#thank you again for your patronage!

[echollama]

A Sketch Commission for @rwbyfanservice, of Josha from TOTK examining a defunct Guardian; thank you for commissioning me!

[thearchertheprey]

assorted images from the AU group im in

[lordartsy]

♤ I haven't read past act 9, so my choice of roles is limited. If I had to choose, I guess I'd say I like Paul the most! I'm quite simple, I just really like serious Kazu

Thank you for the juice funds! If anyone else would like to make me draw stuff, here's the tip jar

[cozylittleartblog]

hi there!! im not sure exactly how this kinda stuff works so if this is a question that already has an answer, feel free to let me know!

will sold out charms be coming back at all? i had one of your hlvrai floppy disk charms but i managed to lose it a few weeks ago— i really liked it so i wanted to see about getting another one! it was a good addition to my backpack :)

oh yes! my HLVRAI charms (and some other sold out stuff) will always be restocked, it usually takes a month, maybe two at most. nothing is in production atm but i fully intend to bring those back <3

[fayes-fics]

Second Son

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: The second son is, for once, the first choice...

Warnings: none really... mild angst, family dynamics, love at first sight.

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Request fill for anon here, about Benedict being the second choice for everything.... until his love turns up. Thanks for this request; I hope this is angsty enough for you anon. Im not sure about it tbh. Sorry that it's taken more than three months to get to it on my WIP list. Unbetaed. Enjoy <3

Benedict Bridgerton was born into privilege and can have few complaints. Except perhaps that he is always second. The spare. The just-in-case option. Being a familial insurance policy lends one more freedom than the burden of being the titled first son, perhaps, but it also feels like your whole existence, in some respects, can seem like a contingency plan.

____

His stomach swoops with excitement as the arrow pierces the target dead on the bullseye. And on his first ever archery lesson, just after his twelfth birthday.

He turns around to see if anyone is there to witness his triumph, but it goes unmarked. All his young siblings gathered around Anthony, patting him on the back for his achievements in doing the same moments before. Being a good shot is an essential skill for the next Viscount indeed. The fact that he has been receiving instruction for months already and this is Benedict’s first lesson hurts a little.

But he doesn't bother to bring attention to his arguably more impressive feat. It seems pointless now. Wordlessly he shrugs and walks towards the target, plucking out his arrow and starting again. Perhaps next time, they will notice.

____

“Is that the new Viscount Bridgerton?” Benedict hears a young girl murmur as he sweeps into the first societal event of the season, the spring following his father's death. 

“Oh no, my dear, sadly not; I believe that is one of the brothers,” her mother replies, acting as if he has no sense of hearing, even trying to ignore it as he is, surveying the crowd.

“Such a shame,” the young girl huffs, “he is so very handsome.”

“Yes, dear, but sadly not titled. We can do better,” her mother chides, moving them along out of earshot.

He will never get over how cutthroat the Ton can be, a part of his tender seventeen-year-old heart sinking. Not that he had a potential interest in that girl, more the principle that he will somehow be rendered as an also-ran, at best a consolation prize, for the rest of his life.

What is most galling, perhaps, is that, when his mother needs their presence the most on a night like tonight, the new VIscount is nowhere to be seen. Has not even bothered to show his face, running off to some spurious gambling den and brothel, spending the night indulging himself rather than facing society. 

So here Benedict is, stepping up to play the dutiful son that his elder brother should be. Being the support their mother so desperately needs at her first event as a widow, her arm looped heavily through his, her whole bodyweight seeming to use him as her literal pillar of support. As he escorts her around the room, he is filled with admiration at her brave face. He can see the overwhelming sadness in her eyes every time the word dowager is invoked, and his heart cracks a little at the loneliness he can feel emanating from his mother’s very soul. 

“Tis a shame the Viscount did not deign the first event of the season worthy of his patronage,” she states pointedly as she sips champagne.

“I am sure he has very good reasons for his absence,” Benedict replies soothingly, covering for his errant brother, attempting to shield their mother from the truth of his philandering ways. Benedict knows it is Anthony’s way of dealing with the responsibility of the title of Viscount being thrust upon him so young. But sometimes, just sometimes, Benedict wishes he could escape his grief in such a manner, Anthony taking his turn attending a stuffy ball and playing guardian to a grieving woman. Their burdens may be different, but the wish to escape them is often not, Benedict realises.

____

She catches his eye at a garden party at Aubrey Hall. She is a pretty young lady, maybe eighteen to his twenty-three, with bright eyes and a sweet, happy face. She makes his palms slightly sweaty. He watches her from a distance, uncertain how to approach or what to say, feeling a little tongue-tied, even. 

Just then, Anthony materialises at his shoulder.

“Who is that pretty young thing?” Anthony asks, tracing Benedict’s line of sight.

“Miss Bradstreet,” he replies, watching as she turns to face the sun, closing her eyes, basking in its warmth. The light captures her cheekbones perfectly, and he itches to have his sketchbook and capture her likeness. He would very much like to get to know her better.

“Let's go provide a warm welcome,” Anthony smirks, clapping a hand on Benedict’s shoulder and practically dragging him across the lawn.

Benedict reluctantly follows, a flutter of excitement as her eyes land upon them as they approach. 

“Miss Bradstreet,” Anthony swaggers. “Viscount Bridgerton at your service; I am so very pleased to be your host today,” he bows.

Benedict's stomach plunges as he watches her practically melt into the lawn right there, virtually swooning at Anthony’s feet.

“Oh, and this is my brother, Benedict,” Anthony adds, almost as an afterthought. 

She flicks her head to the side briefly to politely acknowledge Benedict before returning to Anthony. All of her undivided adoring attention on him as he regales the story of his latest hunting triumphs upon her insistence. Benedict heaves a sigh and watches as yet another young lady he likes chooses his brother over him. He is almost used to it now, but it doesn't stop the sting every time.

____

Your world grinds to a halt as you see him. He is descending the stairs with what you assume is the rest of his family. He is very much in the middle of a tight circle, walking behind what appears to be his mother and perhaps older brother. Quite the most beautiful man you have ever seen, your heart pounding in your ears, your throat suddenly dry despite the lemonade in your hand. You assume they must be the hosts, seeing as they are the very last to enter the ballroom here at Bridgerton House, and there is no announcement of their name.

“Who is that?” you whisper, leaning towards your elder sister. She has been out among society for a year and knows the Ton better than you.

“That is the Bridgerton family, of course,” she replies. “Illustrious in the extreme. Our hosts for this evening. The Viscount there is the most eligible bachelor of every season… and every season, he has resisted a match. So I wouldn't bother if I were you,” she sniffs.

“Which is the Viscount?” you check, your eyes unable to leave the beautiful man with a cravat tied in the most unconventional fashion.

“The one with his arm looped with their mother, the dowager Viscountess, naturally,” your sister rolls her eyes as if patently obvious.

“And what of the others?” you inquire keenly, realising the man you admire cannot be the one your sister is referring to. “Do you know their names?”

“I do not,” she admits, “such things are not really important when one is looking for a titled husband,” she points out airily. 

You nod, knowing the responsibility your sister must carry as firstborn to find a suitable match that can provide for your widowed mother and, indeed, perhaps yourself and your younger sister should neither of you be able to find a husband. You don’t envy her position one little bit. 

You are, however, desperate to get closer to the most beautiful man you have ever seen. And so you spend your evening working towards them, in as polite of a fashion as you can, your stomach in knots of excitement to know him.

“Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, it is an honour and a pleasure to meet you,” you curtsy, heart pounding as he now stands a few feet away, unable to look at him so close by.

“Hello, my dear and you are?” she asks politely.

“Miss y/n y/l/n, it is my very first season; I am so honoured to be here,” you explain. “I must provide the apologies of my mother, Mrs y/l/n, who could not attend tonight due to a cold, but she is so very thankful for the invitation.”

“Oh, of course,” the viscountess smiles. “I am so sorry to hear of her illness; please pass on my best regards… Anthony!” she turns to her side to grab the attention of a man. The viscount’s head whips around from where he is in discussion with another. “Come meet Miss y/l/n,” she needles pointedly. “Miss y/l/n, this is the Viscount Anthony Brdgerton, and he is so pleased not only to make your acquaintance but also for your presence here tonight,” she welcomes on his behalf, and you do not miss the subtle nudge in the ribs she gives him.

Then his regard is drawn to you. He is handsome certainly, and you appreciate his polite but absent-minded greeting. His attentions are obviously elsewhere, but then you cannot fault him as yours are the same. Your gaze strays over his shoulder to the man who first captures your attention. And your breath is stolen by how his hazy blue eyes stare intently at you.

____

Benedict is twenty-six years old when he is struck by lightning. Not literally. But that is the sensation that runs through his body when he first lays eyes on you—politely introducing yourself to his mother and thanking her for your invitation to this ball. 

He thought he knew what attraction was until this point. He thought he knew the depths to which one could fall in love in an instant. He was an utter fool. He looks at you, and at once, everything is so quiet and loud all at once. He is desperate to know you in a way he has never felt. To grab your hand, take you somewhere, and ask you a million questions to get to know your soul. He also wants to kiss you so much that his lips tingle. And inside, his lungs want to scream as his mother does the natural thing and introduces the beautiful, polite young lady to her most eligible son… Anthony. 

Then his heart jolts as your eyes stray from Anthony and meets his, your pupils dilating in a way that makes his lungs too small to inhale air. It is the first and only time a young woman has had Anthony’s full attention and has looked away from it. And to him, no less. The tidal flood of chemicals in his system makes it feel like he is vibrating in his very shoes.

____

You try your best to be polite and look at Anthony as he speaks, but your sight is drawn to this other man like a moth to a flame. From appearance, the second son, as you are the second daughter. A flare of understanding and sympathy in your chest as to how that is. You want to grab his hand and run away with him.

“My lord,” you find your voice and snap your eyes back to the Viscount, “would you do me the honour of introducing me to the rest of your wonderful family?” your ask, almost timid.

He looks temporarily taken aback, as if mystified why anyone in the Ton would care about the status of anyone beyond his mother and himself. You smile at him expectantly and do not miss, from the corner of your eye, how the beautiful man’s face is awash with surprise at your request.

“Oh, most certainly,” Anthony seems to snap out of his temporary stupor and turns to introduce his siblings in attendance. A tall, baby-faced young man stands to attention as Anthony moves from left to right. “This is Colin; he has just returned from his travels in Greece,” you nod and smile politely, knowing nothing of the subject. “And this is my sister, Eloise; it is her first season, and she is not in the slightest bit happy about that,” he adds dryly, and you can't help but giggle and feel a kinship with the spirited young lady who returns your wry smile. “My eldest sister, the Duchess of Hastings, who is visiting us,”

You curtsy and bow your head. “It is an honour, your Grace,” you add, and she smiles sweetly at you, her arm looped in her mother's.

“Obviously, you have met my mother,” he continues, and suddenly he is the last in the line. You feel your palms clench, sweaty in anticipation of learning his name “... and this is my brother, Benedict; he hopes to be an artist.”

You are finally brave enough to meet his eyes again. He is so achingly beautiful that the rest of his family, indeed the whole ballroom, melt away from your view—he is all you can see.

“Oh, I adore art,” you stutter, mesmerised, offering your hand to him, the first and only person in the family you do so to. Unseen by you, your gaze only on one man, Anthony’s mouth drops open in surprise.

Nothing can prepare you for when Benedict’s gloved hand gently touches yours, him bowing to kiss the back of your hand. You catch a woody citrus scent that makes your mouth water as he does so. And then you feel the warmth of his lips through your glove, and you are utterly undone.

“Miss y/l/n,” he rumbles quietly, the sound making your insides melt even more; it's deep and resonant and makes every inch of your body tingle.

“Please call me y/n,” you murmur, moving closer, knowing how scandalous that might be, but seemingly unable to stop yourself. He has a hypnotic hold over you that you don't want to fight.

“Only if you shall call me Benedict,” he breathes, and it takes Anthony clearing his throat to make you spring apart, suddenly remembering where you are.

____

His lips touch the silk of your glove, and he is gone. 

Already planning a future, his mind supplying images of you at his cottage out in the country, the lady of the house. Tending to the herb garden, reading happily curled up in front of the fire in the drawing room, fearlessly plucking a bow as you stand in front of joint archery targets gently teasing him for losing to a girl, and finally, the image that truly knocks the wind out of him, you naked under him, desperately moaning his name as you move together, entwined in ecstasy.

He hears your sharp inhale, and his heart skips at the idea you feel it too. That you are the first woman ever that sees him and not Anthony. Really sees him. Not as the second son. Not as a consolation prize. 

