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wilwheaton · 10 months

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When you watch The Curse, you are watching two children who were abused and exploited daily during production. No adults protected us.

This was originally published on my blog in August, 2022.

I had a wonderful time at Steel City Comicon this weekend. It was my first time at this particular con, so I didn’t know there was such a huge contingent of horror fans, creators, and vendors who attend.

I love horror, and I was pretty psyched to be in the same place as John Carpenter and Tom Savini, across the street from the Dawn of the Dead mall. Pittsburgh feels like one of the places horror was invented, at least to me.

A number of these horror fans came to see me, and asked me to sign posters and other things from a movie my parents forced me to do when I was 13, called The Curse. I had to tell each of these people that I would not sign anything associated with that movie, because I was abused and exploited during production. The time I spent on that film remains the most traumatizing time of my life, and though I am a 50 year-old man, just typing this now makes my hands shake with remembered fear of a 13 year-old boy who nobody protected, and the absolute fury the 50 year-old man feels toward the people who hurt him.

I told this story in Still Just A Geek, and I’ve talked about it in some podcasts I did on the promo tour, but I’ve never put it out in public like this, in its entirety.

I suspect someone at the publisher would prefer I tease this and hope it drives book sales from people who want to read all of it, but I honestly don’t want to have another weekend like this one where everything is awesome, except the few times people who have no idea (and why should they) put that fucking poster in front of me, and all the fear, abandonment, and trauma come flooding back as I tell them that I won’t sign it, and why.

To their credit, each person was as horrified as they should have been, told me they had no idea (if they didn’t read my book why would they), and quickly put the poster away. They were all understanding. I am grateful for that.

But I really don’t need to tell this story over and over again, so here it is, with a child abuse and exploitation content warning, so I can just tell people to Google it.

After Stand by Me, everything changed. The attention from entertainment journalists, casting directors, and especially teen magazines came pouring in. The movie was a generational hit, beloved by critics and audiences alike, and every single one of us could pick anything to do next.

River’s parents and his agent got him Mosquito Coast, with Harrison Ford, as his next movie. I also auditioned for the role, but I knew even then that River was going to book the job. He was perfect, and I’d have to wait a little bit for my opportunity to come along.

I went on a lot of theatrical auditions after Stand by Me. I had tons of meetings with directors and the heads of casting at every major studio. It was all a very big deal, and I felt like we were all looking for something really special and amazing as my follow-up to Stand by Me.

At some point, a couple of producers contacted my agent with an offer to play one of the leads in an adaptation of H. P. Lovecraft’s “The Colour Out of Space.” The script was titled The Farm. (It would, of course, be changed when the film was released).

I read it. I did not like it. It was a shitty horror movie, and I saw that right away. It was the sort of thing you rented on Friday when the new release you wanted was already out of the store.

My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

I told my parents I didn’t like it and didn’t want to do it. I clearly recall thinking it was a piece of shit that would hurt my career.

It wasn’t the first thing that had come our way that I wanted to pass on, and every other time, it hadn’t been a very big deal.

Sidebar: I was cast in Twilight Zone: The Movie, in 1983. The film tells four stories, and I was cast as the kid who can wish people into cartoonland. It was a GREAT role, in a movie I still love. (Note that Twilight Zone had four directors. One of them got three people killed. The segment I was cast in was not that one. I mention this because too many people zero in on this to deflect from what this whole thing is actually about.)

But I was CONVINCED by my parochial school teacher that if I worked on The Twilight Zone, which she had determined was satanic, I would go to hell. (This woman and her bullshit played a big role in my conversion to atheism at a young age, but when she told me that, I was all-in on the supernatural story they taught us in religion class.) I was so scared, more scared than I’d ever been to that point in my life, I cried and wailed and begged my parents to not make me do the movie. And I never told them why, because I was afraid my dad would laugh at me for being weak and afraid. My agent tried to talk me into it, and I wouldn’t budge. It’s the only thing I deeply and truly regret passing on, and I really hate I made that choice for such a stupid reason.

Okay. Back to The Curse.

This time, when I told them how much I hated it, they wouldn’t listen to me. My mother, already an incredibly manipulative person, used every tool at her disposal to change my mind. My father threatened me, mocked me, told me “It’s your decision” when it clearly wasn’t. It was all so weird; I didn’t understand why they cared so much.

That is, until they made me take a meeting with the producers of the movie, in their giant conference room on the top floor of a tall building in Hollywood. All I remember about this place was that it was huge; the table was way too big for the five of us who spread around it, and there were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, but the room was still dark. There was a weird optical illusion in the center of the table, this thing they sold in the Sharper Image catalog, made from two reflective dishes with a hole in the top of one. You placed an object in the bottom of the bottom dish, and it made it look like that object was floating above the whole thing. They had a plastic spider in it. What a strange detail for me to remember, but it’s as clear in my memory as if I were sitting in that room right now.

One man, who I presumed was the executive producer, was European or Middle Eastern (I didn’t know the difference then, he was just Not Like People I Knew), and I was instantly afraid of him. He was intimidating, and seemed like a person who got what he wanted.

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

I don’t remember what they said to me in their pitch or anything other than how uncomfortable and anxious I was to even be in that room. I tried so hard to be grown up and mature, but I — and my parents — was way out of my depth. I’d done one big movie and that was it. We didn’t have my agent with us, who had lots of experience and would have known what questions to ask.

No, in place of my experienced agent, my mother had decided she was going to be my manager, and she tackled the responsibility with an enthusiasm that was only matched by her absolute incompetence and inability to go toe-to-toe with producers the way my agent did. She was outwitted, out-thought, and outmaneuvered at every turn.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

So we sat there, my father who didn’t give a shit about me, my mother who was cosplaying as someone with experience, and me, thirteen years old, awkward as fuck, and scared to death.

At some point, this man, who is represented in my memory by big Jim Jones sunglasses under dark hair above an open collar, said, “We are offering you a hundred thousand dollars and round-trip travel for your whole family. We will cast your sister, Amy, to play your sister in the movie.”

It all made sense, now. I was only thirteen, but I knew my parents were pushing me so hard because this company was offering me — them, really — more money than I’d ever imagined I’d earn in my life, much less a single job.

I knew that the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, was to say no. There would be other opportunities, and it was stupid to cash myself out of feature films for what I thought was, in the grand scheme of things, not very much money.

It’s incredible to me that I knew all of this. It’s incredible to me that I could see all these things, plainly and clearly, and my parents couldn’t (or, more likely, chose not to).

So after this man made his offer, all the adults in the room ganged up on me, selling me HARD on this movie.

My mother said, “Don’t you want your sister to have the same opportunities you’ve had? Wouldn’t it be fun and exciting to go to Rome? Think of all the history!”

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

I don’t think about this very often, because it’s super upsetting to me. Right now, I’m so angry at my parents for subjecting me and my sister to this entire experience. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

In that moment, I felt bullied and trapped. All these adults were talking to me at the same time, and I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to go home and get out of this room. I just wanted to go be a kid, so I did what I’d learned to do to survive: I gave in and did what my parents wanted.

The experience was awful. It was the worst experience I have ever had on a set in my life, by every single metric. The movie is awful, and it is the embarrassment I knew it would be.

But here’s the thing: when you watch The Curse, you are watching two children, me and my sister, who were abused on a daily basis. The production did not follow a single labor law. They worked us for twelve hours a day, on multiple film units (while I work on First unit, second unit sets up and waits for me. When I should get a break to rest, they send me to Second unit, then to Third unit, then back to First unit. I was 13.) without any breaks, five days a week. I was exhausted the entire time. I was inappropriately touched by two different adults during production. I knew it was wrong, but I was so scared and ashamed, and I felt so unsupported, I didn’t tell anyone. I knew my dad wouldn’t believe me, and my mother would blame me. Anything to keep the production happy, that’s what she did. That was more important to her than the health and safety of her children. The director was coked out of his mind most of the time, incompetent, and so busy fucking or trying to fuck one of the women in the cast, he was worse than useless. He was a fading actor who was cosplaying as a director, as in over his head as my mother. My sister and I were never safe. Instead of harmless atmospheric SFX smoke, they set hay on fire in barrels and blew actual smoke onto the set. They took buckets of talc, broken wood, bits of wallpaper and plaster, and threw it into my face during a scene inside the collapsing house. My sister is in a scene where she goes to get eggs from some chickens, and they attack her. So they hired Lucio Fulci, the Italian horror master, to direct her sequence. His idea, which everyone was totally on board with, was to throw chickens at my sister. Live chickens, live roosters, live birds. Just throw them at a nine-year-old girl. Oh, and then tie them to her arms and legs so they’ll peck her. All of this happened under my mother’s observation, and with her full participation.

Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

If just ONE of the things I can remember happened to someone I loved, I would have grabbed my kids, gone to the airport, and flown home. Fuck those abusive assholes in the production. Let the lawyers sort it all out. Nobody hurts my children and gets away with it.

My mom says she “had some talks” with the producers. She claims that, once, she wouldn’t let us leave the hotel. (God, what a fucking dump that place was. It was just slightly better than a hostel.) I have no memory of that, but honestly the entire experience was so traumatic, I’ve blocked most of it out.

The movie was the commercial and critical failure I knew it would be. My parents spent the money. I don’t know what they spent it on. I got to keep fifteen cents of every dollar, so . . . yay?

My sister and I hardly ever talk about this. I suspect it was as upsetting and traumatic for her as it was for me. I told her I was writing about it, and asked her if she remembered anything. She told me she’d been lied to her whole life about this movie. Our mother let her believe she had been cast on the strength of her audition. “I was excited to work with you,” she said. She reminded me about some stuff I’d blocked out, including a scene where my character’s older brother (played by an actor named Malcolm Danare, who was kind and gentle, and made both of us feel safer when he was around) shoves my character into a pile of cow shit. When it came time to shoot the scene, the mud they’d put together to be the cow shit looked an awful lot like cow shit. When Malcolm pushed me into it, we all found out it was real cow shit. I was FURIOUS. The director had lied to me and had allowed me to have my entire body shoved into an actual pile of actual cow shit. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember he treated me the exact same way my father did whenever I got upset: he laughed at me, told me I was being too sensitive, reminded me that he was the director and he wanted to get a “real” performance out of me, and concluded, “If it bothers you so much, we’ll get you a hepatitis shot,” before he walked away.

My sister also recalled that, after she survived the scene with the chickens, it was the producers’ idea to give her one as a pet.

Okay, let’s unpack that for a quick second: you’ve been traumatized by these birds, so we’re going to give you one as a pet. That you’ll somehow keep in your hotel, and then will somehow get back to America. It will shock you to learn that neither of those things happened.

She remembered, as I do, the huge fight I had with my parents in our kitchen, where I told them I hated the script and I hated the movie. I didn’t want to do it, and I hated that they were making me do it.

“You don’t have a choice,” my father commanded. “You are doing this movie.”

“This is the only film you are being offered,” my mother lied to me. She made me feel like, if I didn’t do this movie, I would never do another movie again in my life. I had to do this movie. As my father bellowed, I had no choice.

Both of my parents denied this argument ever happened. Can I tell you how reassuring it is to know that my sister, who was also there, remembers it the same way I do?

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them.

But one thing she told me, the thing I did not know, the thing that makes me so angry I want to break things, actually managed to make the entire experience even worse than I remembered it.

There’s a scene after her chicken incident where I check up on her in her bedroom. She’s got cuts and bruises, and I guess we talk about it. I don’t remember and I can’t watch the movie because I’m terrified it will give me a PTSD flashback (I’ve had one of those and I recommend avoiding it). Here’s the thing about that scene: she has some cuts on her face, and those cuts are real. They are not makeup.

I’m going to repeat that. My nine-year-old little sister had actual cuts on her face that were placed there by an adult, on purpose.

The makeup department decided they would literally cut my little sister’s face with a scalpel, in three places, and put bandages over them. My sister told me our mother wasn’t in the makeup room when this happened — honestly, it seemed like our mother was strangely and conveniently absent when most of the really terrible things happened to us on the set — and when my sister told her what they’d done, she “lost her shit” at the production. She was pissed, I guess, which is appropriate and surprising. I wonder what would have to have happened for her to put us on a plane and get us home to safety? I mean, her son being abused daily didn’t do it, and her daughter being CUT IN THE FACE ON PURPOSE didn’t do it.

I just . . . I can’t. I can’t understand or comprehend allowing your own children to be physically and emotionally abused. They were literally selling my sister and me to these people, like we were some kind of commodity.

This was a tough conversation. My sister’s experience with our parents is very different from mine. My sister and I love each other. We’re close. I know it’s hard for her to hear that her brother, who she loves, was so abused by her parents, who she also loves. I was really grateful she made the time to talk to me about it, and grateful the experience wasn’t as horrible for her as it was for me.

As we were finishing our call, Amy also remembered one man, a young Italian named Luka, who was our driver for the movie. I haven’t thought about him in thirty years, but I can see his face now. He was kind, he was friendly, he taught us how to kick a soccer ball, and in the middle of an abusive, torturous experience, he stood out as a kind and gentle man. I mention him because she remembered him, which made me remember him, and goddammit I want at least one small part of this thing to not be awful.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares.

Ultimately, as I predicted and feared, this piece of shit movie cashed me out of respectable films forever. I got offers for movies, but they were always mindless comedies or exploitative horror films. They were never the serious dramas I wanted to work in after Stand by Me. The industry looked at me and River, wondering if one or both of us would become a breakout star. They quickly saw that River was doing real acting work, and I was in this piece of shit. For River, Stand by Me was a beginning. For me, it would turn out to be pretty much everything, at least as far as film goes.

There are thousands of reasons film careers do and don’t take off. Maybe mine wouldn’t have taken off anyway. Clearly, it’s not where my life ended up, and I’m super okay with that now. But when all of this happened, it hurt and haunted me.

The Curse remains one of the most consequential times the adults in my life failed to protect me. I’m 50. I still have nightmares. Everything I need to know about who my parents are is wrapped up in that experience: the total lack of concern for my safety and happiness, treating me like an asset instead of a son, lying to me, manipulating me, and using me to get things they wanted, and then gaslighting me about it.

This annotation is the last thing I wrote before I turned this manuscript in, because opening these wounds is hard and painful. I put it off as long as I could, and I feel like I’m still holding back, because just this small glimpse of the experience has taken me a week to write. I can’t imagine trying to go back and unpack the whole thing. (Note that is not in the book: I’ve made an EMDR appointment to work on this because the nightmares have come back after the weekend).

Fuck The Curse, and fuck every single person who exploited and hurt two beautiful children to make it. You all participated in child abuse, and you all knew better. Shame on all of you. I hope this follows you to the end of your life. I hope that living with what you did to innocent children has been as hard for you as it has been for me, because you deserve no less.

#tw abuse #tw child abuse #tw exploitation #child actor #still just a geek #lucio fulci #trauma survivor #speaking up for the child who was silenced by his abusers

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temptress-writes · 10 months

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📺 Sugar

A/N: Welcome to The Tonight Show with Harry Styles. The year is 1964, and you are his assistant. He's a bit of a shit. So this is a fun one.

C.W: sexual content: kinda rough— choking, spanking, degradation, slapping, spitting, squirting.

18+ ONLY.

***

New York City, 1964.

"Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather."

The bright lights heated him even from behind the curtain. A warmth that coasted alongside his adrenaline. He struggled to keep his body cool underneath his designer sweater, felt his feet tapping restlessly in his leather oxfords.

This was his favourite part.

The cheers, the introduction, the attention.

You ran the lint roller over his shoulders as he sipped steaming tea from a paper cup. You made sure the collar of his plaid shirt was straight as it peeked out from his red sweater.

Another sip of steaming tea, another tongue twister.

"She sells..." You coached.

He took in a deep breath, watching you as you made sure he appeared perfect, rearranging the groomed curls on his head. Your green dress stood brightly against the black of the stage, the white cuffs of it framing your wrists as you fussed over his hair.

"She sells seashells by the seashore."

"One minute till curtain!" The stage manager yelled as he breezed by. "How're you feeling, Mr. Styles?"

"Like a million bucks, Sal!"

"That's the spirit!" Sal chuckled, running towards the side of the stage, probably chasing after an intern who wasn't doing their job properly.

"Remember, you're meeting your parents for dinner after this." You reminded, ticking off the mental to-do list that was really his. It was clogging your mind but after all, it was your job.

"I haven't forgotten." He rolled his eyes. Yes, you were his assistant, but he found you controlling at times and he had little patience for women who tried to control him. He preferred to be the one in charge.

"But you'll still find a way to be late, anyway." You stepped back with a huff. He really did make your job a living hell.

"I'm taking a refreshment in my dressing room after the show."

You scrunched up your face in disgust. Refreshment. You hated that you knew it was code for a visit from a desperate groupie. You remember when he told you how he chose which girl he liked the best. You'd been watching the audience file in and he appeared behind you, chewing gum with a confident pop of his jaw.

"Let me scope it out."

"Why?"

"Like to see who's gonna join me for a post-show soirée. See those girls?" He pointed to a group of overdressed girls, all giggling and excited for the show to start. "Bingo."

"How do you know which one to pick?"

He shot you a look, clicking his tongue. "The tits, sugar. I always pick the girl with the biggest tits."

"Ugh." You rolled your eyes. "You're disgusting."

"I'm just messin'," He tilted his head. "I'm an ass man, too."

You shuddered at the recollection.

"Yes, Mr. Styles." Your voice was laced with a seething sarcasm that he raised a brow at.

He didn't seem to conceptualise that you talked that way because that's how he talked to you. He couldn't see past his blinding, misogynistic ego.

You were purely volleying it right back at him. In hindsight, it wasn't the smartest move because you really needed this job and he had a tendency to fire staff with a snap of his jeweled fingers. He'd made the past six months hard on you and he really made your blood boil.

Who knew becoming Harry Styles' assistant would be akin to babysitting a grumpy toddler?

The Tonight Show with Harry Styles.

Hilarious with guests, a major flirt, and entertaining — even when reading out news segments.

He was well-loved by everyone. For his fun fashion statements, for his guests, his charm, his whole fantasy world on his show. Worldwide, he was adored as the most entertaining and handsome talk show host.

But you knew what happened behind the scenes.

Poised and perfect on camera, but as soon as the director called cut, you had trouble convincing yourself it wasn't a joke. People of the television world had a different sort of ego and you struggled to breathe among it all. Harry hated mingling with guests before and after the show more than he had to, he hated when the crew bothered him, he hated being approached by fans for autographs because he had a headache — or whatever excuse he was offering that day.

Don't get it twisted — he loved the attention he got from being so famous. You were surprised his head wasn't bigger. The one thing he loved most about being so popular was the fact that he could have anyone on his knees for him, be between their legs, and have them at their disposal. And he treated them like that was their only use.

The charming and cheerful Harry Styles.

Purely a falsity of a man.

The crew fled from the stage as the band started playing the introduction theme music and you swept the cup from his hand. You replaced it with two certs breath mints that he chewed on routinely.

"Wish me good luck." He demanded as you gave him a once over.

You beamed. "Break a leg."

"Thanks, sugar."

"No, like trip and fall."

His smile dropped into an unamused glare. "Oh, bite me."

The music ensued, getting louder with an abundant cheer from the live crowd, the curtain preparing to lift to reveal him. You rushed off stage, your Mary Janes clicking on the floor before nodding to Sal who gave you two thumbs up.

"Filmed before a live studio audience..."

"...All the way from Holmes Chapel, Cheshire..."

Harry took a deep breath, already bathing in the adoration he garnered from simply existing.

"...Give it up for your host, the one, the only..."

You rolled your eyes as he mouthed along with the words as they were spoken.

"...Mr. Harry Styles!"

The curtain parted and he stepped forward, his hands waving to the crowd before clasping them together as he took a small bow. He blew kisses, thanking them for coming and welcoming them. He egged on the drummer of the band while the crowd cheered for him.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!"

More cheers that he absolutely cherished and bathed in, letting them fuel his ego.

"We've got a great show for you tonight, we have special guests The Everly Brothers joining us!"

Your job while Harry was doing his magic spiel on stage was to check in with him during commercial breaks, smooth his hair, offer him mints, refill his water. Also to make sure everything was perfect for him when he wrapped up. He was extremely demanding, and while you were warned of that when you first took the job, you were still so surprised just how needy he was.

He liked ham and tomato sandwiches exactly fifteen minutes before he was put into his hair and makeup chair. He liked a cup of hot tea right before air time, alongside a few tongue twisters. He went through packets of Certs breath mints faster than you thought humanly possible. He also wanted a cup of black coffee waiting for him directly after he got off stage.

He didn't like to talk to anyone on his way to his dressing room unless it was Sal congratulating him and inflaming his already huge ego. Or security telling him about a waiting groupie in his dressing room. Or you, running over his schedule or helping him memorise his script. Well, he didn't like talking to you. He more or less answered in grunts or irritated comments.

As Harry settled in for his show post the joke segment, you ran around backstage. Ordering his coffee and one for yourself because you couldn't keep up with his demands without your own shot of caffeine. You were due within minutes to refresh him during the breed.

