closer, his hands in his pockets, his gaze sharp as it swept over you and the map. “Overcomplication?”

You tilted your head toward the yellow routes. “You’re clogging your own lanes. The northern supply chain is built for redundancy, but instead of reinforcing efficiency, you’re creating a choke point. It’s obvious Victor did it to keep people guessing, but now you’re tripping over it.”

Chan’s eyes flicked to the map, and for the first time, he hesitated. “Interesting observation.”

“Observation? No. Solution,” you corrected, stepping toward the map. “You’re trying to seize control of both eastern and northern routes simultaneously. That’s why it’s falling apart. Drop the secondary lines from the north—they’re dead weight. Consolidate the flow into two hubs instead of four, and you’ll cut transit time by half.”

He stared at the map, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” you echoed, arching an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

His gaze returned to you, sharper now, as if trying to read the thoughts you hadn’t spoken aloud. “Why are you helping me?”

You held his stare, refusing to flinch under the weight of his scrutiny. “Maybe I like a challenge.”

His smirk grew, slow and deliberate. “That’s not an answer.”

“No,” you said, your voice calm but firm. “It’s not.”

The room seemed to shrink under the tension, the air thick with unspoken questions. Finally, Chan broke the silence. “You know, if you keep showing off, I might start thinking you want a seat at the table.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his smirk with a wry one of your own. “Maybe I just like proving you wrong. You’re not as untouchable as you think, Chan. Your plans aren’t perfect.”

“And yet,” he countered, “here you are, improving them.”

You exhaled sharply, turning back to the map. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you could keep up.”

He chuckled, the sound low and amused. “And?”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your smirk sharp as a blade. “Jury’s still out.”

Chan stepped closer, close enough that you could feel his presence but not enough to invade your space. “You’re still dodging my question, Y/N. Why help me? Are you so confident Victor can withstand it?”

Your jaw tightened at the mention of your father. “Maybe I’m not as confident in Victor as you think.”

That seemed to catch him off guard, though he quickly masked it. “Careful. That almost sounded like an admission.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you shot back, your tone lighter but no less firm. “I haven’t picked a side. Yet.”

The faintest flicker of something crossed his face—respect, intrigue, or perhaps a mix of both. “Fair enough,” he said finally. “But when you do, make sure it’s the right one.”

You laughed, the sound short and humorless. “And which side is that? Yours?”

“I’m not the one clinging to a crumbling empire,” he said smoothly. “I’m building something new. Something better.”

You stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deception, but all you found was unshakable confidence. It annoyed you as much as it intrigued you.

“Better is subjective,” you said finally.

“Then help me define it.” His voice dropped, soft but unyielding. “You’re smart enough to know the cracks in Victor’s empire can’t be patched. The question is, what do you want to see rise from the ashes?”

For the first time, you didn’t have an immediate answer.

Chan’s smirk returned, lighter now but no less self-assured. “Think about it,” he said, turning toward the door. “I’ll see if your suggestion works. But if it doesn’t…”

“It will,” you interrupted.

He paused in the doorway, glancing back with a grin that was equal parts challenging and amused. “We’ll see.”

The door closed behind him, leaving you alone with the map, the documents, and the weight of his words.

What do you want to see rise from the ashes?

The question lingered, unsettling and persistent.

And for the first time, you weren’t sure of the answer.

The days since the confrontation with Chan had been strange, to say the least. The mansion’s rhythm ebbed and flowed with calculated precision, as though every movement, every conversation, had been planned days in advance.

You spent your time exploring its sprawling halls, learning its rhythms, and testing your boundaries. The guards rarely spoke to you beyond clipped warnings when you wandered too close to restricted areas. You couldn’t tell if they were following Chan’s orders or acting out of their own wariness.

Chan, however, was different. He appeared only when he wanted to, catching you off guard with sly remarks and a confidence that made it clear he was always one step ahead. His teasing came with a sharp edge, but there was no denying the undercurrent of mutual curiosity between you.

You didn’t trust him, and he didn’t trust you. Yet, in those fleeting conversations, there was a spark—an understanding that neither of you were playing at full strength yet.

Then, one morning, the mansion’s calm shattered.

You’d been in the study, feigning interest in a book, when the sound of hurried footsteps caught your ear. The low hum of conversation from the hall was sharper today, clipped and urgent.

Moments later, Chan strode into the room, his usual composure marred by a tightness in his jaw. He moved with purpose, his focus so sharp that he didn’t acknowledge your presence.

“You’re upset,” you noted, setting the book aside.

He ignored you, striding to his desk and pulling up a screen.

Before you could push further, another figure entered the room: Changbin. His pace matched Chan’s intensity, his voice low and urgent as he spoke.

“Victor’s people hit the northern base,” Changbin reported. “They’ve taken out the comms tower. Felix and Hyunjin went dark an hour ago.”

Chan froze for a split second before his mask of control slid back into place. “Casualties?”

“None confirmed yet,” Changbin said. “But it’s not looking good. We have partial intel—they’ve shut down our local network, and the safe houses are at risk. If they’ve got Felix or Hyunjin…”

Chan exhaled through his nose, his focus razor-sharp. “Start evacuation protocols for the northern sector. Clear out the Graham location and put everyone in safe houses on standby. If they’ve been compromised, I want them out of there before Victor’s people can move.”

Your ears perked at the name, a chill running through you. “Wait—Graham and Sons?” you interrupted, stepping forward.

Both men turned to you, Chan’s eyes narrowing. “What about it?”

You frowned, your mind racing. “That’s not just a random location. It’s one of Victor’s decoy transport hubs. If you’ve got people stationed there, they’re already compromised.”

Changbin looked to Chan, his expression unreadable but tinged with suspicion. “You trust her?”

Chan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied you, his gaze intense. “How do you know that?”

“Because I grew up in this,” you shot back, folding your arms. “You think I don’t know the names he hides behind? Graham and Sons isn’t just a front. It’s bait. Victor uses it to lure out threats to his network—and he won’t hesitate to cut down anyone who gets too close.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Changbin crossed his arms. “And we’re just supposed to take her word for it?”

You rolled your eyes, exasperated. “Fine, don’t listen to me. But if you wait too long, Felix and Hyunjin won’t be unaccounted for—they’ll be dead.”

Chan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. Then he turned to Changbin. “Pull everyone from Graham and cross-check her intel with what we’ve got. Double it with our sources on the ground. If it matches, we move.”

Changbin hesitated, clearly wanting to argue, but nodded. “On it.”

He left the room, and Chan turned back to you. His gaze was sharp, calculating. “Why help me?”

You didn’t flinch under his scrutiny. “Maybe I don’t want to see Felix and Hyunjin killed. Or maybe I’d rather not see my father win.”

Chan smirked faintly, though his eyes were still hard. “Still haven’t picked a side, have you?”

“Would you prefer I did?”

His silence spoke volumes.

“I’ll take that as a no,” you said, your voice dry.

He leaned back against the desk, his posture deceptively casual. “If your information is right, you’ll have saved lives today. If it’s not…”

"You think I’m lying?”

“I think you’ve got more cards to play,” he replied smoothly. “And I don’t trust people who keep their hands hidden.”

You stepped closer, your voice calm but firm. “Then maybe you should play smarter.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his gaze locked on yours. Then his lips quirked into a faint smirk. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“I aim to keep things interesting,” you replied, your tone light but with an undercurrent of steel.

Chan pushed off the desk, brushing past you toward the door. “Keep proving yourself useful, and maybe I’ll start believing you’re not working an angle.”

You watched him go, the tension in the room thick and charged. Somewhere out there, Felix and Hyunjin were waiting—caught in the web of a game far larger than either of them could control.

And for reasons you weren’t ready to name, you hoped you’d been right.

Later that evening the tension in the mansion was palpable, an undercurrent of urgency threading through every hallway. Chan had been holed up in his office since the crisis broke, and though you were technically “off-limits” to the ongoing operation, you’d found a way to keep yourself within earshot of every critical update.