And when your body seems to sway towards him, he is already mentally asking his mother for a betrothal ring from her grandmother, which she said she is keeping just for him.

____

“Benedict,” his name feels wonderful in your mouth, like a gift from the heavens. “Please, may we take a turn around the gardens?” you implore, the boldest you have ever been in your whole life. 

“It would be my very greatest pleasure,” he responds.

And you know with absolute certainty you have met your husband, the father of your children, your very future. 

____

“It is not as if this is my show….” he sighs.

“You should not do that, darling,” you say affectionately, ruffling his hair as you move to fix his cravat; it definitely needs to be more jaunty, in your opinion.

“Do what?” he breathes, his wedding ring catching the light as he places his hands gently over yours and stills your motions.

“Think of yourself as second,” you argue, running your hand over his cheek. “This gallery opening may feature others' work too, but you are the star of the exhibit,” you reassure, tilting his forehead down so it rests upon yours.

There it is again. That look that always floors you. Even now, a year later. Like you are the most wondrous creature, and he can scarcely believe you are his.

“Never forget, you will always be first to me,” you utter fiercely, watching his eyes soften with devotion. “And not just me….” you guide his sizeable warm hand onto the swell of your belly, “to us. We love you so much, Benedict,” your tone is ardent, wanting him to believe he deserves this recognition, that he should believe in himself the way that you do.

“I love you, too,” he responds quietly, reverentially. “So very much. Both of you are my whole world,” his voice choked with emotion, and you throw your arms around him and squeeze hard, wanting to telegraph just how much he is the very centre of your universe.

An hour later, you clutch your hands over your chest as you watch him being brought onto the raised stage and introduced to the crowd as they applaud him and his work rapturously, awaiting to hear him talk of his art. As he does so, you stroke your belly unseen under your cloak, beaming with pride for your wonderful husband.

____

He sees your face in the crowd, and as ever, it calms him, especially at this landmark moment. So as he finishes the speech that he has rehearsed for days now, he decides to do something perhaps unconventional but something he seems unable to resist.

“Lastly, before I allow you back to your champagne,” he jests, finally at ease with the attention and recognition. “I want to thank my life’s inspiration, the very reason I stand before you today. My wonderful wife. Thank you, my love, for being the light of my life; for always making this second son your first choice. You will always, always be my first choice. I love you.” 

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep

[ventique18]

~ 🐉🌸 family visits a convenience store ~

It's a quite day at 7 11. The cashier is bored out of his wits. So bored in fact, that he'd rather serve a dozen customers today than serve no one at all.

*Kring*

Ah, the seven have answered his prayers.

"Good day--"

That's one huge customer.

No, no, he isn't exaggerating. That guy must be seven feet tall; he has to duck just to enter through the door. The cashier can't help but quake a little. His mom taught him not to judge a book by its cover and a person by their appearance, but he's met enough crazy people that he developed a sort of fear for anyone who looks remotely unlike your average salaryman. And this guy. Is dressed in all black. With horns on top of his head. He practically leaks out danger from each one of his pores.

A... A goat beastman?

Wait... Horns? Tall? Terrifying? Isn't he that famous--

"Papa, chicken!"

Oh, the man has a kid. At least the cashier could rest easy that he wouldn't attack with a child in his arms.

"No! Papa I want fries!"

Another one. The little girl was clutched in his left hand.

"Sausage!" A shrill voice shouted. It's a little boy hanging on his back.

The store chimes ring again. This time three kids come rushing over, each one shouting their requests while grabbing onto the man's legs to catch his attention.

"We just ate. We are only here for drinks." The man answers, leaning down and trying to grab as many kids as he could in his hold.

The guy has six kids?!

The chimes ring again. This time, another (this time grown) customer, who's carrying a newborn, comes in. Another kid who has an awfully similar hair color with the huge guy is tagging along them.

"Grab whatever drinks you like and bring them to the counter. We need to get to the airport soon! Do you want to miss out on Mr. Mickey because we arrived at bedtime?" The new customer orders them; with an evident tiredness, but a patient sweetness that of a doting parent.

They have eight kids.

When the guy stalks over to the counter to pay for his family's drinks. The cashier rings them up, and then, gathering all the courage and goodwill he has in his heart, sprinkled in a few more freebies in the man's bags.

"Sir," The cashier forces a smile, "Thank you for your patronage. I added a few bonus items as a... promo."

The man smiles appreciatively. He doesn't seem so scary up close. "Oh? What are these?"

They're boxes. Six boxes of free contraceptives.

"Boxes of candies?" The man asks curiously, "Why thank you. We will be sure to visit again when we get the chance." He flashes a polite smile before turning back to his... little family.

The guy doesn't know what condoms are.

That explains things.

[augustinewrites]

your little flower stall is strategically set up a few feet from one of the trendiest restaurants in this area of tokyo. 

it’s a smart spot, one that men like reo can appreciate when he’s already ten minutes late for his date. he’d quite literally just left work, a last minute meeting having forced him to get ready in the back of his car in his haste to arrive somewhat on time. his shirt is untucked and his pants are wrinkled from being left in the trunk for so long.

he winces when he catches his reflection in a window, running a hand through his unkempt hair in a poor attempt to fix it. he definitely can’t show up empty handed when he’s late and looking like this. 

“good evening,” he greets, a little breathless as he approaches your stall. his eyes scan the bouquets available, looking for any safe picks and frowning when he realizes you’re out of roses. so he shrugs and picks up whatever’s closest. some kind of yellow flower.

“yellow carnations?” you murmur as he digs into his pocket for his wallet, prompting him to glance up at you. “an odd choice.”

“how do you mean?”

“it’s an unusual choice for a date, is all.” 

he raises his brows. “how do you know they’re for a date?”

“oh, come on,” you grin, leaning against the counter. “a handsome guy like you doesn’t have someone to buy flowers for?”

he knows it’s probably just a marketing pitch, but his ego swells nonetheless. “handsome, huh?” 

you simply shrug - tease - and place the carnations back into their bucket to grab a different bouquet. you cut a strip of white ribbon from its spool, winding it around the stems. “go with these instead. if your date knows anything about flowers, these will definitely get you laid.”

reo actually laughs at that, as he strongly doubts the wannabe influencer he’d been set up with knows much about the meanings of flowers, but he’ll take your word for it. he hands you his card, not-so-secretly hoping that you’d caught a glimpse of his name on its surface before you swiped it through your machine.

when you return it to him, he pulls a handful of bills out of his wallet and stuffs them into your tip jar.

“oh,” you start. “that’s too much–” 

he flashes you a smile that’s been called ‘swoon-worthy’ before, waving you off as he tucks his wallet back into his pocket. “don’t worry about it! you’re saving my life here.” 

“your sex life, you mean?” you quip, but your eyes sparkle at his praise as you hand him the bouquet. “well, thank you for your patronage, sir.” 

he quickly dips his head in thanks, a little reluctant as he heads towards the restaurant. 

_____

monday mornings aren’t especially busy for you, as bleary eyed office workers don’t have much need for flowers. 

which is why you’re surprised when the man from last friday starts approaching your stall, holding a cup of what you assume must be coffee. he doesn’t quite look like you remember, from the impeccable cut of his suit to the way his hair is neatly pulled back. he’s even wearing aviators that you’re sure would look ridiculous on anyone else, but for some reason make him look like a movie star. 

he pulls them off with his free hand and hangs them off the pocket of his bag, waving at you like you’re old friends. he looks so earnest and excited that you can’t do much else than blush and raise your hand in response. 

“morning,” he greets once you’re close enough to hear. “this is for you. for last friday. i wasn’t sure what you’d like so i just got their special.” 

he holds out the cup, whose logo you now recognize from the overpriced cafe down the street. you take it, smiling. “i take it your date went well then?”

he tucks his hands into the pockets of his trousers, shrugging. “sure.” 

“did you come to buy her more flowers?”

“ah…i don’t think i’ll see her again.” 

you perk up at that. just a little. “oh?” 

“yeah,” he sighs, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “i, uh, kinda wanna see where things go with someone else.” 

oh, of course there’s someone else. a guy like him probably never has a shortage of options. (and who are you not to capitalise on that?) “maybe some flowers will help.” 

you think there’s something mischievous in his smile. “definitely. what do you recommend?”

_____

reo is running out of places to put his flowers. 

they’re all over his office. they line the entirety of his windowsill and take over the free space on his desk. a small clump of white daisies in an old coffee mug. a single rose in his pen cup. his assistant has to crane her head around a vase of lilies to deliver her reports at the end of each day. 

what can he say? you’re one hell of a salesperson. if anyone had asked him what his favourite flower was before, he’d have no idea what to tell them. in truth, he’d never given much thought to something so impermanent as flowers.  

but you easily become a permanent part of his routine. each day he stops at your stall, utilising the information he’d gathered from the internet just moments before to impress you with an educated floral choice. 

you always smile when you hand him the bouquet, and he wonders how your product isn’t sold out at the end of each day, with a smile as enamouring as yours. 

when his office is overrun by floral accents, he starts bringing them home instead. his neighbours gush about what a great boyfriend he is each time they catch him returning with a new arrangement. they say that whoever he’s coming home to must be a ‘very special someone.’

they don’t know that it’s just nagi, who barely looks up from whatever game he’s playing but comments mildly that he didn’t think reo was a flower guy. 

“everyone’s a flower guy,” he’d quipped as he unwrapped the brand new vase he’d bought to accompany the bouquet of peonies and anemones you’d given him. 

and if nagi noticed he’d come home blushing the day you called him your most important customer, he didn’t say anything.

_____

“hey,” he asks on a particularly slow sunday afternoon. you’re in the process of wrapping - by his request - a bundle of lilacs, which happen to be your favourite flower. “come to lunch with me. i can get us a table—” he points to the restaurant behind you. “—there.” 

you don’t answer right away, allowing yourself a moment to make sure you’ve heard him right. “what would your girlfriend think?”

he looks confused as you hold the lilacs out to him. “girlfriend?”

“yeah…isn’t she the one you’ve been buying all these flowers for?”

he blinks a few times before hanging his head with a chuckle. “no i— i don’t have a girlfriend.”

he doesn’t have a girlfriend. so that would mean…

“you’re asking me out,” you realize, averting your gaze to the counter with all the awkwardness of a kid receiving their first valentine. “i’d love to, but i can’t just close—”

“what would you make in a day?” he blurts. “ideally.” 

“well, ideally i’d be sold out—”

he flips his wallet open and hands you his card. “i’ll take everything then.”

“everything?” you echo. 

he shrugs, shooting you a wink. “what can i say? i’m a flower guy.”

“reo,” you laugh, pushing his card back towards him. “i’m not going to let you pay me to go out with you. just go grab some takeout and come back here. a pretty face like yours is bound to sell.” 

“you’re whoring me out for business?” 

“i’m just being entrepreneurial,” you counter. 

he crosses his arms over his chest, a handsome grin on his face. “alright, but i’ll need to be compensated for my efforts. maybe even with a kiss…”

you roll your eyes (albeit with a smile) as you point at the restaurant. “at least buy me lunch first.”

[untitledgf-pdf]

"casual"

part one

summary: "casual" situationship with ellie but you want more (inspired by casual by chappel roan ;p)

warnings: light nsfw, no angst (yet;)), ellie is kind of a player (typical masc behaviour /hj)

word count: 1.9k

a/n: i tried writing this for so long but i've been struggling so pls be kind and bare with me. i'm planning either two or three parts for this mini series. this first part is kind of just setting up the beginning of how it all spirals, so it's a lot shorter than i anticipated. the smut is subpar and for that i apologize.

requests are always open and welcomed so don't be shy!!

you didn't know the storm that would come of ellie williams.

there you stood, begrudgingly, leaned against the counter of this fuck ass bar that your friend dragged you to. you continuously sipped on your drink in attempt to drown out the noise of the shitty band playing and your friend's swooning.

"aren't they so good?"

"uh-huh."

"he is so cute..."

"mm..."

lame song followed by another hard listen, you couldn't help but pray to every god in the sky to please just stop this fucking music. to no avail, the band kept playing and your friend giggled and squealed beside you for another fifteen minutes until they finally announced their final song.

with a quiet breath of relief, you gulped down the rest of your drink, setting the empty glass on the counter for a bartender to take away.

"how'd you meet this drummer again?" you questioned your friend.

"we went to college together! can you believe they've been playing together since high school?" she exclaimed proudly.

and they still suck this fucking much?

"no... i cannot." you murmur.

the final note of the music rang through the speakers and the group set their instruments down, shuffling off the small stage.