It really was an exciting job, aside from being a woman in a man's world. You were treated as such but you were lucky enough to be given the job in the first place. At first, you were nervous around Harry. It took him a second to warm up to you.

The first time you met was when he found you in his dressing room before a show, bent over the vanity as you watered his flowers. He thought you were there for a completely different reason and had quickly started to unbuckle his belt.

"Alright, let's make this quick."

You then spotted him in the mirror and turned with a gasp. "What are you-"

And before it could have got any more awkward, before Harry could even fully unbuckle his belt, Sal stormed in with a shocked laugh.

"Oh!" His amused gaze flickered between the two of you. "Harry, I see you've met your new assistant."

"I don't need an assistant, Sal. We've been through this. Why do you think I got rid of the last one?"

"Well, of course, you do! She's just here to help you perform at your best, Styles. Try not to scare this one off."

And while he'd probably never admit it to you, you actually were very helpful to have around. Once you'd stopped being so awkward and nervous and jittery around him, you found a dynamic that worked. One where he could be a condescending male and you could be just as snappy right back to him.

Past assistants had stuck to him like a bad smell and only irritated him. You did what was expected of you. Nothing more, nothing less. You kept your little purse stocked with certs breath mints, lint rollers and kept that fact that he fucked fans in his dressing rooms after and sometimes before shows quiet.

But after all, everyone was well aware. They even congratulated him on his sexual success. Nothing grossed you out more.

Aside from Harry being a mildly misogynistic, cocky, well-dressed thorn in your side, you loved your job. You met exciting guests whom you only dreamed of meeting. Stars you had posters of in your apartment, musicians whose vinyls you span on your turntable.

In your first week on the job, you met Santo and Johnny. They'd just finished a performance of Sugar Song and they flirted with you until you were a blushing mess.

Harry had watched the interaction, grumbling about professionalism and waiting for them to leave so he could torment you about it.

"Got the hots do ya, little sugar?"

"Kiss off, Styles."

That was the most colourful thing you'd ever said to him. The shock of it raised his brows and sent a singeing pang of arousal directly to his crotch.

There was a part of Harry that wanted to hate you. Because you were a woman bossing him around and because you got on his nerves. But the more rational part of him knew he could never hate you. You were too helpful and he'd be lying if he said you weren't one of the prettiest girls he'd ever seen. And he'd seen a lot of girls.

But he knew you were disgusted by his habits, how he slept with so many people. In his own sick way, he used it to his advantage, to keep you at arm's length. That and endless comments he knew would rile you up. And boy, did he rile you up. He'd finessed the art of it.

The show ran smoothly tonight, but by no means were you any less busy. You raced around with your clipboard tucked under your arm and two cups of coffee in either hand. You sipped on yours, grateful for the kick it gave. Harry was saying his goodnight to the crowd, his cup steaming in your left hand as you rushed to meet him.

"Thank you for spending the night with me, New York!"

His classic closing catchphrase. Cheeky and risky, but it was him and he got away with everything.

Thunderous applause overpowered the sound of your heels clicking as you turned a corner, beelining towards the stage exit. You were late. He'd be off stage by now, demanding things and barking orders like the diva he was.

As if you weren't going to hear an earful from him as it was, an intern bumped into you. The crash caused your two cups of coffee to spill all down the front of your dress. You barely noticed the burn.

"Seriously?" You seethed, holding your now empty cups out in exasperation.

"I-I'm so sorry, I wasn't watching-"

"You don't say."

You could hear Harry asking where you were and you groaned, absolutely vexed. You turned in the exact opposite direction of him and back to grab more coffee. You knew he'd especially need it tonight if he was meeting with his parents.

"What happened to you?" Sal guffawed and you rolled your eyes.

"If you see Harry, tell him that his coffee is coming."

"Bit hard getting it to him when you're wearing it."

"Not funny."

A few minutes later, you held a single coffee cup. Steaming, black. You wrapped both your hands around it, holding it steady and keeping far away from anyone who could bump you. Your dress had seen better days and the stain was obvious and uncomfortably wet.

You found your way back to his dressing room, where he'd no doubt holed himself up in to freshen up. You knocked, hoping he was alone and waiting for you before continuing on with his post-show... rituals.

"Come in!" You heard from the other side and you slipped inside quickly.

"So sorry, Mr. Styles, I had an accid- oh, my god!"

You took in the scene before you. Harry. With a girl on his knees in front of him. His jeweled fingers clenching a fistful of the girl's hair as she sucked him off. His brows were turned down in the middle but his eyes... his eyes were on you. And he was enjoying it. Enjoying the girl, and enjoying you watching.

"Alright, sugar?"

"I-" You didn't know what to say, and the girl didn't stop. You didn't know if that was her doing or if Harry was holding her down. You turned, and idiotically turned back around, taking the few steps towards him, and handed him his cup of coffee. You didn't meet his eyes, like a bumbling idiot.

You left the room, but not before hearing Harry take a hefty sip of his coffee and letting out a soft moan, "Oh, that's so good."

Vexed by his antics, and the fact that he made it his mission to throw you off like that, you signed out and went home. It was as vulnerable as you'd ever seen him and you felt an odd sense of jealously wash over you. Maybe you were jealous of past you, because she hadn't witnessed it. Or maybe there was a bit of jealousy there because you wanted to be the one on your knees for him.

As delightful as the thought was for a margin of a second, you felt ill knowing you'd be another Harry Styles groupie. And it would make your job more difficult which you didn't think was even possible.

But you couldn't stop thinking about it for the rest of the night. His blissful expression, the way he directed it at you as opposed to the mouth wrapped around him. He had told you to enter his dressing room so that you could see it.

The next night, you planned on fully avoiding him and pretending the whole thing never happened. Which was hard considering, you know, you were to follow him around and listen to his demands. And especially hard because you just wished he'd command you onto your knees already.

Sure, you found him extremely attractive — everyone did. You may have even had a little crush when you first met him. But then you got to know him, and his habits and his ways. Last night grossed you out just as much as it turned you on. You felt so thrown off and now you weren't sure how to act around him.

You arrived at the studio not too long before showtime, Harry's cup of tea in hand. You were a little bit late today but you figured he could survive fifteen minutes without you. He was in hair and wardrobe, getting his curls perfected and his forehead powered.

He sat in the chair with his legs spread, a pair of black dress pants and a white singlet, his inked arms on display. You focused on staying professional and met his eyes for a brief moment as you greeted him and handed him his cup of tea. No milk, and don't be shy with the honey, he'd told you when you first started.

His eyes scanned your attire, a pink dress with long sleeves but a shorter hem than usual, he noticed. He didn't hate having to look at your legs, your plump thighs, and the intrigue of what was between them ran rampant in his thoughts.

You had a soft yellow ribbon in your hair, keeping it swept away from your face in a high ponytail. He clenched his jaw, wishing it was his hand fisting your hair. He'd tie your hands up with the ribbon so you'd have to behave for him.

"Thanks. Dig pink on ya." He took a sip, his eyes full with mischief as he watched you over the rim of his cup. "Enjoy the show last night?"

You knew he was referring to you seeing him get blown by some random groupie so you ignored him, looking at your clipboard. "So Sal wants to see you in five, and we're reconfiguring some set pieces before airtime. So be on stage straight after you've seen him, okay?"

The hairstylist finished up, and you were left alone with him in the room. You were a lot stiffer tonight, more reserved than usual and he picked up on it right away. You raised a brow, wondering if he'd heard a single word you said.

He smirked. "Why did you come in last night? You know I have post-show celebrations in my dressing room."

"I was bringing you coffee! You told me to come in!" This man was exasperating. He knew that he'd asked you for coffee and told you to enter his dressing room after you'd knocked. He wanted you to see and now he was just winding you up.

He raised a brow. "Did I?"

"Five minutes." You reaffirmed. You tried to hide the way that his tone crept down your spine in slow, hot trickles.

He sat up in the chair, his hand reaching to cup the back of your lower thigh. You stopped breathing at the sudden touch and he pulled you towards him. His gaze was searing on yours, his eyes wondering and daring.

"You wanted to stay, didn't you? Watch me get my dick sucked while I watched you."

"No, I didn't." You whispered, letting him pull you forward until you were standing between his spread legs.

"No?"

"No." Even you weren't convinced by your answer.

"Hmm... you wanted to be the one on your knees for me. Is that it?"

You took a deep, shaky breath. His question fired something off in your brain. A realisation perhaps. You did want to be on your knees for him, being the reason for his pleasure, be at his command, make him feel good, make him fucking fall apart because of you.

"So pretty in this tiny fuckin' dress." He cooed. His hand came up, cupping your cheek. Your eyeshadow was a pretty soft blue and he adored it. His fingers trailed down, tracing your lower lip. "You'd look so perfect with my cock in your mouth."

You couldn't even suppress the whimper that ensued. Did you thank him? Slap him? Get on your knees and prove his point?

He didn't seem fazed by the fact that you weren't saying much. You were responding to him in other ways. Leaning right into him with your eyes lulled, your hands resting on his broad shoulders. Your chest heaving beneath that fucking pink dress. You were driving him crazy with how badly he wanted you.

The night before had been his own sick little test. Either, you'd be game, or you'd pull away from him completely. Regardless, he'd know where you stood and accept all that accompanied him. He knew how fucked up it was but you really seemed to enjoy the game.

His other hand squeezed the back of your thigh, inching higher. "What colour are your panties?"

You gasped at the question, so turned on by him and how bold he was. It used to scare you, but now being on the receiving end was a completely different ballpark.

"Blue." You breathed out.

"What shade of blue?" He pressed on. "Like your eyeshadow?"

You twisted your lips in thought. "Do you want to see?"

Harry released a shocked laugh, but his mind was fucking reeling. Did you really just ask if he wanted to see your panties?

"A peek couldn't hurt."

He gripped your hips and lifted you up onto the vanity behind you. You were shocked that he could lift you so effortlessly and smoothly. You crossed your legs, more to tease him than anything else. Your expression was sultry, and he felt lightheaded at the sight of you. Slowly, you unfolded your legs but didn't open them.

"Don't be shy, sugar. Show me and I'll make it up to you."

You let out a slow exhale, mustering up all of your courage. You were shaking, but it wasn't nerves. He had you so worked up and he had barely done anything. He'd riled you up and talked to you, and you were already fucking saturated.

Your legs parted, feet resting on either side of his thighs on the chair. Harry's eyes stayed on yours, his hands reaching to slide up your thighs, pushing the hem of your pink press up so he could get a good view of you, finally looking down.

And what a fucking view it was. Your thighs were soft, and he let his hands squeeze at them. Sky blue lace covered the area he'd been dreaming about for six months. He let out a soft groan and let his fingertip brush over the skin where your abdomen met the panties.

"Lace? Did you wear these for me?"

"I had you in mind."

"Naughty girl." He smirked, shuffling forward. His thumb brushed over your clothed clit and you let out a whimper, biting your lip to quell anything louder than might to escape. "Can I taste you? Please? Been wantin' to for months."

You nodded, your mouth dry. You'd let this man do anything to you, and hearing him tell you he'd been wanting this for months left you in a frenzy.

"Words, sugar. Let's hear 'em."

"Please," You whispered. "taste me."

"Good girl, that's it." He pulled your panties to the side, desperate to see you and taste you. You were glistening, so wet and plump for him. He sighed, running his thumb along your clit before venturing between your folds to feel how wet you were. Your thighs jolted as he slipped his thumb to collect your excitement and spread it up to your clit.

"Why are you so wet, hm?" He wondered aloud, his eyes meeting yours again.

"Because of you, Harry."

"Me?" Cocky little shit.

"Mm."

"Are you always this wet for me, sugar?"

You hesitated, not sure if you wanted to give him this. He would never forget it, probably remind you that he knew every day. Probably slip his hand up your dress just to appease his own curiosity.

"Only when you're nice to me."

"But you like me mean, don't you?"

"You're an asshole."

"Gets you wet, though."

Abruptly, as if impatient, he lowered his head and attached his mouth to your clit. The scorching heat of it was intense, and you grabbed a fistful of his freshly tamed curls to hold him to you.

His tongue ran over your entirety. From your entrance right back up to your clit, tasting you fully as his mouth closed around the sensitive bundle of nerves. You threw your head back, rolling your cunt towards his face as he softly ate you with a passion that had you shaking.

Before anything more could occur, Sal knocked on the door, demanding that Harry meet with him. He knew better than to enter any room that was hidden behind a closed door when it came to Harry. But if he'd known it was you behind that door with him, that would be another issue entirely.

You shot up, pushing him out of the way and righting your dress. You were tingling and you could still feel his tongue between your legs. His eyes were dark as he watched you from his seat, amused by your fumbling.

"Go before Sal comes back." You were flustered, your body felt electric and all he'd given you was his mouth for what — ten seconds?

He was too relaxed, and it only pissed you off further. He stood, sauntering towards you to press you against the vanity. His hand cupped your jaw, his rings kissing your skin.

"Funny that you're making demands when I'm the boss."

You breathed heavily, unsure of how to reply so you just held eye contact with him. Your lips parted as his head tilted, inching closer. His hand loosened, melting to your cheek so he could rub it with his thumb.

"Who's in charge, hm?"

"You are."

"That's right." He crooned, his lips brushing yours. "And who's gonna give you his cock later?"

The air was stripped from your lungs, the depth behind his question clear. Would you submit to him? Venture into this connection you had with him? You got on each other's nerves but fuck if there wasn't the most incredible sexual tension between you.

"You are, Harry."

He hummed, gripping your hand and bringing it down to cup his cock. He was hard, and pulsed in your hand when you gave him a squeeze. You just about crumbled when he moaned, his eyes lulling as you did it again. Harder.

"There's my good girl."

Sal knocked again, clearly impatient tonight. Harry smirked and could feel his lips curl against yours before he pulled away. He left the room with a confident strut while you were left shaking. You took a second to catch your breath, willing the arousal between your legs to simmer down before heading back out towards the stage.

You grabbed your purse and kept busy doing your job while Harry caught up with Sal. He was doted over, like always, and Sal told him how his viewings were skyrocketing. After he'd finished up his tasks on stage, he was whisked back to wardrobe so he could be styled.

Because Harry was busy chatting with tonight's guest and getting ready, all you had to do was wait for him to come to you. You peeked through the curtains at the set. The audience was being brought in and you were watching the seats fill from the side of the stage.

A piercing whistle sounded out from behind you and you twirled on the spot. He looked phenomenal. His suit was a sky blue, not too dissimilar to the shade of your panties. His shirt was a crisp white, his chain peeking through where it was unbuttoned, sat between his pecs and the light dusting of hair.

His eyes looked greener when he was dressed in blue, his lips more raspberry. He approached you and your eyes flew down to his shiny black oxfords.

"Whaddya think huh?" He spun on his heels, showing off. "Matchin'."

"Blue suits you."

"Suits you, too." Harry winked, standing close to you before nodding towards the audience. "How's it looking out there?"

Was he... trying to make casual conversation? After his face was between your thighs and all the talk that proceeded it? "Full house, like always. Did you... was that on purpose?"

"What?"

"The blue suit."

"Why else would I ask what colour your panties were, hm?"

"Because you're nosy."

"You know... every time you insult me, I get hard."

"Good thing I have plenty of them, then."

"Come on," He pressed you tight against the wall. "Gimme another one."

"Prick."

He chuckled, amused by how freely you were cursing. "That all you got?"

"You're the cockiest son a bitch I've ever met." You breathed out. His hands pressed to the wall on either side of your head, caging you in.

"Alright." He was crowding your space, the spicy-sweet vanilla of his cologne clouding your senses. He checked to see if anyone was around before clicking his tongue. "Take your panties off."

"What?" You were well aware that any crew member could walk by, and you weren't about to be caught slipping your panties down your legs.

"You heard me. Just lemme hold onto 'em until the show's over."

"Are you bent? I'm not giving you my panties. I need them and someone could walk by at any moment."

"Mellow out, no one's gonna see."

You deliberated in your head, genuinely considering it. His head tilted to the side, gauging your thoughts. This was so... exhilarating. Exciting. You were so out of it for him, and glad that you finally both agreed on something. You were both attracted to each other physically and that was about it.

Fuck it. Your hands reached beneath your dress, and Harry took a step back to give you room, keeping a lookout. You stepped out of those pretty little panties and held them out to him on your index finger. He snatched them up, eyeing how delicate they looked in his hand.

"Far out." He laughed, in shock that you actually did it.

You were a bundle of surprises tonight. He was throwing stuff at you that was pretty out there and you were throwing it right back. Sweet little sugar had a little more spice than he had anticipated.

"Cheers, sugar." He twirled them around on his finger and you slapped his shoulder.

"Don't just wave them around!" You hissed, looking around to make sure no one had seen the whole interaction.

Harry shoved them in his pants pocket and you smoothed out the bump they left, always a perfectionist. The guest of the night turned the corner and almost bumped into the two of you. You jumped apart, letting Harry chat to the guest on his own. He rarely enjoyed it and you looked back to see the subtle hints of irritation on his face. You knew he'd flash that charming smile and those adorable dimples as soon as the cameras came on.

With only a few minutes until the show was due to start, you bumbled around and made sure everything was perfect for him. You were very aware of the fact that you didn't have your panties on, and with your dress being shorter than usual, you had to be careful.

Sal breezed past you, beelining towards Harry and the guest with a huge grin. He greeted them loudly and you did your part by waiting to the side for further instruction. The guest was led to their spot for showtime, one of the stage managers with them to keep them entertained and to give their cues. Harry shook Sal's hand, hearing Sal's usual encouraging words before making his way towards you.

"Feeling okay?" You checked in, handing him a couple of Certs breath mints. You walked side by side towards center stage, and he wasn't shy about his stare on you. It felt different — the air around you. Usually filled with annoyance, was something else. Hotter, dreamier, sensual.

"Snazzy." He nodded, chucking the mints into his mouth. "Little foreplay always gets me goin'."

You huffed out a breath at his response, resisting the urge to retort something cheeky as the stagehand came to run through the show one more time. You righted his outfit, his eyes not leaving you as you made sure he looked smooth and perfect.

As the stagehand left, you grabbed your round brush from your purse and went over his curls. You began adding a little volume while he hummed and oohed and aahed to exercise and prepare his voice.

"You know New York..." You guided.

"You know New York, you need New York, you know you need unique New York."

"Again."

He sighed, closing his eyes so he could focus. "You know New York, you need New York, you know you need unique New York."

"Lesser leather..." You hinted at another tongue twister. You ran the lint roller across the lapels of his suit jacket and over his shoulders, catching his eyes and not missing the glint in them. "...never weathered..."

"It's funny," He smirked. "you're a tongue twister master right now, but you won't be able to say your own name by the time I'm done with you later."

"Oh my-"

"Yeah, I'm gonna fuckin' ruin you."

"One minute till curtain, everyone!" Sal's voice boomed. "Look alive, look alive!"

The crowd was roaring with applause as the show began, but all you could hear was your pulse in your ears as your heart thudded in your chest. Harry, who usually thrived off of the cheers, was only focused on you. On your sweet voice asking if he wanted to see your panties, on your feisty insults.

"Filmed before a live studio audience..."

You called him a cocky son of a bitch and all he could think about was bending you over his knee and seeing how much shit you talked while his hand was marking your ass with its imprint.

Everyone fled the stage, but you were stood completely still in front of him. Frozen.

"Harry..."

His lips brushed yours again and your ears started ringing.

"...All the way from Holmes Chapel, Cheshire..."

"Look at you," He crooned. "Runnin' round with no panties with that pretty ribbon in your hair. Dirty little thing, aren't you, sugar?"

You could feel how slick you were between your thighs and your eyes fluttered as his hand ventured beneath your skirt from behind, cupping your ass cheek with a strong hand before venturing further. His fingertips found your cunt and you almost collapsed against him.

He hummed lowly, rumbling in his chest. He pulled his hand away, very aware that the curtain was close to pulling up. He held his index and middle fingers in front of you, glistening with your arousal, and ran them along your lower lip.

You didn't even hesitate to suck his fingers into your mouth, not losing eye contact. Harry's brows turned down, his mouth dropping as he drawled out a slow fuuuck. And then he kissed you. It was messy and wet and quick. His lips were so soft against your own before he sucked deftly on your tongue, tasting you and your cunt at the same time.

"...Give it up for your host, the one, the only..."

"Fuck, can we cancel the show?" He growled, holding you to him with a grip on the nape of your neck.

"N-No. I have to go."

"...Mr. Harry Styles!"

You fled from the stage, walking backwards, not wanting to take your eyes off him. His expression was one of longing, his eyes not leaving you either. The curtain lifted, igniting him in the warmth of the stage lighting and the eruption of cheers.

He turned and faced the crowd, waving and blowing kisses. His smile was dazzling, and his blue suit was celestial under the bright glow. He was wrapped in success and adoration. You could see it radiating off him as he found centre stage and bowed.

"Good evening, New York!" He waited for applaud to finish. "How are we?"

You rounded the backstage area, checking in with crew and chatting to the guest.

"Can I just say..." Harry continued, clasping his hands together. "you look ravishing tonight, New York." More praise from the audience. "It's true, you do."