The news wasn’t promising. Felix and Hyunjin were still unaccounted for, and the evacuation of Graham and Sons had only confirmed what you’d already suspected: your father’s people had the upper hand.

When Chan’s voice called your name from the hall, you half-expected him to demand that you stay out of his way. Instead, his tone was calm, measured. Too calm.

You pushed the door open to find him standing at his desk, surrounded by screens displaying live feeds, maps, and rows of encrypted data. Changbin hovered nearby, arms crossed, tension radiating off him in waves.

Chan gestured to you without preamble. “You’ve been watching long enough. Sit.”

You raised a brow, keeping your voice steady. “I didn’t realize you were taking suggestions.”

“I’m not,” he replied, his gaze fixed on you. “I’m testing you. You know your father’s network better than anyone in this room. Prove it.”

You stepped into the room, feeling the weight of both men’s eyes on you. Taking the chair across from Chan, you crossed your legs and leaned back, affecting a confidence you weren’t entirely sure you felt.

“Where’s the hole?” you asked, nodding toward the map on the central monitor.

Chan exchanged a brief glance with Changbin before turning the screen toward you. “Here,” he said, pointing to a blinking red marker. “Safe house near Monroe. Felix and Hyunjin were scheduled to meet there, but they never checked in. No comms, no movement.”

You studied the map, your mind working quickly. Your father’s security protocols weren’t just strict—they were obsessive. If his people had cut communication lines, it wasn’t just to block intel. They were setting a trap.

“They’ll have a fallback,” you said. “Felix and Hyunjin. If they know the area’s compromised, they’ll move to the secondary site.”

“We don’t have a secondary site near Monroe,” Changbin said flatly.

“Not yours. Victor’s,” you clarified.

Chan’s brow furrowed, interest flickering in his eyes. “Explain.”

You leaned forward, pointing at the map. “Victor doesn’t trust his own men, let alone outsiders. Every base, every safe house—he sets up redundancies, but not for the reasons you think. It’s not to protect his people. It’s to catch them if they run.”

“And you think Felix and Hyunjin would know about this?” Chan asked, his tone skeptical but curious.

“They wouldn’t have to,” you said. “Victor’s patterns are predictable once you know them. He keeps fallback locations close but hidden, somewhere his own men wouldn’t think to look unless they were desperate.”

Changbin’s frown deepened. “That��s a lot of guesswork.”

You shot him a look. “Do you have a better idea?”

Chan held up a hand, silencing the argument before it could escalate. His gaze stayed on you, sharp and probing. “What kind of fallback location are we talking about?”

You tapped your fingers on the edge of the desk, recalling the layouts you’d studied for years. “Something off-grid. An abandoned structure, maybe a warehouse. He’d want it close enough to monitor, but isolated enough that no one would stumble on it by accident.”

Chan nodded slowly, his mind already working through possibilities. “Changbin, pull up the satellite maps for the area. Focus on industrial zones or decommissioned sites within a five-mile radius of the Monroe house.”

As Changbin worked, Chan turned back to you, his expression unreadable. “Why help them?”

The question hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected. You could have given him a dozen answers—some practical, some calculated—but the truth was simpler.

“Because I can,” you said quietly. “And because I don’t know yet what side I’m on.”

He studied you for a long moment, his eyes flickering with something you couldn’t quite place. Suspicion? Respect? Maybe both.

Changbin’s voice broke the silence. “Got something. Old manufacturing plant, shut down five years ago. It’s less than three miles from the safe house, just outside the patrol radius.”

Chan nodded sharply, already moving toward the door. “Prep the team. We’ll leave in five.”

To your surprise, he turned back to you, his gaze steady. “You’re coming.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You know Victor’s traps better than anyone. If this is one of them, I want you there.”

“And if I’m wrong?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

Chan smirked, his confidence infuriatingly unshaken. “Then I guess we’ll both find out.”

You hesitated, your mind racing. Going with him meant stepping further into his world, further away from your father’s. It meant testing your loyalties in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

But it also meant a chance to prove you weren’t just a pawn in someone else’s game.

“Fine,” you said, rising to your feet. “But if this goes south, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Chan’s smirk widened, and for the first time, you saw something close to genuine amusement in his eyes. “Noted.”

As the team prepared to move, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this moment—this decision—was another crack in the foundation you’d spent your entire life standing on.

And you weren’t sure whether you were ready to see it fall.

The night had been long and tense. The team, guided by the plan you had proposed, moved quickly through the industrial zone. The dilapidated manufacturing plant you’d pinpointed turned out to be the fallback location Felix and Hyunjin had made for themselves. The security measures were minimal—just enough to keep outsiders at bay, but not enough to fool someone familiar with Victor’s tactics.

It was exactly as you’d predicted. Felix and Hyunjin had been trapped, but they hadn’t been caught. They’d already set up an escape route of their own, using an old underground access tunnel leading out of the compound.

As the operatives infiltrated the plant, you couldn’t help but feel a small rush of satisfaction. Felix and Hyunjin were safe—finally. The team worked in smooth coordination, securing them without any further casualties. You had been right all along.

“You were right,” Chan muttered as he surveyed the area with his usual stoic expression. It wasn’t much, but you caught the subtle shift in his eyes as he acknowledged your insight.

Felix gave you a tired but grateful smile. “Guess we owe you one.”

“Just don’t get caught next time,” you replied with a smirk, though the satisfaction of the mission’s success warmed something inside you.

But the victory was short-lived.

The atmosphere at the mansion had barely settled before the next wave of danger hit. As the operatives and the team returned, expecting a brief respite, a wave of alarms shattered the uneasy silence.

Chan’s hand flew to his earpiece, his voice hard as he barked orders to the team. “They’ve found us. Victor’s men are here.”

Your heart dropped as you turned to Chan, his eyes narrowing. “Get to the safe room. Now.”

Before you could even respond, the mansion was plunged into chaos. You moved quickly, following Chan and the team as they scrambled to reinforce key exits and prepare for a full-on assault. But even with the heightened security, the feeling of being hunted—of being trapped—was suffocating.

You had no time to think before the first round of gunfire hit, sharp and deafening, echoing through the halls. The mansion wasn’t just under siege; they were inside.

“Stay behind me!” Chan growled as he pulled you into a nearby hallway. You barely had time to register the sheer danger of the moment before you were crouched low, moving quickly as his operatives returned fire.

But then, in the chaos, everything seemed to happen at once. You ducked behind a pillar, narrowly avoiding a burst of gunfire. In the process, you twisted your ankle, collapsing to the ground with a painful grunt. Before you could recover, another round exploded too close to your position, a stray bullet grazing your arm.

You hissed in pain, clutching at your bleeding arm. You couldn’t focus on it; the only thing you could focus on was the sheer force of the attack. You barely heard Chan’s voice over the clamor of the assault.

“Stay down,” he barked, moving toward you with a fierce protectiveness that was uncharacteristic of his usual cold exterior.

But you didn’t have time to argue as he swept you into his arms, pulling you behind the nearest barricade. The calculated focus in his eyes never faltered. He was in command, but there was something else—an urgency to keep you safe that you hadn’t anticipated.

“Hold on,” he murmured, his voice tense as he checked your injury. You could feel his hands on you, pulling your arm gently to assess the wound. Despite the high-stakes situation, there was a tenderness in the way he moved, as though he wasn’t just trying to save you from harm—but from something deeper.

His fingers brushed your skin, an almost imperceptible gentleness in the midst of chaos. For a moment, it was just the two of you—the madness of the world outside and the calculated storm of gunfire drowned out by the shared connection.

“This won’t be the last time,” he said, his voice low as he wrapped your arm carefully, making sure the pressure was right. You could feel his fingers, light but deliberate, as he treated the wound. There was no rush, no panic.