"i'm going to get another drink." you call to your friend, likely lost in the chatter of the crowd as she saunters off to her new boy toy.

waiting for a bartender to take notice of your patronage, you glance over to your friend, happily chatting with the company of the band.

"what can i get you?"

you turn your attention back to the bartender, and suddenly every thought in your mind replaced by those green eyes. those damn fucking eyes.

you blink before quickly regaining your composure. "can i get-"

glancing over your shoulder at your friend one last time, maybe a drink just wasn't enough.

"can i get... 3 tequila shots?"

a smirk on her lips before she turns her back to you. the bartender turns back around, three shot glasses neatly lined up in front of you. bottle squeezed between her index and middle finger, a thin stream of liquor filled the glasses.

forfeiting your card, she plucks it from your fingers. in the time it takes her to run your card, all four and a half ounces of liquor have already slid down your throat, warming your chest. she turns back around, her gaze dropping to the once again empty glasses in front of her. a quiet chuckle graces her lips.

"you didn't like the show?"

you hesitate. "it's... not really my kind of music."

she smirks, offering you your card back. "yeah, you don't look like you'd be into shitty bands."

another soft chuckle from you. you reach out to take your card back, taking note of the tattoo that wrapped her forearm.

"i like your tattoo..." you murmur, taking your card back.

another smirk. "thanks."

a small tug on your arm snaps your attention from the one good thing that came of the night. "there you are..." a warm smile from your friend.

you return the gesture. "i told you i was getting another drink."

a small pout on her lips. "oh. well come say hi!" she tugs on your arm again, pulling you away from the bar and to the company of the band you had no interest of spending the next two hours with.

you count the seconds passing between forced laughs. time couldn't move any slower, and the conversation was almost as awful as the music they played. another half an hour passed and you felt yourself reaching your limit.

"hey, i'm going to step outside for a sec." you inform your friend before making your way out into the chill night.

a quiet breath of relief escapes your mouth as you lean against the wall. taking out a cigarette, you wrap your lips around the tip, flicking your lighter against the end. furrowing your eyebrows in frustration, you huff.

"come on..." you mumble, watching as the lighter sparks and sparks, taunting you.

you feel a soft nudge against your arm. glancing over, you see the bartender from earlier, cigarette in mouth and lighter in hand.

slowly, you lower your hand as she flicks the lighter on, the small flame lighting the end of your cigarette. you take a deep inhale before turning your head and releasing the smoke from your lungs.

"thanks." you offer her a small smile which she returns.

"you looked like you needed it."

you let out a small laugh before releasing a small sigh. "you have no idea."

she chuckles and takes her own puff. you two stand together in silence for a few moments. maybe it was the buzz of the nicotine inspiring you to be friendly, or maybe the tequila was finally starting to run its course, but a surge of bravery flew through your veins right to your mouth.

"what kind of music do i look like i listen to?"

"hm?" she raises her eyebrows in surprise.

fuck.

you chuckle nervously. "earlier, when you said that i didn't look like i'd be into shitty music. what music do i look like i'd be into?"

she smirks, green eyes scanning you up and down from your ribbon clad hair all the way down to your platform mary janes. "...heavy metal?"

you laugh, tilting your head back. "oh, fuck off."

she snickers and shrugs. "i dunno, appearances can be deceiving."

"that's really your best guess?"

"hey, i gave it my best shot."

"yeah, right." you giggle before taking another drag.

"what about me?"

you glance over at her, smiling lightly. "you definitely seem like... a country girl."

she snorts. "oh, wow."

"lifted pickup and all."

she laughs, crinkles at the corners of her eyes. "you callin' me a hick?"

"maybe." you smile and shrug. "appearances can be deceiving."

she laughs softly, shaking her head. "oh, man." she takes another drag of her cigarette, chuckling softly as she exhales. "you're funny..."

and then the tequila took over from there.

"you think that's good? you should hear my number..."

another laugh from her and you felt your chest swell. "lucky you're cute because that line was awful." and then you were putting your number in her phone.

"couldn't have been that bad if it worked."

"touché."

flicking the cigarette to the ground, you smothered the butt against the sole of your shoe. "don't leave me waiting too long for a text."

"no promises."

the rest of your night after that was a blur. you woke up the next day graced by a raging headache to accompany your hangover. but that wasn't all the night left you with.

<<unknown>>

did i leave you waiting too long?

maybe there is a god out there.

i think you have the wrong number

<<hot bartender>>

oh i'm sorry

i thought you liked my jokes :(

<<hot bartender>>

fuck you. i thought you gave me a fake number

i couldn't help myself

<<hot bartender>>

low hanging fruit

how can i make it up to you?

<<hot bartender>>

head?

<<hot bartender>>

sorry my cat ran across my keyboard

that is one freaky cat

<<hot bartender>>

haha

<<hot bartender>>

wyd?

i've got a hot date with this hangover

<<hot bartender>>

come over

<<hot bartender>>

i've got the perfect cure

you blinked and suddenly you were in her apartment, on her couch, her head buried in your thighs.

insatiable hunger, her tongue licking and slurping as much of your essence as she can find. and there was plenty.

an array on moans left your lips as you tangled your fingers in her hair. you could practically feel her smirk against your cunt as her tongue swirled your puffy clit. a soft whimper in response.

"mm..." she moans into your heat, her hungry lips gently kissing your clit. "you're the damn best metalhead i've ever tasted..."

you can't help but giggle. "shut up..."

she grins wickedly, her lips wrapping around your pretty nub, sucking needlessly to draw another loud moan from you. her nimble fingers slip into you, granting a loud gasp from you.

"yeah... that's it." a sloppy kiss to your clit as her fingers curl up into your velvety core.

you throw your head back on to the arm rest, her mouth stimulating your bundle of nerves and fingers scratching that itch buried inside.

"fuck, ells..." you moan softly, feeling the pit grow in your stomach.

ellie chuckles, her fingers pumping harder. "i told you..." she murmurs, her mouth worshipping your clit once again. "i'm the perfect hangover cure."

your moans only increase in intensity as her mouth resumes its course, accompanying the rhythm of her fingers thrusting inside you. ellie uses her free hand to gently squeeze the meat of your thighs, lifting your leg to rest against her shoulder as she dives her face further into you.

"'m going to drown in this pussy..." ellie murmurs. "i can't get enough."

her nose brushes up against her clit which erupts in an audible reaction from you. this only causes ellie to work her mouth and fingers not only faster, but harder against you.

following the movements of her work, the once small knot in your stomach grows stronger and stronger. your grip on her hair tightens, moans growing louder by the second. you prayed she didn't have thin walls because you had entirely lost control of your actions in the very present moment.

"c'mon... give me what i want." ellie coos. "i want this pretty pussy to sing for me..."

and then you lost it. shrieking in pleasure, the knot finally snapped. ellie's eyes flashed with delight, quickly pulling her fingers out as she desperately lapped up every drop of your release she could find, wanting to savour every single taste of you.

you pant heavily, staring up at her ceiling. ellie smirks, licking off the last drops of your from her fingers before hovering above your face.

you look up at her, coming down from the skies, your ears ringing from the intensity of your orgasm. ellie leans down, pressing a sweet kiss to her lips.

"perfect cure..." she murmurs.

you chuckle softly, still panting. "yeah... perfect cure."

crawling off you, ellie gently slides your bunched up panties up your legs, back over your hips. you sit up, collecting your clothes thrown to the ground, slowly pulling the fabrics back over your body.

ellie gently squeezes your thigh. "we should do this more often."

"did i really taste that good?"

"yes."

you laugh, shaking your head. "how about you take me out first and then i'll let you fuck me again."

ellie winces slightly which causes you to furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

"what?" you question.

"no it's just-i'm not really good at the whole 'dating' thing."

"...oh."

"don't get me wrong-i'm definitely into you. i just... don't really like the pressures and bullshit with labelling it and everything."

you pause for a moment.

this is definitely a red flag right? i should run out of here right now while i have the chance.

ellie notices your confliction and places a hand on your knee. her green eyes catch your gaze and she gives you a soft smile.

big mistake.

"i like you. you're fun and nice to talk to and i want to see you again. i just think... maybe we should keep things casual for now. no expectations, no attachment... just feel things out."

you let out a quiet breath before hesitantly nodding. "yeah, okay. casual."

@seraphicsentences (2 years later i finally post again)

[narumi-gens]

Traditional Values

yakuza!Kita Shinsuke x f!Reader

summary: You’ve never known a yakuza to be boring. But what else could they mean when they say that Kita Shinsuke, the head of the most powerful yakuza group in Kansai, is traditional? 

warnings: 18+, smut, yakuza au, arranged marriage, inherent sexism and misogyny, smoking, mentioned drug and alcohol use, violence (sorry to the oc in this fic lol), blood, spit, oral (f receiving & mentioned m receiving), mild exhibitionism, orgasm control, possessive!kita, hinted yandere-ish behavior, implied dom!kita, fingers crossed he's not too out of character 🤞🏽, reader is a spoiled little yakuza princess, idk if reader is all that likable but I like her and that's all that matters

notes: I feel like I'm starting to specialize in chaos characters bc while Kita is not one in this fic, the reader certainly is. but a different kind of chaos.

words: 5.9k

minors, ageless, and blank blogs do not interact

The one word you hear over and over again when people talk about Kita Shinsuke, the head of the Inarizaki, the largest and most powerful yakuza group in Kansai, is traditional. 

Despite his current position, he comes from a long line of traditional rice farmers. Once he took power over the Inarizaki, he put in place a stricter, more traditional code of conduct that all members were expected to adhere to. Instead of partying away his nights in Kobe’s clubs and brothels, he spends his evenings in a traditional house in the Hyogo countryside. 

And he has traditional family values, with traditional expectations of what he wants in a wife. 

But you know that traditional really just means boring. 

Unfortunately, a traditional and boring life seems like all you're destined for because your father, the head of Kanto's largest yakuza syndicate, the Fukurodani, has decided to seal an alliance with the Inarizaki through marriage.

Specifically, your marriage to Kita. 

After all, you're a woman and a woman can't lead the yakuza. Your only value comes from how useful you can be as a tool to build alliances and cement power. You had at least just hoped that your father would have chosen someone more exciting for you to spend the rest of your life with.

While he would never stomach seeing you at the head of the organization, he could easily have married you off to his right-hand man and hand-picked heir, the Fukurodani's young and wild wakagashira, Bokuto Koutarou. After all, nothing would ensure an eventual smooth succession better than a marriage to his only child. 

And even if he decided you were more useful as a means of building his power rather than ensuring his legacy, there were still other options. 

There were plenty of crazy yakuza out there who would have kept your interest piqued if only your father had chosen to further consolidate his power in Tokyo or to look for an alliance up north rather than out west. 

But your father has made his choice and Kita has agreed and you have no say in the matter. It's not long before the young yakuza kumicho, along with his most trusted men in the Inarizaki, arrives in Tokyo to negotiate the finer details in person. 

And when you finally meet him at dinner with your parents, you can't say that you're impressed. 

He's polite. He's soft-spoken. He's respectful. He's so. utterly. boring.

As you sit next to him in a private room at one of Tokyo's finest restaurants, listening to him as he genially answers your mother's questions about his own upbringing and tells her about his close relationship with his grandmother, all you can think is, 'what a waste.'

Regardless of how handsome he is and how much his men seem to respect him and how powerful his position is, he's missing that wildness inherent to every true yakuza. 

By the time the plates are cleared and the manager of the restaurant is falling over himself to thank your father for his patronage, you’ve made your assessment of your new fiancé.

Kita is dull. 

It’s all you can think as he cordially thanks your father at the end of the evening. 

‘You’re so boring.’

It’s all you can think as he humbly accepts your mother’s compliments and adoration.

‘You’re so boring.’

It’s all you can think as he politely bids you goodnight with a bow, telling you softly how nice it was to meet you.

‘You’re so boring.’

You have to bite back the urge to say the words aloud, directly to his face, just to see what he would do. Would he drop his courteous smile? Would he clench his fists? Would he slap you?

‘You’re so boring.’

He would probably just look slightly taken aback before doing his best to laugh off any offense. 

“It was nice to meet you too, Kita-san,” you finally reply, your tone suggesting anything but. You feel the disapproval rolling off of your parents in waves and can already hear the lecture that awaits you once you’re alone with them. 

Your father will chastise you for the disrespect that you’ve shown to a new ally, and by extension him. He’ll sternly remind you that this is your duty as his daughter. If he’s really feeling irritable then he’ll light up a cigarette and grumble about how he’s spoiled you for too long and hopes that Kita has a firm hand.

