Shameless Hoe HQ

Ari is outside a majority of the day, basking in the sun, soaking in the pool, meanwhile you and Ransom hide inside with the a/c cranked up as high as it can go.

Any time Ari slips indoors, and lets precious cold air out and horrid hot, humid air in, he gets the ultimate stink eye from Ransom.

“You’re lucky you rock those short shorts so well, alpha, otherwise I’d murder you.”

You though? You do try to enjoy the summertime and encourage Ari’s love for it. But the heat 😩 Oh god, the heat.

He would never tell you this, because it would make you self-conscious and shy, but Ari’s absolute favorite thing about all this? It’s not when you muster up the courage and fake enjoyment of the scorching outdoors to spend time with him (although he does love that). It’s when he catches you standing inside at the sliding glass doors leading out back, the saddest 🥺 look on your face as you press a hand to the glass and gaze longingly at him 🤣 You’re literally just a few yards away and could come outside at any moment, but your aversion to the heat and humidity is adorable.

Also, you’re not as waspish about it as Ransom, so you get extra cute points lollll.

Any time Ari catches your forlorn stare, he’ll come right inside and scoop you into his lap for some kisses and alpha purr therapy so that 🥺 look turns ☺️

Ransom usually wanders in at some point, very put out that you two are canoodling and no one invited him.

“But you said not to touch you when it’s this hot out,” you remind your beta, sharing an amused look with Ari.

“Well obviously you can still play with my hair,” Ransom huffs as he plops down beside Ari and aims his head your way.

—

You'd lost track of how many families had moved in the last few months, but you'd enjoyed seeing the new faces and learning their names. You especially loved seeing the young werewolf pups who enjoyed following some of the elders around. The pups adored it when the elders walked around in their wolf forms as young werewolves didn't turn until their fifth birthday. Well, the full-blooded ones anyway. Half-blooded werewolves didn't typically shift until a bit older and sometimes not at all, you've since learned.

As if conjuring them with your thoughts, several pups raced by, laughing and giggling as they raced after an elder. A glance at their wolf form, and your own grin resembled theirs.

Only one elder had such a coat, and you proudly called him your husband and mate.

To think there was a time when he hadn't liked you, much less trusted you, seemed like a long time ago. He'd seen your appearance in town as a bad omen and even attempted to get the other elders to cast you back out. When that had failed, he'd done everything in his power to avoid you.

You did the same with him. His incivility towards you hadn't exactly endeared him to you, either. He'd even made your research and documentation all the harder over the first several weeks of your stay with them.

It'd been a weird, fateful mishap that had forced you two together for an extended time. During that time, you two had softened towards each other, learning more about each other and your pasts. Neither, you soon realized, had had it easy. Him being a werewolf, and you being a witch. Sure, your kind had some favor over his, but that hadn't meant you'd been free of prejudice and mistreatment because of who and what you were.

Despite the softening, it'd taken a bit more drastic happenings before you two finally admitted what you'd been denying between each other.

After that, you two had only grown closer, fully open to the idea of what could be between you. There'd been some bumps along the way, but you two were happier than you'd ever been.

Including that moment even as you felt his warm breath on your neck while you worked.

"Don't you dare," you warned though no real malice presented itself. "You're too heavy to flop on me in that form, and you know it."

A soft whine was your only answer before you heard the faint crackle of bones popping and shifting into his other form. Strong arms wrapped around you a moment later. His sweat-covered skin rubbed against your back even as you squealed, "Curtis, you're dirty!"

"Then, join me for a bath," he grumbled next to your ear, playful and loving.

Shaking your head, you craned your neck to better see him. "You're incorrigible. We still have a few things left for this festival. You know the very one that had been your idea."

"I finished my list ages ago. Not my fault you're slow," he said between nips of your shoulder and neck, not bothered by anything at the moment. It was a true rarity for him, and you were happy he could have these moments even if you did come out a bit worse for wear.

"I hope you didn't tire the pups out too much. It won't do for them to be too tired to enjoy this festival that's just for them." You glanced around the square that was visible from the porch of your shared home. A smile flitted over your features while you tried to see his face once more. "I'm really proud of you for doing this. It'll mean a lot to the pups and their parents to have something to call their own."

"Pack traditions were meant to be passed down," he whispered against your skin. His teeth and lips had ceased their playful nips as he fell silent for a long moment. When he finally spoke again, he added, "It's nice to have a pack again to share them with."

Curtis didn't often talk about his past or his pack which had been wiped out by hunters when he'd been a teenager. It'd taken a lot for him to come to trust those he called his pack now, and even more so, to trust you with his heart. You wouldn't ever take that for granted as long as you lived.

As his words settled over you, you couldn't help asking, "Would you want to keep those traditions going by building a pack of our own? Possibly one day in the future if not now?"

Curtis stilled further behind you.

His arm tightened its hold across your shoulders as his breath exhaled warmly against your neck.

At last, he asked, "You want to have my pups?"

"Maybe. One day. When we're both ready." You dropped the half-finished decoration in your hands to the steps below you. "I guess I just want to know if it's something you want, too."