For a brief second, you noticed something about him—something that wasn’t calculated or cold. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as though he cared more than he was willing to show.

“You’re fine,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, his gaze steady, but his expression softened for just a moment. “You’re not dying on me.”

You blinked, the rawness of the moment catching you off guard. “You’re sure?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flickering up to meet yours. For a moment, it was as if the world paused—if only briefly. The sounds of gunfire were a muffled background to the intensity of his focus. Then, without breaking eye contact, he tightened the bandage and stood, pulling you to your feet.

His voice was hard again as he guided you toward the nearest exit. “We don’t have time to talk. Let’s go.”

But even as you moved through the corridors, escaping the immediate danger, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the quiet moment shared between the two of you wasn’t one of simple survival. Something had shifted. Something unspoken.

And in the aftermath of the chaos, with the scent of blood and danger in the air, you realized you’d seen a side of Chan no one else had—one that made you question where your loyalties truly lay.

The hours following the attack passed in a blur. The mansion, once a fortress of impenetrable walls, now felt like a fragile shell that could crack at any moment. Chan and his team had neutralized the threat swiftly, using the knowledge you’d helped provide about Victor’s network and the strategic positions of his men. With a few tactical moves, the assailants were driven back, and though some minor damage had been done, the mansion stood strong. Felix and Hyunjin were safe. The team was intact. The immediate danger was over.

But the weight of the night hung in the air, heavy with the unsaid. The adrenaline that had coursed through your veins in the heat of battle had given way to something quieter, more complex. The echoes of gunfire were gone, but the tension between you and Chan lingered, thick and undeniable.

You were in the kitchen now, nursing a cup of water, trying to clear your mind. The events of the day had left you exhausted—physically, yes, but more so mentally. You had done your part, had proven your worth, but there was no escaping the pull that Chan seemed to have on you, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. The attraction was there, undeniable. But it was dangerous.

You felt his presence before you saw him, the subtle shift in the air when Chan entered the room. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was there—his energy filled the space. His sharp eyes on you, the silent weight of his presence, made your pulse quicken despite yourself.

“You should be resting,” he said casually, as though the tension that had laced his commands earlier had never existed. His voice, however, carried a hint of something else—an edge, a challenge.

You didn’t look up as you replied, keeping your voice steady. “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are,” he teased, stepping closer, just enough to be in your line of sight. His gaze flickered to your arm, now bandaged and well on the way to healing. “You’re tough. I’ll give you that.”

You scoffed lightly, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your neck at his words. The way he was looking at you now—almost amused—felt like a game, but one you weren’t sure you knew the rules to. You took a small sip of water, needing to put some space between you and the emotions threatening to spill over.

Chan didn’t let up, though. “I’m surprised. Thought you’d be more upset about the whole ‘almost being shot’ thing.”

The teasing edge to his tone didn’t make it any easier to ignore the way your heart picked up its pace. You were keenly aware of how close he stood, of the heat radiating from his body despite the cool air. You could feel his presence pressing against you, and your mind refused to focus on anything but him.

“Well, I wasn’t shot,” you retorted, meeting his gaze at last. The challenge in your voice was as much for yourself as it was for him. “So I guess that’s something.”

A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his eyes darkening with a glint of mischief. “You know, I’m starting to think you enjoy the danger.”

Your throat went dry, and despite yourself, you laughed—short and sharp. “I don’t enjoy it. But I’m not exactly afraid of it either.”

“You should be,” he said softly, his tone turning serious for a brief moment. He leaned in, almost imperceptibly, and for a heartbeat, there was no room between you—just the quiet hum of tension that surged between you both. You could smell the faint trace of gunpowder on his skin, mixed with the ever-present scent of cologne. The proximity felt dangerous, yet the magnetic pull of him was impossible to ignore.

He was so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, and it made your body react in ways you couldn’t control. Every inch of you screamed to pull away, to maintain the distance that was keeping everything in check. But something about Chan—about the way he looked at you, about the small glint of vulnerability you saw beneath the hard exterior—made you question everything.

“What’s the point of being afraid?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Fear doesn’t keep anyone safe. It just holds you back.”

Chan’s gaze flickered to your lips, and the air between you thickened, charged with an unspoken understanding. His mouth was dry, and you could see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes—a hunger, a tension that was as magnetic as it was dangerous.

Then, as if aware of how close you’d both come to crossing a line, he leaned back, the space between you widening, though the tension didn’t dissipate.

“Fair enough,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than it had been before. He cleared his throat. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not risky.”

You swallowed hard, looking away, trying to regain some semblance of control. But his presence, his words, had shaken you. And deep down, you knew something had shifted. You couldn’t tell if it was the aftermath of the crisis, the adrenaline, or the way he seemed to see right through you—but the boundary had shifted. The walls you’d carefully built were beginning to crumble.

Chan took a step back, his eyes lingering on you just a little too long. “You’re not who you seem to be,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re more than just a pawn in all this.”

You felt a pang of something you didn’t quite recognize, but it wasn’t anger. It was… something else. A quiet understanding. It made your chest tighten, and for the first time, you realized how little control you had over what was happening between the two of you.

And as he turned and walked away, leaving you with the storm of your own thoughts, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this—whatever it was—wasn’t over. It hadn’t even begun.

The news kept coming—each report more damning than the last. Your father’s empire was crumbling in real-time. Chan’s plans were progressing faster than anyone had expected. Supply lines were breaking, alliances were splintering, and the internal resistance within Victor’s ranks was growing stronger. It was all coming apart, just like Chan had predicted.

Victor, however, was far from giving up. His fight wasn’t over. He was tightening his grip, bringing in every last resource to hold onto the empire he’d built, despite the cracks beginning to show. You could almost hear his rage echo through the chaotic reports flooding in. He would not go down without a fight.

Chan leaned against the wall, his gaze fixed on the screen showing a live map of Victor’s remaining strongholds. “We’ve hit a critical point. The network’s destabilized, but he’s not finished yet. He’ll try to regroup. It’s only a matter of time before he pushes back.”

You stood by the window, looking out at the darkening sky. You could feel the weight of your father’s empire bearing down on you, like a dying beast desperate to survive. It was hard to shake the feeling that you were witnessing the end of everything you knew—everything you had once thought was untouchable.

“I thought… I thought this would be easier,” you muttered, your fingers brushing the edge of the window frame.

Chan’s voice was calm but firm as he spoke, his presence cutting through the tension. “It never is. But we’ve only just started, Y/N. The hardest part is coming.”

You turned toward him, meeting his gaze. There was no doubt in his eyes, no hesitation. He was certain—he always had been. But you felt the weight of your own doubts pressing in on you, as if you were standing at the edge of something vast and unknown.

“The hardest part,” you repeated, almost to yourself, “and you still want me to help you finish it?”

Chan stepped closer, his expression softening just a touch. “I’m not asking you to destroy everything you’ve known. I’m asking you to help me end what’s already falling apart. Help me tear down the structures that are keeping Victor in power.”

You took a deep breath. “And then what?”

His eyes darkened slightly, and for the briefest moment, something almost vulnerable flickered across his face. “Then we rebuild. But that’s for later. For now, we focus on making sure he doesn’t have the chance to come back. Once he’s gone, the pieces will be there for the taking.”

You felt a pang in your chest. “And I’m supposed to just… step into that? To take everything my father built and use it for your vision?”

“You’ve seen the cracks in Victor’s empire long before I came along,” Chan said, his voice quiet but unwavering. “You know it can’t survive in its current form. His obsession with control—his refusal to trust anyone—has already weakened it from the inside out. All I’m doing is speeding up the inevitable.”

You hesitated, the reality of his words settling over you like a heavy cloak. “And when it’s all over? What happens then?”

Chan’s gaze was steady, a mix of determination and something else you couldn’t quite place. “Then you take control. You become the one to rebuild. But only after we’ve brought him down. After we’ve made sure he can never hurt anyone again.”