Your mother, however, will almost certainly turn so shrill in her anger that you’ll want to cover your ears. She’ll berate you for insulting your husband-to-be. She’ll scold you for your clear disinterest and boredom through every course of dinner. She’ll then blame your father for being too lenient with you over the years, to which your father will respond by simply taking a long drag of his cigarette.

But in the present, Kita simply gives you a polite smile in return and the chorus continues in your head.

‘You’re so boring.’

Just because you’re now technically engaged doesn’t mean that you need to change how you live your life. If anything, you need to savor all the fun you can before you’re shipped off to Hyogo to spend the rest of your days popping out kids and taking care of some big, empty, country house with a man who’s less interesting than the rice his family grows. 

It’s not even an hour after you get home from dinner before you’re leaving once again. Only this time, you’re wearing something far more revealing and decisively less conservative than the formal kimono that your mother forced you into for your meeting with Kita — something meant to appeal to his traditional taste. 

Your current outfit is one that’s perfectly suited to the high-end clubs of Roppongi. Not that it really matters considering you’re tucked away in a private VIP room, away from the large crowds and deafening music and prying eyes. 

Normally, you would be surrounded by a group of your friends. But after being confronted with the man that you’ve been sentenced to marry and seeing the unending boredom in your near future, you've recognized that it also applies to your sex life. 

You’ve only spent a couple of hours with Kita, but it was more than enough to know that he probably prefers fucking in missionary with the lights off. The only orgasms that you can expect as a married woman will probably come from your vibrator — unless he decides that a vibrator isn’t traditional enough, in which case you’ll have to rely on your fingers exclusively. 

So, instead of the VIP room being filled with your friends, it’s just you and the man whose face is buried between your thighs, Ito Tatsuya. While your feelings towards Tatsuya tend to lie closer to ambivalence than anything else, his skilled tongue is more than enough to make up for it. 

With the way his lips are wrapped around your clit, it’s easy to ignore how he acts tougher than he truly is. He talks a big game but has refrained from acting on all of his talk and joining a yakuza group. Ultimately it works in your favor as no yakuza would dare lay a finger on the beloved daughter of the Fukurodani’s feared kumicho, knowing that doing so would bring the wrath of the entire criminal organization down on their heads. 

Tatsuya is the closest that you’ll get as he’s only tangentially affiliated with one of the few other powerful yakuza groups in Tokyo, the Nekoma organization. Although their power will never come close to the strength of the Fukurodani, your father has a good relationship with their kumicho, Nekomata Yasufumi. The two yakuza groups have had a strong alliance for decades. 

Likewise, Bokuto has his own sense of camaraderie and friendship with Nekomata’s wakagashira, Kuroo Tetsuro, whom you’ve had the pleasure of meeting on multiple occasions as you run in the same circles. Unfortunately, it’s never turned into anything more, despite your best efforts. 

Kuroo Tetsuro. That’s a man. That’s a real yakuza. 

If your luck was better and if relations with the Nekoma group were worse, you probably would have been married off to him rather than the snoozefest that you’ve ended up with. 

It’s easy to slip into the fantasy that it’s Kuroo whose grip feels scorching on your thigh, whose fingers are pumping in and out of your dripping cunt, whose tongue is lapping at your needy clit. The image in your head pushes you closer to the edge as your hips buck in time with his fingers. 

But just as you can see your orgasm within reach, your attention is yanked away from your pleasure when the door to the VIP room opens with a BANG! as it’s kicked in. You protest with a whine as Tatsuya lifts his head from between your thighs, pure murder written across his face at having been disturbed. 

Unaffected by the interruption, you use your grip on his hair to try and tug him back to his original task, but it’s of no use. He’s already removing his arm from around your thigh to reach back and pull out the gun that’s been tucked in the waistband of his pants. 

You're momentarily impressed that he would flaunt the country’s severe firearm restrictions. Although the effect is lost a few moments later when he sits up only to freeze, his features going slack.

When you finally turn your head to see who’s behind the disruption, you frown unhappily.

“Kita-san,” you greet with an irritated sigh. And even you know that you’ll never get Tatsuya’s mouth back on your pussy at this point and you release your hold on his hair with a resigned huff. 

Tatsuya scrambles to remove himself entirely from between your legs, carelessly dropping his gun onto the low table before the couch that you’re sprawled out across. He lifts his hands to show that they’re now empty and he’s not a threat, as if anyone would ever believe he was one.

You wonder if his panic stems from knowing exactly who it is that’s found you both in such a compromising position or if it’s solely due to how intimidating Kita and the two men on either side of him look. 

For as boring as he is, you’ll give him credit. The sight of him standing in the doorway, the black jacket of the same suit he wore to dinner draped across broad shoulders, his arms crossed casually over his chest, his expression giving nothing away, is impressive. Even if he didn’t have two of his underlings with him — one with grey hair and one with dark hair, both of them wearing similar looks of apathy — it would be more than enough to put the average person on edge.

However, you’ve spent your whole life surrounded by dangerous men, with dangerous men at your beck and call. 

So, as Tatsuya begins to babble, making excuses and insisting that he doesn’t want any trouble, you simply roll your eyes and push down your skirt just enough so that your pussy is no longer on display. But even in the low light of the VIP room, the insides of your thighs — and how they shine with the evidence of your rapidly-cooling arousal — are clearly visible. 

“Suna,” Kita says, his gaze fixed on you. The dark-haired man needs no further instruction before he’s moving past his oyabun towards Tatsuya. 

He easily grabs the cowering man from the couch by the front of his shirt and roughly shoves him to his knees on the floor, keeping him in place with one hand fisted tightly in his hair, just as yours had been only a few minutes earlier. 

Kita slips his jacket from his shoulders and in doing so, you catch a glimpse of the blood-red lining on the inside. He passes it to the man still at his side, who carefully folds it over his arm in a way that won’t leave any creases. He then methodically begins to unbutton and roll up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, exposing his forearms and the large swaths of tattooed skin that extend almost to his wrists.

Part of you is surprised. Kita seems too dull to have even the smallest tattoo, let alone full tattooed sleeves. But another part of you knows how much significance tattoos have historically held to the yakuza and he’s nothing if not traditional. Your thighs unconsciously squeeze together as you imagine how far they spread over the rest of his body. 

The action doesn’t seem to escape his notice because he raises an eyebrow at you but makes no further comment before he turns to Tatsuya, who continues to plead for mercy. 

“Enough.” 

Kita doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t put any force behind the single word. Other than ensuring his sleeves are snugly held in place just below his elbows, he doesn’t even move. But there’s a danger to him that Tatsuya is quick to pick up on and his blubbering comes to an immediate halt. 

He fearfully waits for the silver-haired yakuza to go on and when he does, it’s probably not in the way he was expecting. Because rather than explaining who he is or why he’s there — which Tatsuya has probably figured out on his own by this point — Kita places a hand on the back of the kneeling man’s head. The other man, Suna, releases Tatsuya altogether, wordlessly deferring to his oyabun and taking a step back to give his boss space. 

The tension in the room is thick as Kita looks down at the trembling man on his knees, his face still as blank as it’s been since his sudden arrival. It snaps in an instant when he sharply yanks Tatsuya’s head down and his nose meets Kita’s raised knee with a sickening crunch! that would leave a less seasoned group of onlookers feeling queasy. 

As it stands, both Suna and the other Inarizaki man appear to be amused, entertained even. You get the sense that displays of this nature from the yakuza boss aren’t common. 

But as you see the blood pouring from Tatsuya’s nose and hear his howling and watch as your fiancé’s fist repeatedly makes contact with the man’s face, you feel none of that same amusement. You also don’t feel afraid or disgusted or concerned.

You’ve long grown desensitized to the violence associated with the yakuza. If anything, you can feel the boredom setting in once again. 

You reach out to the table in front of you for the ashtray where your cigarette rests, having set it down when Tatsuya buried his face in your pussy. However, as soon as you pick it up, a long column of ash falls from the end and you realize with a pout that it’s already burned down to the filter. 

The little noise of irritation you let out can’t be heard over Tatsuya’s pained cries or the brutal sound of fist meeting flesh again and again. You pull a new cigarette from the open pack on the table and perch it between your lips before grabbing your cheap lighter. 

Once it’s lit, you take a deep, contented inhale of smoke before exhaling a large cloud that sits atop the room before dispersing. You glance back to Kita and Tatsuya to find that the scene looks exactly the same as when you looked away — except for Tatsuya’s face is completely bloodied and already swelling, and he seems on the verge of passing out. 

“Really, Kita-san?” you finally ask with a yawn as you roll onto your side, your head pillowed by your bicep. 

He pauses, his fist raised mid-air, and looks over at you, his eyes roving over your lackadaisical sprawl across the couch. He wordlessly releases the front of Tatsuya’s shirt from his grasp, who then drops to the floor in a bloody mess. 

Suna immediately steps in to harshly kick the man over onto his stomach and places a heavy, threatening foot right on his spine. Not that it matters considering Tatsuya seems to be in and out of consciousness by this point. 

But your attention isn’t on Tatsuya; it’s on Kita as he approaches you, his pace unhurried. You’re slightly impressed that he’s barely out of breath from the beating he just delivered. He picks up the discarded gun from the table and in one smooth motion, pulls back the slide to look at the chamber before releasing the magazine to check it as well. 

“It’s empty,” he notes before tossing it to the man holding his jacket, who easily catches it and claims it for his own. A loud bubble of laughter escapes you at Tatsuya’s expense, finding it hilarious that the only marginally cool thing that you’ve ever seen him do was all for show. 

You slip your cigarette to rest between your smiling lips as your gaze flits between the other Inarizaki men and find that they too appear to think it’s funny. Suna even presses his foot harder into Tatsuya’s back with a smirk that only grows wider when he receives a groan in response. 

However, the yakuza boss doesn’t seem to share the humor that you and his men are feeling. He grabs the edge of the table and lifts it up just enough to tilt it and send everything on top of it to the floor with a dull crash. You frown at the waste of a barely touched bottle of champagne, a top-shelf bottle of whiskey, and Tatsuya’s small, unopened bag of cocaine.

Kita pays none of the mess any mind as he takes a seat on the edge of the table’s now cleared surface, directly in front of you. With you still laid out on the couch, you’re eye level with his knees. 

You look up at him and raise a challenging eyebrow, daring him to make his next move, daring him to keep you interested. You’re sorely disappointed when the first thing that he does is tug down your skirt to protect your modesty, something you find truly pointless considering the three men walked in on you in the middle of having your pussy eaten. 

The sensation of the backs of his fingers running along the skin of your thigh as he pulls on the fabric sends a small shiver down your spine and reminds you that you were interrupted before you could cum. You shift your leg to expose your inner thigh to him in a tempting invitation for him to finish what Tatsuya started, but he simply ignores your provocation and gives your skirt one final tug to ensure it’s in place. 

With a displeased roll of your eyes, you take another deep drag of your cigarette. But before you’ve finished, Kita plucks it from your lips and holds it aloft. He ignores your cry of protest as he waits half a moment for Suna to take it from him. You sit up in an effort to try and grab it back, but Kita’s fingers suddenly grip your chin hard enough that you think you’ll still feel them tomorrow.

He’s grasping you with the same hand that he used to pummel Tatsuya and you can feel how his fingers are warm and sticky with the man’s blood. It only takes a quick glance down to see that his knuckles are drenched in it.

With his hold keeping you in place, you’re unable to see what Suna does with your cigarette. However, you soon hear Tatsuya let out a low moan of pain and you have an idea. 

“That’s a filthy habit,” he says. His tone is rather benign but you’re certain that you’re being scolded. “I won’t have ya keepin’ it up as my wife.”

You let out an unattractive snort and hope your expression conveys just how unimpressed you are.

“They’re my lungs. If I wanna turn them black, that’s my right.” If he didn’t have your chin held so firmly, you would probably have stuck out your tongue and pulled down on your lower eyelid to taunt him.

“Yer rights extend only to the ones that I allow ya to have,” he comments and from any other man, there would be a threatening weight to his words. Kita, however, speaks them so casually that it sounds like he’s making nothing more than an absent observation of an indisputable fact.

You can only pout in return and he releases his grip to give your cheek a gentle, condescending pat. He then lifts his unbloodied hand out at his side with his palm facing up.

“Osamu.” 

The Inarizaki man with the grey hair is quick to come forward, his hand slipping inside the jacket that he’s still carrying to pull out something from the inner pocket and place it into Kita’s patiently waiting palm. He then returns to his previous spot near the door, ensuring that there’s a respectful distance between himself and Kita and you once more. 

The small, carefully polished wooden box that he’s been given piques your interest. When he opens the lid, your eyes widen at the ring sitting inside of it. It’s elegant and beautiful — a traditional round diamond set atop a thin, pavé diamond band. It manages to avoid being ostentatious while still leaving no doubt about its expensive price tag, and therefore the status of the man who gave it to you. 