You rolled your eyes at the excited yells and cheers from the crowd. You watched him in a totally new light tonight. He was on a level that no one could reach. He was born to be on stage, to entertain.

He introduced the guest and brought them onstage, talking about their upcoming music and chatting them up. During the commercial breaks you checked in with the guest, and made sure Harry's appearance was on point.

His eyes were on you the whole time, and you could see him fighting the urge to make some kind of questionable comment. His eyes veered south and stayed on where the hem of your dress brushed your thighs.

"Need anything else?" You asked him politely, aware of the audiences stare on your back.

"I won't need coffee tonight." He educated softly and you nodded.

"We're back in fifteen seconds." The cameraman alerted and you gathered your things and went to leave. The guest was busy fixing their hair with the stylist. Harry's hand on your wrist stopped you, pulling you back.

"Actually, there is one more thing." He back peddled, and you raised an expectant brow, leaning in close to hear him. "Stay right over there, okay? Wanna be able to see you."

He pointed to a spot off stage, where only guests and select members of crew like Sal or the director were allowed to stand during air time. And he wanted you there. So he could look over and see you and know you were watching.

"I- Yeah, okay."

You rushed off stage, standing exactly where he told you to. He watched you right until the advertisement break ended.

"And we're back in three... two... one..."

His eyes switched back to the camera, his expression slipping into the charm that came so naturally to him once he was live on air.

He was a star. Delightful and eccentric and unapologetic.

He exchanged more jokes with the guest, who as an up and coming musician, was gearing up for their performance. You stayed to watch the show exactly where Harry wanted you, and you were pleased that you didn't get any slack from Sal. You rarely got to actually enjoy the show like this, and in a way, it felt like Harry had done you a favour.

His eyes often flicked to you after he'd told a joke or said something cheeky. Like he was directed it at you, or maybe he was checking to see if you found him as funny as the crowd did. When you didn't laugh as hard as he thought the joke deserved, he'd try extra hard to get you to laugh at the following one.

It was odd that he was trying to seek validation from you when he had millions at his feet.

As the show wrapped up, you couldn't have applauded him louder. You were proud, you felt giddy and bubbly inside. He was born for this, there was no denying it.

And then there was the realisation of what was to come once the show had finished. You became nervous. And insanely wet. The anticipation rattled yet excited you and you weren't sure what to make of it.

You rounded towards his exit, a crowd of crew and groupies waiting for him. He came to you first, as you were closest. He shot polite smiles to everyone but his attention was on you.

"How'd I do?"

"Phenomenal."

"Did you like my jokes?"

You side-eyed a few people waiting for a shred of his attention and felt the need to rush this interaction between you along. You didn't want to raise suspicions and you also didn't want to take away any attention he could be giving to these people who were clearly waiting for him.

"My tummy laughs from hurting so much." You whispered. His grin was contagious, dimples and his bunny teeth on full display. His eyes were warm as he stared down at you.

"Really?"

"Mhm."

A throat cleared behind you and Harry looked up to shoot them a reassuring wink and then looked back at you. "Wait for me in my dressing room."

It was an order, even with the softness in his tone. You licked your lips, not missing when his eyes caught it. You backed away, slowly pulling your ribbon out of your hair. His jaw clenched as your hair fell free.

"Yes, Mr. Styles. Right away."

His dressing room felt alien to you as you slipped inside, a familiar place with such a different atmosphere now. How quickly the dynamic had changed between you was dizzying. You always knew you were attracted to him, but you never thought you'd act on it.

And you certainly never thought he'd have his mouth on your cunt minutes before a show.

How long were you meant to wait? You checked your appearance in the mirror, your cheeks flushed with excitement. Your dress was pristine, as was your makeup and you wondered how long that would last.

You were riffling through Harry's pile of books when he came in. Your spine straightened, every nerve tingling. He closed the door behind him, leaning back against it.

His gaze was one that had you clenching your thighs together. An intimidating hunger, a deep lust. His eyes were dark, void of the bright glint they usually offered. He didn't say anything and that only made the tension thicker.

And then he locked the door with a click.

He took one single step towards you and you inhaled a sharp breath at the slow, torturous pace of it. Like he was taunting and teasing you. He shoved one hand in his pocket, the other reaching up. He gripped his lower lip between his thumb and index finger, his eyes finding your feet in your Mary Janes and trailing up your legs.

He was slow with that as well as if to keep you on your toes. He had always been so rushed and spontaneous with a lot of what he did. But this.... this he'd been thinking about for a long time. He'd had months to plan this through.

Plan how he was going to play with you, make you beg for him, make you feel good.

He really enjoyed the secrecy of it. And all that would come after. He liked the idea of meeting your eyes at work, both of you exchanging knowing looks because you both knew what it took to pleasure each other.

Fuck. His sex life wasn't complicated. He fucked fans because the likelihood of seeing them ever again was slim. But you were close to home, dangerously so. He saw you all the time. And somehow that just made him want you even more.

He produced your panties from his pocket and came to stand in front of you.

"Now," He began, lowering his head to meet your eyes. "are you going to need help keeping quiet?"

He fucking knew he'd have you screaming for him. He was just being precautious, knowing that on the other side of the door, the studio was littered with crew members.

You shook your head. "No."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't think you're that good."

He rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek, huffing out a humourless laugh before pocketing your panties again. You were so snappy and cheeky with him and he'd be lying if he said it didn't make his dick so fucking hard in his pants. You were winding him up. Trying to poke at him and provoke him. Well, it was fucking working.

"Oh, you don't think so?"

"I think that's why your ego's as big as it is. Because you can't fuck."

He did what he wanted to do earlier that day; he grabbed your hair in his fist. You gasped through a surprised smile, and he brought you close until you were pressed against him.

"What did I tell you?" His voice was low, thick with arousal. You'd never heard his voice that deep and you felt it between your legs. "Hm?"

"That you won't need coffee tonight?"

He gripped your hair harder and his cock throbbed when you smiled.

"I told you," His eyes were burning. "that I'm going to ruin you."

The way he pronounced every word was electrifying. As if he was really trying to get his message across. How was this the same man that had asked if you laughed at his jokes after his show?

You flicked your tongue against his lower lip. "Do your worst."

His kiss was far harsher this time. Still just as messy, and you figured that was just how he liked it. He wasn't shy about it. He used his teeth, nibbling on your lower lip, biting on your tongue. He used his free hand to fist your dress at the small of your back.

You were pressed tight against him and fuck, he was so hard for you. Even through his pants, you were impressed with his size. You wanted to feel more, experience him fully. You didn't have all the time in the world, locked away in his dressing room. You were both painfully aware.

He pushed you back, landing you in the chair next to the vanity. He stripped off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. You watched as he pushed your dress out of the way, clearly annoyed that the fabric was disrupting him from his goal. Your center was still so wet for him and he couldn't even suppress the low grown at the sight.

"Pretty little pussy," He gripped your inner thighs, holding them apart. "still so fucking drenched for me. You enjoyed watching me onstage tonight, didn't you? Hearing everyone fawn over me but you know you're the one I want."

"I want you, too. So bad, please fuck me." You whined, your hips rocking up restlessly.

"I wanna have a play first."

"Fuck, please just-"

He spat directly between your legs, coating your pussy in his spit. His eyes flickered up to the clock on the wall before he attached his mouth to you with a deep moan. He licked along your entrance and then right up to the sensitive bundle of nerves, fully tasting you again.

He dipped his tongue inside you, fucking you with it before pulling away with a pop and sucking your clit back into his mouth. He trapped it between his teeth and flicked and twirled delicious patterns against it that had your muscles clenching.

He ate you as if he enjoyed it more than you did. He targeted your clit perfectly, able to read your body and its responses so well.

He held eye contact while had his mouth on your cunt, burying his face against you like he couldn't get close enough. Your legs shook on either side of his head, and he kept them spread with his wide hands. You could feel how cold his rings were against your skin.

Your hands reached down, tangling themselves into his curls. You held him against you, his mouth so scorching on you that you felt lightheaded with the tingling heat.

He pulled away momentarily, slipping his index and middle finger in his mouth, all the way until he drew back so teeth were peeling off his rings. He grabbed your hand, taking two of your fingers one by one and replacing the rings on them. They were huge on you but you admired how his jewelry looked on you, the ones he wore while he was on air. Glistening and extravagant.

Now he'd removed them so he could feel you properly.

Deciding that you were wet enough, he ran the pads of his fingers along your entrance. They veered up, circling your clit slowly before heading south again. You cried out softly as his fingers slipped inside you. It was an exquisite sensation and you stared down at him in wonder, mouth agape as you moaned out.

He curled them up, your spine melting as they pressed against a spot inside of you that had before now never been discovered. It was a blinding pressure, tight and full and so fucking good.

Harry smirked at the apparent shock on your face before he moved his fingers, curling them against your g-spot. As he found a rhythm, he brought his mouth back to your clit.

You arched your back, gasping for air as he worked you. He pumped his fingers hard, bringing you higher and higher to an elevation you'd never known. His mouth left your clit and before you could complain at the loss, he was spitting on it once more before giving it a mild slap with his free hand.

You screamed out, not expecting the harshness to feel that enticing. You were being far too loud for him to continue this comfortably. He didn't want anyone to interrupt and moreover, he didn't want you to get in trouble. He wanted to make you come over and over without a care in the world.

The same hand that slapped you retrieved your panties from his pocket before he shoved the lace into your mouth.

If you weren't so blissed out, you may have even be shocked by it. But at that moment, it was so hot and dirty. You trusted him to know best and look after you.

His fingers pulsed against your g-spot and you felt an intensity building in your abdomen and you rolled your hips towards his face. His mouth was relentless on your clit, desperate to get you zoned out with pleasure.

Your walls clenched and ballooned around his fingers and he pulled away, his eyes on you. They were full of lust and hunger, piercing right through you.

"Eyes on me sugar, don't look away." He wanted to watch you. To stare into your eyes, to see your orgasm shatter you.

He pumped his fingers, his pace blinding. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly what to do to get you there. He grunted with the exertion, the tendons in his arm flexing and bulging with how hard he worked you.

And then he smirked, almost pleased with himself. "Have you ever squirted before?"

With your mouth full of lace, you weren't able to verbally answer. You shook your head and he thought the confused frown on your face was fucking adorable.

Before you could even think about what he was asking, the most euphoric explosion of bliss rocked through you. You cried out into the lace, your entire body shaking as you came harder than you ever had before. It was fucking annihilating. You did as you were told, your eyes not leaving his. It was hard, of course. You wanted to shut your eyes and bask in the hot sensation that was taking over every nerve in your body.

But he wanted to watch you. And he wanted you to see the burst of fluid that erupted from your cunt, past his fingers. "Thaaat's it. Good fucking girl, come all over my fingers. Just like that."

You writhed in the chair, grateful for his grip on you. You didn't stop shaking, tremors of pleasure rocking you. He helped you as you came down, your chest heaving and your body trembling with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You didn't think it was possible for you to come that way, and you could feel yourself becoming addicted to him.

Harry stood, his hand running up and down your thighs, squeezing them. He removed your panties from your mouth, leaning down to kiss you deeply. You blushed as you tasted yourself on his tongue and curiously ran a hand between your legs to feel the aftermath of your orgasm.

He watched, thinking it was so hot to see your fingers venture between your folds and along your dripping thighs.

"Feel nice?" He hummed, chuckling at your curious expression.

"So nice, I've never... I didn't think I could do that."

"You got me all wet, messy girl." He smiled, kissing you again.

He stood and helped you out of your dress, peeling off your bra so he could play with your tits. He sucked and bit at your nipples, feeling the fullness of your breasts in his palm.

"You're delicious all over, sugar." He admired your fully naked body. "Can't wait to feel you properly. See what that tight little cunt feels like around my cock."

He palmed himself as he spoke, so desperate to feel you. His expression was one of lustful longing, and you could feel it resonate between your legs as if you hadn't just had an earth-shattering climax.

"Take your clothes off." You whined, going to sit up and pouting when he stopped you.

He started to unbutton his shirt, revealing the white singlet underneath. "Stay just like that. Wanna give you my cock while you're sitting in my chair."

The chair where he sat before every show. Reciting jokes in the mirror while his hair was fussed over. The vanity where he'd first seen you, bent over it watering his flowers.

He got rid of his shirt, clearly impatient. He peeled off the white singlet too and you could have drooled at the sight of him. His broad torso and shoulders, his toned tummy, his strong pecs. The ink decorating him. Fuck, you probably did drool.

He caught the leg of the chair on his foot and dragged you closer, undoing his pants at the same time. You shifted forward, your hand reaching out to boldly cup his cock. He groaned, lulling his head back on his neck. His hand came over yours and urged you to squeeze him harder.

"You're so hard." You mewled, humming as he watched you feel him. His jaw dropped as you moved your hand expertly.

"I've been hard for you all night."

He was hyper-aware of the position you were both in and that you were on limited time. The studio was due to lock up soon, left only to after-hours security and the cleaners.

You leaned closer, pulling his pants down with his help. You ran your lips along his length over his briefs, letting your tongue flick out. He could feel the heat of your mouth seep through the material and he was losing his mind over the fact that only his briefs separated your mouth from his cock.

You peered up at him through your lashes, grabbing the band of his underwear to pull them down. You'd always been so reserved and controlled but the look on your face when you finally saw his cock had him fucking spiraling. Intimidation, thirst, determination.

With his pants and briefs pooled at his ankles, he guided you to take a hold of him. You obeyed, wanting to please him just as much as he pleased you. You pumped him slowly in your hand, loving how he felt in your fist.

"Your cock is so..."

Harry laughed, cupping your cheek and staring down at you expectantly. "What?"

"Pretty." It wasn't the word you were going for, but it wasn't the wrong word, either. He had a gorgeous cock, so thick and long. It was silky and hot and pulsed in your hand. You were impressed and intrigued.

"Pretty?" His voice was so soft as he regarded you.

"Yeah."

Pretty. He could deal with pretty. His thumb trailed across your lips. "Mm, and how's it taste?"

You pulled away marginally, grabbing his free hand and urging him to grab your hair in his tight first once more. You laid out your tongue and licked the tip of his dick, glistening with precum. You hummed at his taste and took him deeper, using your hand to spread your spit down his shaft.

Harry moaned deeply, taking a solid step forward so that you took more of him past your lips.

"Swallow me."

"Make me."

He narrowed his eyes at you, watching as you opened wide and held still, waiting for him to make you take it. With his hold on your hair, he guided you to swallow his cock. You were able to take about half, your hand working what you couldn't yet fit.

But he was helping you, not pushing you too far but doing it inch by inch. Your eyes began to water and you gagged when he pushed in deep. Your other hand was pressed against his thigh to keep yourself steady.

"Good girl." He praised, his voice low. "Take my cock so fucking well, don't you?"

He couldn't wrap his head around what was happening. He'd imagined this day far too many times to count, and it was always blurred by the unpleasant dynamic you two shared. But here you were, sucking him off after he'd made you explode around his fingers.

You loved having him down your throat. You enjoyed the challenge. He was so big and when you were able to take all of him, it was a feeling of satisfaction. He held you down until you were choking and your nose was buried in the hair around the base of his cock.

He wiped a tiny bit of smudged mascara from under your eye, admiring the blue of your eyeshadow and the colour of your lips as they wrapped around his cock. Fuck, he needed to be inside you. He was desperate for it.

He slipped you back onto the chair, angling you so that you were open to him. It happened so quickly and your mind was reeling at the sudden change. He was in full control and had no issue putting you where he wanted you. And you trusted him. He was so arrogant and you wanted to see if his bite was just as harsh as his bite. Considering the wet mess you'd made, it definitely was.

"Fuck, can't wait to feel you properly." He sighed, grabbing his cock at the base and running his tip between your legs.

Your gripped his arms, absentmindedly smoothing your fingers over some of his tattoos. "Beg me."

"What?" He raised a brow, his tone perplexed.

"Beg me to let you fuck me. You're an asshole, tell me you're sorry and beg me. Then I'll let you fuck me."

You didn't miss the way his cock throbbed when you called him an asshole, the flex in his jaw as he took in your words. Beg? Apologise?

He scoffed. "That's cute. As if you don't get so fucking wet when I'm an asshole to you. Just like how hard I get when you call me shit like that with that filthy mouth of yours."

You rolled your hips up, gripping his hip to pull him closer to you. "Please, baby. I wanna hear you beg."

The very tip of him slipped inside of you and you both moaned at the sensation. You were so wet and tight and he knew he could step forward and be inside you fully. But the expectant look you were giving him stopped him.

He gripped your throat, leaning down so he could bend over you. He gritted his teeth, his eyes hard on yours. "Please let me fuck you, sugar. Get you gushing on my cock over and over, fuckin' drown in your wet little pussy."

"Are you going to be nice?"

"But it's better when I'm mean." He crooned. "I'll make you take my cock, fuck you so hard, and won't stop until you cry."

Your eyes fluttered as he inched forward a little, sliding himself in further. The head of his cock was so snug inside of you and the way he stretched you had your toes curling. You brought your legs higher, hitching them up to his sides.

"Please," You mewled.

"Tell me, sugar." He needed to hear you say it. "Tell me you want me to fuck this dreamy cunt."

"Fuck me, Harry. Please."

"Hard?"

"Hard."

His hand tightened around your throat as he rolled his hips forward. He stretched you, so fucking big that he had to take his time to push past your tightness. His gaze narrowed as he pressed in tight, his hips flush against you. As he became fully buried inside of you, your vision tunneled on him and him only. On how good he felt, how his eyes were trained on yours.

He'd thought about what you'd look like stuffed full of his cock but he could never have imagined you being this perfect. Whimpering and moaning so fucking sweet while his hand was wrapped around your throat.

"Please move." You begged, feeling so overwhelmed with him being so thick inside of you but not moving.

He slowly retracted his hips, your pussy trembling to keep him there. He slowly pushed his hips forward again, groaning lowly as you clenched around him. He started out slow as first, wanting to ease you into it, his hands holding onto your sides. But you were desperate.

"You call that hard, baby?"

He shook his head, smiling at the bite in your tone. "You sure you can handle it?"

"What did I tell you about that ego of yours-"

He growled, seeing that you were toying with him again. He didn't want you to have the upper hand. So he started fucking you. Hard and relentless and strong. You cried out at his strength, his cock pumping against your g-spot so perfectly.

"Fuck yes, take my cock. Good fucking girl."

It was electrical. You were saturated from your orgasm he'd given you, he hit so deep, pushing against your front wall. He gripped your breasts, admiring as they bounced while he fucked you. He spat on them, unashamed in his desires to be so fucking dirty with you.

"Love your tits." He grunted. "Let me fuck them one day, sugar. Wanna see them fuckin' dripping in my cum."

"Yes, take whatever you want." You gasped.

You'd let him. He was cheeky and an asshole but he fucked you far better than anyone else ever could and he was just getting started. And you could find ways to keep his mouth busy when it started spouting nonsense.

"Yeah?" He hung over you, his curls dangling down. "Will you let me have you again, hm? Let me fuck your throat, your tight cunt, fuck- make you my plaything?"

"I want to be your plaything." You sighed, his necklace swinging in your face, glistening silver.

"You do, don't you? I'll have this pussy on my tongue while I memorise my script. Carry your panties around in my pocket and give them back to you when you've earned them."

The pressure was blinding and he brought your legs up over his shoulders so he could take you even harder. The legs of the chair scraped obnoxiously against the ground as he fucked you into it. He was brutal, making you take his cock with each harsh thrust.

You cried out, sobbing his name. He was so deep and you knew you'd be feeling him for days after. He picked you up, sitting you on the vanity. You leaned back against the mirror, icy against your back. He hauled your hips towards him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

He took his cock in his hand and fisted your hair with the other, holding you still so he could slide inside of you again. You clenched around him mercilessly, and he had to flex his hips harder so he could take you properly.

The vanity jolted on its legs under the force of him. Your hand wraps around his neck, trying to stabilise yourself against the onslaught of his thrusts.

"Call me an asshole again."

"Harry-" You jolted underneath him. "Fuck, you're an asshole."

"Yeah? Wanna hit me?"

"W-What?"

"Fucking do it. Slap me like I know you've been wanting to for the past six months."

Your hands clutched at his curls. Hitting him was the last thing on your mind right now while he was inside you. Until he'd brought it up, that is. You'd wanted to slap him on a daily basis and you wondered if he'd been reading your mind.

Mustering up courage enough to do so, you raised your hand and slapped his cheek. Not as hard as you could have, but the groan he emitted told you that you weren't gentle, either.

"So good." He grinned, his cheek reddening from your hand. You gripped his jaw harshly, licking your handprint before kissing him.

Your kisses moved to his neck and he tilted his head to give you more access to the skin. He flicked his eyes to his reflection in the mirror, finding his lustful expression, his cheek red, His eyes were alight with danger and arousal, driving his hips into you as he stared at himself. You moaned loudly as he pounded into you, unrelenting. Wanting you so out of it so that you could never look at him the same way again.

He imagined you looking at him during rehearsals, looking down at your Mary Janes with flushed cheeks. Your soft cadence as you asked him when he would fuck you next. Your surprised gasp when he'd pull you into a supply closet to fuck you hard and quick before anyone noticed your absence.