Your breath caught in your throat. The idea—your idea—of taking control felt like a distant possibility, something you weren’t quite ready to admit. But even now, the pieces were falling into place. You weren’t just helping him destroy your father’s empire. You were preparing for something bigger, something that made your stomach twist in both fear and anticipation.

“You’re asking me to step into my father’s shoes,” you said, the weight of the truth sinking in. “You want me to take everything he built—and do what with it?”

“I’m not asking you to become him,” Chan said, his voice gentle now. “I’m asking you to become someone better. Someone who can rebuild it all into something that actually works.”

The silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of your choice. You wanted to resist him, wanted to reject the path he was offering. But deep down, you knew he was right. You’d already seen the cracks in your father’s empire—the cracks that were now yawning wide.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely a whisper. “I don’t know if I can watch it all burn and not feel like I’m betraying everything I’ve ever known.”

Chan’s expression softened just enough to show the faintest trace of understanding. “It won’t be easy. But it’s the only way forward. And you don’t have to do it alone.”

You let out a slow breath, the truth of it settling deep in your chest. The path ahead was unclear, but for the first time, you weren’t just fighting for survival. You were fighting for something more—something bigger. Maybe even something better.

“You’re asking me to betray my father,” you said, the words heavier than they had ever felt.

Chan nodded. “I’m asking you to save what’s left of him—and make sure no one else falls into the same traps he set.”

A deep silence filled the room, the weight of the decision hanging between you. You had made your choice. It wasn’t about loyalty anymore. It was about the future. And for the first time, you could see that future—not just as a shadow of destruction, but as something you could shape.

“I’ll help you,” you said, your voice firm, though a part of you still felt the tremor of doubt. “I’ll help you bring him down.”

Chan’s eyes flashed with something you hadn’t expected: approval. “We’re getting closer, Y/N. This is only the beginning.”

You looked up at him, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and apprehension. The future you had once fought so hard to hold on to was slipping away, and with it, everything you had known. But now, you saw something else in its place—a chance to shape something new.

You couldn’t help but wonder if, in the end, you’d be able to rebuild it all with him. But for now, there was no turning back. You were already too far in.

Taglist: @velvetmoonlght

[areyouwell]

Acta Non Verba

Ch.3

Ch.2, Ch.1 <–

Warnings: Violence (obvs)

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Mutant!F!Reader

Word Count: 6K

A/N: just a short chapter for this one, with Christmas on the horizon, haven't had much time to write, my job has me working 24/7 (including Christmas day ;-; ) so expect a little more from me and this series around the end of Jan, when everything starts to calm the fuck down :') anyhow, until then, enjoy <3

🏷: @speeedybaby @ltristessedureratoujours @froggieeez @ayamenimthiriel @daddyslittlevillain @chubbyhedgehog @marifilue @galacticglitterglue @salemslostwitch @m1cky-y-y

Sleep. It was something reserved only for those living a life of peace. Or for those who were too exhausted to think about or care about the horrors in day-to-day life. You, however, were neither of them. Sure, you were exhausted, but the idea of drifting off only to relive a life you’d put far behind you wasn’t something you were too keen on. And whilst the surprisingly warm embrace of your companion would have been enough to lull even the most stubborn insomniacs to sleep, you didn’t want to. Because waking up screaming and covered in sweat wasn’t worth the few fitful hours of shuteye. 

Logan, on the other hand, oh how you envied his steady breaths and light snores. Was this how all those at this school slept? Soundless and dreamless? Well, not quite soundless, but the sentiment was the same. You’d been going over the events of the night. It must have been De Voss who tipped off the guards. How else could they have possibly known you were down there? You’d made a glaringly obvious mistake when you’d given your mutant ‘pet’ a name. And De Voss didn’t seem like the kind of man that missed mistakes like that. 

You wondered where the caged mutants had got to. Wondered if they were okay, if they were still free. What if those guards had spent all fucking night hunting them down. You knew the system. You knew how prized some of those ‘pets’ would have been. How much money would have been bet on them? The intricate dealings between owners and slavers. How many of them would have been sent to fight in those godforsaken cages? How many of them would have become trophies? Paraded around at events just like this one? 

It was no wonder you refused to sleep with thoughts such like these circling your head. And it only took another moment before you gingerly pulled the covers from your body and slid from Logan’s hold, trying your damnest not to wake him. You didn’t want to deal with whatever the fuck was happening between the two of you right now. You didn’t have time for it. And, to be honest, you didn’t have the willpower. It scared you shitless, the thought of liking somebody like that. Because the last shit-stick you’d liked branded your face and sold you off like cattle. Who’s to say that won’t happen again?

And just like that, you shut down whatever the fuck could have been blossoming in your chest. It was a dangerous road and not one you particularly cared to go down again. Silent as death, you crouched to where you’d discarded your clothes, grimacing as your fingertips brushed the slightly damp fabric, and lamenting your life choices when you realised you’d have to put them back on. Not exactly the best outfit to go out galavanting in the dark, but it wasn’t like you’d brought your pack with you when you sprinted out into the rain. That still lay abandoned in that damn guest room, along with a bunch more incriminating evidence that the Furies were there. Thank fuck you didn’t decide to label your t-shirts. 

You shimmied back into your dress, shivering slightly as the frigid fabric clung to the warmth of your body, before threading the strap of your heel around your ankle. You didn’t have the nerve to pull your underwear back on, choosing instead to forgo the wildly uncomfortable sensation of having something disgustingly damp cling to your waist and disappear into your ass. Absolutely not. 

Finally managing to fiddle with the final strap of your heel without waking Logan, you sent one last glance in his direction, something painful twinging in your chest. He looked so inviting. So comforting. You knew you should probably leave some kind of note or something, at least explaining where you’d gone, but with the serious lack of dry paper and pen, there was nothing you could do. Anyway, it wasn’t like you owed him anything. No. Just the fact that he’d come here to help you. And stayed by your side. And given you one of the best nights of your life…

Yeah. Didn’t owe him anything. 

Clenching your jaw, you turned away, trying to walk without the stiletto of your heel touching the ground. You’d barely managed to cross the centre of the room before you were frozen in place by the last sound you’d expected to hear. A knock. On the door. Timid and quick, but it was a knock nonetheless. 

You whirled as Logan bolted upright, his breathing heavy, eyes wild as he looked around the room as if trying to make sense of both where he was and what the hell was happening. His eyes locked with yours, confusion etched in his handsome features before accusing realisation furrowed his brow, and you were forced to look away before you could catch the hurt in his eyes. He knew you were leaving. In the middle of the night. Without telling him where you were going or what you were doing. 

And after you’d both shared so much…

The knock sounded again, this time a little harder, and accompanied by a little push against the door. Throwing the blanket from his legs, Logan rushed to pull on his briefs and slacks, clothes which were much dryer than yours, likely due to the fact that he’d taken the time and care to lay them out, whereas you simply let your dress crumple into a pile. Bastard. 

You turned back to the door, taking a single step forward, still careful of your heels on the wooden floor, before a broad hand wrapped around your wrist. It was impossible to stop the instinctive urge to snatch your hand away, but you supposed it could be forgiven considering the fact you were on high alert with someone knocking on the door of the place you’d chosen to hide in. You glanced behind you to find Logan already looking at you with a hardened gaze, silently shaking his head, his arm still outstretched from where you’d just snatched your hand away. You gestured to the door with your head, frantic frustration dancing in your eyes, as if silently trying to justify your actions. ‘What if they’re hurt?’

‘What if they’re not?’

‘It’s a mutant, I can feel it and I know you can smell it.’

‘Doesn’t mean y’should open the door.’

“Isn’t this what you people at that fucking school do? Open the door to others who need help?” Your hiss was barely audible, but you knew he’d heard you from the way he bristled.