For such a boring man, he apparently has good taste. 

Your left hand moves on its own as you lift it for him expectantly. There’s the briefest flash of amusement in his eyes — the first real emotion that you’ve seen from him. But he wordlessly takes the ring from the box and slips it onto your third finger. 

The first instinct you have as soon as you feel the cool metal on your skin is to bring it to your face so that you can examine your new engagement ring more closely. But he grabs your hand so suddenly to keep it in place that it startles you. 

You raise your gaze to see that his own is glued to the ring that you’re now wearing. His thumb gently sweeps across the band and the gesture is a sharp contrast to how tightly his fingers are clasped around yours.

“See this?” He nods towards the ring, as if there were anything else that he could be referring to. “It’s not just a beautiful ring on yer pretty finger. It's a symbol of our commitment — yer commitment to me.” 

It’s slight, barely even noticeable, but there’s an edge to his tone that’s been missing all night. You can suddenly imagine how it is this young, unassuming man with his calm and collected temperament worked his way to the top of the most powerful yakuza syndicate in Japan.

He takes a long moment to pause thoughtfully and it seems so natural that you wonder if this is a common occurrence when he speaks. You suppose you’ll have the rest of your life to figure it out.

“I have a lot of respect for yer father,” he breaks the silence, confusing you with the direction that he’s chosen to take your conversation. “He’s built one of the most sophisticated operations in the country. He’s a smart man who’s surrounded himself with people he can trust, who would take a bullet or a prison sentence for him without question. I won’t hesitate to say that he’s earned his reputation.”

He sounds sincere, but you still have no idea where he’s going with this. If this were anyone else, in any other situation, you would ask if he was more interested in marrying your father than interested in marrying you. You have enough self-awareness to know that doing so with Kita wouldn’t go well — but only just.

“He’s a man of honor and I don’t mean to insult him.” He pauses again, this one shorter than the previous one. However, something about it feels heavier and when he finally looks back up at you, his eyes are much colder.

“The Fukurodani may be the most powerful syndicate in Kanto, but when it comes down to it, no one can match the power and numbers of the Inarizaki,” he states. 

Maybe it’s the matter-of-fact way he says it, maybe it’s how composed his expression is despite the events of that evening, but you’re suddenly incredibly aware of how his grip on your fingers has slowly tightened over the last few minutes, almost bordering on painful.

“I already own everythin’ from Kansai to Kyushu. If I wanted Tokyo, I could come and take it.” You believe him. While your father won’t let you in on his operations, you’re far from clueless about the politics of the criminal underworld, including who has power and how much. 

And Kita is right. The Fukurodani are the most powerful group in Kanto, one of the most powerful groups in all of Japan — second only to the Inarizaki. If a war broke out between the two over control of the country’s capital, it would be a hard and bloody conflict but the Inarizaki would undoubtedly be the victors. 

This marriage benefits your father more than it does Kita. 

“Maybe one day I will. The alliance doesn’t really matter,” he tells you. But while he looks slightly pensive as he speaks, the corners of your lips begin to slowly turn upwards. 

“Then what is it you want, Kiiiiitaaa-saaaan?” you ask, playfully stretching out his family name — what will soon be your family name. 

The coldness in his demeanor seems to melt, although not into anything that could ever be considered close to warm. If you had to describe it, you would probably call it patronizing.

“Y’know they call ya Tokyo’s yakuza princess?” he replies and your smirk widens. It takes some effort with how tight his grip is, but you manage to wiggle your fingers just loose enough to intertwine them with his.

“Do they?” you ask innocently, as if you haven’t proudly worn the title over the years. You look at him knowingly through your lashes. “Even in the Hyogo countryside?”

“Even in the Hyogo countryside,” he answers mildly, briefly humoring you and you reward him with a pleased grin. 

“Oh really?” you muse, bringing your joined hands up to your lips to lightly skim them along his bloody and torn knuckles. 

His tolerance seems to have hit its limit because he quickly yanks his hand from yours to grab your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks so roughly that you give a small wince. His hand is large enough that it covers your mouth almost entirely. 

If anyone else were in your position, they would most likely be trembling in fear. You can only smile into his palm, the mischief mirrored in your eyes.

Kita doesn’t come across as a man who often — if ever — gives into temptation. But although his patience with you has grown thin, he seems willing to allow himself just one small indulgence.

His hand shifts so that he can slowly run his thumb across your lips, leaving behind a sticky smear of blood in its wake. As his touch reaches your cupid’s bow, you slightly part your lips to press a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb before opening your mouth and catching it between your teeth.

You use just enough pressure so that he can’t simply slip it free. The metallic tang of blood is strong on your tongue as you brush it teasingly against the tip, your gaze meeting his coyly. You close your lips around his thumb and give it a light suck that would have a lesser man on his knees, begging for you to let him between your thighs. 

Kita reacts with a thoughtful hum and nothing else, not even the most minute muscle twitch.

“Tokyo’s spoiled little yakuza princess whose father lets her get away with whatever she wants,” he remarks, entirely unbothered even as you continue to suckle on his thumb while he speaks. “I won’t be anywhere near as lenient with ya. And I won’t have ya makin’ a fool outta me just because we’re not married yet.”

Although the danger is there, completely unmistakable, his voice lacks the menacing tone that should accompany his words. Instead, they’re low and soft, caressing your ears like a lover’s would, luring you in seductively. 

Impulse control has never been something that you’ve practiced; it’s never been something that you’ve needed to practice. In an act of utter shamelessness, you take his free hand, the one casually hanging from his knee, and place it high on your bare thigh. 

When you try to slide it further under the hem of your skirt, which has already begun to ride up since he tugged it down, you find that his hand is immovable. His fingers dig into the fat of your thigh, sinking into your soft skin with the weight of both his grip and his possessiveness. 

“Yer mine now,” he tells you, his voice still gentle and entirely at odds with his burning touch and the taste of blood in your mouth. “I don’t need to wait for paperwork or a ceremony to make it official.”

His heavy gaze drops down to look pointedly at how you’re thighs are squeezing together, even as he keeps one of them firmly in place. He then slowly drags it back up to meet yours, leaving a scorching trail in its wake. 

“I’m not just gonna give ya whatever it is ya ask for.” The words are a threat, even if he speaks them like a promise. “If ya want somethin’ from me, yer gonna have to earn it.”

Right now, there’s only one thing that you want from him and it's at the forefront of your mind.

“But I didn’t get to cum,” you whine around his thumb, your pitiful complaint slightly muffled. 

Osamu and Suna’s matching looks of disbelief go unnoticed by you and Kita, neither man ever having imagined that someone would dare to say something so brazen to their fearsome oyabun. 

There’s a flash in Kita’s eyes and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards for a fraction of a second. Both happen so quickly that you only notice because he has your rapt attention and it slowly dawns on you. 

He likes it. He likes your audacity. He likes your impertinence. He likes how you sound like the spoiled brat that you are. He likes that he has Tokyo’s spoiled little yakuza princess squeezing his hand between her thighs and sucking on his thumb as she pathetically pleads with him to make her cum. 

His thumb is slick with your saliva as he slips it from your mouth despite your efforts to keep it where it is by trying to sink your teeth deeper into it. He leaves a quickly-cooling trail of spit on your skin as he readjusts his hold on your jaw, once again digging his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks. The action only exaggerates the pout that you’re already giving him. 

“And ya won’t again ‘til we’re married. I don’t care if it’s with someone else. I don’t care if it’s with yerself. The next time ya do will be on our wedding night.” He pauses, letting the silence hang over the room so that the impact of his next words is truly felt. “If yer good.”

You let out a displeased noise in protest but it goes ignored as he uses his grasp on your jaw to move your head a bit to the side so that you’re looking over his shoulder and directly at the grey-haired Inarizaki man behind him.

“This is Osamu. He’s gonna be stayin’ in Tokyo for a bit.” He gives you a single wave in acknowledgment from where he stands. “Yer father’s already agreed to it.”

The implication is clear: Osamu is to be Kita’s eyes and ears in Tokyo. If you act in any way that’s unbefitting of your new status as the woman set to marry the Inarizaki’s kumicho, he’ll certainly know. 

“You’ll be seein’ a lot of him,” he tells you as he returns your focus back to him. He then leans forward, closing the gap between you to tenderly press a light kiss to your forehead, his lips moving against your skin with his next words. “So, be good for me.”

He sits back and meets your gaze expectantly and it’s clear that he wants your assurance that you’ll do as told. You give a childish roll of your eyes and his grip tightens in warning.

“I’ll be good,” you reply, the words feeling foreign on your tongue but they seem to appease him. 

However, his eyes soon land on your lips and then narrow. It’s a small movement, but the temperature of the room seems to drop with it. His next question is spoken as softly as everything else he’s said that night, but there’s a new kind of gravity to it, one that promises danger should he receive an answer that he doesn’t like. 

“Did ya use yer mouth on him?” 

It’s clear that Tatsuya’s life depends on your response. Luckily for him, there’s only one answer that you can give. 

“I don’t suck cock,” you say and it’s only because Kita is grasping so tightly onto your jaw that you don’t physically turn your nose up at the suggestion of you getting on your knees. 

But then something unexpected happens. The calm and carefully controlled expression on Kita’s face softens into something finally approaching fondness, a faint smile forming on the straight line of his lips. 

“You will for me,” he promises and you raise a challenging eyebrow, even as your own grin begins to grow.  

“I will?” you ask playfully and he nods.

“You will if ya wanna be good,” he’s kind enough to remind you and there’s a strange fluttering in your stomach that you’ve never experienced before. 

“Yes, Shin-kun,” you smile, and despite barely having had any of the champagne that’s now spilled across the floor, you feel drunk.  

You hardly wait for Kita to order his men to leave with a firm but impassive, “out,” before sliding from the couch and sinking to the floor between his parted legs. Your knees already ache from the unfamiliar sensation of resting against such a hard surface. 

The weight of his hand on the back of your neck burns as you rub your cheek against the expensive fabric of the slacks covering his muscled thigh. As you reach for the buckle of his belt, you look up at him to find him watching you ravenously. 

It absently occurs to you that throughout the entire evening, you never once heard him raise his voice. Even when he was brutally assaulting Tatsuya, he never seemed angry or bothered. No matter the situation, he remained unfazed.

But as you slide a hand inside of his pants to grip his half-hard cock through the soft material of his boxers, you can see it. Underneath his composed visage and mild temperament, burning bright in his shining and hungry eyes, is a dangerous flame — one that threatens to consume you and every inch of Tokyo in a devastating and all-consuming blaze. 

Maybe Kita Shinsuke isn’t as boring as you thought.

[echollama]

A Full Body Full Monty Commission for @anactualcaveman, of their androiod oc Kelly; thank you for commissioning me again!

(Commissioner retains full res image)

[Commission Info]

[raz-writes-the-thing]

Passing The Baton (Six of Crows One-Shot)

Kaz Brekker x Fem!Reader / requests are open and encouraged

Summary: To your knowledge, your crush on Kaz is unrequited. Apparently this is not the case.

CW: Kaz is dumb but we love him

SAB/SOC Tag List: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

Kaz ‘Dirtyhands’ Brekker. Bastard of The Barrel. Also- your unrequited love. Kaz had caught your eye just as he had caught everyone else’s. Everyone knew not to mess with the Dregs, and that was thanks to Kaz. Before he’d risen through the ranks of the club, the Dregs had been no one. Quite literally the dregs of society- and while, yes, that was where the name came from, it was quite the rise to fame as the Dregs started getting more and more popular, and more and more dangerous.

Even the Crow Club was starting to become a real pain in the other clubs’ asses. 

But Kaz? He’d fascinated you well before any of this. You’d been working at the Crow Club as a serving girl since before Kaz arrived. Not long, mind, but long enough before that you got to experience both sides of the Dregs’ fortune. 

Kaz hadn’t seemed to take much notice of you at first- and why would he? Weren’t you just another serving girl being groped by the drunk patrons? Anything to make a few Kruge. But he did take notice when you threatened to cut the balls off a patron when said patron got a little too handsy one day.

He’d taken you back into his office and thwacked his cane on the table hard enough to scratch the varnish and told you rather harshly to never do that again. To come to him next time there was an issue like that and he’d deal with it… discretely. 

What that had meant was clear only to Kaz, and that was fine by you. But that was when your little crush had really taken off. What could you say? You liked a bad boy. Someone who could handle his own and Kaz could definitely handle his own. Cane or no. 