Just as you grew accustomed to the position, he flipped you, brushes and hair products flying off the top as you found balance on it. Your eyes met his in the mirror and they blazed through yours as he pushed himself into your warmth again.

"Fuck," He hissed, throwing his head back as you gripped him tightly. He held onto your shoulder and fucked you, near on slamming you into the furniture. His hand crept up to cup your throat, the other doing the same as he found a rhythm.

"Right there, don't stop." You gasped.

"Gonna think of this every time I'm in this room." He grunted. "Sit in that chair before a show and think about your perfect cunt around me. How you smile when I wrap my hands around your throat, how much you love having my cock to choke on."

"I want you to fuck me on this vanity every day, Harry."

"Every day, Sugar." He was breathless. "So much I wanna do to you. Play with you, make your pussy cream for me. Fuck, how did we go so long without this?"

He started using his height to his advantage, screwing down into you. You struggled to grasp clarity, your senses clouding as pleasure took over. His hands tightened around your throat and he took you harder when a ghost of a smile touched your lips.

He slipped two of his fingers in your mouth, hooking them into your cheek and pulling. He hissed at how fucking submissive you were and how you were willing to be just as dirty as him.

Letting go of your neck entirely, one hand moved to your hip and the other to your hair. He pulled you up, forcing you to look into the mirror.

"I'm an asshole but I fuck you good, don't I?"

You wanted to slap the smirk off his face. He could sense your annoyance at how cocky he was. He took you harder and you eyed him in the reflection, not wanting to give him an answer. And that didn't work for him.

He gripped your hair tight, pulling you back until his lips met your ear.

"Don't I?" He spat.

"Yes,"

He spanked your ass. Hard. Twice. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, you fuck me good."

Pleased, Harry reached in front of you, getting you to wet his fingers with your tongue before rubbing fast circles on your clit. Your legs turned to jelly, your body melting against him as he took you hard and played with your clit.

You felt the rush of pleasure wrap around you and grow in every nerve ending. He watched you in the mirror, intent on seeing you come again. He held you up while you writhed in his arms, his hips unyielding as he split you in half with his cock.

Your hands flew out, pushing various things off the vanity top as your orgasm barrelled towards you. Harry gritted his teeth, bending his knees to follow you as you moved so he could keep fucking you.

"You gonna come? Hm? Dirty fucking girl. Running around the studio with no panties on. This cunt was so wet for me from the start, wasn't it? Tiny dress, bossy little heels, and that fucking clipboard."

This climax was more intense than the first, but no less wet. You exploded around his cock, crying out his name before his hand came over your mouth to keep you quiet.

"Shhh. Good girl. Keep coming on my cock, don't stop, don't stop." He was feral at how good you felt around him, rubbing your clit until you were trembling at the overstimulation. His hips slowed, faltering. He was losing composure the tighter your pussy clenched around him.

He picked you up, not wasting any time in settling back on the small couch in the room. He laid flat on his back, while you straddled his hips. Your hands ran over his chest, nails digging into the skin as he gripped your ass and moved your hips.

His cock sat snuggly between your folds and you shamelessly rolled yourself along his length. You felt empty without him inside you and you lifted up, grabbing his length with a shaking hand, and slid him back into your warmth.

You both moaned out softly, his cock throbbing inside you. He could feel how close he was, as could you. Your hot and wet and dreamy cunt wasn't helping him stave it off. His vision was trained on you sitting on top of him like a fucking angel. Your tits, red from his teeth, your full hips, and your blissed-out expression.

He rolled his hips up softly, encouraging you to move. "Ride me, sugar."

You found a rhythm that had you shaking, so sensitive from your orgasms His cock pressed deliciously tight against your g-spot with every roll forward. With your hands flat on his chest, you started to bounce on him. You were so wet and the sound of it was making him crumble. The wet slaps and the way your pussy was drenching him.

His gaze met yours and he just about came. Your eyes lulled, cheeks flushed and your mouth agape as you fucked him. The most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. He grabbed your tits, playing and pulling your nipples with deft fingers. He strained his neck, moaning as you picked up your pace.

You wanted him to finish. To feel the toe-curling euphoria he'd given you. The one given when a connection like the one you had was this electric.

"Ooh, shit. Just like that." He praised, squeezing your hips so hard you knew they'd bruise.

"Yeah? You love watching me bounce on your cock, don't you?"

You'd thrown his own tactic right back in his face. The sweet voice with the daring question. Of course, he loved it. He was addicted.

"Fuck yes."

Your hand trailed up, lightly wrapping around his throat. He could feel the rings he'd given you to wear against his skin and he snarled, holding your hips and screwing up into you, meeting your thrusts. Having you fuck him with your hand around his throat had him fucking spiraling into another dimension.

"You're close," You mewled, his cock throbbing hard inside you. "I can feel it."

"Yeah? Go on, make me cum. I'm gonna cum so fucking hard for you, sugar. Gonna fill you right up, fucking take it. Take all my cum- fuck."

He let you take him while his orgasm hit. It was white-hot intense, his grip on you not lessening as he moaned out your name. He pumped you full of his cum, the thick white ropes painting your walls. His brow turned down in the middle, his lips parted a little and you could see the whites of his teeth. The thick cords in his neck protruded under your hand.

He was stunning and animalistic and brazen, even in a time when one is most vulnerable.

The muscles and tendons in his arms flexed as he held you down on top of him, humming out lowly as the flames of his orgasm dimmed into embers.

And while neither of you was sure how it would feel post the explosion, you'd expected at the very least that it would be awkward. You didn't have the fondest attachment towards each other but fuck if you weren't addicted to each other's bodies now.

He sighed, reeling in his climax. His hands crawled up your sides, encasing you and encouraging you to come down to him. He hugged you, sighing in your neck before kissing the skin. You could hear a commotion in the hallway of the crew leaving and it suddenly sunk in that you'd just fucked your boss.

And neither of you could wait to do it again.

"Should we get out of here?" He asked after a few minutes.

"We?"

"Mm. Head back to mine if you want. Got the new Sam Cooke vinyl we can jam out to."

You grinned, trailing your finger along his lips. "Can we fuck again?"

His expression mirrored yours. "We are definitely fucking again. Don't have to be as quiet at mine, wanna hear how loud you get."

You rolled your hips, feeling his cock softening and his release beginning to trickle out of you. He hummed, squeezing you as if to warn you.

"Behave, sugar."

"But that's no fun."

He couldn't disagree with that. He checked the clock and knew there was only a slim window of time for you both to leave the studio without raising any brows.

"Come on." He slapped your ass. "Let's clean up and cut out."

You slipped into the bathroom, your legs shaky from how hard he'd taken you. You cleaned up, as he'd told you to. Your reflection in the mirror was a sight for sore eyes and you tried your best to look presentable and not freshly fucked.

As you entered the dressing room again and gathered your things. Harry had dressed in his more casual clothes, a pair of mint dress pants and a t-shirt, throwing his fur coat over his shoulders. He noticed the way you slipped on your dress and smoothed out your hair, touching up your lipstick. He approached you, wrapping his arms around you as you stood in front of the vanity.

"You know I'm just gonna get you all messy again, don't you?"

"I'm counting on it."

He smirked, kissing your neck and fisting the hem of that tiny dress. You pulled away, eyeing the time. You bent over, going to pick up your panties and frowning when he snatched them up before you could.

"Hey, I need those."

"What'd I say, hm? You'll get them back when you earn them." He slipped the blue lace in his pants pocket, straightening his fur coat and holding out his hand.

"Jerk." You walked towards him, nudging his hand away and leaving the dressing room. A showcase that the feisty dynamic between you was here to stay. The lights were off in the studio now, aside from a few dim ones high up on the walls. He scoffed, racing after you. He lagged behind a few steps, wanting to watch your legs as you walked. You turned, throwing him a dubious look and he smiled innocently as he was caught checking you out. "What are you-"

A gleam of a security guard's flashlight lit up the wall next to you. Harry swore, pulling you towards the exit before you were spotted. You wouldn't get in trouble per se, but being sneaky was so much more exciting than sticking around.

"Shit- let's haul ass, sugar. Wanna play with you all night."

The warmth and adoration he felt on stage, under those lights with every pair of eyes set on him. It was a dimmed sensation compared to how he felt with you. His sugar. Saccharine yet equally as fervent, gooey and thrilling and sticking to him as if magnetised to his cells.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles filth #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #smut #hes #anon #hs #hslot

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yay855 · 6 months

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I like how Skyrim actually makes economic sense. Not only are its cows fluffy enough to survive the harsh winter, but the northern towns in areas cold enough to be frozen over in the equivalent of august are all port cities, and the fertile lowland plains in the center of the country are the local breadbasket - hence why Whiterun can afford to stay neutral, because no one wants to cut off their food supplies from a failed attack on Whiterun.

Similarly, Markarth exports Dwemer artifacts and studies on them, Solitude is the primary shipping port for the east empire company, windhelm is a secondary port catering to more eastward trading partners (like Morrowind, hence why the dunmer refugees live there), Riften is a major brewery town and maintains a freshwater fish farm, and Winterhold is nearly empty due to worsening attitudes towards magic and the city never really recovering from the mountain collapse that destroyed most of it, but its remaining citizens are holding on because the college is still their primary income source. The smaller holds similarly have some economic base, such as how Falkreath chops logs that's processed into lumber at the various sawmills, dawnstar has an iron mine and a quicksilver mine... I still can't figure out what Morthal does, though. It's just swampland, too far away from the coast to do fishing or shipping and too marshy for mining or farming.

#Skyrim #the elder scrolls

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itsswritten · 1 month

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when the sea calls for three | 2

Pairings: Azriel x Reader x Eris

Words: 5.1K

<<Previous Part | Masterlist | Summary

Summer Court

As the gentle sea breeze caressed your face, the soothing sound of waves crashing against the shore enveloped your senses. With eyes closed, you allowed yourself to be immersed in the tranquillity of the ocean, feeling a sense of home wash over you.

You missed the ocean, Dawn’s cities weren’t on the coast. Mainly inland, with dense red roofed buildings. Often you would take trips to visit the shoreline, get closer to that salty air that spoke sweet whispers to you. You wondered why your family hadn’t chosen Summer over Dawn, given your heritage. No, instead your family had settled hundreds of years ago within the walls of Dawn. Still, a beautiful choice.

Suddenly, a presence appeared beside you, you could sense and smell him without needing to open your eyes. Perhaps it was the way he smelt of the ocean too that made him so familiar. Tarquin stood beside you, his figure outlined against the backdrop of the sparkling sea. His dark skin seemed to glow in the sunlight, and his hair, a striking silver-white, caught the light as it cascaded around his shoulders.

"I thought I could sense it, you are a child of the sea," Tarquin remarked, a warm smile gracing his features as he finally acknowledged something he had sensed in your earlier meeting.

"That is somewhat true," you mused, gaze still fixed on the vast expanse of ocean before you. Your kinship with the sea was a connection that ran deep.

"It explains why I felt so comfortable around you," Tarquin continued, his smile widening as he spoke. You knew of his abilities, his affinity for water manipulation.

“Like calls to like” You smiled softly.

You liked the Summer Court. You had made that assumption when you first met Tarquin, and it rang true during your first visit. Adriata exuded a serene beauty, even in the aftermath of conflict. The azure rooftops contrasted elegantly against the pristine white stone, glistening like pearls under the sun's warm embrace.The air was fresh with the lick of the ocean, and its residents were all sun kissed by that glorious beacon in the sky.

Eager to immerse yourself fully in the Summer Court ambiance, you had opted for a slight change of attire, trading your previous garments from the Court meeting for something light, airy, typical of the Summer Court. Your tunic which had been adorned with threaded court symbols was now replaced with a white shirt that still held the motifs on the fabric. Flowing white trousers gracefully pooled around your feet, allowing the gentle sea breeze to caress your skin, providing a welcome respite from the sun's rays.

Tarquin had graciously arranged for your accommodation within the palace, situating your quarters conveniently close to Cressida, with whom you had been working closely with during your brief stay. Together with Tarquin and the royal siblings, you convened in a secluded office to address the concerns voiced by the Summer Court's inhabitants.

The submitted requests predominantly revolved around the loss of homes, the devastation caused by the war, and the collective hope for recovery and resilience. Pooling your collective knowledge and resources, the four of you meticulously strategize the most effective measures to support and uplift the people of the Summer.

However, you understood that true healing would require patience and perseverance. Perhaps what the people of Prythian needed most was to feel heard and understood on a larger scale, with you and Lucien as their appointed emissaries serving as their advocates.

Spending the majority of the second day immersing yourself in the community of Adriata, you couldn't ignore the overall feeling of sadness. The lingering scars of war still cast a shadow over the court, underscoring the urgent need to rebuild and restore a sense of security and happiness among its residents.

Despite their resilience, Adriata seemed to have borne the brunt of the conflict, second perhaps only to the turmoil in Tamlin's court. You were determined to offer whatever assistance you could, recognising the challenges they faced in comparison to other courts.

Your efforts to connect with the townspeople were met with initial hesitation, yet you sensed a glimmer of kinship, perhaps they could tell you were one of the same like Tarquin recognised. It only took a few hours before you had residents crying on your shoulder and children running around your feet, tugging you left and right begging for you to prioritise rebuilding a park that had been destroyed.

The weight of your role as emissary of peace became increasingly apparent. You weren’t just an Emissary of peace, but you were the emissary of the people– something that felt heavier in weight. A weight you were happy to shoulder.

You could feel it in your chest, that pride that seemed to swell at your newfound duty. Realising how you could make an impact.

And so you promised to yourself, and silently towards the vast ocean that you would always listen to those who sought out your help.

"Your people seem somewhat deflated," you observed, your voice carrying a touch of empathy as you turned your gaze back to Tarquin. "Your court, your palace, your people... they've endured so much loss."

Tarquin nodded solemnly, "Yes, the scars of war run deep," he agreed, his eyes scanning the horizon as if searching for hope. "But we are resilient, and with the support of the likes of you, I believe we can rebuild and thrive once more."

You offered him a reassuring smile, your confidence bolstered. "It's a priority to restore not just the physical aspects of your court, but also the spirit of your people," you affirmed, your voice brimming with conviction. "To ensure they not only feel safe but also find happiness in their home once again."

You understood the importance of nurturing the well-being of those under your care, of bringing light to the darkest corners and hope to weary hearts. "...With our collective efforts, I have no doubt that we can return Summer to all its glory," you declared, your words infused with determination.

You couldn’t help the smile that stretched across your lips. Every word you spoke you truly believed.

Tarquin's gaze softened as he met your eyes, a flicker of admiration dancing in his gaze. "Your optimism is contagious," he remarked, a hint of appreciation colouring his tone. "It's refreshing to have someone like you by my side, someone who sees the potential for greatness even in our darkest moments."

“A flame will always appear brighter in the shadows…” you mused.

With that, the two of you exchanged a meaningful look, a silent vow passing between you.

༄

Night Court

You arrived at River House promptly, noting the late morning meeting time with an understanding that it was typical for the Night Court. Unlike the bustling activity you were accustomed to at Dawn, Velaris seemed eerily quiet during those early hours. You had always risen with the sun, risen at dawn. It seemed your body clock may have to change during your visits here. As you prowled through the streets, hoping to connect with some of its residents, you found them few and far between. A handful of market owners setting up stalls offered brief introductions, but for the most part, the city felt deserted, as if it were a ghost town.

Welcomed into the grand foyer by a member of staff, you waited calmly, your gaze sweeping over the opulent surroundings. Your eyes lingered on the large circular table at the centre of the room, with a large display of flowers in the middle. You gently leaned forward, eyes closing as you inhaled the sweet scent before taking in the rest of the room. The twin curved staircases that ascended gracefully upwards, adorned with paintings of the inner circle on the walls.

Cute. You mused.

You knew of Feyre’s affinity for art and painting, Lucien had filled you in and you’d done your own research too. You would not be coming into this setting blind.

Your eyes drifted over the portraits of Rhys and Feyre's family, each figure rendered in exquisite detail. Among them, your gaze settled on an image that felt oddly familiar, it was your pen pal. But as you gazed at the details it felt as though you were looking at someone you knew well, there was a simmering beneath your skin.

Why did he feel so familiar?

Captured with remarkable precision by Feyre's skilled hand, his hazel eyes bore into you from beneath the layers of paint. Their intensity, almost unnerving yet strangely captivating.

Why were you so drawn to him?

Multiple footsteps echoed through the marble floors, prompting you to delicately brush down your tunic, ensuring it lay perfectly to display the intricate symbols of the courts. The tunic was one of the same from the previous meeting, but instead of silver being the base you had commissioned another version. A dark charcoal, a nod to the night court. And you have to say the designs really did pop against the smoky backdrop.

As Rhysand and Feyre entered the foyer, their presence commanded attention, followed closely by three more figures. Among them, you recognised Azriel instantly, his piercing gaze locking onto yours.

It was the second time today that his eyes had ensnared your attention.

Cassian and Nesta followed suit, their identities obvious from Lucien's descriptions.

Azriel took you in, digesting your new look. One he couldn’t deny he liked. He enjoyed seeing you in Night Court colours– his colours.

“Welcome, y/n,” Feyre greeted with a warm smile.

"Your home is beautiful. Thank you for letting me stay here," you replied graciously, returning her smile.

A shadowy fae had swiftly taken your bags moments ago, her disappearing in silence with your belongings. You assumed she was taking them to your room.

“I just thought with us working so closely together, you being close made more sense,” Feyre explained. Despite the weight of this new chapter bearing down on the entire court, Feyre had decided to spearhead this herself. She was taking the lead, determined to prove her worth as High Lady to her people and all of Prythian.

Feyre then proceeded to introduce Cassian and Nesta. You nodded at them with a polite smile, “And of course you already know Azriel” Feyre spoke.

“Hmm I do” you hummed gently on your lips, the words rolling off in a quiet melody that seemed to make Azriel’s shadows vibrate. If you hadn’t been so enraptured by his gaze you might have noticed the smirks playing on Rhy’s and Cassian’s lips as they glanced over at the exchange.

One of Azriel’s shadows had found itself under your flowing trousers, swirling around your ankle like a gentle breeze. You wondered if Azriel knew of how fond his little minions were of you.

How they often stayed longer than necessary between correspondences, how they liked to play with your hair or how they would always dance when you hummed. Leaving them reluctant to ever leave.

You wondered if they had told him that, you also wondered what he told them.

The Inner Circle graciously showed you around the River House, leading you to the room where you would be staying during your visits. Your belongings for your short trip, already unpacked and hung in the wardrobe.

Finally, you all congregated in a large office that had been designated for your use during your visits. The office was spacious, with a large table dominating the centre of the room. You settled into a seat, surrounded by the others, who were all ready to assist you in your duties.

As part of your new role, you and Lucien had initiated a proposition allowing people from across Prythian to submit their concerns, feelings, and issues. You had worked through Summer’s submissions during your visit, as Lucien was also doing with the courts under his care. Rhys conjured multiple stacks of pages onto the table with a simple click of his finger, each page representing a submission from individuals within the Night Court.

There had to be thousands. Thank the stars Feyre had enlisted the help of her inner circle, otherwise you’re not sure the both of you would have made it through them all in one day.

You couldn't help but widen your eyes at the sight, the sheer volume of submissions taking you by surprise. Tarquin's court had been demanding, but the Night Court's submissions seemed to dwarf them in comparison.

Rhys and Feyre exchanged a glance, a hint of embarrassment colouring their expressions.

You could hear their concerns in the pauses of their breaths– Had they not been effectively managing their court? Were their people dissatisfied?

Feyre looked disheartened.

"This is a general submission, covering various concerns about the peace treaty, border movements, and trade agreements," you explained gently, seeking to alleviate any tension in the room. "It's commendable that your people feel comfortable expressing their feelings. We can't address issues if people choose to remain silent."

Feyre visibly relaxed at your words, and with that, the six of you began the arduous task of sorting through the requests, categorising them based on their content.

You’re not sure how much time had passed before light conversation spread across the room. Cassian huffing and puffing at how quickly everyone else was reading through requests, while he’d only made it through three.

Azriel was opposite you, flicking through the documents meticulously. Every now and then his gaze lingering on you before moving back to the task at hand. His shadows silently helping, by moving pages to their correct piles.

You wanted his shadows to help you. You knew if you’d asked them, they’d happily oblige. They were quite forthcoming during your correspondences, but you kept your mouth sealed and worked through the pages alone.

There had been an underlying theme to the Night Court’s residents' concerns. Similar to how Summer collectively were worried about the physical rebuilding of their home, the Night Court had their own collective issue.

They didn’t want the borders to open. They didn’t want to share Velaris.

You’re not particularly surprised, Velaris had been a secret city for years. It’s inhabitants were concerned for their safety, but of course it had also bred a rhetoric of exclusivity. They didn’t want ‘outsiders’ in their home.

Feyre seemed to become more and more uncomfortable as the pile regarding border restrictions continued to grow. You could tell Rhys was trying to comfort her, most likely through that magical mating bond– but he was failing.