“Fuckin’– fine. But I’ll do it.” He snapped, sending you another hard glare before storming as quietly as he could to the door, breezing past you without a second look. So much for slipping out into the night…

Logan paused for a breath, hand braced on the door handle. You were right. It was a mutant. One smelling like rain and forests. Although that could just be because it had been raining and he was stranded in the middle of the damn woods. He shook his head, unable to believe he was about to open the door after barely escaping a fucking mutant slave gala, but you had one of those faces that was hard to say no to. 

Wasn’t it a shame then, you were about to leave? 

Slowly, and with no small degree of apprehension, Logan pulled the door open, the hinges creaking ever to slightly. But before he could open it any further, a blur of blonde and orange sped into the room, no higher than his kneecaps, and stuck itself to your leg. You let out a small yelp, struggling to hold your footing as whatever it was that had just burst in latched onto your calf like a limpet, small claws digging into your flesh. 

“Wh–” you began, before finally registering just exactly what it was you were seeing. The mutant girl from before, that same dirty blonde hair sticking up in all directions, only this time it was riddled with leaves and twigs. 

And two tiny, pointed orange ears poked out from the top of her head. You swore they weren’t there earlier. And when she looked up at you, her eyes no longer bore a resemblance to that of a human’s. Rather, they were much more catlike. Pupils like dinner plates in the low lighting, a striped ginger tail sweeping and brushing up your leg. You felt like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. If she’d managed to escape, perhaps others had too. Perhaps they were still out there, not yet captured. Maybe the guards had given up? It had seemed so unlikely not moments ago, but now? With this little wild bundle of newfound hope, perhaps they’d be okay. 

Crouching down, you carded your hands through her messy hair, little sticks falling onto the wooden floor, your fingers scratching just behind her ear enough to make it twitch slightly. She didn’t say anything, only grinned at you with little pointed canines. Holy shit she was fucking adorable. 

“You okay?” You asked softly, and Logan crouched next to you, a placid smile pulling at his lips. He was right in his analysis earlier. You were remarkably good with kids. The girl nodded her head, leaves drifting from her hair and you chuckled gently, picking the remaining foliage from her tangled locks. “Where’d you get to then, huh?”

“Little Wildling wriggled from my hold the moment we set foot into the woods. Got a good set of claws on ‘er.” Logan pointed out to where those very same claws were still leaving little dents in your calf.

“No kidding…” You winced slightly as she shifted from your leg to clamber over to Logan, climbing his arm like she would a tree, and you couldn’t stifle your small laugh at his faux irritation. Wilding’s ear flicked in retaliation to his expression, her claws digging in a little further as she scaled his shoulders, enough for Logan to huff and grimace.

“Alrigh’ kiddo, that’s enough. C’mere…” he reached behind his head to where she’d made herself comfortable, feeling around for the scruff of her neck before she lashed out at his hand, ears flattened against her head and baring her sharp little teeth with a surprisingly vicious hiss. Logan recoiled almost instantly.

“Well… that told you.” You jabbed lightly, and he rolled his eyes pointedly, his disobedient smile still pulling at his lips. Only to expand into a full grin as Wildling leapt from his shoulders onto yours, curing her little body across the back of your neck, her tail flicking from side to side as she got comfortable. “And I guess that told me…” you muttered to Logan’s endless amusement as you both stood from the uncomfortable crouch. 

“Where were you going…? Earlier?” He asked, the mood had suddenly and drastically shifted from surprisingly peaceful to despondent. You stayed silent for a moment, absently scratching behind Widling’s orange ears, listening to a slow rumble of what you interpreted as a pur coming from her throat before you answered honestly. 

“I was going to look for them—the mutants we freed. I– I couldn’t stop thinking about them. About the ‘what ifs’, you know? And if I found them, it’s guarantee safety for them and peace of mind for me. Boss has never turned anyone away. Not once. That’s what we do. We take them in, the mutants we rescue, and we find places for them, families, if they’re little like this one.” You gesture to Wildling on your shoulders, the girl seemingly realising you were talking about her and lazily opening her eyes. 

Logan nodded, though he seemed sceptical. “And, what? You just were just gonna skip out? Not even tell me where you’re goin’?” He asked, exhaustion creeping into his tone. You wanted to clap back. Wanted to snap at him about just when the hell it became his business where you went and what you did. Why the hell did he care so damn much when you’d barely known each other longer than twenty-four hours? And just why the hell he thought he should be privy to the things you do?

But you could ask him none of that, because Wildling shot like a lightning bolt from your shoulders, four scratch marks sliced through your dress as she landed on the floor with catlike grace and paused for a moment. Your impending argument was cut remarkably short as you held your silence, trying in vain to figure out just what the hell she was doing. The fur on her tail had puffed up, and you’d spent enough time around alley-cats to know she was on edge. Crouched on all fours, she sidestepped towards the door, before flattening her ears and bolting from the cabin. 

“Wilding!” You shouted after her, and Logan barely had time to think before you were out the door following her, your voice echoing through the trees. He had a split second to decide that shoes really weren’t necessary before he was racing out after the both of you, adrenaline suddenly pumping through his veins. 

At least it had stopped raining, but that realisation couldn’t have been further from his mind as he thundered through the undergrowth, fending off stray twigs and sticks with his forearms just as he watched you burst through the treeline and into the field beyond. Christ, you were quick. Was that a part of your mutation? He guessed that since you could control blood and everything else, you could force it to pump faster around your system. You were a match for his own enhanced physical attributes, and now it made sense as to how you could drag fully grown, burly men through dark alleyways. 

“Wildling!” He heard you call again, you steps slowing to a complete stop as you whipped around, looking for where the little mutant had bounded off to. She seemed so on edge before she leapt out the door, it put his own senses on high alert. Just what was it that she had seen? What had spooked her so badly that she had to run away?

Or rather, what instinct had been activated for her to run toward?

Catching up with you, Logan placed a hand on your shoulder, feeling your skin warm beneath his touch. But you didn’t turn to him. You eyes were closed in concentration, eyes flickering behind closed lids as your fingers flexed by your sides, brows furrowed as he watched you silently use your mutation to search for her, pulling at various threads around you. 

Only, there were far too many to unpick. It was a tangled mess of mutant blood, tangents of crimson flowing off into all directions, and all balling into one singular location. She must be there. That must have been what she sensed. 

You picked and pulled at the mess of threads, trying to discern one mutation from another, sifting through firestarters and earthbreakers, cloaks and daggers, before you found the little feline hidden amongst the other ferals. Your eyes flew open, instantly greeted by Logan’s concerned visage, his hand having travelled from your shoulder to the side of your neck as if to help you ground yourself. You hadn’t even noticed he’d caught up with you until now.

“Got her.” Was all you said, and Logan only nodded before following your lead, taking off at a run back into the woods, his hand held tightly in yours. You didn’t have the mind to contemplate what that meant, all you knew was that something was very, very wrong. Why were there so many signatures? And all in one place? Had they all found each other? Were they banding together? You couldn’t blame them in they were. Hell, you’d probably join them, help them take down the mansion if Tiss hadn’t burned it to the ground.

Which she still hadn’t. 

No, you couldn’t think about that either. You had to focus, put one foot in front of the other, following the slight pull of their blood through the trees, lightly stepping over fallen logs and piles of sticks. 

But you were too focused. Too focused on finding Wildling to realise you were about to stumble into a roundup. And it was only due to Logan yanking you back against his chest did you avoid detection, muffled shouts ringing out in the vast, grassy clearing ahead. You’d been right earlier. Your instincts were on point. The fucking tenacious cockroaches back in the gala had sent every guard under the sun looking for their lost property, rounding them up like cattle to slaughter. 