Despite telling you off, Kaz had clearly taken note that you weren’t afraid to get your hands a little dirty either, something he had an appreciation and mutual respect for. And so you went from lowly serving girl to, well, still a serving girl, but a serving girl who also took jobs for Dirtyhands and worked with him to secure patronage for the club, and Kruge for his and your own pockets. And for Per Haskell’s pockets as well, you supposed. Lazy bastard. 

But you longed for more.

 

You longed for Kaz’s touch, for his lips on your skin. You longed for his affections as much as you longed for his approval. It was a dangerous combination.

As far as you could tell, he did not feel the same way. But then again, would you have ever known otherwise? Kaz kept his cards close to his chest- as he should. 

Today seemed different though. You’d barely made it back from a job and Kaz seemed… angry, to put it lightly. You had no idea why, though, considering you got what he wanted, and made it out alive, too. Win-win. 

Inej may have had to save you, but that was beside the point. 

“You need to be careful,” he said, mouth pursed angrily. “You can’t be making reckless choices and silly mistakes. This is The Barrel. I can’t afford mistakes.” 

You met his harsh gaze head-on and shoved the ledger he’d asked for into his chest with vigour. Kaz didn’t even break the gaze between you, just reached with one gloved hand to take the ledger off you. 

“I got what you wanted, didn’t I?” 

A muscle in Kaz’s jaw twinged. 

“That is not the point.” 

You let out an exasperated scoff, removing your hand from his chest with another soft shove. Surprisingly, Kaz lets the action move him. 

“Then what is the point?” You ask, frustration evident in your features. 

“The point is- oh, for Saints’ sake,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We could have lost you. I could have lost you.” 

Your eyebrows practically disappeared into your hairline. 

“You could have lost me…” you trail off, echoing his words, feeling them out for hidden meanings. 

“You’re a good investment. I don’t like to lose investments.” 

Oh. Okay. An investment. You should have known that that was all you were to him. That’s all you were ever going to be to Kaz no matter how much you wished differently. Ridiculous. 

“Of course,” you reply, turning to walk away. “Your investment needs a dri-hey!” 

Kaz’s gloved hand snatches at your forearm and yanks you back towards him. You re-balance yourself and glare at him, looking between the tight grip he has on your arm and his heated glare. 

“Stop,” he says before forcing his features to soften. “I’m not one for feelings.” He practically shudders through the word. “You’re more than that. An investment, I mean.” 

You stay quiet, not giving him anything to work with here, but you’re surprised he can’t hear the uptick in your heartbeat. 

“Look,” his grip loosens. “I don’t want to lose you. Purely selfish reasons. Not because you’re an investment, but-” Kaz clears his throat and avoids eye contact. “I care for your wellbeing.” 

It’s not an outright declaration of love, but it’s about as close to it as someone like Kaz would give. He’d bared his soul to you here. All the fractured, broken pieces of it. He’d bared his heart for you to treasure or smash into bitty little pieces. 

You sucked in a breath. 

“Are you saying you have feelings for me?” 

Kaz grunts and lets go of your arm. You brush your fingers over where he’d just touched you. 

“I suppose so, yes,” he said, eyes flitting to the door like he was thinking about making a run for it. 

“Don’t suppose it would interest you to know I felt the same way, would it?” 

And there it was. Passing the baton back to Kaz. Passing your heart in return for his. Now it was he who held the power to treasure or smash you into pieces. 

Kaz finally met your gaze, and his lips ticked up into a small smirk.

“Oh, I knew that.”

[myrunawaysweets]

I loved your recent post abt human Alastor x reader in the 1920s. Of course this is only a suggestion, what if you continued on with this? Maybe like having them move in with each other, start a family? Perhaps have a tragic ending that resulted both to go to Hell, or maybe reader be a fallen angel! Just all suggestions! Have a great day/night/evening<3

I dont know how long this was in here, I was scrolling through settings to mess around and found this, so I hope you didn't wait too long!

But this is one of my specialties and I'm honestly really flattered that you made a request!

The next day, the cops found a bloodied body in the alley beside the club. The corpse was too disfigured to recognize, knees bashed in backwards, jaw hanging loosely, ribs tearing out of the chest and a smile etched into the poor bloodied face as it hung on the wall.

Surely this was the work of the smiling killer in New Orleans, who else could it be?

No one had ever laid eyes on the killer and lived to tell the tale... except you.

You had been held by the psychopath in a loving embrace, wrapped up in a blanket on his couch.

For some reason, when you looked into this man's eyes, his gorgeous brown eyes as he softly smiled at you... you felt no fear, no urge to run or hide.

Yes you knew he had killed people, that he was no better than a monster... yet you couldn't help but think what made him this way. Everyone knows not to trust a bad apple, but not everyone suspects the tree that bears bad fruit... so you couldn't blame him, after all, why would you blame the apple for the trees wrongdoing.

Instead, you held onto him and stuck close.

Now you peacefully kneaded dough as your loving boyfriend drank his bitter coffee in your bakery as a customer walked in. Marjorie, a nice old lady who came by every second day for a box of beignettes.

"(Y/n)! Have you heard the news?"

You looked up from your dough, flour had stuck to your apron as you wiped your hands "What news, ma'am?"

"Theres been another murder!" As the words left her lips you could see alastor tense up as you studied him.

The poor lady was shaking as she opened her purse "it was a young fellow around your age! He had such a long life ahead of him too..."

You could see alastors hands shakily lift his cup to his lips.

"What a terrible thing! Here, have these on the house, as a thank you for your patronage" you smiled, handing her the box and pushing her change back towards her gently.

The lady smiled with a thank you before turning to leave.

"Say hello to Mr Broussard for me will you?" You waved at her as she closed the door.

As soon as the door closed you slammed the oven shut with the bread inside.

"ALASTOR HARTFELT!"

The coffee spewed from his lips as he stood up to face you "honey listen-"

"Don't you 'honey' me! You promised you'd stop this!" You placed your apron on the counter as you circled around to meet him at the cashier "You said you were out to go hunting!" You poked his chest as you cornered him.

"(Y/n) it wasn't a lie! I was hunting! For the scum of the earth!" Alastor held his hands up in defense from your accusations, trying to reason with you and get back onto your good side.

"You know damn well what I think of your little hunting!" You grabbed your purse and started for the door before he blocked your path.

"(Y/n), dearest, where are you going?" His smile could not hide the panic in his eyes.

"Away from you, I'll be at mimzys until you can decide which one you'd prefer to give up "you pushed him aside and opened the door "me? Or your little 'huntin'?" You slammed the door as you walked to mimzys club.

Just because you didn't care that he did the murders before, didn't mean you were okay with him continuing them. Part of you thought you could eventually get him to see the good in the world again and leave behind this cold blooded killing, he loved you enough to do that at least right? Then maybe when you two grow old and wrinkly, God could open the golden gates for both of you... if your foolish boyfriend could ever stop hurting innocent people...

You sat on the stool with mimzy, drinking a glass of wine.

"I just don't get it! How can he keep choosing to go 'hunting' almost every night, mimz?! Doesn't he see the danger?" You sighed.

The short blonde looked at you "what can I say dollface? Boys will be boys! They've gotta have some sort of hobby, an most of the time, it's a gruesome one! Why can't they just take up knittin or even painting? Always hunting or boxing I say" mimzy took a swig "and every night? That's harsh! Doesn't he see how pretty you are?"

The two of you giggled.

Nights like these were always nice, just you and mimzy sitting in the empty bar, drinking and talking the night away.

"At this point mimzy, I think its better for me to just stay alone though, it doesn't seem like he's changing anytime soon and I don't know how long I can take this" you looked down at the glass, running your finger along the brim...

"Its okay girly" mimzy rested her hand on your shoulder "I'm sure he'll come around eventually, either way, I'm here for ya"

She really was one of your best friends.

Your conversation was interrupted when you heard a slight creak in the floorboards behind you two, making you turn around.

"This place is really getting old, I'm gonna need to find a way to get a new place" mimzy sighed.

The night went by fast as you two talked, and before you know it, you were right back in front of your bakery, sign lights were off as you opened the door, silently clicking the lock before making your way to the upstairs where your humble abode resided.

Alastor most likely went to blow off some steam, he tended to do that after your arguments/fallout.

You had left in such a hurry that you forgot to take out the bread from the oven, but luckily, alastor had seen you bake many times and finished the loaf before placing it on the cooling rack.

By the time you finished downstairs, it was midnight as you started walking upstairs, exhausted from the days work and alastor fiasco.

When you opened your door, you were met with a nervous Alastor standing straight and tense in front of you.

"I have something to say-" you both said in unison.

Alastor seemed to tremble as the words left your lips, still unable to make eye contact.

"I know it's not very gentlemanly of me, but may I go first?" His words almost came out as a mumble as his smile was strained.

You nodded, indicating he may continue.

"Thank you" Alastor took a shaky breath before looking you in the eyes "darling, I know I haven't made it easy for you with my... hunting... but I promise-"

Anger boiling in your blood, you interrupted him "do you know how many times you've told me that lie, Alastor?" Your nose scrunched up in anger as you tried to hold back tears "how many more times am I going to keep hearing this?"

Alastors wide eyes showed the fear he had of losing you, making your heart ache even more than it already was.

"I promise... my dear, this is the truth" Alastor took a gentle step forward, eyes trained on the ground.

placing your hands in his "I've put a lot of thought into it... and although I don't like the idea of being unable to kill those filthy vermin... I realized i can't live in a world without you in my arms"

Alastor ran his fingers gently over your knuckles, a gentle smile placed on his lips, almost dropping to a frown.

"I can change... and I know you want me to, I'll put in the effort to become the man you want, the man you need..." Alastor lifted your hand to his lips, closing his eyes as he placed a soft kiss.

The anger you felt died down, but still hesitant, you asked "how can I be sure you mean it?"

Finally looking back into your eyes again, he knelt down on one knee, still holding your hands "I, Alastor Hartfelt, would like to ask you, (y/n) (l/n), for your hand in marriage, I swear on my mother's grave that I will never take your words lightly, love you with undying devotion, and never kill again" he then rested his forehead onto your knuckles gently before he desperately whispered "please"

This proposal was not exactly practical, considering your argument not even 6 hours ago. There was no ring, no classy dinner, it wasn't how anyone would imagine a marriage proposal, yet here you were, heart beating rapidly as you felt tears fill your eyes.

Your words felt stuck in your throat as you looked into your lovers eyes "do you mean it?"

For what felt like the first time, Alastors smile dropped as his face held a serious expression "with all my heart, ma' cherie"

Your knees buckled as you fell into his arms, tears streaming down your face as you held your lover tightly, whispering out a shaky "Yes" into his chest.

Months went by, the wedding went off without a hitch.

Mimzy was your maid of honor. No one else was really there for your wedding, considering your family had cut ties with you years ago, and all Alastors' relatives were either deceased or overseas.

Nonetheless it was a happy and joyful union.

Alastor had kept true to his word and never killed another human, kissing your shiny ring every night like a reminding prayer.

Your bakery gained popularity since you were now Mrs Hartfelt. But popularity has its downsides... it wasn't long until women started talking about you, jealous of your position as Alastors wife.

The words themself didn't hurt you much, but the constant harassment and inability to leave the house without being called a harlot, that was slowly getting to you.

Alastor had assured you many nights before bed that things would get better, and if need be, he would give up his career as a radio host. The poor man would do anything for your happiness, anything to assure that you'd stay his forever...Even kill if you'd permit him to.

But there was only so much Alastor could do... it wasn't until one evening when you failed to show up to your shared home that he began to lose it.

Alastor was on edge, thinking of all the possibilities, you could've been held back at the bakery by a man who held ill intentions, you could be checking in with mimzy or got taken by a jealous fan. So many thoughts raced through his head as he slowly made his way to the door to look for you, eventually deciding against it, sitting back down as he patiently waited for your return...

Except you didn't.

It wasn't until a whole sleepless night had passed when he decided to go search for you. But of course, he came home empty handed. Were you unhappy in this marriage? Did you elope with a man he didn't know about? Did you realize you didn't love him and run away?

The second option was to call the police, something he's never done before.

The police launched an investigation, it was only until a month later, you were found in an alleyway, someone had called the cops about a crazy woman attacking a man, the situation escalated to the man killing her in self-defense.

They found traces of drugs in your blood, filing you as a drug abuser.

your body was frail and malnourished, pale like it had been weeks since you last seen the sun.

Alastor was called to the scene to see if this lady was indeed his wife.

When he arrived, he felt like the world was about to open up and swallow him whole.

As his eyes fell onto your pale lifeless body, something snapped inside of him.

You were never one to use drugs, never one to attack someone for no reason... something was wrong.