“They’re pushing back Rhys…” The words left Feyre’s lips sadly. Despite how progressive Rhysand and Feyre wanted to be in this new chapter, that didn’t mean their people felt the same.

Velaris, Hewn City, the Ilyarians. Everything was so segregated, you weren’t surprised in the slightest that this type of mentality had grown.

“People are scared of what they don’t know..” You glanced up to Feyre, who was looking at you now. As were all the members of the table.

“The people of Velaris won’t be the only ones who may have reservations” You continued, laying the paper in your hand back onto the table.

“So did Tarquins people also feel this way?” Feyre asked, you could hear the desperation in her words.

Please tell me it’s not just my people who are being this hostile.

You tilted your head slightly, your lips forming a tight line. “Every court will differ in their issues… Summer’s concerns were not the same as yours.”

You knew that wasn’t what Feyre wanted to hear, her mate pulled her gently into him to press a reassuring kiss on her temple. Rhys pulled away, his expression turning serious as he narrowed his gaze on you.

“What are we doing wrong?” he asked, the weight of his question palpable in the room. The High Lord was essentially asking you where he and his family were failing. It wasn’t an easy question to address, but it seemed he wanted constructive criticism.

You rolled your shoulders back as you measured the tension in the room. Sometimes criticism could be hard to digest. Intertwining your fingers you placed your hands on the table in front of you.

“I appreciate you’ve done what you had to in order to protect your court,” you began cautiously, feeling the burning stares of all five of them on you.

But you wouldn’t let them deter you. This was a part of your job.

You continued, “But I believe there are some detrimental damages that have occurred because of it.”

You felt Nesta fold her arms beside you, and noticed how Cassian fidgeted in his seat. They were not enjoying this.

“Your people are segregated,” you said, stating the uncomfortable truth. “If you are deemed worthy enough, you can live in Velaris. If not, you are trapped in Hewn.” you emphasised this by bringing one hand to the left and your other to the right, as if metaphorically representing the two cities you mentioned.

"But that’s not how it is,” Cassian interjected, his tone defensive.

You continued, unwavering. “And then the Illyrians get the freezing mountains? You must be able to see what it looks like, you must be able to understand how it may feel to be a citizen of Hewn or an Illyrian, and look at Velaris wondering why you are not able to be a part of this.”

“Perhaps even feel you are not worthy enough to be part of this. It not only breeds an elitist mindset for the citizens of Velaris but the resentment the inhabitants Hewn city harbour must be tenfold”

Cassian's demeanour shifted, growing more defensive. “You don’t understand, that’s how it has always been. Everything we’ve done, the sacrifices we’ve made were all for the greater good.”

“Every court, every person has had to make sacrifices. Let’s not sit here and start tallying, as you will be quickly humbled to realise it is not the Night Court that has lost the most,” you countered, feeling the tension in the room rise. “Nor shall sacrifice be used as a just excuse when something is not right.”

Azriel gave Cassian a subtle look, urging him to calm down.

Taking a breath, you spoke softer this time “I’m not here to judge, we can’t change what has happened. But I won’t mince my words. The way this court has existed has allowed only a certain group to prosper, and that is a problem.”

"Feyre, if you truly wish for humans to live in your court in harmony with Fae, if you want your borders to open and those who wish to travel and move freely, then things will have to change," you emphasised, your tone earnest yet firm. "If the Fae of this land can't already coexist among each other, then I don't know how opening borders or integrating humans will even be feasible."

Feyre's eyes met yours, a flicker of realisation crossing her features as she absorbed your words. It was clear that your statement had struck a chord with her.

“Then what do you propose we do, Miss Emissary of Peace?” Azriel’s question hung heavy in the air, his eyes searching yours for a solution. But it felt like a challenge.

While Cassian’s opposition had been obvious, Azriel, ever the Spymaster, had been quiet in his disagreement. He equally hadn’t been fond of the way you challenged his High Lord and Lady’s reign, but he wanted to test you. See if that sharp wit he had encountered in your correspondence could actually follow through to something more than words.

You paused, feeling the weight of Azriel's gaze on you.

Then you turned to the head of the table “Your son,” Feyre paused, a flicker of concern crossing her face at the mention of her child. “He is of studying age?”

Feyre nodded, Rhys giving you a scrutinising look. “He has tutors, yes.”

You looked at the Shadowsinger again, your eyes narrowing as your lips quipped at the edges. You would pass his test.

“I propose a school. A school for the children of Velaris, the children of Hewn,” you said, casting a meaningful glance at Cassian, “and the Illyrian children.”

At once, objections erupted around the table. Voices clamoured, expressing doubts about Illyrian participation and concerns over mingling different communities. How only High Fae had ever been the ones to have access to education, and that other groups would most likely not even care. But your focus remained on Feyre, sensing a glimmer of interest in her eyes.

“I know how stubborn people can be, how set in their ways they become over time,” you continued, addressing the room. “So we start with the children. We show them how positive change can be. Myself and Lucein both agreed adopting a human education system would be really beneficial here in Prythian. Your court is currently the only one with the means and resources.”

Despite the protests of those around the table, Feyre remained locked on your words so you continued. Knowing exactly what you needed to say to win her favour.

“I believe every child has a right to learn, to read and write, and a chance at an education. A place they can go to where they are safe, where they will be heard. A place where they can make friends, and…I guess after all this suffering and loss, shouldn’t we give all children an opportunity to just be kids?”

The room was silent now, Rhys tilted his head with a small smirk while Feyre beside him leaned forward. Cassian had gone silent too, your words silencing any oppositions he may have had. Even Nesta seemed to be reflecting on your proposition.

It was Azriel who offered you a gentle smile, all though his gaze was still dark. You had passed then. His silent test.

“A school for all children, it would be the first of its kind in all of Prythian.” Feyre beamed, looking at her mate with a glowing expression. “And maybe we could eventually welcome the humans too…and anyone else who wanted to join.”

You nodded in agreement, your vision now becoming a shared dream with the High Lady.

“I love it,” Feyre sang, her enthusiasm contagious. “But the guys are right, the people won’t agree.”

Rhys leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps,” he began, his voice measured, “but we can't afford to let fear and resistance dictate our actions. This is about shaping the future of our court, for all of Prythian. Fostering unity, and breaking down barriers that have long divided us.”

As chatter filled the room, you felt any lingering tension roll off your shoulders. Another successful decision was made, one that would undoubtedly surprise Lucien when he heard about it. You had gotten the Night Court to agree to opening a school on your first day, a proposal that had originally been a part of a five year plan.

Oh, the satisfaction of being able to gloat about this when you next saw Lucie.

Feyre excitedly began to discuss curriculum, subjects that would appeal to all communities. Of course she was quick to advocate that Art classes had to be a priority, and Cassian had joined in, declaring if the Ilyarins were to ever let their children attend school some kind of defensive fighting class would have to exist. Nesta was surprisingly quick to suggest Literature, the mention of the subject blazing something alight in her eyes.

“Do you always get what you want?” Azirel asked smoothly, his question going unnoticed by his busy family.

You smirked, your gaze softening on him “Always.”

༄

You don’t belong here.

The ocean doesn’t want you, we don’t want you.

Sharp talons were clawing at your skin, dragging you down to the oceans floor.

Drown, half breed. Why won’t you drown.

Dirty blood.

There’s no home for you here.

You awaken abruptly, your heart pounding in your chest, the remnants of fear lingering like a ghost. Gasping for air, you instinctively clutch at your throat, as if the claws of your nightmares still linger there.

Ready to drag you back down to the dark void of the oceans bed.

But it wasn’t real.

No, it had been real once though. Now a distant memory.

You lay there, trying to steady your breathing. It had been years since that particular nightmare plagued your sleep. It had haunted your younger years, a relentless spectre that would always find a way to creep into your dreams.

But with time, with age, you had managed to push it aside, burying it deep within the recesses of your mind.

Yet, tonight it had resurfaced with a vengeance. Perhaps it was the discussion of differences earlier in the day that had dredged up those buried fears. The submissions filled with divisive words like ‘other’, ‘outsiders’ and ‘them’ had struck a nerve, tapping into the lingering insecurities you were sure you’d grown out of.

But being 'other' was something you had become accustomed to. It was a label you had carried with you your entire life, never quite fitting in there, never fitting in here. Always straddling the line between worlds.

The land and the ocean.

You take a moment to steal a glance towards the window, greeted by the sight of the night sky, its darkness punctuated only by the twinkling stars and the soft glow of the moon. It was still night. Yet, you were wide awake. And knowing your hosts as late risers, you had a lot of time to kill.

With a sigh, you slip out of the large bed and reach for a robe hanging by the washroom. Its smooth black silk drapes elegantly around you, not wanting to leave the room in merely a night gown. Although you doubted anyone would be awake at this hour.

The need for fresh air beckons, guiding your steps towards the balcony that adjoins the living room you had explored earlier. As you step outside, a gentle breeze caresses your skin. Taking a seat in the plush couch, you find yourself mesmerised by the panoramic view of Velaris before you. The city sprawls out in all its glory, its enchanting beauty captivating even in the darkness of night.

Before you even have a chance to fully immerse yourself in the moment, a cup and pot of tea materialise in front of you, seemingly conjured by the magic of the manor. With a grateful smile, you pour yourself a cup of the steaming liquid, relishing in its comforting warmth.

It's only a matter of moments before you sensed his presence. You instinctively knew it was him. His shadows singing a whisper that you don’t even think he had been able to hear.

"You going to lurk there all night?" you tease with a playful smile, but you don’t turn to him. Your eyes fixed on the city across the river, while you sip quietly on your drink.

Azriel, perhaps surprised that you noticed him, joins you sitting at your side. His expression is tired, his usually sharp features softened by weariness. You wonder if he, too, wrestles with his own nightmares and torments that keep him awake at night.

"I understand why you did it," you speak softly, gesturing towards the city below. "It's beautiful, worth protecting. I hope you all didn't feel attacked by my observations earlier."

Azriel offers a small, understanding smile. "You have quite a sharp tongue, but you spoke the truth."

You sat with his words for a while, silence filling the air while he poured himself a cup of tea once the house had conjured him a cup.

“You always had the intention of proposing a school didn’t you?” Azriel's inquiry was direct, his eyes probing for the truth.

“It’s something Lucien and I had discussed," you admitted, meeting his gaze steadily. "We believed this court would be the most suitable place. While I hadn’t planned on suggesting it today, the solution seemed fitting given the circumstances.” As you spoke, you realised Azriel was closer than you initially thought, his presence radiating warmth beside you that almost made you move in closer to share that heat.

“But ultimately, the plan is broader," you continued. "We envision schools across Prythian, freely accessible to those who wish to attend. Schools for the littlings, and perhaps even universities for those seeking higher education. It’s a long-term plan, but I believe it could be the perfect tie to connect all the courts."

Vassa had mentioned the existence of a university on the continent, catering to humans in their early adulthood or those seeking to resume their studies. Once you and Lucien had solidified your plan for schools across Prythian, it was Tamlin to whom you proposed the idea of a university. You sensed that his court needed a beacon of hope, something to strive for. Your suggestion had the desired effect, not that you ever had a doubt. But it was how you’d managed to pull Tamlin from his depressive state. Giving him a sense of purpose and direction.

Azriel's expression softened, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "You really have it all planned out."

“Planning can only go so far though…” You paused, your thoughts drifting to the complexities of your role. It wasn’t all rainbows and schools. As if hearing your inner concerns, a cold, gentle caress brushed across your face – his shadows.

Azriel’s eyes widened slightly, watching as his shadows acted autonomously, curling around your hair and kissing your cheek.

"Well, hello, little ones. Have you missed me?" you purred playfully, eliciting a soft vibration of excitement from the shadows as they continued to fuss over you.

A soft melodic laugh left your lips, that had them stirring again.

"They seem to like you," Azriel remarked, his voice tinged with slight disbelief as he watched the shadows' unexpected display of affection.

"What's not to like?" you teased, noticing Azriel's surprise at his shadows' behaviour. "We've grown quite friendly during our correspondences. I might even consider them my friends," you added with a smile, knowing your words would only amplify the shadows' playfulness.

Friend, friend, friend.

They seemed to chant in Azriel’s ear.

“They’ve never acted like this with anyone before…” He whispered, his hand gently reaching forward to you. You didn’t move as he pulled a shadow from your hair, his rough fingers gently grazing past your throat as he did. The small action eliciting goosebumps over your body.

For a brief moment, you could have lost yourself in that delicate interaction, but a realisation dawned upon you. What he had just said was a lie.

“They’ve never acted like this with anyone before”

Lie.

But why would he lie about that? Something so small and trivial.

You could hear it in the unspoken, under his words, what it actually revealed. There had been another.

But who?

Next part >>

a/n: ummm so what do we think? Sorry if the politics are a little boring, just trying to set the plot out! This will be a slow burn, but once it gets going we'll be off for a fab ride (I promise) Also for all my Eris lovers, he'll be coming up in the next part so do not worry - Lottie xx

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sweetbluebanisters · 11 months

Text

Ultraviolent

I can hear sirens, sirens

He hit me and it felt like a kiss

Who Controlling!Miguel O’Hara x Sweet!Reader

Warnings Contains!Smut, Violence, Abuse

Backstory A sweet bartender from the coast of California clashes with a mean man, who never doesn’t get his way. Two different personalities, don’t always work out in ways you’d wish.

This is my first time writing on Tumblr so please be kind and feel free to give advice + corrections in the comments! Also, Miguel speaks Spanish so I'm trying to incorporate that as well. Please tell me if any part of the Spanish lines do not make sense! I’m very limited and I don't think the google translator helps. at all.

Ch. l sweet as sugar

Ch. II Deadly Nightshade

.୨୧˚.

Futuristic Cars, High tech machines that you could not work even if you tried. Marble white everywhere, buildings where robots work the magic. They were all completely brand new to you. Nueva York is something you’ll probably never get used to.

You came from a rather big city in California, High crime, robberies left and right, litter everywhere, sweet beaches you can see from miles and miles away, and palm trees that are so big you could never miss them even if you tried. Also just known as Los Angeles!

Your name was __________ Monroe, you often went by Monnie in L.A, though. You are 22, fresh out of college where you majored in Cognitive science. You were always the one people could count on if they wanted to have fun, the one that no matter how bad they messed up, you made light out of that darkness. Least to say, you are a respected and honored person in the Spider Society.

You joined along Miguel and Jessica, a little trio if you'd say. About 2 years ago, You were exposed to a radioactive spider during a walk home from the club, all tipsy and alone. You didn't register what happened until the following day. You begin to feel soreness and itchiness on your wrist. You were easily agitated which was extremely uncommon for a girl like yourself.

You noticed your indurance and speed increased in a matter of days. You began to notice yourself being able to call tons, light weight. Throughout your first year of being exposed, you then found out about your identity. Even you hid from yourself. You didn't know how to approach it at all, if you even had to. Until you met Miguel, spider-man 2099. From a completely opposite detention as yours.

You were alone at home, per usual. Your only job as of now was a bartender for a night club, you got good tips though. It was around eight- o’clock, you begin to get all dolled up for her night shift at the club. Fixing your long _____ hair, dressing in very, exposed outfit to put into simpler terms. You put on makeup to your smooth skin, and strapped your heels to your feet. Grabbing your coach bag, ready to head out, standing 2ft near your exit just to quickly grab your keys out of quiet literally nowhere you are struck to the ground, it was so quick its like you glitched from standing to groaning on your hard wood floors. Feeling as if Zeus himself punished you for whatever sinful thing you had done and struct you down with lighting.

“Wha- What the hell!” You blink in shock, turning your head behind you as a very, broad man look down at you, looking at you in confusion, you give the same exact look back. Its a 10 second staring contest before you realize the predicament you're in and speak up “Where the hell did you come from!” You shout, the man realizes that this complete stranger he's on top of is about to hit him with her coach bag, that looks to weigh tons.

“No! No- my bad!” His hands go up as he quickly crawls off of you, standing up and extending his hand for you to grab. Instead of excepting the help, you gets up on your own before groaning “Jesus Christ how much do you weigh?”

“Im not in the mood for remarks like that.” The stranger scolded, looking at you as you stare at him in in unremarkable disbelief. “You’re in my house telling me you're not in the mood for remarks like that? Why are you in my house and where did you enter!” She snapped, looking at the man up in down, studying his features.

“And why are you in that Spiderman suit.” She mumbles under her breath, her eyes study the mans suit, seeing that he actually looks very.. built. the man rolled his eyes before speaking “You need to stop waisting your time and except that you're a Spider-Human.” He deadpans, looking at you, you had to extend your head up just to look into his scarlet eyes, you’d be lying if you said the man wasn't attractive.

“Are you cosplaying right now? Like are you actually insane?” You provoked the big man, he looks down, grabbing the bridge of his nose while shaking his head entirely. “You were bitten by a radioactive spider, you do realize, right? Didn't you notice the symptoms?” He question looking at you, but you couldn't help shake the feeling that you felt like you were in the clouds

“I was convinced it was just a regular bite, I was like getting stronger but I thought it was because I was working out?” You wondered, looking down and realizing that even though this shouldn't be happening to her, it does make sense to why she suddenly started feeling stronger, and quicker.

“Able to lift heavy objects like they weigh 5 pounds?”

“Yep.”

“Running faster and running and for longer?”

“Sure.”

“Hearing increased?”

“Oh, yeah! sometimes I can hear my neighbors moaning through 2 stor-” “I didn't need all that, at all. You do realize you are the Spiderwomen of this dimension? Haven't you seen anything on the news?” He hesitated, looking at the girl who pondered her next choice of words “Oh, I mean I never really noticed I was bit but something like that. But, yeah there's a weird man with holes in his body that is like causing havoc or whatever, I thought he was cosplaying too though.” She began, looking at the man who seemed fed up.

“No! No one is ‘cosplaying’! This is real, and you put your dimension in tremendous danger—“

“What am I supposed to do, just tell him to stop?”

“As I was saying, you’re just sitting on your ass and doing nothing, do you need to be taught?” The man stressed, she looks confused before speaking up

“Taught?”

“Por dios! Taught how to work through the Spider women thing! Like how to shoot webs, or how to y’know how to do your job!”

“Oh.. I don't even know if I want all that responsibly..” You truthfully tell, the man bites his tongue back before continuing “You put on the responsibility of spider by getting bit by this spider, you--” He urged out, before getting cut off my you “Excuse me? I was drunk and I didn't know! I promise you if I was sober and I saw that spider I would've ran, trust.” She corrected, the man began to think that you might have been missing just a few screws, not even loose screws. They're just gone.

“Please, this dimension needs a Spider-human they know they can rely on, at least come with me.” He pleaded, looking at you as you kept your eyes locked with his, you bit her lip as you began

“But we already have a Spiderman?”

“Yeah, it’s you. What do you not get?”

“No, no. We have a Spiderman, I’m pretty sure he lives in Brooklyn.”

You can tell by the way that he’s looking at you, that information was definitely unexpected. But to avoid the loud silence, you speak up “Where am I going?” You mumbled, the man smiled back his pride before continuing

“It's a dimension where all the Spidermen and Women work along each other, some live there and some go back to their homes. There's a training center, I can help you.” The man explained, he seemed to be dedicated to his job, you nodded with curiosity before speaking up “Do I need to stay there or-”

“No, you can go back home whenever, but if you want it is easier if you'd say.” He advised, you looked at him with a sweet smile before joking “It sounds like you want me there more than I do myself.” he scoffed before shaking head head, denying the accusation.

“I just don't want another dimension going down in flames, that I have to save again.” He projected as you nodded, not listening at all. He tapped his watch with ease, as a spiraled portal projected out of what you thought to be thin air. “What's your favorite colors?” He asked, you look at him weirdly before telling him “Pink and.. uh.. black, why?”

“You'll find out.”

“Oh my god its so pretty!” Your smile lights up, cheering as you grab the custom made suit just for you, Miguel finds himself admiring the way you get excited for something so little “The little gems on the spider, Miguel!” You laugh as you look in the dressing mirror, putting the body suit up to you, trying to imagine how it would look on. The way you said his name has his stomach turning in ways classified as enjoyable. “Does everyone get costume suits too?” You question, looking at Miguel for the key to your answer

“Yes, but some people stick to the blue and red combo for the cliche.” He answers, looking towards you as you still admires yourself in the full body mirror, she looks at Miguel before asking her wanted question

“Can I try it on, please?” You pleaded, looking at the rather tall man as he nods in approval, you speed walk into the changing room, making sure to close the door behind you before striping yourself of your heels, and your dress. being left in just her undergarments “Excuse me?” You pardon herself, the man looks at the changing room door, that hides your face. “Hm?”

“Do I wear a bra with this?” You ask, no implied innocence being stripped from that sentence, Miguel purposely coughs, he didn't know himself either. “Uhm, for now, yes. Let's just see how it looks.” He answers, you hum in approval as Miguel taps his foot, waiting for you to come out of the wardrobe with your rather tight body suit. “Its on!” You reveal, you steps out of the dressing room and looks at Miguel with your arms down to your side

“Does it look alright?” You ask for his opinion, turning around so he can get a full view, Miguel looks at you, he couldn't help but notice the way it hugged your curves, but instead of voicing that, he just nods. He approaches behind you as you now admiring yourself in the mirror, again.