Logan’s hand tightened around yours, his other arm subtly snaking around your midsection in caution. He knew you well enough by now to know that you weren’t about to stand by and let this happen. You were impulsive, damn right reckless, and any decision made from pure fury would likely get them all killed. Wildling included. But sanding here, taking in the scene, he could understand why. Torchlight illuminated hundreds of mutants standing in line, shackles binding their hands, collars choking those few who they deemed too wild or powerful to subdue. 

And he barely managed to stifle a low growl as he saw Wildling was one of them, the little girl hissing and screeching as she fought to tear the collar from her neck, though any animalistic qualities she possessed before had long been siphoned from her, the suppressant doing its job to perfection. She was helpless. 

He almost heard your blood boiling in your veins, your pulse quickening with utter, unending fury, and his hold on you tightened. You whipped your head around to look at him, your eyes wild with unrestrained rage, glaring fire into his damn soul. 

“I’ll give you one chance to let me go before I tear you apart from the inside.” You spat viciously, your nails digging into his forearm as you fought for freedom. But he didn’t relent, choosing instead to look back to the clearing, turning his head to the sound of distant trucks. No doubt the collection convoy. Fuck, he was running out of time. 

“Think. You run in now, they’re all dead, including you–”

“I don’t give a shit about me, I’m not letting them go back to that life.” You hissed back, still writhing in his hold. Your words were like a slap to the face. He should have known, really. Your actions spoke volumes. Of course you didn’t care what happened to you. It was written all over your face, your body. 

Your heart.

“You’re not,” he spoke with enough conviction to make you pause your struggles, glancing back briefly to the line of mutants. “You wanna give 'em the best chance at escape, you’re gonna listen to me, okay?” 

You huffed indignantly, your instinct reaction to punch him in the face being shoved aside by the look in his eye. He had a plan, which was a darn sight more than what you had. So gritting your teeth and pursing your lips, you nodded reluctantly, and Logan relinquished his tight hold on you. 

Though never letting go completely. 

“Alright… what’ve you got?”

The rumbling of trucks only grew louder as Logan strode out into the clearing, not bothering to sneak his way through. There was no point. These people couldn’t hurt him, and every collar they had to spare already had a neck occupying it. Metal ground against bone as his claws slowly slid from his knuckles, attracting the attention of every masked guard in the area. Though what struck him as odd, was that none of them looked like the security back at the country house. They didn’t even smell the same. Did they have some special ops unit? How fucking rich were these people?

“Stop!” One on the left yelled out harshly, and suddenly, every gun in the area was pointed in his direction, trigger-happy fingers poised for fire. He cracked his neck. Maybe he was wrong earlier. This was more than likely going to hurt…

“Don’t think these ones belong to you, bub.” Logan drawled, paying no mind to the command and continuing to stride forward, the line of mutants all looking at one another in hopeful confusion, muttering senselessly until a whip was cracked. A fucking whip. 

Logan took a deep breath, calming his primal rage. He needed to keep his head. Or this wouldn’t work. 

“Who do you belong to?” Another called out, causing him to roll his eyes. He didn’t belong to anyone, and not so long ago he would have said some sappy shit about Jean. But things had changed. He was no longer tethered. Not to her. 

“I don’t belong to anyone. More than I could say about you.” He continued, keeping his voice casual but still walking like a predator, confident in his own strength. Armour and weaponry clattered as various other guards jogged into yet another line, and Logan briefly wondered whether geometry was a part of their training. 

“Stop or we shoot!” The one from before shouted, and the line all crouched in true military sync. Must be some special ops corps. Logan simply huffed a single laugh, shrugging his broad shoulders.

“Alright then. Shoot.” He held out his arms as if welcoming the hail of bullets that was about to rain down hard. And whilst he could sense the hesitation in the guards' movements, it only took one stray bullet to his shoulder for the prattle of gunfire to split the skies. An inferno raged across the front of his chest, crimson spraying from each individual impact, and soon enough he was engulfed in a cloud of his own blood, the air wet and thick with copper. But he grit his teeth, enduring the hellfire for a few moments longer, before the bullets start to thin, his body devouring entire rounds of lead. With the last crack, he fell to his knee, breathing hard against the searing agony, spitting scarlet saliva into the damp grass. 

He was definitely wrong earlier. That fucking hurt. But he also felt a sick sense of satisfaction as the guards took a confused step back, one of them turning to the closest collared mutant as if to weigh up his options. Which one was more powerful? Which would be the least risky to free in exchange for putting one of those damn collars on him. 

That was until the blood in the grass started to writhe and twist like snakes, coiling together in thick tendrils, and a savage grin split his lips. 

“Lights out, boys.” He growled before the earth erupted around him, numerous wicked spears of solid blood burst forward through the line, impaling guard after guard and sending them screaming in agony back into the canopy. Tentacles whipped and slashed from around his feet, bypassing him completely to havoc the gunmen, dismembering limbs, eviscerating heads. It was an absolute bloodbath, the kind of situation your mutation sang the strongest. You used their own blood against them, now stepping from the shadows of the tree line and into the strobe torchlight, wielding their spraying sanguine with reckless abandon until there was nothing left but corpses, their screams silenced into the night. 

Logan winced as his body rejected bullet after bullet, lead clinking on the ground around him as it burned back through his skin before the wounds sealed up, the only trace of hurt being the fact he was caked in crimson. Those tentacles stilled as you slowly released your hold on them, splashing back to the grass as they returned to liquid, and the quiet was deafening after the cacophonous din of death. 

Taking all but a second to breathe, you jogged over to the shackled mutants, quickly whipping up a blade of bood to slice through the iron, and whilst there was nothing you could do about the shackles themselves, you effortlessly shattered the chains, a chorus of whispered thank yous reaching your ears before, one by one, they disappeared off into the trees. 

Shaking himself of any remaining bullets, Logan pushed to his feet, leaving his claws extended as he joined you, delicately slicing through the collar around a woman’s neck, a glowing light re-entering her eyes as the suppressant fell away, her hands balling with subdued power. You glanced at him, gratitude shining in your eyes as you worked free another, using that little blade you’d conjured to work through the intricate lock before the light faded from the back and it broke away. You had to jump back as a pair of brilliant white wings exploded from his shoulder blades, and without another word, he took off into the night. 

“That was impressive…” you murmured, turning to look at where he’d crouched in front of Wildling, surgically removing the collar from around her little neck. “If a little horrifying.”

With the girl now free, her eyes snapped back to those of a cat, little ears growing atop her head as her tail whipped around excitedly before she took off in the direction of a fallen guard, his head no longer attached to his shoulders. Logan stood once again, his claws retracting back between his knuckles. 

“Right back atcha toots,” he smirked, though his eyes held so much honesty you thought your heart would burst right from your chest. “You mind…?” He asked, gesturing to the fact he was still covered in blood, and you were broken from your daze a little cruelly. 

“Oh, sure.” You shrugged, your fingers flexing as you pulled the blood from his body, sending it splattering against the grass. A kernel of guilt kindled in your gut as you remembered you were going to leave him and disappear off into the night. Truthfully, you didn’t know what you would have done if you’d encountered this alone. Because you couldn’t have done it without him. “I’m sorry… for leaving. It’s just–”

“It’s fine.” He interjected dismissively, and that guilt only grew.

“No. It’s not. Look, I’m not used to working with others. Sure, I work with Mags and Tiss, but usually we’re off on our own. But I, uh, have you to thank for this. So. Thanks.” You managed awkwardly, barely managing to maintain eye contact as his features softened slightly, a small smile pulling at his lips. 

“Not used to that either, huh?” He provoked harmlessly, and you blew out a breath of relief. 

“No, not really,” you chuckled, stepping up to stand by his side, watching Wilding play with the limp limbs across the clearing. It would have been sweet if it wasn’t so twisted. “But you’ve stuck around longer than I thought you would so, guess I’m gonna have to get used to these things.” You lightly bumped his shoulder with yours, and Logan swore he felt something in his chest shift, gazing down at the way you looked at Wildling, with gentle softness. Akin to the way you looked at him last night. His knuckles grazed the back of your hand, and he took advantage of the way you paused slightly to lock his little finger around yours.