A deep growl came seconds before Curtis's arms shifted to lift you and himself in one smooth movement. His lips claimed yours in a possessive kiss that would've had your knees buckling if he hadn't been holding you so preciously in his arms.

When he finally broke the kiss, he didn't stray far from your lips as he said, "Have that bath with me, dear mate, and I'll show exactly what I think about having pups together."

"As long as we're back in time for the festival," you warned even as your smile bloomed once more, "I don't want to miss out on the magic of this night with the others. Plus, this is your event. It wouldn't do if the main organizer didn't show."

He made no promises as he carried you inside and into the room where you'd placed the over-sized tub you'd ordered to share.

The night would prove one filled with new traditions, both public and private.

The ladies wear their best brocade and silks. Your own dress is a delicate faded teal with simple ivory embroidery. Your mother is not fond of the courtly styles and their risque trims exposing the top of soft shoulders. She sewed you a round collar with a length of lace woven through for effect.

As the competitors ride out, the courtly audience calls to them and throws flowers. Marcella and Audrey cry out to the valiant William Russo in his dark black armour trimmed in silver and he catches their woven wreaths of roses and lilies on his jousting staff. The princes, twins, preen in the cheers as they’re rained with petals and ribbons, and a few kerchiefs, as the king, Wilson I, sits proudly on his balcony in the stands and smirks.

You look down at your handful of daisies and daffodils. You don’t know which knight to rain down your favour. You don’t know many of them. Not many see you for the boldness of the other ladies.

Nervously, you stop yourself from twisting the stems to nothing. You notice one knight, stiff and staunch in his saddle. He wears beaten iron armour without decoration. The other competitors sport golden roses or etched doves and lions in their chestplates. He stares ahead from beneath his open helm, his staff pointed at the sky as his horse remains as still as he is.

You think you recognise him though you can’t place a name. You look up and down the row of fawning ladies. You heave up your armful and watch them scatter over the plain knight in his grey armour. 

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. Oh…

Bridget cackles and chuckles a headless stem your way. “Silly girl, why bother with him?”

You look at her, confusion furrowed above your eyes.

“She’s always been an odd one,” Lora teases. “Her and her nun’s habit!”

You pout. “I was only…” You shake your head and shrug. “They’re my flowers, I will do with them as I will.”

“Weeds.” Lora rebukes. “Don’t you know who that knight is?”

“If you would call him a knight!” Bridget scolds.

You stare and scrunch up your nose. “But he… is in the tournament. He must be–”

“A mercenary. So he was. Won his title in a battle. Just a soldier who found fortune.” Lora sniffs.

“But… don’t most knights win their honour?”

“Most knights are already titled before they do so.” Bridget sneers. “As it were, title or not, that man has no interest. Lord Castle is as stony as the fortress he’s named for.”

“I swear, he’d break a lady’s fingers as quickly as a lord’s.” Lora tuts. “Those kind, they can’t do more than wear the title. It can’t hide what they really are.”

Your mouth slants. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with being quiet or unsociable. You’d prefer it yourself if the other ladies weren’t so incessant. You peek over at the iron knight. Castle, they call him. He grips his staff tight and stays rigid, unbothered by the sudden blast of horns announcing the tournament’s start.

You suppose he’s faced worse than a shower of petals. You won’t worry for the misstep. He likely won’t either.

⚔️

The tournament unfolds in a series of contests. You’ve never seen anything like it. You gasp as the knights battle in a test of dagger throwing, archery, and most clamourously, the joust. Shattered lances and dented armour bring your heart to your throat, especially as you watch a younger earl-to-be carried off unmoving. How dreadful.

Sir Russo, a duke, wins at the feat of aiming daggers at a target; the king’s son is victor in the arrow, and in the joust, to a rather silent crowd, Sir, Castle claims triumph though he hardly seems to notice that himself. Where petals and scarves rained down on the others, he is met with a murmur and whispers, riding off without acknowledgement of any of it.

On the final day, a challenge of sword and spear against a dummy stuffed with straw. The king’s son once more is crowned for his skill. His father proudly cheers and congratulates his son with a mantle of ermine.

The next, ring-tilting. Another event on horseback though much less brutal than the joust. The challenge, to aim the launch through a series of golden rings, each progressively smaller than the last. Riders come forth to make their best attempt to hook all seven.

Russo counts five, the prince the same, and another earl meets that number; each presents their rings to their chosen maiden in the crowd. Bridget accepts Duke Russo’s lot and a leer from beneath his visor, the prince gives his to his betrothed, sat in the balcony with his father, and the lesser earl gifts his new wife as she rubs her growing stomach.

The final contender, Castle, takes his mark. The crowd is silent again. You notice how Lora makes a gesture to Bridget and they grin. The grey knight tilts his head as he lowers his staff. He rides, sure and steady. One, two, three, four, five… six! Six rings, the sixth in order missed but the last hooked.

He raises the tip of his lance and rides around. He ignores the audience and dumps the rings on the ground. He hands off the staff to his attendants as they approach and rides back to the stalls to dismount.