“It makes my butt look bigger than it is.” You comment, Miguel doesn't know how respond to that so he chooses to stay quiet. “How come it took such little time to make?” You ask, turning your body around to look at the man, he looks down at her. His stare is almost intimidating, but attractive. “With the tech we have provided, all we need is your exact body measurements and preferred colors. The machine makes it to your exact size, it even comes with special accommodations.” He informs, his words sounded so professional it could be mistaken for a advertisement. Your ears perk up as a way to show that you're listening, he continues.

“The fabric makes it easier to move your body, and helps when you're moving is restricted. The wrist of the sleeves come with built in webs, if you look at the black bracelets, you press that button and-- NO!” He begins to explain, but being cut off by the your curious thoughts as they press the button. The thick webbed material stick to the wall before you, You gasps before you let go of the buttons causing your webs to extend back in. Pulling you against the wall as you bang your head.

“Damn.” You groan as you slides down the wall, Miguel shakes his head in disappointment as he helps you up before cutting the webs still stuck to the wall, off. “My head hurts.” You reply as you stand back up, with stability “I would think so.”

“When does-” All of the sudden, your whole body feels like its being pinched at every inch and your body begins to twitch violently. “The hell!” You scream as you fall to your knees, Miguel sighs as he pulls a wristband out of his suit pocket “My bad, here's your 24 hour watch. Remind me tomorrow to give you another one.” His apology is rather weak as you snatch it from his rough hand before putting it on

“You're not in your respected dimension, without protection your body is going to try to glitch its self back home. This just temporarily ignores that response.” Miguel explains, you leap up before looking at the wrist band, “Is there a way to permanently stop that reaction?” You question as he nods his head, looking down at his wrist watch, which attracts your attention.

“This watch permanently stops that reaction, unless you take it off. it also comes with built in controls like-” He begins to rant as you cut him off, again. “Can I have one?” He groans at the girls constant questions before answering, once again. “What makes you think I'll give a trainee a watch?” He sighs looking at you, your doe eyes wonder. You notices Miguel walking out of the dressing room, most likely annoyed. So you quickly grab her dress and put on your heels as she walks out too. Though you are wearing heals, you still stood rather short against Miguel.

“Well how am I going to get back home? I cant do it without a watch.” You provided a rather reasonable answer, the man smiles to himself which brings the girl into a state of confusion, she continues walking along him. Not knowing where she's going, but trusting the man enough to lead you “Yeah, about that.. as a trainee you'll probably stay her for one week, at max two weeks if you absolutely suck.” He explains, your eyebrows burrow in furry, being lied to isn't something you take lightly. Bystanders watch as they see a new spider women, whisper and gossip spread as you two did walk out of the wardrobe room together.

“What the hell do you mean! You told me I could go back home whenever.” You argue, the man shushes you, telling you to keep quiet as you are causing quite a scene aready. “A week won't hurt, muñeca. Two weeks might though.” He dismisses, you abides to his orders as there is quite a few people looking at you both right now.

“Go get some rest in the sleephub, I’ll give you an official tour tomorrow.”

“I don't even know where it is!” “You can find it, I believe in you.” Miguel gives you a fake flashy smile, before patting your shoulder and walking off without you.

You ended up needed the two weeks of training, and Miguel often makes fun of you about it to this day. You weren’t the most flexible when it came to web swinging but you definitely did know how to dodge people and objects that went flying your way.

Even since you appeared in the Spider society people could not ever end the talk about you. You were known as a sweetheart there, everyone and I mean everyone liked you. Though, there were always some people who thought your kindness was projected as annoying, but you never let it get to you.

People everywhere addressed you as sugar, which you thought was really corny. You don’t cringe at it though, because that’s how people perceived you as, and it’s definitely better than being called worse.

Even though you were known as Sugar among the spider society Miguel had his own nickname for a girl like yourself. ‘Muñeca’ which means doll in Spanish, you never understood it at first until Jess told you it’s because he thinks your prissy and spoiled, and a typical girl who thinks ‘’my way or no way’ is the standard.

And maybe you do! But that should be excepted widely among people.

The longer you stayed though, the more people began to tease you about Miguel. Sometimes they’d call you ‘Mrs. O’Hara’ and if you were being honest, you definitely didn’t mind it. Through the months you developed a small, tiny tiny crush on what you would call your boss. How could you not! He was most definitely bigger than you in size, he was controlling, and he was hot. Just how you liked your men.

As much as you thought about him, you knew he definitely didn’t feel the same. He only saw your presence as a burden in your eyes. He’d seem agitated or annoyed when he was around you.

A few months into you being part of the Spider society you fucked up a expedition he went on one day, different types of species were glitching into different parts of the spider verse and you were on duty with them to bring them back home. But, you ended letting one severely injuring you, hauling the expedition, It wasn’t your fault though! That thing caught you off guard.

Instead of Miguel assisting to your needs once you guys got back to the office, he yelled at you. Calling you careless, and voicing his annoyance. You threw that sweetness your perceived out the window. You snapped at Miguel for his lack of care, and told him it wasn’t even your fault. Basically, it was a screaming match that echoed off his office walls. Everything went blurry to you after he lost it, more or less snapped. He lifted you by your suits collar before tossing you off the console platform, injuring you worse than you already were.

A ‘ get away from me.’ would’ve been way more deserving.

He never apologized for that day, he just went along the following days like it never a happened. He noticed though that you were definitely trying to distance yourself. Your were still his assistant, though. So it was rather hard to just avoid him, or respect his privacy if you always had to cater to his needs.

Even after that though, you notice that the crush you denied having on that man only grew stronger. You definitely did not like the verbal and almost physical abusive side of him, but apart of yourself choose to avoid that thought of him. Only perceiving him the way you wanted to.

You don’t know why you excepted the job as his assistant, if it was because you were blinded by your crush on the man, or because you were bored and Miguel said you’d be able to go on missions along him with this job. But with a smile on your face you proudly excepted that job, and that day forward you were never spotted without him.

#spider punk #atsv fic #fluff #light angst #atsv smut #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara smut #miguel ohara smut #spider man #marvel #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x y/n #miles morales #spiderman: across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #oscar isaac #fanfic

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drdemonprince · 4 months

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okay as someone who is critical of performative activism can you explain to me how protesting isn't performative? not tring to 'gotcha' you, i just really don't get how standing holding signs in seattle impacts what's happening overseas. the 'block the boat' protest made sense to me bc they were stopping weapons sent to israel, and it makes sense when like laborers damage equipment as part of a work stoppage bc they're wasting the bosses money. but most protests seem to be about 'showing solidarity' and i feel like usually they're more for the benefit of the protestors and to make them feel good for getting involved even if the involvement doesn't directly affect the outcome of whatever they're protesting. i'm open to being wrong about that though?

I used to feel this way, anon. And then I saw Palestinian men full on crying at protests while Facetiming their relatives overseas to show them that people actually cared. And I saw young Palestinian kids walking in front of their parents, moms, dads, aunts, and uncles, leading the chants of thousands of people, filled with confidence, not afraid to name their home land and give a voice to their resistance. And I saw elderly Muslim people, people who have likely not attended many American protests before of this size, emboldened and waving Palestinian flags and recognizing old family friends in the crowd and embracing one another. And I saw the highway be stopped for hours by thousands of us, forcing the entire city's road system to be rerouted, forcing untold numbers to contend with the rage that is being felt. And I saw us shut down all Black Friday shopping on the north end of Michigan avenue, closing off Victoria's Secret (which has manufacturing plants on Palestinian land), and covering the largest Starbucks in the Midwest (an informal boycott Target) with dozens of pro-Palestinian banners and stickers. And I've seen us showing up for one another again and again and again, every weekend, blocking off boycotted stores, ending business as usual, disrupting traffic, exhausting the police (who have had to pull a lot of overtime to deal with us), drawing attention to the cause, ending politicians' fundraising and meet & greet events, and not allowing business to go on as usual our ourselves to be complicit any longer.

I get the jadedness. I do. I have been there, especially after seeing awful police violence against protestors in 2020 and then seeing very little legal change occur. But the meaningful change we need will not occur via legal avenues. Protest is a means of building up collective power, of training people to think more collectively, of helping to normalize the viewpoints that we are advocating for, of disrupting regular everyday activities such as shopping and work that distract people from what is happening, of wearing the police state, of making our political representatives fearful and tired, and of setting the stage for larger, bolder, more disruptive direct actions that prevent or end humanitarian crises.

Block the boat doesn't just happen out of nowhere. You have to have a dedicated team of organizers and hundreds to thousands of devoted activists, medics, legal observers, coordinators, and people on the side lines offering resources and food. You need people to feel uplifted, motivated, and confident. You don't just get that in one day. The west coast has been able to launch incredibly effective actions like these because their work is YEARS in the making. Every major protest, every autonomous zone, every organizing meeting, it has all led to this. It takes work. It takes people being willing to show up and do that work, regularly, even when it is not glamorous, even when they do not get a sticker for it, and even when they cannot always walk away feeling that they've done something personally in that moment. It is a collective, long term endeavor, and it requires toughness and commitment.

Besides, the protests we are talking about actually are direct actions. Protestors yesterday shut down Zara. And now the company has to contend with a lot of bad PR from thousands of us screaming outside Zara's flagship store in the Chicago, speaking out about its advertisements mocking the Palestinian people. Shutting down the highway multiple times and other boycotted stores and ruining political fundraisers is directly impactful too. Now if any protestors want to take it further than that, I welcome them and I'll be there to join them. The Black & Indigenous solidarity rally in 2020 was one really impactful example. It came to blows in a serious way, but we almost tore the Columbus statue down. The city was so afraid of another incident they took the statue down themselves.

This is how we get things done. We show up, in large numbers, we give comfort and steadfast support to those most targeted, we show the state our true numbers, we wake other people up from their slumber, and we keep pushing to do more. We need as many people on the line as possible. The presence of every single person at a protest is powerfully felt. Numbers gives us confidence, it literally keeps us warmer in the cold in a noticeable way, it shows Palestinian people that we are with them, it broadcasts a message on the world stage, and it makes it possible for things like flipping over police cars and starting fires and closing bomb manufacturers possible.

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katmaatui · 4 months

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A Guide to Writing (Pre-Parallax) Hal Jordan!

Overall Traits

Hal will almost always default to using the least amount of power as possible, often using his hands as a way of making sure Hal Jordan matters too

While he is friendly and well liked, Hal has very few close friends -he is closest to Tom Kalmaku and Carol Ferris. He is also close to Ollie Queen and Barry Allen, Ollie much more than Barry. He’ll often bring up his friends in his mind, using them as driving forces but also criticizers.

Hal believes in the ideal of a hero, and he often reprimands himself for not falling within that ideal. An example of this is him getting mad at himself for appreciating the cheers of those he rescued because a true hero acts out of an innate selflessness, not out of a love of praise.

Hal can be violent at times, most of all when someone threatens those he is close to. He has collapsed whole buildings on villains when they have hurt Tom or Carol, for example.

Talking and Personality

Hal makes jokes while fighting, especially when someone he loves is hurt. These jokes are to keep his mind off the stakes.

Hal invokes the name of the Guardians the way people invoke the names of God or Jesus. He’ll often say, “Great Guardians” in response to something shocking him. In addition, Hal calls the Guardians “masters” which most Green Lanterns at this time did. He is known as one of the most powerful and loyal members of the corps.

Hal is interesting because while he uses pet names, especially for people younger than him (calling girls “sweetheart” or “honey” and both genders “kid” even if they’re an adult), he will use full names a lot of the time. He calls Tom “Thomas” or “Mr. Kalmaku” frequently, and he’ll call Carol “Ms. Ferris” even while they’re dating.

Relationships

Tom Kalmaku: Tom and Hal are close friends, and Tom was the first person to know Hal’s double identity. Tom is close to both Hal and Carol, and he was involved in a majority of Hal’s earliest adventures. He is from Alaska, and he is married to Tegra. They have two children together, who, according to Secret Origins (1986) #36, both know Hal’s identity. They also call Hal “Uncle Hal”. While Tom is called an racist nickname off and on, during the period of comics from approx Green Lantern (1960) #129 to Gerard Jones' revival of Tom in Green Lantern (1990), this nickname was not used. This nickname was only brought back by Jones in an explicit attempt to make Hal less “politically correct”. Using this nickname will not make you more in line with older Hal stories, it just makes you racist.

Carol Ferris: Carol and Hal are old friends, and while their romantic relationship is off and on, they usually still get along and love each other even if they’re not together. Carol is the boss of Ferris Aircraft from Showcase #22 to Green Lantern (1960) #133, at which Carl Ferris retakes control of Ferris Aircraft. Carol is a self described “spoiled rich girl” that has worked hard her whole life to be considered equal to the version of herself that was supposed to be, aka Carl Jr. She’s not just Hal’s girlfriend but a well developed and strong character in her own right who understands why Hal works as Green Lantern. She is also Star Sapphire, a twisted version of herself where she is forced to hurt those who she loves. She has to reckon with this dominant personality who is always at the brink of breaking out.

Misc

Move around where Hal is located! While he is situation in Coast City from Showcase #22 to Green Lantern (1960) #49 and then after the roadtrip, he is also located in Washington for a time as an insurance agent (Green Lantern (1960) #52-69), he moved around as a traveling toys salesman (Green Lantern (1960) #70-76), and Ferris Aircraft is situated in L.A from approx Green Lantern (1960) #140 onward. In addition, the G.L. citadel is situated in L.A as well.

Include other gls! He was close to Katma Tui, Arisia Rrab, Tomar-Re, and Arkkis Chummuck. In addition, if you are including Guy and John, Hal frequently gave chances to Guy that no one else did. John and Guy did not get along.

Happy writing!

#Hal Jordan #Red's Work

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racefortheironthrone · 3 months

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Now you mentioned i, I am a bit surprised Smallville is prominently and consistently in Kansas? It's Smallville, Kansas. There might be others and certainly cities located vaguely within a real region, but it's definitely the first fictional town or city of D.C. in a real-world American state to come to mind.

So this gets to the weirdness of D.C geography. When Superman was first established, there was much less of a cohesive "universe," so if Siegel and Shuster wanted Superman to specifically be raised in Kansas, that's where he was from and the rest of the geography would have to work itself out.

IMO, this early slapdash approach to world-building has (over time) led to some things that just don't make sense to me as a student of urban history and urban studies:

Metropolis shouldn't be in Delaware. It doesn't make sense in terms of urbanization, given the context of an already-crowded Northeastern Corridor - Delaware simply does not have the capacity to sustain a city of 11 million people, and you wouldn't get a municipality of that size right next door to New York City (as well as D.C's other fictional cities in the area). The whole idea of Metropolis and Gotham being across the river/bay from each other has never really worked for me; you can still do Superman/Batman team-up stories no matter where they are, because Superman can fly and Batman has his own personal fighter jets.

More importantly, it doesn't make sense in terms of historic patterns of urban migration. Moving to the big city in search of the American Dream is a big part of the Clark Kent story, but historically people moving from rural to urban areas overwhelmingly go to the nearest large city, depending on how transportation networks are arranged, whether we're talking about train lines or direct flights or highways or bus routes. There is a reason we can track regional movements of black communities during the Great Migration, because who went where depended on which train lines ran through which states:

This is why I've always felt that, while Metropolis has aesthetically been associated with New York City, it logically should be Chicago. It is the biggest city in the Midwest, one very much associated with robber baron industrialists and corruption at the highest levels, and absolutely stuffed with art deco architecture for Superman to pose on top of. Up until the Tribune Company began to strip it for parts, it's also been a major newspaper town with a long tradition of muck-raking investigative journalism that would inspire a starry-eyed cub reporter like Clark. As one of the original transit hubs and the U.S' own "nature's metropolis," it is precisely the place that a Kansas farm boy would hop a train to, because all trains go to Chicago. Also, culturally I like it better that Clark Kent represents the City of Wide Shoulders whereas Bruce Wayne is the typical Tri-State Area Type-A personality.

Going back to D.C's bizarro Northeast geography, I likewise have an issue with Gotham being in New Jersey...if New York City is also supposed to be a major metropolitan area in the D.C universe. Just as Delaware would struggle to support a city of 11 million people, it would be very difficult to grow Gotham into a city of 10 million people so close to the gravity well of the Greater New York Metro Area. New Jersey is a pretty urbanized state, but its biggest cities tend to range in population from 300,000 to 100,000 - which works very well for a place like Blüdhaven, which is supposed to have something of an inferiority complex vis-a-vis Gotham - because a lot of the population tends to gravitate to NYC for work and eventually housing as well.

I've already said my piece about the lack of cultural specificity of D.C's Midwest.

As far as the West Coast goes, I've always found it a bit odd that Star City isn't where Seattle is supposed to be. Let's face it, the only place where Oliver Queen's facial hair would go unnoticed is Seattle. Also, Coast City is often depicted too far north on the map - if it's supposed to be a half-hour away from Edwards Air Force Base, it should be significantly more southern, down by Kern County and San Bernadino County, not practically up in San Francisco.

#dc #dc meta #the world outside your window #urbanization #urban studies #urban migration #urban demographics

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jangofctts · 2 years

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Ungrateful Heart (Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, fingering, biting, Daemon being a little bitch, a hint of dubcon, degradation, hair pulling, doggy style, finger sucking, rough sex, creampies, (lmk if I missed something!)

a/n: hi yall good to be back after three months lmfaO

Kings Landing.

A vast city hugging the coast, buzzing with activity and painted in swatches of red roofs and golden banisters. You have been here once when you were a child. Though back then the glory and magic of it still persisted. Nowadays your days are shaded with doubt and a battle to stay afloat in the tumultuous sea of politics. You are not here for leisure—you are here as collateral. There is no mistaking the nature of you and your older brother’s stay at King’s Landing.

There has always been unrest in the Northlands—the distaste for the South all too common amongst your people. While it has quelled since your grandfather knelt before the Targaryen King, there will always be whispers, threats and rumors of usurpers. Your father did his best to silence this, but the Crown takes no chances. Letters were sent, requesting you and your brother to represent House Stark. Thinly veiled threats, is what you father made of these. And so you were sent off—offered on a silver platter to the beasts that roam the capital. It’s been nearly a year since then.

Your brother’s adjustment to the South has gone swimmingly. It’s easy to distract one’s self from burdens of sorrow with swordplay and jousting. You? You suppose reading a book could do, but it’s not the same. All that you’re allowed to do is prattle on about the state of the Realm and dispelling rumors of the North. A pretty little figurehead who no one gives a damn about listening to. You sigh. The world is far more accommodating to men than it is to women.

Uhg—and all the damn marriage proposals. An endless stream of papers that grow in number each day—half of the Houses you’ve never even heard of. You toss the majority of them into the fireplace, much at the behest of your brother. Whatever.

At least the Targaryen’s court is somewhat amusing. A lifetime of petty arguments that you observe from the shadows. Rhaenyra is kind and while you’re impartial to the King, there is one you wouldn’t mind seeing fall off a cliff. You detest Daemon Targaryen. Nothing but a short-tempered fool in search for personal glory and the weight of a crown. Always a thorn in your side

No matter the reason, he will always be a nagging pest. Always picking at your arguments, and yapping at your heels. There is nothing you are not at odds with when it concerns Prince Daemon. Despite your hatred, your mind seems to always drift to images of him in the wee hours of night. Dark armor, tall stature and sneering face. You frown. Disgusting. You hope he falls off his dragon and breaks his spine.

Your hateful wishes still do not protect you. Just the same as every night, the Rogue Prince drifts into your thoughts like wet ink spilling onto parchment. You toss and turn in your bed, silk sheets constricting your legs. Fuck this.

You can’t pinpoint the nagging feeling for leaving the safety of rooms this late at night. Oh, but it is beautiful like this—the castle swathed in the soft glow of the torches, the scent of burning wood and the sweet lilies populating the gardens. Not a soul walks these halls at night save for the occasional maester or King’s Guard. They pay you no mind.

Your footsteps echo on the cold stone, wandering through vast halls and winding corridors until you’re met with open air. Trees rustle in the dark—your feet have lead you to the Godswood. A twinge of homesickness pierces your heart for the cold and vast lands of white. For Winterfell’s homely walls, your younger siblings, your mother and father—

You clasp your hands together and rub at your knuckles. You sigh and drift to the heartwood, its weeping features a strange, basal comfort. Though your peace is quickly tarnished—

You are not alone in this courtyard.

Dark leather boots appear from the shadows as the hair on the back of your neck rises. The rest of the man’s body slowly reveals itself as he strolls into the flickering torchlight. Daemon Targaryen stands before you, his height towering in the darkness. Ice coagulates in your veins. You take a step back. He inclines his head, strands of pale silver flowing off his shoulder, predatory eyes raking over your figure. “Sleep evading you, Lady Stark?”

“Prince Daemon,” you reply curtly. “What a surprise."

You don’t attempt to curb your annoyance. Daemon’s shoulder bounce with a huff. “What brings you to the heartwood at this hour? Praying to your Gods for forgiveness? Or, perhaps a tryst in the dirt with a member of the Guard.”