It took you a moment to recover, but when you did, Logan savoured the way the side of your head rested against his shoulder, taking in the surprisingly pleasant sight of Wildling giggling as she kicked about an empty helmet. At least there was no severed head inside. 

Your heart settled steadily. Everything felt… peaceful. Calm. Like something had been set right in the world.

Until it wasn’t.

A singular torchlight rose from the ground across the clearing, a singular guard struggling to his feet, rifle aimed directly at the squealing little girl. Her ears twitched as she slowly stopped playing, taking a step back from the empty helmet and looking up toward the source of the light. 

Your breath was ragged in your throat as your head turned from the direction of the gun to where Wildling was standing, her hands held in the air, terror written all over her features. With wide eyes and trembling lips, time seemed to slow. You looked back to the sole gunman, feeling sick to your stomach, a scream tearing from your chest as you launched into a run, your legs shaking with every thundering step. 

Logan roared your name. Not your alias, your name, reaching for you just in time to barely graze your arm before you were already too far for him to catch. But you were focused, your eyes narrowing on your target as you surged forward, suddenly illuminated as you crossed into the beam, and the crack of a single gunshot split the air just as you hurled a spear of blood through the air to dully thud into his chest.

And just like that, time resumed, your entire weight thrown forward toward the kid, crashing into her and tumbling through the grass, your arms falling loose as you let go of her smaller frame, leaving her to lie in the mud whilst you rolled slightly. Everything hurt. Everything burned. But that wasn’t your concern. Your concern was the kid. 

Logan’s blood stilled in his veins as he watched the two of you fall to the ground, and his legs were moving before he’d even registered it, his arms swinging by his sides as he slid to where Wildling was lying still, the only sounds of her still being alive were the weak coughs wracking her diaphragm. 

“Y’alright?” He asked frantically, his hands roaming her shoulders, and arms, eyes quickly scanning her ragged clothing for any signs of blood. But there was nothing. She was shaken, sure, but she was fine. She was okay. And it was only when she nodded slightly, her eyes still wide, did he realise those weak coughs weren’t coming from her. He whipped around, face paling.

You were lying a few paces away, struggling to haul yourself to your feet, your arms giving out the moment you put any pressure on them. “Stay here kid,” he instructed absently, Wildling nodding again, her brows pinched as he left her side to be by yours. 

“The kid, is– is the kid o-okay? Is she okay?” You asked frantically through pained gasps, grimacing as every breath sliced your throat open, a sharp rasp flying from your bloodied lips. Logan dropped to his knees, his eyes instantly falling to the blooming crimson stain just below your ribs, warmth coating his hands as he placed his palm atop the wound. You’d taken the bullet. For a kid you didn’t even know. You’d saved her life. And now you were trying desperately to make sure she was okay, despite your body taking its sweet time to heal up. 

“The kid’s fine, seems you took the fall for her,” he huffed a smile and you visibly relaxed, your heaving breaths slowing as you no longer had to fight to get to her. “How long’d ya take to heal up? We gotta go.” He glanced up to where the gunman had last been seen, only to peer into absolute darkness. No torchlight, no telltale shifting of boots. Only that same distant sound of rolling trucks and your struggling breaths.

“Heal…?” you repeated like he’d made a joke, coughing crimson as you laughed slightly. “I can’t heal Logan. Not– not like you can.” You explained quietly, your voice scratchy and thick. And for the second time that night, Logan’s face paled, his blood turning to ice. 

“You… you can manipulate blood. Of course, you can heal.” He urged through grit teeth, frustrated that you thought now was the time to be playing stupid fucking games like this. But then he saw the way you smiled a little sadly, shaking your head.

“Can’t heal things, Logan. Can o– only hurt them.” And it was then everything made sense. The scars. The bandages. You acrobatics. You can’t heal. This wasn’t you acting as a shield. This was your sacrifice. You’d told him there wasn’t anything you wouldn’t do to stop these people. This was the manifestation of your vows. Of your promises. You’d saved her life. 

But at the price of your own. 

Shit. Shit.

“No… no no no c’mon,” He hauled you closer into his chest, heart twisting as your features scrunched in agony, pain rippling through your nerves at the added pressure of another hand on your wound. You cracked your eyes open, looking up from where Logan had tucked you against his body to see Wildling, her eyes lined with tears, her little hands atop Logan’s own, blood staining her fingernails. A new, involuntary shiver caught your bones as a chill you’d never felt before seeped through your flesh. You knew what this was. You’d seen it time and time again. But this was the first time you’d felt it yourself. 

Your body was shutting down. 

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay, just gotta stay with us, yeah? Jus’ stay with us,” Logan pleaded, the one hand not cradling your bullet wound smoothing through your hair, and you used your failing strength to lean into his touch, his hand warm against your frigid skin. Your pale lips cracked into another small smile, and Logan’s heart shattered along with it. “C’mon sweetheart, just a little longer, you’re gonna be fine.” His voice cracked slightly, and he tensed his jaw against the burning in his eyes. 

You shook your head again, your movements much slower than they were a few moments ago. “I’m tired, Logan… Just let me rest. ‘M so tired.” Your head lulled against his chest, eyes drawing closed and desperation clawed at his throat, the cold hands of grief clutching his windpipe.

“No!” He barked, jostling you back awake and causing Wildling to jump a little. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to drag me into this and then just leave. I haven’t– you don’t even– fuck!” He hissed, and Wildling placed a little hand on his forearm in comfort, despite her own eyes streaming with tears. “You don’t get to leave me.” He whispered, his tone a raw, open wound as his head bowed to rest against yours. A reluctant sob burst from his lips when he felt your hand slowly thread through his hair, knowing you were using what little remained of your strength to provide what little comfort you could. 

“It wasn’t meant to last,” you breathed, and he couldn’t understand what you meant. His involvement in your cause, or whatever budding relationship you had cultivated last night. “It never was.”

Your hand fell from his hair, lightly thudding on the grass and Wildling whimpered, taking your hand in her own and holding it against her cheek. Logan felt you slacken in his hold as the whirring of a jet engine hummed overhead, the trees bending and creaking above as the wind kicked up dead leaves and dust. But he didn’t look up. Couldn’t tear himself away from you long enough. He held your body in a tight embrace, refusing to believe you were gone. You still had so much to do, you couldn’t die here. But he couldn’t hear your pulse. Couldn’t feel the fire in your heart. Even your scent had dulled. 

He couldn’t understand it. He barely knew you. Why did it feel like he’d lost a part of himself? Why did it feel like his world just came to a grinding halt? Why did the world suddenly seem so cold?

Wildling sidled next to him, gripping his arm as footsteps crunched through the frosted grass, and he barely raised his head when a familiar voice sounded in the darkness. A voice that, until recently, would make his heart skip.

“Logan?”

It was Jean.

[plantyberry]

Part 10: Chapter 2-2, or, 'I cast: Summon soulmate!'

I have no excuse for what comes next, other than "I am very distractible your honor".