He knelt down and held your hand with tears in his eyes. Although he had seen many dead bodies in his life, this was the one body he never wanted to see like this.

He hated how your body was treated the same as the trash that walked the earth, like a lowly peasant when instead, the world should weep for the loss of you.

'This is all wrong' he thought, as he cradled your body in his lap as your blood stained his white shirt, but he couldn't care less as the last ray of light left his dark world.

It was long after your funeral, he hasn't been able to sleep since then. Every night he'd wait until daybreak for your arrival, like this was all some twisted joke.

It wasn't until one day he realized you needed revenge.

Yes, he promised to never kill anyone, but that was when you were alive, when you were beside him, when he was able to fall asleep with you by his side every night, Before you were selfishly taken from him.

He hasn't slept in days, maybe weeks? He couldn't remember... all he knew was that the man needed to pay for what he did to you...

It took a while but he eventually found the lying heathen.

There he was, sitting at mimzys bar, the same bar he met you, sitting on the same stool that YOU would sit on... it made Alastor sick watching this man live like he didn't take you away from him.

Alastor walked in, and sat beside the wretched man.

"You seem familiar" Al questioned, sipping on his whiskey.

The smug bastard grinned before turning to him "I'm the hero that took down that crazy bitch not long ago"

It took all of Alastors' willpower to seem calm and oblivious.

"My, you must be quite the hero then, let me buy you a drink and you can tell me ALL about it" Alastor motioned for a drink to be served, and the unknowing bastard fell right into Alastors wicked game.

It didn't take long to say the least. This prick was an easy target, and now here he was, being buried in a forest in the middle of nowhere.

You surely would not be happy with your dear husband actions... but who could stop him now?

For months, the spilling killer of New orleans went on a rampage, almost no one was safe, not even dear old Marjorie...

Eventually, alastor had killed all the men and women involved in your kidnapping and drugging... and here he was, burying the last one...

What would he do now? You weren't there for him to return to... all his plans revolved around your future with him

I guess all he could do now

.

.

.

Was Die

As if on cue, a bullet pierced Alastors skull straight through his forehead... as everything went black...

Hello! I've been working on this for a while now, at least a week, and I think I'm just going to make another part for this, keep an eye open for it cause it will hold the afterlife of these two lovers!

[itsabouttimex2]

hey 👋 could you please do more of platonic yandere hawks x teenage bartender reader pls ? :)) I love your work

(Aw, thank you! I’ll go back and tag this series as “Teenage Bartender” since I’ve got a few fics for it now)

Patronage

Out of all the people you’ve ever served, Mr. Takami is definitely your favorite patron. The League of Villains ranges from outright bad to somewhat decent when it comes to personality, each causing you trouble in their own way.

Mr. Bubaigawara is also pretty alright, but you have to cut him off after a while so he doesn’t drink himself to sickness. He’ll switch from thanking you for looking out for him to criticizing you for being a “mood-killer” in the same breath. You like to believe that the kinder half of him is the “real” one. It always feels more sincere, in your opinion. You try to see the good in everyone around you, after all. No matter how hard it may be, or how dangerous or depraved the individual is.

Maybe you’re an optimist, Keigo Takami thinks to himself, nursing a non-alcoholic strawberry spritzer. Or maybe you’re simply too naive to see the dangers of the killers and criminals around you. Maybe it’s a case of feeling obligated to love the unloved, to accept the spurned, to try and save those dedicated to hurling themselves headfirst towards irredeemability. Maybe you sympathize with them, with what they’ve been through in their tumultuous and checkered lives.

No matter what the reason is, what really matters is that you, in spite of whatever horrid circumstances have landed you in the middle of these villains, playing caretaker and maid and nanny to drunk, belligerent murderers…

You’re still kind.

That’s why Keigo truly believes that you, more than anyone else here, can be redeemed.

Not only because of the way you treat him, but also the way you treat your “coworkers”.

When Toga gets immediately drunk off of whatever cutesy cocktail she begged you to whip up, you help her get to a couch and make her lay down, leaving a bin by her side. When Shigaraki is having another one of his tantrums, you line up all the broken glasses and worn down equipment you have onto the countertop so he has something to focus his aggression on. You listen close to all of Spinner’s rants about Stain, even if you don’t understand a word he’s saying.

You see something in them, clearly. Keigo isn’t quite sure what it is exactly, but he’d love to know. Do you care about them? Do you think they could redeem themselves? Do you think you can off-put their suffering and bloodthirstiness by being kind? Do you consider them to be family? Do you consider him family?

You’ve been around him long enough to see him as a friend, surely. You treat the winged double-crosser with the same forthcoming kindness that everyone receives when they sit at your counter, ensuring that he’s happy, hydrated, warm, and not-

“-hurt? Mr. Takami, did you get hurt?”

“Sorry, kiddo. Didn’t quite catch that one. Run it by me again?”

“That mission ran a little long, didn’t it? Usually you’re back a lot sooner, so I wanted to make sure that you were alright, Mr. Takami. You’re not hurt, are you?”

Keigo is a well-guarded man. He doesn’t give away too much and he’s good at hiding his feelings and thoughts. Still, he can’t keep himself from smiling right now. With a gloved hand, he reaches out to ruffle your hair.

“Just fine, kiddo. Things got a little troublesome- when don’t things get troublesome, huh? But i got the job done no problem, like always.”

You try to meet his smile evenly, taking his drained glass and giving him a fresh drink in turn. There’s a moment of strange silence, something’s there’s never been between the two of you.

“I’m really glad,” you quietly admit to him, breaking the lull. “I think you’re… you’re the only one who talks to me the way you do. I don’t…”

He leans forward, propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his twined fingers. “Talk to me, pint-size. You’ve got my ear. I’ve got some time to kill.” He adds the last line just to make sure that you know he won’t mind if this takes a while. Even if he didn’t have the time… he would make it, for you.

“I really, really do like everyone! Really, I do! But it just feels… it all feels so endless, Mr. Takami. If someone isn’t mad at me, they’re puking on the floor. If they aren’t puking, they’re crying in the corner. If they aren’t crying, they’re picking fights. If they’re not fighting, they’re breaking things. If they aren’t breaking things, they’re mad at me for something. It just goes on and on, and I- I just-“

You pause, your breath hitching inwards sharply as you bury your face into your hands. You put your palms flat on the countertop, staring at your weary reflection on the polished surface.

“I’m so tired, Mr. Takami. And I feel like I’m never gonna get to take a break.”

“Okay, come over here,” Keigo guides, leading you around the counter by your hand and towards where he remembers seeing you head each night. Your personal room, he assumes. “The bar,” you try to argue as he pulls you along, “needs me at the counter. What if someone comes by for a drink?” Your words fall on deaf ears, it seems. “Most of the league is made of grown men, kid. Trust me, they can stomach a few hours without alcohol.”

He opens the door, giving himself the first view of your room he’s ever seen.

Knowing that you can’t see the face he’s making, the undercover hero allows himself to frown at the sight.

This isn’t a bedroom. This is a storage closet with a small bed and a nightstand. It’s barely four feet wide, and just about six feet long. The sort of room you’d put spare brooms and mops in, where you’d hide away a half-used gallon of drain cleaner or spare dish soap bottles you had gotten on sale. A place too claustrophobic and enclosed for anything except supplies.

But instead, this room had been given to you, a literal teenager who was giving their all to support the League in spite of getting nothing out of it.

For just a moment, his blood boils.

The League can pretend to be good. They can pretend to be heroes and freedom fighters. They can pretend that they’re fighting for a fair and just society. They can pretend that they aren’t monsters and murderers.

But this is how they treat their own. He’s always known this. The League of Villains prioritizes powerful, dangerous individuals above all else, prioritizes those who can spread chaos and mayhem in the name of their destructive goal. And you don’t fit into that powerhouse category, so you get shuffled away, tucked out of sight when they don’t have you serving them or playing babysitter to grown drunkards.

Keigo thinks he understands it, at least. But the truth is that some of the League do care for you. Twice, Spinner, Magne, Toga, Mr. Compress… all of them do care about you, as a friend or as family. And in turn, you care for them.

But he doesn’t think of that. As he helps you into the cramped bed, he thinks of “saving” you, and getting you out of here. Of bringing you home and keeping you safe from the harms and horrors of the world around you.

And there will soon come a day that you tumble out of the villain’s claws and into a hero’s talons.

[tragedynoir]

— special delivery: YEARBOOK

happy 1 year anniversary to tragedynoir! as thanks, this template will be available to ALL past & future supporters. past supporters can reach out to me if you'd like to access this template!

a yearbook-inspired multimuse google doc template with three variants: dark, light and mobile-friendly. the dark variant includes pre-drawn doodles that can be completely customized in google drawings, but feel free to add your own stickers and doodles!

what is special delivery?

special delivery is occasional bonus supporter-only content as my way of thanking those who generously support me and help me continue putting out free content! they are not posted on any set or regular schedule.

how does it work?

the most recent special delivery will be accessible via a locked supporter-only ko-fi post to anyone who has supported me on ko-fi recently. for one-time supporters (store purchase or one-time donation), this post will be locked again after 30 days, so please download the content before this happens! for monthly patrons, this post will be accessible for as long as their patronage. when a new special delivery is uploaded, old special delivery content will be put behind a monthly patron-only ko-fi post. only monthly patrons will continue to have access to old special delivery content for as long as their patronage, no matter when they start their patronage.

how to access?

become a supporter by purchasing something from my store, making a one-time donation or becoming a monthly patron! you will be prompted to create a ko-fi account to access supporter-only content. the source link will lead you to the folder containing all special delivery posts to access and download! if you have any questions or clarifications, please reach out to me! thank you so much and I hope you enjoy them! ♡

[meanbossart]

Hi there :) maybe not the right format here, but I have to ask. I was a patron on p and had my subscription set up to paypal, it was cancelled cause because it couldn't be processed (which is by no means a paypal or money problem and it worked the last few months), and when I canceled the membership and wanted to set it up again, I could only select credit card as payment method. Did you or patreon change something in that regard?

(don't have a credit card, would love to continue supporting you and to see the spicy stuff :3)

Hello, first of all thank you for your patronage so far!

I checked and indeed, unless Patreon changed something without updating it's users they SHOULD have PayPal available as a payment option. I can assure you this wasn't anything on my end since I haven't touched any settings since first publishing the page, so I'm kind of at a loss here! If anyone could help out with more information I would really appreciate it.

[wolfoftheblackflames]

Hey, my misfits, who's hungry for more cute fluff, friends to lovers, and a tale as old as time?! Enjoy my Beauty and the Beast AU: Chaggie style!

The Devil and the Innocent: Pt.1

It was a long time ago, in a far-off place. A king had disappeared, leaving behind his daughter. The child was kind to a fault, but one day when the worst day of her life happened. She, in her fit of rage, brought hell upon her ex, the man had been caught cheating, locking herself away in her castle afterward, the Princess never came out again. “Why can't I find someone who loves me for me!” She would wail sobbing into her pillows.

Her cries were answered when an enchantress disguised as an old crone appeared at the door. Still in pain and distraught with none to comfort her, the Princess turned said woman away to the cold, apologizing as she closed the door. “Your heart has been shattered. You choose to live in isolation away from those you care about. Surely, this will help you find the one you seek.”

In a matter of moments the Princess crumbled forward, her body growing bigger and stronger. Her own workers also felt this change shifting into many different things to reflect the cruel joke the Enchantress placed upon the crew.

Thus was how the Devil and her mysterious castle came to be.

A sigh escaped the reader's lips, the Latina with the most beautiful shade of jade to her eye closed her book. “Thanks for reading to us, Miss Vagatha!” A child cooed smiling.

“Of course, now run along, I only said one story before your chores.” Vaggie smiled as the children giggled and scattered. She leaned back and sighed, wondering what books she could find or what her adopted mother Carmilla Carmine was making this time.

She got up dusting her beautiful white sundress off and hosting the brown leather bag over her shoulder. Vagatha or as most would call her Vaggie was the talk of the town, her elegant yet calm demeanor, her skills as a folk dancer, and the fact that she was the daughter of the King's best arms dealer Carmilla Carmine.

The people of Little Pride watched the woman walk through the streets.“Bonjour!” several greeted her smiling. Others watched her with skeptical looks.

“She's an oddball that one, she's beauty and grace despite the eyepatch that's on her face.” A woman spoke to her friend as they gossiped.

“Her face was either lost in dancing or pressed in a book.” The other replied as Vaggie paid no mind to them.

“She hardly ever has to look!” One child cooed seeing Vaggie effortlessly dodging the many carts.