You sniff, steeling your nerves as he approaches. His boots flatten the grass under his weight. “I could ask you the same, my lord.”

Daemon exhales through his nose and plants himself before you, toe to toe. A common ploy to intimidate you. He raises his hand and pinches a strand of your unbound hair and twirls it around his fingers. You scoff and jerk your chin—he drops his hand. “I only wished to see the Lady Stark safe—she has an awful habit of wandering where she ought not to.”

Your lips flatten into a thin line, dread clawing at your chest. You take a step away, he follows. “So you thought to follow me?”

This could end poorly, you are treading on eggshells. Your gaze drops to his hands that rest at his sides. There is old blood crusting under his nails, like rusting metal on a blade. You wonder who it belongs too, if it were just one poor soul or that of many Daemon has cut down. Remnants of his conquests—justice he deems fitting in the name of the Crown.

Two of those long, battle-worn fingers whisper under your jawline and slot beneath your chin. He tilts your head and your breath hitches. The ends of his mouth quirk into an impish smirk.

“Tell me something,” Daemon coaxes, thumb sweeping over the divot beneath your bottom lip. “Do I frighten you, little shadow?”

His words are mocking, not a hint of true compassion. He enjoys the foul sport of intimidation far too much.

This alone should disgust you.

But the air is humid and the night is thick with buzzing possibilities. Honeyed wine coats your tongue, spinning insults you wish to say, into molasses and ash. Your brows furrow. Setting aside the asinine manners and the questionable decisions—Daemon Targaryen intrigues you. He knows this—he is no fool to the sideways glances, the lingering focus on his mouth cradling the rims of golden chalices and his sharp smiles. You trusted in dark corners and the long shadows of the afternoon to hide you away, to keep your curiosities under wraps—a pity it never worked.

His free hand slithers around your bare arm, his fingers scalding over your already heated flesh. The pads of his fingers dig into your skin, indenting the muscle. Not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that faint marks will linger.

“Tell me,” he prompts again, jostling your chin.

The warm glow of the torchlight carves his sharp features into something akin to sinister. To him, you are something to be devoured—conquered. A true warrior—wildfire thrums through his veins and each breath that puffs over your flushed skin is invitingly toxic. Lips made of glass and a voice cut from steel. A grin made for war and eyes flecked with embers—

You swallow and forget about the sins threaded in the fibers of his soul. It’s best you do. You do not wish to falter and lose your slippery foothold you have against Daemon. True—you are no fearsome warrior, deft with a blade, but what you lack in a sword, you make up in full with your whip-tongue. All these months you’ve held your head high, nipping back at every wayward insult he’s thrown at you. Every battle of wit and test of will, you’ve bested and shrugged aside. It is a reflection of the North—that your House is unwavering, to tread lightly amongst the wolves.

The Rogue Prince deemed you easy prey—a poor writhing creature that turns belly up and submits under the barest of pressure. But you are no dove.

This is a dance of ice and fire. You have no intentions of losing.

“No,” you finally answer, straightening your spine and your resolve. “You do not frighten me.”

A hum rumbles through his chest. “Is that so?”

You sigh, “What is there to fear, Daemon? A spoiled princeling, begging for scraps of the Realm’s affection—”

Daemon lashes out, hand clamping over your jaw like an iron bear trap. You swallow your yelp of pain as your teeth cut into the insides of your cheeks. The tip of his nose bumps yours, his voice a dangerous growl. “Do not think I won’t send your head back to your father on a pike.”

“And risk war with the North?” You bite back, words muddled. Daemon understands you nonetheless. “Don’t be so mindless.”

Daemon’s teeth clench, pale brows furrowed into a deep crease. His nostrils flare, his irate gaze unwavering. Within it you find only ruin. Fire in the darkness, raging against the void, raising his sword against the Gods. A snake swallowing its tail, sharp edged steel—all that he is, is ripped edges and cracked glass. You haven’t the heart to be afraid of him—promises of tomorrow spark and pop in his mouth, but you will steal them one by one for each time you see the sun set and the darkness take his place.

Hey squints. His hands roughly drop, but remain close enough to touch you. You wince as you roll your jaw and rub at the sore nerves pulsating under the skin. “Your knavish tongue will be your undoing, Lady Stark.”

And just when you think you’ve got him figured out, the wind shifts and his temperament smooths out. The bemused, coy smirk slips back into place. His hands lift, you flinch and his jackal grin grows. All he does is smooth out the rumbled fringe of your dress, indulging himself in a coquettish swipe of his fingers along the length of your collarbones. To a passerby it would appear as if he were adjusting your neckless—you both know better.

You chew your lip. Fuck it. You’ll take the risk of insulting him further. There’s nothing to lose here. You square your shoulders and swat at his lingering touch. “It is unbecoming for a prince to take such pleasure in his power.”

Daemon rubs at his chin. Your frown deepens. “My—you are venomous this evening.”

Daemon places his hands on your shoulders, the warmth and weight of them seeping through the light fabric of your dress. You fingernails dig into the flesh of your clenched fists. He nudges his palm into your shoulder joint, guiding you to face the weeping heart tree that lies within arms reach. You allow him to. “I take pleasure in my power, because…”

His words trail off. Your breath catches in your lungs as the Prince slots his lean body to yours. “Regardless of my actions, I will be vilified for it. These ungrateful sheep of the Realm will fancy themselves judge, jury, and executioner, but I am above them.”

It’s hot—layers of leather stick to your flushed skin, humid breaths scald your ear and throat. “Beneath me, everyone will burn.”

Everything is too damn close to you—you itch to peel every layer of cloth and skin from yourself if it offers even a shred of relief. Daemon mistakes the subtle arch in your spine as resistance and circles a weighty arm around your middle to deter your squirming. Daemon indulges in a lecherous squeeze of your midriff—you curse yourself for jumping.

“So twitchy,” he tuts. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as Daemon’s free hand sweeps back your unbound hair. Each spidery brush of his fingertips over the base of your spine leaves goosebumps in their wake. Your head swims, alarm bells clanging through your mind the moment Daemon curls his long, calloused fingers around your throat. Daemon grins and rests his chin over your shoulder, sharp nose burying into the crook of your of neck and shoulder. You know he can feel your fluttering, thrashing heart, pounding against the porcelain bars of your ribcage. Yet the more you struggle, the tighter his claws hook into you. “I wonder…”

You wade through the hazy, panicked blur that has settled over your mind. Your tongue wets your parched lips. You don’t understand the beginning of this question, nor do you really want to see how it ends. Regardless, you indulge him. “My lord?”

His low chuckle vibrates through his chest, porcelain teeth scraping along the column of your throat. “You tremble as if you are a maiden pure…” Daemon nips at ear, warm breath curling like a lick of fire alongside your cheek. “But I have trouble believing this narrative.”

Daemon’s fingers inch up your throat. His middle and forefinger touch your chin and then your bottom lip. He smooths the pads of his digits over your lip and drags the pliant flesh down, exposing your bottom row of teeth. “How many ingrates have these lips touched?”

His grip cinches tighter, eager to hear your answer. You clench your jaw. “I don’t see how that is any of your concern.”

“Oh, why don’t you give it up already?” Daemon sneers, “I see through your fucking front—how your pretty little eyes follow me down every corridor, through every room.”

Sharp pain erupts through your jaw as Daemon digs his thumb and middle finger into the joints of your jaw. Your yelp fades to a muffled squeal as Daemon shoves his fingers into your mouth without care. Your nails dig into the tough leather that cradles his arm, but no matter how much you squirm or attempt to shove the digits out with your tongue, there is no escape. Daemon’s teeth latch onto your throat, marring the fragile skin. “You can trick these dogmatic fools with your puritanical Northern ways—but I know the truth.”

You blubber around his fingers, saliva dripping down the sides of your stretched mouth and down his knuckles. Alarm bells continue to rattle inside your head, but that flailing panic drifts and blends into a dark current of gnashing teeth and a vortex of flame. Fervor and fear concoct a blend of sweet desire best left untouched.

But when has the Rogue Prince ever listened to reason? Instead he takes this love like poison and slathers it onto rusted daggers in search of a home between the vertebrae of your spine. You think of your hands, threading through platinum white hair and the red of his laughter. A barbed thing, a taunting thing, and a smile that leans to the left and sharp as a scythe. You crave him like hemlock.

Daemon snickers as his fingers sink deeper into your mouth, pressing down on your soft tongue, the taste of him and salt flooding your tongue. He then pulls them nearly free from your lips, only to drive them back in, then out. A devious lick of arousal pools in your tummy as Daemon Targaryen finger fucks your mouth. He ceases the sick torture the second you gag and claw at his forearm. “There now,” he coos. You shiver despite the heat, his whisper a wicked scrape in your ear. “You desire me just as much as I crave you.”

You whimper as he drags his fingers completely free from your lips, leaving a trail of sticky saliva over your chin. Daemon jostles your face with a prompting hum. Your voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

“Yes what?” He goads, slithering his sinful hands down the plain of your waist. You writhe under his touch, choking on embers and acidic oaths you hate to dispel off your tongue.

“Yes,” you grit out, “I desire you, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon clicks his tongue. “What fine manners,” he replaces his hand over your throat and pushes your head back until it meets the line of his shoulder. “A shame you only use them to persuade me into fucking you.”

Stretched out like this, bearing your vulnerable neck to his hungry mouth, you meet his eyes. “Your arrogance protects you from coercion—so I believed, my lord.”

Sure, you already know the answer and yes, you’re toying with the untamed viciousness that flickers within his irises. You’re only playing coy to wheedle in a catty insult. It’s one of the simple pleasures in life—making a mockery of Daemon Targaryen.

“Wretched shadow—I should cut out your tongue for your insolence.”

Before you have a chance to reply, Daemon’s mouth descends onto yours. A kiss full of teeth and iron—nothing about his lips are forgiving. Its blooms like a cut—hard, hungry and victorious. You are the spoils of an enduring, uphill battle, and so he claws at your arms, your clothes, your hair—

He rips himself away when the discomfort of your positioning grows too tedious. Daemon’s chest heaves, lips making a home in the crux of your neck and shoulder. You’re equally short of breath, knees buckling as Daemon’s brash hand cups your breast through your poor excuse of a dress. More of a robe really—

You yelp as he pinches your nipple, rolling it harshly between his fingers. You feel his grin curl up his narrow face, delighted in the results he’s cultivated. Irritation flares in your chest—you’ve slipped seamlessly into his dastardly scheme. Though, right as he moves to your other breast, kneading the pillowy skin, your mind conjures kindling. Your lips tickle his throat, words hushed. “You have a wife, princeling. What would she think of this?”

The muscles in Daemon’s jaw jump as his jaw clenches. His touches cease as a growl rumbles through his chest. The oncoming silence is terse—swelling with raw nerves you’ve poked and prodded at. You don’t care.

Daemon’s lip curls, canines flashing in the torchlight. “Not a damn thing. I take what I please.” His fingers leap to the crux of your thighs, securing his hold around your neck and cupping your cunt through your dress. You gasp and arch your spine. “When I please.”

The heel of his palm rocks into your cunt, sparking your arousal tenfold. Wetness has seeped through your underclothes some time ago, yet now you’re at risk for discovery. Not that this poses a real issue—your hips roll into his hand as your lips part in a gasp—you’re long past any sense propriety. He squeezes your throat, thumb making a home over your pulse point, pounding like a war drum. “You will do well to remember this—the world is mine to conquer, foolish girl.”

A strangled cry breeches your lips as Daemon hikes the skirts of your dress up your thighs. He grabs at your inner thigh, kneading the flesh for a moment before his hand finds your center once more. A stuttered sigh escapes him, feeling your heat through the thin layer of your underclothes. It sticks to your cunt, your wetness amplified by the gentle breeze that whispers through the Godswood, rattling the wine-red leaves as if the Gods themselves sigh in disappointment. Thoughts of sacrilege melt from your mind as Daemon curses, calloused fingers rubbing your slit through the fabric. Your knees buckle, waves of pleasure cascading through every nerve.

Daemon trails his fingers from the top of your cunt, circling your clit then down to rub over your dripping entrance. Despite his touches being blunted, the effect is all the same. “Dae—”

The hand on your throat slaps over your mouth, quieting your mewls. “Hush, wretched thing.”

The moment his teeth imbed themselves into your neck is the very same moment in which Daemon’s patience snaps. Your underclothes are forcibly removed, ripped seams and soaked cotton pooling around your ankles. His feverish panting scorches your skin, stuttered and edging madness—the world cracks and splits as his fingers finally meet your burning cunt. Your moan breaks against the lines of his palm, unraveling beneath the pads of his fingers that glide through your wet lips. Back and forth they tease, doing nothing to satiate. You thrash—it’s not enough.

And then, when you think it can’t get any worse, Daemon stops moving entirely. He laughs as you wine and wriggle. He pulls his hand off your mouth, a thin string of saliva connecting you for a quick moment, fingers hovering right over your throbbing clit. “Dae—Prince Daemon, please.”

“Desperate little shadow,” he coos, “Wetting my fingers like a common whore.”

You should feel more conflicted—aghast even—but his insults are kindling to a burning house. You murmur prayers of forgiveness to the rustling leaves above you, hushed words tumbling into a whiney pleas as Daemon circles your clit. Your fingernails scrabble over his knuckles, hoping that your efforts will result in gratification. All it does is make him pause.

“I should leave you like this,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. Your heart seizes. “Unsatisfied and dripping.” Daemon’s forehead drops onto your shoulder, his hand dipping further between your pussy. His fingers spread over your cunt, doing the best he can at this angle and teasing out a little moan. You jolt as Daemon abruptly plunges the tip of his middle finger into your entrance. “But you would never learn.”

Your cry echos through the Godswood as Daemon’s slots his fingers to your swollen clit. Your legs shake—his pace starts off mellow, pressing fleeting little circles to the bundle of nerves. The pleasure is raw, but there’s no place you can run to. You’re pinned to his chest, destined for torture—to witness his black-hearted delight. You curse and Daemon cuts to the quick, fast and rough, toying with your body like a marionette and her puppeteer—tugging on invisible strings until you dance for him. You squeeze your eyes shut and claw and his forearm, unsure if you’re trying to pull him closer or away from you.

It’s too much and too quickly. Daemon gives no time to build up the pleasure. It all descends upon you in a vicious wave. Searing heat courses through you from the centre of your core and lashes out to your lower spine and beyond. You arch as the pleasure begins to scald, but his touch follows, his hold unyielding. Your mind folds as your orgasm cracks, a string of senseless babbling and cries of his name all that you can make sense of.

His fingers press firmly against your clit, your core clenching so hard around nothing that it aches. Your ears ring, the ecstasy bursting through your trembling body. Your knees buckle and he lets you fall. The moss coating the thick heartwood roots absorbs the shock of your fall, but the dirt still stains your knees and palms, still shaking with aftershocks. You squeeze your eyes just to rid your vision of the blurriness and sluggishly move to stand.

Leather creaks and the snap of a belt sounds behind you. A second later Daemon tosses his sword to your left, the silvery hilt glowing pale in the moonlight. You swing your head over your shoulder as Daemon kneels. He shoots you a sharp, toothy smile. Your heart lurches. This is far from over.

The sound of rustling fabric and low cursing cuts through some of the anticipation. You look back and bite your lip to curb your snicker. Daemon is hunched over, pawing at the drawstrings of his tented trousers, dexterous as a drunk. “Having trouble with your laces, m’lord?”

Daemon snarls and tears through the flimsy string with sheer force. You yelp as Daemon grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks. His lean body curls over yours, nose brushing along your neck. “Speaking is a privilege. Quiet yourself before I silence your mouth with my cock.”

He shoves your head to the soft earth, his other hand pushing up your skirts to expose your bare ass. Daemon murmurs a curse or perhaps a lick of praise as he runs his roughened palm over the globes of your ass. You shiver as his fingers sweep inward, collecting the wetness that has coated the soft skin there. His palm trades in his hold on your throbbing scalp to instead drag his thumbs through your slit. You dare not move from this position. His thumbs part your swollen lips, sliding through the velveteen flesh until he finds your weeping entrance.

Daemon purrs as he sinks his middle finger inside of you, all the way to the base and without resistance. You keen and fist the grass under you. Your walls stretch around the second finger he stabs into you, lazily thrusting the digits in and out. Heat burns your cheeks at the wet sounds your body makes. Though there’s not much time to enjoy Daemon’s fingers—he’s impatient as they come.

He kneels up straight and shuffles closer. You gasp as you feel him, hot and straining against your thigh. Daemon strokes his cock, knuckles scraping against your pussy as if to tease you. You wine and push your hips back, your self respecting dwindling to ash.

Daemon brings the blunt tip of himself to your cunt and rocks his hips coating his cock in your slick. “Tell me you need it.”

His hand is back in your hair, pulling at the strands. You don’t need much encouragement. You force your tongue into coherency. “Please—I…I need it, my Prince. N-need you.”

Daemon snickers and rubs a comforting hand over the base of your spine. And then, with little warning, he sheaths the entirety of his length inside of your aching center. You screech, gouging your fingers through the damp earth and scrabbling for some sort of stability. He’s big—bigger than what you’ve taken in the past and your cunt pulses and struggles to accommodate him. Daemon only laughs, a breathless taunt, as his fingers leave behind bruises in the shape of him. “Fuck, you’re tight. Does it hurt, little shadow?”

“No,” you squeak. And for the most part it’s true—your walls burn, and a dull ache settles deep inside of you as Daemon’s cock touches the end of you. But your wetness aids the glide and sets the burning nerves alight with crackling ecstasy. You bow your head, resting your forehead on your forearm as Daemon rocks his narrow hips. The experimental pace trips into something harsher, encouraged by the breathless squeaks he pushes out of you. His hands anchor over your hips, aiding the brutal rhythm of his cock slamming into your tight heat.

You lose yourself to this pleasure—washed out to sea to drown in the waves. For the first time since meeting Daemon, he speaks your name to the heavens, but you don’t even recognize it. Can’t recognize it—the syllables are to foreign and grating to your eardrums. These frenzied moments are a blur of white-hot embers, smoke and ash and hard fingertips littering your skin with crescent moon indents. Bites, laden with heavy kisses leech out the sting as you moan and whimper. You roll your hips and arch your back in a way you’d find positively deplorable if you were coherent enough to form proper thoughts.

“Greedy fucking shadow—”

You like that better than your name—that’s who you are—who you always will be to him. It all makes sense with that name tumbling against the ridges of your spine with the cutting lips that follow it. Damp skin and sticky fingers wind around your legs spread legs, fingers slipping over you cunt before the resettle and touch your clit. Daemon presses down on your clit, bucks his hips, swollen cock inside you twitching as your walls squeeze him. He pants against your ear, fingers slipping round and round over your clit. You’re so full, so fucking full that your legs tremble and your toes curl. Everything tightens like a vice, stars scattering behind your eyelids. All that you are is some writhing sweaty mess, biting at your forearm. It’s a gargantuan task, struggling to your elbows, and rocking back as much as you can. Fuck—all you can think about is Daemon—

“Stop wriggling and just fucking take it,” Daemon bites. Saliva or maybe blood, dribbles down your shoulder, your collarbone, and wets the moss below.

You cry as the edge beckons and explodes. He catches you up whilst you’re faced with the precipice of orgasm. Daemon grabs at your hair, wrenching your head to face the gnarled face of the heartwood. “Scream my name to your Old Gods.”

You do. Oh, you do, Gods forgive this as you implode and split at the seams. The hard heat of his belly presses through his tunic and sits flush against your back, the line of your spine curved into the pounding echo of his heartbeat. He hasn’t stopped—he still thrusts into your cunt in search for his own end. Your stomach flips as Daemon hooks his elbow under your knee flips you onto your back.

His length slips free, only to be guided back inside of you once he drapes your thighs around his waist. You throw your head back and claw at his tunic, wheezing when his hand ensnares your neck and restricts your air. He is a mass of burning stardust, a winged fragment of space that burns bright as the sun. People will never be able to understand the true form of him. Yet they still fear the catalogue of coalesced volcanic ash and anger. The wildness. His many black-tinted hungers. You will always tenderly tell yourself that he nothing to be afraid, as if his mouth were not filled with blood.

You are not made to burn like this, you are a creature of ice and snow, yet you still risk dragon fire. Holding you like a moth to a flame—you let him blind you, igniting your heart and allowing his heat to incinerate all he cares to take. “Look at me,” he commands.

The inferno rages around you, his hips swinging freely in a stuttered rhythm only meant to service him. There is no concern for you in these fleeting moments, you’re only a means to end, but fuck—it still feels good. Still rubs against nerves that spark and ignite with each thrust. His cock pounds into you, the Godswood filled with sounds of your rough joining, abdomen scraping over your clit. A knowing smirk splits across his face as you cum once more—convulsing and jittery. You reach for him and twist your fingers into his hair—Daemon allows it. With one last wheezy sputter of his name from your lips, he’s done for.

You choke as the full weight of him collapses onto you—his hips shoving his twitching cock as deep as it will go into your cunt. Warmth floods your insides as he cums, his fragile moaning a delight to your ringing ears. Soon, he settles, panting into the column of your throat, pulse racing.