Cuckoo points

When watching the TV with Adrian (after Lorelei appears) -My spidey senses are tingling. +1 Cuckoo

When the barrier goes up: -I burst out singing the infamous Doom Song. +1 Cuckoo

Walking through the forest: -I just keep a watchful eye out for any potential lurking yeti. +1 Cuckoo

Baby's first spell: -"IÃ! IÃ Cthulhu fhtagn! Ph'nglui mglw'nafh cthulhu r'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!" +1 Cuckoo -I know what I must do. And that means beginning to dance the Macarena. +1 Cuckoo --I wonder if pocket snakes and pocket spiders can get along well together? +1 Cuckoo

If you STILL didn't get your cursed mark healed and you have a gun, throw it at the hellhound. +1 Cuckoo

If you are an Imposter, after the suspicious billboard appears: -"I thought I just saw a mutant wolf-bear-shark/zombie standing by the side of the road!" +1 Cuckoo

Upon meeting Percy, if you are his soulmate: -Oh my god, it's my soul mate! +1 Cuckoo

Before the introductions: -This is in preparation for the lunatic asylum, obviously. +1 Cuckoo

Percy's 20 Questions: -How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? +1 Cuckoo

The chess game (Must know SOMETHING about Arthurial lore) -A fine tradition just so long as a chess set doesn't go zooming around the room +1 Cuckoo

Rock Paper Scissors contest: -Never mind, all this. I begin dancing the Tango de la Muerte. +1 Cuckoo

Final round of the Rock Paper Scissors against Merlin: -I begin imagining a naked Homer Simpson seductively dancing around while singing "Meow, meow, meow!" +1 Cuckoo

The Chess: -I flick my marble and knock several of my opponents' pieces out of their peg holes. +1 Cuckoo

How to Soulmate Percy T. Longspear

I noticed several people were asking, so now you shall receive!

You need: Cuckoo over 30 And Corruption under 0 Will rating over 7 a Hero score over 0 Sweet over 100 or two-faced(Sweet) Purity over 3

A rather hefty list when ou think about it, but easier to think about when breaking it down.

Cuckoo Score >= 30

The cuckoo score is what my entire guide is about, but there are ways to determine how high yours is during the game:

After the dream sequence, if cuckoo > 30: "Hello, can you hear me?" During the mysterious quotes.

When casting the spell to detect a harbinger, if cuckoo>30: A moment of startlement and someone reaches forth." There you are "And with that, it vanishes.

(In other words, Percy reaches out to you through the Malkavian Network Cuckoo Sensor)

If either of those appear for you in-game, you're golden.

Hero > 0

The hero score is a tally of your 'heroic' actions. You gain 1 point when you WILLINGLY rescue your clubmate and another when you try protecting Adriand from the hellhound (must pass the fear check)

Purity >=3

Purity is the easiest: Be a general heroic do-gooder. Don't steal, don't swear, ever (seriously, swearing too much actually tanks your purity), and don't get mindcontrolled. In 2-2, when confronted to the choice about swearing, picking the first option (As usual my mind remains pure and free of any swear words that might fit this exact situation.) already gives you +2. If you went to the rescue during Club? Gain +1. If you tried protecting Adrian from the hellhound? Another +1 and enough to put you in the clear.

Warning: Picking Serial Killer will give you a grand total of -1000 purity, therefore locking you out of soulmate status automatically

Sweet >= 100 or two-faced(Sweet)

Sweet is self-explanatory and I'm not high enough on sugar to even think about making a Sweet Guide. Pick the general 'nice' options and it should be easy.

Will >=7

The Big One, the options to gain some Will aren't that common, sooooo, I guess… SneakyWillPointsGuideUpToMeetingPercyGO! (Ignoring the mind control, demon mark shenanigans, and the will loss mitigations though (they're not net positives after all))

An impromptu Will points guide!

Prologue:

Wake Up: +1 Will

In the Apartment:

Childhood (Amnesia): will +1 After the TV turns itself on, keep turning it off until you get the Sysiphus achievement: will +1 Hobby (Criminal): will +1 BUT Also gives +1 Corruption Phone (Juke): will +1 Try to exorcise the TV: will +1

Adrian Convo:

Be stubborn about your outfit choices (dresses, tux, Spandex…). One example is the infamous Tange de la Muerte episode (complete with Keikaku achievement). will +1 If you're a security guard, refuse to run away and tell Adrian what happened in the Parking Lot: will +1 Talk about intrusive thoughts and give him a rundown of the ones you've had: will +1 Ask about the apocalypse and when asked about why, reply with "Meta Knowledge": will +1 BUT Also gives +1 Corruption

Polo Club:

Deny foreshadowing 7 times. will +1 Talent(Lucid dreamer) will +1 If you fell off your horse: I somewhat painfully rise to my feet under my own power. will +1 During the match, ignore everything and "I ignore everything else and keep my eyes riveted to the lurching void that shambles ever closer." will +1 (your vice must NOT be Greed) Successfully rescue Pippa: will +1

Fencing Club:

On the way to the club, keep your eyes on the prize: will +1 Keep procrastinating and avoid changing/delay 4 times: will +1 (If your vice is Sloth, gain +1 Vice level which is… Ominous.) In the Stalls, when told to come out and play: -Scream bloody murder for Adrian, then refuse to move: will +1 -Pull out your weapon at the ready: will +1 Talent(Lucid dreamer) will +1 Before the match: I gravely inform the audience that only masked eyes are allowed to behold my full splendor. will +1 (Need Cuckoo >4) During the sword match, before the sword breaks: I concentrate fully on the fencing bout I'm currently engaged in. will +1 After the match, try changing in the Changing rooms with Brenda: will +1

Fencing failure (Paramedic): Immediately start applying pressure on Zain (Don't go for the station): -I just focus on my work right in front of me. Complexion pale. No stridor or wheezing. Was it just the sight of all the blood that caused him to lose consciousness? will +1

Sword Club Bad end (Paramedic) -Still I plod on. This is why I'm a paramedic. will +1

As far as secrets go, being a serial killer gives you will +1 while lying about your amnesia gives you will +3

The Time Bubble:

If Fear checked against hellhound pass: -I pull out my weapon from its bag. It's better than nothing. will +1 -I protectively step in front of Adrian, much to his great consternation. will +1

When arriving to your building, take the stairs. will +1 STOICALLY plod your way up the stairs. will +1 Ignore Adrian's advice: will +1 In front of your apartment: Never mind going into my apartment. Let's stay in the corridor. will +1 Inside your apartment: I REFUSE TO GO TO SLEEP! will +1

If you failed the check and the Hydra grabs you: -I tear my weapon free. will +1 -I desperately cling on to anything within reach. will +1

If successfully escaped they Hydra: -I calmly open the door and inform the new visitor/s about a potential monster infestation. will +1

Look through the peephole, then open the door to slam it in their face again. will +1 (This WILL give you -10 Sweet, so not the best if you're aiming for Percy)

If Merlin ends up having to blow up your door: I just pull forth my handy weapon and wave it menacingly at the interloper. will +1 (-5 Sweet on that one. Once again, to avoid)

Refuse healing: will +1

Merlin's infodump and preparing to leave:

If turned into a duck: -I'm a duck. I've got wings now. I can fly. I know what I must do. To infinity and beyond! will +1

Categorically refuse to join the adventure: will +1(And increases Denial)

Don't take anything with you on this quest: will +1

Don't take a full inventory with you on this quest: will +1

Leaving the house: Dance in the enevator, then go for the Tango de la Muerte for the Coup the Grâce. will +1

When thinking back about the apartment: My thoughts are my own alone. will +1

Dream sequence: (Must be Lucid Dreamer)

Speaking with Merlin: "Merlin… say my name." will +1 Fighting with Lancelot: This is a dicey game to play, but even so… I'll push my luck as a dreamer here! will +1 When adventuring with Arthur: This is the memory of a dream that I now walk. And so I'll force the knowledge of where the fae awaits into my very mind and take action at that. will +1 At the end of the dream, turn around and catch the hand. will +1

In the RV

Ignore Merlin's warning and pick up the phone anyway. will +1 (Corrupt +1)

In the Parking lot:

If Kidnapped: Try to escape (need will>7) will +1 Follow Merlin (need will>7) will +1 -Keep trying to find him. will +1 --Look up. will +1 --Protect your neck. will +1 --- No really… what had Merlin truly been doing out here? will +1

In the shop:

Talking with Adrian about that 'Benoni' Surname: Married. "It makes the most sense" will +1 If you smoke and Adrian lost your lighter: redirect him towards one of those multi-use utility lighters. will +1