Her stroll through the town was a simple one, she smiled softly entering one of her favorite stores, Angel's Archive, a bookstore run by the cutest south indian bookworm Emily and her mother Sera. “Hello Vaggie, are you here for the latest copy of Arms and Armor?” The bubbly browned haired girl asked, smiling.

“You know it.” The other girl replied, being handed the book.

“Thanks again for the continued patronage!” Emily grinned as Vaggie paid for the book. “My pleasure, see you, Em.”

---

Vaggie casually wandered through the town on her way home, she always loved the rustic architecture, and the knights that would rarely pass by in order to restock their gear. “Well well, hello there Vagasaurus.” A scratchy male voice smirked, his tall muscular chubby body towering over her as Vaggie had sat down on the local fountain to read her book.

Her eye narrowed. “Haven't I told you not to call me that Adam?” She growled. “Need me to kick your ass again?”

“Ooo I love a woman who can kick ass. You're just making me the dickmaster hard babe.” Adam grinned, making Vaggie get up.

“¿por qué tengo que lidiar con este idiota…” (Why do I have to deal with this dick head) “Seriously Adam, fuck off.” The Latina stated walking away.

“Ooo I love it when your accent comes out, so exotic.” He purred. “Bet you're also still salty you got canned from the Exorcist Platoon for losing your eye.” He smirked, poking an old wound.

“And you're bringing this up, why?” Vaggie growled, her head starting to ache.

“Cause even if you play civilian, that doesn't mean I'll not recognize one of my top girls when you're out of uniform Vagasaurus.” Adam laughed, twirling on his finger, her old badge. “Though ya might wanna trim that mop of yours.” He smirked, motioning to the knee-length hair.

Vaggie's eye twitched as she couldn't hold back her temper anymore. “Apenada Carmilla…” (Sorry) She muttered under her breath and decked Adam in his stupid face. The taller man stumbled back but he smirked.

“There's the killer I know and love.” He purred satisfied. Vaggie soon hurried home, her heart racing from adrenaline.

Home however was on the outskirts of the town, it was a large grey stone building with smoke coming out of its chimney. Vaggie quietly ducked inside not noticing the fact Adam and his band had followed. Carmilla was often crafting new weapons with the help of her daughters, Vaggie was grateful to the arms dealer who had taken her in when she was abandoned on the outskirts after a nasty skirmish.

That day made the ex soldier shudder, it was a raid Adam led on a small outpost, but said outpost was actually a town filled with aboriginal people living their humble lives. “You'll surrender everything to us or your lives are forfeit!” The blood thirsty ex coworker Lute had roared.

The people didn't surrender, it was a bloodbath, Vaggie went into one of the homes and found two children and their mother shaking. Seeing their scared eyes still haunted Vaggie. “Get out of here, go now!” She had spoken, sending the trio away.

This didn't sit well with Adam who had seen it. While the others were distracted, he had ordered Lute to punish the traitor.

Vaggie broke out of her trance upon hearing the doors. “Not you again!” She growled seeing Adam.

“What? I won't take no for an answer, you'll be mine and it'll be great. I am thee dickmaster.” Adam smirked casually sitting down and mansplaning like he owned the place.

Vaggie sighed. No matter how many times she said no, this douche kept pressing despite the fact she wasn't really into men at all or anyone right now for that matter. She smirked evilly when Adam started munching loudly on chips. “Oh Adam, could you scoot to your right please?” She batted her eyelashes.

The idiot grinned, finally getting his way moving to the right so she could sit with him. “That's more like it..” He licked his lips. Vaggie casually did her alluring dance heading over to a lever. “Wait what?!”

“You really are stupid, wow. Anyway get the fuck outta my house!” She pulled it and sent Adam tumbling out through a trapdoor.

“Fucking bitch!!!!!” He roared splashing into the lake nearby. He growled, poking his head out of the water as Lute shook her head. “Not a word Lute..” He snarled and left with her.

Carmilla clapped, surprising Vaggie who blinked. “Never liked that man. Well done.” She smiled with her own two toned brown hair up as demon horns. “Now come along, I need your help in inspecting some weaponry.” Her voice was warm and motherly.

Carmilla was in her casual black tunic and slacks, she even sported some white gloves, a white and red pouch on her side, and some beautiful white boots.

Vaggie smiled and followed her, relieved that some of her soldier days could be useful.

“I was asked to head over to Zestial's domain for some tea and a business proposal.” Carmilla spoke after sorting through several weapons. “I'll be gone for a few days as the trip there is long.” She added and looked at Vaggie.

“Alright, but isn't Zestial’s territory beyond the Hellfire woods?”

“It is, but I've traveled it many times, and I can take care of myself.” Carmilla replied casually tapping her feet. Vaggie always found it so cool that her mentor had blades in her shoes since it made the fools drop their guard. “Now make sure the latest shipment is ready for transport, I'm sure Odette and Clara will be back soon with their wagons.”

Vaggie saluted and nodded. It made Carmilla chuckle a bit, but she then smiled warmly. “Umm?” Vaggie blinked confused.

“Here, I heard you lost yours during the skirmish, ex soldier.” The taller woman handed Vaggie a beautiful looking spear.

It was no secret to the Carmine family that Vaggie used to be a soldier. Carmilla being the first to notice. The spear looked similar to Vaggie's old one but instead of one side with a curved blade, it was wider, sharper, and hooked on both sides. “R-really? Is it for me Ms. Carmine?” She asked as she was baffled.

“Of course, you've proven yourself time and time again with keeping my home safe, Vaggie.” Carmilla replied but blinked, receiving a brief hug. She laughed a bit and petted Vaggie on the head.

It was soon time for the taller woman to depart as she climbed into the driver seat. She easily took the reigns of a handsome black and white stallion named Diablo. “Good luck on your trip Ms. Carmine!” Vaggie waved as the other woman departed.

-----

Elsewhere in the local tavern Adam was sulking. He couldn't believe that bitch Vaggie managed to pull one over on him. “Sir, no need to be so hung up over that traitor. After all you're Adam, the first man to ever conquer a village of over fifty thousand people.” Lute stated annoyed by his sulking.

Adam grumbled looking briefly at his second in command. He had to admit despite the vicious nature which he loved, Lute did have the hotter look with the short black bob, pale peach skin, grey armor over her black bodysuit, plus those sexy white gloves and heels. “I just hate it when I don't get what I want.” He replied grumpily.

Lute smirked a bit and handed him his favorite instrument. “It's annoying sir to see you so down.” She started as Adam blinked. He smirked and started to jam with his favorite girl. “Who cares about that mop bucket piece of shit bitch. You're the Dick fucking master.” She hyped him up, making Adam laugh with glee.

The girls easily swooned over Adam since the man often exposed his sexy chest hair through his white and gold long robe jacket, his lavender tunic underneath alongside some casual black trousers and boots. If there was any word to describe this man it would be “bear”.

“I am the man with the best dick around, come on ladies let's get down!” He roared into song, jamming hard. Though after his fun tavern party Lute took him aside. “Huh what's up danger tits?”

“Want to get back at the cunt?” She asked evilly. Adam's reply was a huge evil smirk. “Alright then, here's what I have in mind sir.”

-----

On the open road, Carmilla's carriage made its way to the cursed forest, its soft red mist echoing that of entering hell. She found it amusing and liked the route since it kept bandits off her ass. Diablo, however, whinnied and started to fuss. “What's wrong boy, ¿Estás asustado por algo?” (Are you spooked by something?) She spoke softly, trying to soothe the stallion.

He stomped his hooves and tried to wrestle free of his carriage binds. “Ah!” Carmilla yelped, being tossed off as Diablo managed to smash the carriage into a tree. “Diablo?!” She blinked but growled stranded in the forest.

Through some exploration, the woman found something she'd never seen before, a white and gold castle with the skies reddening as she got closer. Cautiously she knocked on the large wooden doors which made the door creep open.

“Who the hell is that broad?” A voice spoke. “Someone whose lost their fuckin way dipshit.” Another answered. “Quiet you two dumbasses.” The third hushed them.

“Tch, I don't like this..” Carmilla looked around the grand red entryway, it had a red brick staircase leading upward with golden handles and railing. The floor was a more muted grey with it being decorated by a large carpet bearing the symbol of two snakes intertwining over an apple.

“Not another word outta you two got it? Seriously Angel and Cherri learn to shut the fuck up.” A voice spoke quietly.

“Look can someone please come fucking out already? I lost my horse and the town's too far away to walk back.” Carmilla growled softly. “I'm willing to pay you for letting me stay the night since I don't want to walk back with it being so dark out.”

“Oooh wow, a bitch with an attitude. I like her.” Cherri smirked watching the tall woman.

“C'mon Husk she's got no place ta go.” Angel replied as Husk groaned.

Carmilla blinked, turning her head around picking up Angel as Cherri who had been turned into a wind up monkey smirked. “Who the fuck said that?!”

“Oooh, check out the mommy dommy hands on this one Angie!” Cherri grinned as Carmilla blinked, staring at her. “Hi there.”

“What the fuck?!” The woman replied as she then looked over at the snickering Angel. He was a four armed candlestick with five flames.

“Hiya mommy.” He playfully snickered.

“Now you've done it.” Husk sighed, being a talking wind up tuxedo cat.

Carmilla just blinked at the two, clearly confused. “How the fuck are you moving?” She had dropped Angel only to pick up Husk, curious as to how a children's toy is moving on its own.

“Long story I tell ya.” Angel snickered seeing Husk being toyed with. “Hey, quit it!” The cat hissed but blinked, noticing a small bit of blood on Carmilla's head.

“Dios mio..” (Oh my god) Carmilla sighed feeling like she's lost it.

“Oy demon lady, you're bleedin’.” Angel replied, waving one of his candles. “Follow us and we'll get that looked at.”

Carmilla grumbled but followed the odd trio of objects into the next room, not noticing the looming shadow that watched her from above.

“Ugh you two are gonna piss off the princess.” Husk muttered but moved aside as a cart wheeled over to Carmila who had been led to sit down in a rather large red velvet chair. “And we don't need another one of those rage moments.”

“Care for a nice cup of tea dearie?” A warm voice came from the beautiful Victorian style red and grey tea pot.

“Oh.. Um..” Carmilla looked a little surprised when a coat rack was bandaging her head. “Alright?”

“How about some music as well my dear?” A voice came from a rather nice looking mahogany radio with black knobs and glowing green lights.

“Ugh you idiots are going to alert the Devil.” Husk groaned, but the radio chuckled.

“Oh no need to be in such a tizzy Husker, a little music doesn't hurt anybody. Right Rosie?” Two beating red eyes looked over at the tea kettle.

“Of course Alastor, music is quite a nice way to enjoy some tea dearie.”.

Carmilla picked up the cup and took a sip from it. “Nyeh, why am I against a lady's lips!” A shrill voice came from the red tea cup as two cute yellow eyes blinked at Carmilla.

“What the fuck?!” She blinked but looked over the cup.

Quacking was heard as a footstool waddled its way over lifting Carmilla's feet up. Though it was strange and felt like a drug trip, Carmilla didn't seem to mind the great hospitality.

The crew jolted hearing the door slam open off its hinges. “Here we go…” Husk gulped. Carmilla growled, getting up fast and ready to fight, however she was easily subdued by powerful black claws coming around her neck.

“Who are you, why are you here?” That voice came out low and growly. Carmilla stared at the figure before her, her eyes wide. “Doesn't matter you're not welcome here…” The beast snarled, dragging Carmilla off as the other tried to follow.

Carmilla couldn't believe her eyes, whatever had her by the neck with ease was a giant massive beast with blonde fur, a wolf like snout, cloven red hooves, deep white eyes with red sclera, two red horns sticking out of its head, and a long spiked black tail with a triangular tip. “El diablo mismo…” (The Devil itself.) escaped her lips as the beast growled at her.

“What the fuck are you saying? Are you staring at me?!” The beast snarled slamming Carmilla into a wall. “I bet you've come to stare at the Devil huh? Well you've found her.”

“Hey hey! Princess, you're going to kill her!” Angel stated, waving at her.

“I'd love to see the blood bath.” Niffty giggled watching.

“All I wanted was a place to rest for the night. Agh…” Carmilla felt that grip tighten.

The Devil narrowed her eyes and growled. “I'll give you a damn place to stay as you wish.” She dragged Carmilla to the dungeons and locked the woman inside. “Now stay there and enjoy your new home.”

“What?!” Carmilla snapped trying to get out to no avail. “Damn it…” She growled, lowering her head.

(Heyo, I hope you guys like the fic so far, I literally worked several hours on this part alone. I'm breaking this down into parts from Beginning Middle and End with the full version being on my Ao3 for all to read. Thanks for reading!)