Right when its feels as though he will crush your ribcage, Daemon lifts himself and cups your jaw. You blink, eyes hazy with exhaustion and lust.

“Open,” he orders. You do so without a fight and open your mouth. Perverse joy flickers in his eyes. “Good.”

Your eyes bulge as he spits into your mouth. You don’t have time to feel conflicted over the way your body roars with a new wave of arousal, because he’s kissing you. Devouring your bruised mouth with tongue and teeth—it leaves you breathless. You don’t like the way your heart yearns for more when Daemon pulls away. He skates his thumb up your jawline, admiring the way your softness catches on his calloused skin. There’s no fuss, nor any words spoken as he pulls his cock free from you, only a hiss through clenched teeth. His spend dribbles out of your cunt and paints your inner thighs—a beautiful canvass of sin and debauchery.

He stands, readjusts his trousers and reaches for his abandoned sword. He ties the scabbard to his belt and turns on his heel. “Do be careful on your way back to your rooms, Lady Stark,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Who knows what filth lurks in the dark.”

You bite your lip and watch him pace away, melding into the dark. You lift your eyes to the canopy of leaves overhead and sigh. They shiver and twist in the gentle breeze. “Gods above—forgive me.”

#sorry it ain't great but yeehaw #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #game of thrones #house of dragons #matt smith #rhaenyra #daemon targaryen x you

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bas-writes · 2 months

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your blind date is waiting for you...

A suitor is awaiting for @stuckinthewrongworld who as her dream date wanted to go to the beach. I hope you will spend lovely time together!

female reader | ~850 words | modern AU

Your date isn't really the type of guy who holds all his thoughts and emotions on a silver plate. You know him for quite a long time now and he still remains one big mystery—big enough for you to wonder at times if you actually know the guy you're seeing. It weirdly suits him and after a few attempts to solve him, you've grown to accept that it's just his nature and that you won't be able to look through him even after decades.

That's why you're not entirely sure where you two are heading until the very last moment, when the crowded bus you're taking finally reaches the coast and continues its journey along the shore. Until it reaches the final stop, you remain right by the window, your face almost plastered to it as you're swallowing the views, impatient and excited. Thinking back, you did mention you would love to go to a beach again, but the topic seemed to die right as it started, immediately forgotten by your always busy boyfriend.

You must give him that credit, his attention to detail and good memory far exceeds your own. And he knows how to utilize them to bring the best out of surprises he has for you.

Law helps you get off the bus and, still holding your hand, such a pleasant change after his usual, dry, and reserved, approach to public physical demonstrations of affection, leads you away from the public beach, place where the crushing majority of the crowd moves. It's too cold for a proper beach day and you haven't taken the right equipment anyway, so you don't mind, trusting the surprise still unfolding. He clearly has the spot in mind, your part of the act is to follow his guidance and enjoy the views on the way.

When he finally decides to get down from the boulevard, you two are almost alone. The extreme introvert he is, Law feels the most relaxed and confident when there's no one gazing at his back—and indeed, his approach changes fast in comparison to his behavior on the bus and earlier, when you made your way through the city. His face is so serene he almost doesn't seem himself. It's unfair you must divide your attention between this spectacular sight and the sea you've waited for so long to see.

Law sits straight on the stairs to undo his shoes and roll his jeans up, then insists for you to lean against him, so you could deal with your sneakers and socks without getting your pants dusty. Sand under your bare feet might not be hot but it's still quite hard to walk, even with the help of his arm keeping your balance in check. It feels awkward at first, to depend physically so much on him. Neither of you are used to it but you refuse to let go once you've wrapped your arm around his elbow and let him control the pacing. From afar you might look like an older couple and the thought of it almost has you giggling. You bite it back—though, looking at a faint smile tugging at his lips, you kind of regret restraining yourself. You usually do so around him when you feel you don't have a good reason for laughing. When you have no explanation for your behavior, he seems to be lost whenever you do so, and as he has never given you even the faintest suggestion that he prefers you not giggling, the atmosphere tends to turn awkward when he can't find logical reason for your behavior, and then you both need to work your way around it. You don't want to interrupt a date that's already unrolling so well.

But who knows, maybe today you could be able to make him laugh?

The wind tugs at your clothes as you slowly wander along the shore. Despite the weather, the sea itself is not cold, so you let the waves lick at your calves. Your pantlegs, even if rolled up, are soon soaked at the bottom, but neither of you tries to move to the safer part of the beach.

"I even like the weather but...I wouldn't really call it a good one for a date," you muse as a particularly high wave forces you to jump away and Law curses at some of the splash reaching his hoodie. "Why today?"

He doesn't answer until you reach a puddle of algae and other sea trash. He leans down and digs through it, still shielding you from the waves, but focusing mostly on his task, until he finally finds what he's been looking for: a few colorful seashells hidden in the wet debris.

"Yesterday's storm must have thrown a lot of treasures all over the beach." He carefully pours them into your palm. "We might even find some amber."

Hand still wet, Law traces the line of your collarbone, then the curve of your neck towards your chin. He tilts your head slightly to the back, your eyes meet and you almost gasp at the amount of warmth and love you find in his as he leans close to speak against your lips before kissing you, "I'd love to make a seashell necklace for you."

#trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar law x y/n #trafalgar law x you #trafalgar law imagine #op x reader #op x you #op x y/n #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #bas writes #op #trafalgar law #blind dates #female reader

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mackjlee9 · 10 months

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Heyy!! I love your writing and was wondering if I could request a Resident evil 4, Leon S. Kenned x male reader. Reader and Leon always had that little competition between them, always trying to be better than the other which lead to them not liking each other. They got sent to various missions together but always ended up fighting with each other on how to do things instead of focusing on the mission. It just didn’t work between them. Additionally, Reader is sarcastic and acts a bit like an a-hole sometimes, flirts with Leon in a joking way and Leon just can't stand that.

After Leon was sent to save Ashley Reader is sent to back up Leon (and Leon didn’t know that so he is kinda mad that they thought it would be a good idea to choose reader for it) on his mission and after a long and annoying search, he ends up finding Leon in the village. At first, he thought Leon was some sort of villager and attacks him. He pins him to the ground but then realized who he is and reluctantly apologizes which just makes the situation worse between them.

When they find Ashley and then lose her later Leon gets injured badly because he just rushed in without thinking to save Ashley. But he couldn’t and they ended up fighting when the coast cleared. In reality, reader isn’t mad about the fact that they lost Ashley again. He is mad that Leon got hurt in the process and Leon noticed that reader was worried about him. That could lead to an angry make-out session. Enemies to lovers typa thing

Leon Kennedy x Male!Reader [Angst&Fluff]

Masterlist.

Resident Evil 4

(M/n) is not exactly sure why or how it happened. Maybe it was the fact he was someone that had also been in the wrong place at the wrong time like Leon, but Racoon City wasn't easy for either of them, but Leon didn't like how (M/n) just kept doing whatever he wanted without taking the necessary precautions.

Later, thanks to Marvin, Leon had learned that (M/n) had been brought in for interrogation regarding the beating and murder of a wanted criminal, but the outbreak happened and (M/n) had managed to fend for himself, helping out a few officers, shooting those that had turned without hesitation, which had made others dislike him greatly, even if they saw a glimpse of hope with him around, and then Leon arrived.

He and (M/n) just got off on the wrong foot, and it just sort of stuck with them through the years.

However, while their rivalry was an obstacle in itself, they had proven to others that they could work best when together, so with them working for STRATCOM was already annoying for them, and being paired to go on missions together was even worse.

Especially when (M/n) would respond sarcastically to a comment or observation he made, not caring about anyone's safety except his, but (M/n) knew full well that Leon could handle himself just fine, which led Leon to think he was a major asshole that doesn't give a shit about others.

And then, there were the flirty comments that Leon just couldn't stand listening, making his blood pressure rise, definitely needing something to punch to be able to cool down. That's how (M/n) would know he actually pissed Leon off, he enjoyed watching the blond beating the shit out of everything that got in his way, but of course, Leon would very much rather punch (M/n) instead, but this would do... For a while at least.

Seeing the usually stoic and immovable Leon Kennedy so mad at him obviously worked to bring a victorious grin to his face, following far enough to not be on the receiving end of Leon's anger, after all, that guy knew how to kick.

//////

The first time they weren't sent on a mission together, it felt odd. On one side, Leon was finally at peace and didn't have anyone getting on his last nerve, but that also meant he had alone time with himself, leading to him remembering gruesome memories of the past, unable to snap out of them by himself. He would never admit it out loud, but he kind of missed (M/n)'s presence- but only because he served as a distraction from his own mind.

On the other side, (M/n) was bored out of his mind. If they weren't on a mission he would bother Leon in the office all day long, usually ending up in them fighting for real, but masking it as a "training session", but now? There was no one to entertain him and that bothered him more than he'll like to admit.

But while he was in the shooting range with a sniper rifle, he saw the shadow of someone approaching him out of the corner of his eye, so he sighed as he reloaded the rifle again, and looked at them.

"Your support is needed, Agent," standing up, he set everything he used in its place and silently followed her down the hall and into an office.

His tactical equipment and radio were handed to him while he was being briefed about the current situation.

'Condor One' has been M.I.A for over four hours, and was gonna be one to bring his support and find him, be Leon's back-up. Already in the helicopter, (M/n) was given a summary of what had happened, attentively listening to everything Hunnigan told him through his communicator, sending him images of the digital map they had of Leon's route and path, explaining how his last ping happened in the middle of a lake and how it disappeared after an hour.

"Copy that, Rooster, I'll keep you informed once I arrive, Condor Two, out."

//////

"This is as close as we can get for now, Condor Two!" The pilot screamed at (M/n) once he had taken his headset off and was attaching the rope to his harness. He looked at the pilot and nodded once, it was understandable that they couldn't approach the village more, after all, Hunnigan had told him about the two police officers that had driven Leon over to the outskirts of the city, one of them was killed with an axe while the other was burnt alive... He sighed thinking about the poor men, but there was nothing he could do about them now anyway.

"I'm going down!" He walked closer to the door and opened it, signaling the pilot to get them closer to the ground, as much as they could with all the trees around the place.

Making sure the rope was secure to his harness and to the chopper, he threw off the remaining black rope and slid down as quickly as he could, unattached himself and giving an 'okay' sign for the co-pilot to pick up the rope while they flew away.

(M/n) watched the chopper leave for a few seconds, before glancing around him. He was standing by a cliff, a rather dense woods awaiting behind him, taking a deep breath, he walked closer to the trees, deciding to hold his combat knife rather than his pistol, it would help him stay hidden and be more stealthy.

After doing some more walking, he found the trails left behind by a car, marks in the mud rather erratic, surrounded by various pairs of footsteps. He checked his device and kept walking the way Leon had walked through hours ago, and soon enough, he spotted a cabin.

Walking through the open door, (M/n) saw the corpse of a villager around the corner, his head out of place due to his broken neck, the deep indent of a knife was all he needed to see to know Leon had been there. He walked out again and continued moving forward, staying hidden in the shadows and behind the trees, taking advantage of the lack of light as the sun was setting behind the woods, slowly disappearing and leaving way for the moonlight to shine.

At least, he would be harder to spot by the Ganados for now.

(M/n) walked through the village, going past the same windmill Hunnigan told him about, and he could see the lake from afar, but it was too dark for him to see anything, even so, he didn't really see any sign of Leon around.

With every passing minute, (M/n) started thinking that Leon might have been hiding, probably badly injured and needed to rest, not being M.I.A for so long just didn't sound like something Leon would do, even if he was having his last breath. So maybe he missed some spots on his attempt at finding the blond as quickly as he could, so he decided to backtrack for a bit, after all, he had seen the church a while back, which Hunnigan had said was where 'Baby Eagle' was being kept.

Maybe Leon was heading that way...

The sound of his radio caught his attention, and he responded.

"Condor Two, I have been able to contact Condor One, I'll send you his coordinates right away," (M/n) hummed and took his device out, hearing the faint ding and watching a message pop up, "Condor One has been briefed about you being there as back up, Condor Two, meet up and stay safe."

"Copy that, Rooster."

Jogging back the way he came, (M/n) found himself in the village quicker than he anticipated, he knew Leon had to be heading toward the church so he knew where to go. Sort of, anyway.

But something happened.

He heard it first rather than seeing it. Someone grunting in pain, coughing, and wheezing as they struggled to fill their lungs with oxygen. (M/n) pressed his back to the nearest wall, and peeked his head around the corner.

Thankfully, the person had their back turned, so that gave (M/n) some leeway to get closer, the dim light surrounding them worked to hide him even more, although it made seeing the villager harder, he could make out their silhouette, It was a man by the looks of it. His coughing masked the slight crunch of (M/n)'s boots on the dirt.

Keeping a tight grip on the handle of his combat knife, (M/n) observed how the villager began standing up, his body slowly turning around to face him, red eyes seemingly glowing in the dark engulfing them. Without a second thought, (M/n) jumped the man to get rid of him and keep going on his way to find Leon, but this villager was putting up a real fight.

Having him pinned under his body, (M/n) used his upper body strength to press down on the villager's arms, pushing against him and preventing him from cutting his skin open, his (e/c) eyes never looking away from those red eyes of his.

However, the villager had moved his head away just in time before his knife could pierce through his skull, and while he pulled the blade off the dirt, the man under him started using his strength to push him off. With his knife now knocked away from his hands, (M/n) only had his fists to finish the villager, but he was still putting up a tough fight.

But with one punch to his chest, the flashlight attached to his shoulder and chest strap flew away a couple of feet, rolling for a moment. Apparently, the hit had turned it on and now they were able to clearly see each other's faces.

"(M/n)?" He asks out of breath, the red eyes now gone, now back to his blue eyes.

Was I... Seeing things just now?

"Uh, sorry... Didn't know..." (M/n)'s words died out as he moved back and began standing up, reaching his hand out to help Leon stand up too. The blond frowns at the action, but silently takes (M/n)'s hand, and dusts himself off as a way to avoid the awkward and tense silence, "Let's..."

He stops for a moment, walking to where his knife landed and holstering it back to his strap. Leon does the same, leaning down to pick up (M/n)'s flashlight, turning it off, and handing it back to him, who silently grabs it and attaches back to its place.

"Let's just keep going-," before they could take a step in the direction that would take them forward on the mission, the light of the fire on torches starts surrounding them from every direction, and quickly realizing they're outnumbered, they run to the cabin behind them and stay hidden inside until their path clears up enough to make their way to the church.

//////

"Ashley!" Leon's panicked voice makes (M/n) turn around from the lock he had been trying to unlock, and he sees the blond shooting at the caped creature taking Ashley away.

(M/n) hurries to open the lock keeping them inside the cage, and Leon is quick to bolt out, not caring about anything other than getting Ashley back, "Leon!" He calls him and immediately starts running after the man.

He just wanted to get to Leon and Ashley, get her safe with them again, go back home, and forget everything had happened, but of course, nothing is ever easy in this job, in this life.

While running straight ahead, Leon didn't even see the knight stumbling his way toward him, despite the loud clanking noise the armor did, Leon could only think about getting Ashley back, about her safety over his. But (M/n) saw the knight, calling out to Leon a little too late.

"Watch out!" Being snapped out of his tunnel vision, Leon barely managed to see the knight swinging its sword down at him, and he used his momentum to dodge the hit. Well, he didn't fully dodge being hit, he just dodge being cut in half, because there was a gash on his torso, going right through his middle in a diagonal line, blood gushing out rather rapidly.

(M/n)'s legs moved as quickly as they could to be able to make it to a groaning Leon, shrugging his jacket off and laying it over the blond's wound, pressing on it with one hand while his non-dominant hand grabbed his pistol and shot at the plaga coming from underneath the knights' helmets.

"Put pressure on it, I'll take care of this," Leon grunted and pressed his hands down on the jacket, doing his best to try and stop the bleeding while (M/n) risked his life for him.

"You should... Go after Ashley..." (M/n) didn't give any signs of having heard him, but he definitely did. And damn, he was getting pissed at Leon now.

Leon watched how every knight fell to the ground, every singular piece holding itself together by the plaga coming undone as it was killed, and soon enough, every single one had been taken care of. (M/n) sighed and turned toward Leon, holstering his pistol and walking toward him to check on his wound. It was still bleeding.

"Shit-" he draped Leon's arm over his shoulders and wrapped his arm around his waist, "Don't you fucking dare die on me, Kennedy, keep the pressure on that."

Whether the grunting was from pain or a sarcastic response, (M/n) didn't know, he just had to find a room in this stupid castle where he could tend Leon's wound.

//////

Laying the man on the bed, (M/n) tried to look around for something that could serve to clean the wound or bandage him up, but all he could find was a bed sheet, somehow cleaner than the others he had found.

For now, he had managed to stop the bleeding, and had used Leon's last spray on the wound, hoping it would numb the pain and help him heal faster. The blond frowned at the stinging pain but didn't complain.

"Sit up," Leon looked at (M/n)'s serious expression for a moment as he sat up on the bed, he was obviously mad at him and he didn't blame him, they lost Ashley and had to find her again, along with the wound that went from his abdomen to barely reaching his chest... He just made the mission harder than it already was.

(M/n) proceeded to use the pieces of the sheet he had torn up to bandage him up the best could with what they had. These kinds of moments were too quiet for their liking, it wasn't unusual for one or the other to get hurt while on a mission, but it was always weird when the other required help, it wasn't the same angry tension between them, instead it was an uncomfortable silence that neither of them could get used to.

They hated those silent moments.

"Are you stupid or do you have a death wish?" Was all (M/n) said when he succeeded in wrapping Leon up a bit, he definitely needed medical attention to stitch the wound and to prevent or fight the infection that will show up sooner or later, but they still needed to find Ashley as quickly as possible.

Leon turned to look at him with an angry expression, "I was trying to save Ashley, you were the one that didn't do anything to get her back," (M/n) scoffed and stood up from bed, pacing around the room, annoyed at the blond.

"I saved your pathetic life, Kennedy," ignoring the pain he felt, Leon stood up from the bed, watching (M/n) continuously pacing back and forth, irritating him.

"I didn't ask you to save me! Ashley is our priority here, I was doing my job, maybe you should do that too," Leon sighed when (M/n) looked at him in complete silence, an annoyed expression showing on his face.

Leon was a hundred percent sure that (M/n) was mad at him for getting himself injured like an idiot and making the mission harder on themselves now, that he was mad because they were further away from getting Ashley back, he was convinced of that. They couldn't rescue Ashley and (M/n) was mad at that, that's it. That's what it should've been.

Sighing and taking a step to walk around (M/n), Leon spoke again, "Look, let's just find Ashley before anything worse happens to her."

(M/n) wasn't dumb, he's usually the most observant of the two, so he noticed what Leon was thinking, it showed on his face. Even with the smallest change of his expression, he was able to read him like an open book.

He reached his hand out and held Leon's wrist before he could walk further away from him, hearing him sigh.

"I'm not... Mad that we lost Ashley, Leon," his blue eyes looked up into his (e/c) ones, confusion shining in them, and now it was (M/n)'s turn to sigh, he really didn't wanna say it, but he also didn't want them to stay mad at each other for this, "I was mad 'cause you weren't careful and... Got yourself injured..." He mumbled his last words, looking away from Leon.

But the blond moved his head, trying to meet his eyes. Was he... Worried? About... Me?

"I was... Worried about you, Leon..." The sound of (M/n)'s sweet and gentle voice as he responded to his unasked question made Leon's heart race in his chest, he could almost hear both his and (M/n)'s heart thumping rapidly.

Leon's body moved on his own, his gloved hands holding the collar of (M/n)'s shirt, pulling him down roughly to have their lips meet, kissing him rather aggressively.

(M/n) was caught by surprise by Leon's action, his eyes wide opened as he watched Leon's closed eyes and flushed face, making his mind foggy as a new feeling filled his body, but the blond soon realized that the other man wasn't corresponding his kiss, making him feel embarrassed and like an idiot as he backed away, pulling back and the thin string of saliva that connected them broke immediately.

He opened his mouth to say something, maybe apologize or say he just wanted to mess with him, but now (M/n)'s hands were holding him. A gentle touch on his chin and a tight grip around his belt, pressing their hips flushed against each other as this time they let themselves melt in their kiss, quiet moans and sighs leaving past their lips, muffled by the other's lips.

(M/n) groaned as he reluctantly broke the kiss, hearing Leon whining as he watched him lean closer to try and kiss him again, he sighed and held tightly onto the blond's hips, making him open his eyes again, pupils blown wide as Leon stared up at him.

"We have..." He swallowed, his eyes unable to look away from Leon's glossy and swollen pink lips, licking his as he tried to regain his composure, "We have a mission to complete, we'll... Talk about this when we get back, okay?"

Leon looked sad for a moment, but he silently nodded and they resumed their mission to find Ashley and bring her back home safely.

This enemies-to-lovers trope would have to wait a little bit longer.

#leon kennedy x male reader #leon kennedy x reader #re x male reader #re x reader #re4 x male reader #re4 x reader #resident evil leon #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #male reader #x reader #reader insert #enemies to lovers #.mackjlee9 writes

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