“Even he knows no maiden would have him,” Bridget snickers. Lora joins in. You frown.

You lean over the wall of the stands and watch the knight as he removes his helmet. You can see him just past the banners hung around the horses’ stabling. For a moment, you feel as if he’s looking back at you but he promptly stalks off, tugging at his shanks of black hair.

You stand back as Bridget spins her ring. “Do you think Lord Russo will dance with me at the feast?”

“You might get a canter after his other ladies.” Lora retorts.

“Careful, Bri,” Lady Maureen intercedes. “You will not like to be one of his conquests. Women are not so valiant as battlefields.”

“You are detestable!” Bridget retorts. “I have virtue!”

“No one would guess it at a glance.”

You tune out their banter. There is still one contest to be had. The last; the decider of the champion. The foot combat. The will come on the final day of four that have stretched out this event.

⚔️

The last day, the last contest. Bridget fans herself in the stolid sunlight as Lora droops in her sleeves. Your fast is slick and sticky with sweat. You can only imagine what the contenders must feel.

There are several rounds. A melee to begin, to pluck out those who will go face to face. A second round with spears to choose who might test their skill with sword.

The prince is to face Lord Russo the final round; Poindexter to compete with Lord Castle. The first match is a narrow defeat for the prince. He gracefully holds up his opponent's hand to the crowd, bowing out before the finale. The latter is long and contemptuous; neither sports a shield and meet each other with a furor that makes you gasp. Castle prevails but not without blood under his visor.

In the last, Russo and Castle meet. Their battle is lively despite the day’s dimming. They push back and forth, ducking under blows only to take others. Where Russo is swift, Castle is strong. A falcon against the bull. It is the bull that finds triumph.

Castle’s hand is raised as he favours his other shoulder. He tears his gauntlet away from the arbiter and stomps away from the stunned crowd. Only the king voices his delight at the surprise, his subjects reluctantly following. 

You join in with a bit more glee as the knight in grey nears, rubbing his helm. You feel bad for his dejection though it seems to affect him little. His head turns slightly as he passes. You wince and pause in place. He continues on.

“Ugh, how dreary!” Bridget clucks. “What an upstart dog he is!”

“But he won.” You counter.

“He should not have. He was underhanded.” Lora argues.

“How so?” You wonder.

“How little you do know.” Bridget snorts. “So young, so droll. So… you.”

You frown. She’s right. You don’t understand this court and all its rules. They hardly make any sense. 

⚔️

The feast is a great relief from the sunny stands. The castle walls are cool, the jugs are flowing with honeywine and ale, and trays glisten with roasted vegetables and venison. The warmth is not so intense as that of the naked sky. It thrums and clouds, but does not sear.

There is an eagerness, an anticipation that unfurls around you. Skirts flood onto the boards as partners claim each other. You remain at the table and pick at a plate of sugared apples.

More cryptic than the ladies and their manners and unsaid rules, are the lords and their stoic veneers. Their eyes don’t fall on you. They do not say the same sweet things they do to Bridget or Lora.

There is a lull in the dancing as the king stands and clanks on his cup with a knife. All go silent and watch him as he gestures for attention. You wipe your fingers on the table cloth.

“I must take this occasion to give praise to all those combatants that fought so gloriously these past days. Most notably my own son who showed himself to be a mighty warrior!” King Wilson proclaims.

There is an uproar of cheers as the Prince steps out from among the crowd of dancers and bows.

“And I cannot be shamed at the victor. Sir Castle is the only I would see prevail over my own blood.” The king’s voice sharpens. “A seasoned soldier and honourable earl.”

Castle remains seated. You’d not noticed him before that. He nods but nothing more. His eyes stare straight ahead as if no one else exists.

“So let us be merry and drink and dance!” The king exclaims with a shake of his large fists. “Go forth and rejoice!”

The music plucks up again. The king stands and offers his hand to his wife, a tall and skinny woman who contrasts his rounder figure. You tap your fingers on the trestle’s edge and your eyes skim the large hall.

They fall on Castle. Is he looking at you? You can’t help but stare back. It is the first you’ve seen him clearly. Black hair, black beard, dark eyes, and thick bent nose. His attire is black and unadorned.

You slowly lift your hand and tilt your palm at him in recognition. He looks down and his hands turn to fists on the table. He grabs his goblet and drains it before he stands and marches out. Oh…

You sigh and look back to the dancers. They look happy. They are swept up in the excess. You are bored of it.

As the candles burn lower and the dancers slow, you rise to retire. No one would know whether you were there until the dawn. As they never care for your presence or not.

You enter the corridor and bask in the coolness. There are lanterns lit along the walls, though shadows crawl over the corners and edges. You near the first turn and cry out as suddenly you’re seized. Or try to.

A callused palm smothers your fright. A dark figure shrouds you in his silhouette. You bat your lashes up at the outline of Sir Castle.

“Stop playing with me.” He snarls.

You quiver as he keeps you pinned to the wall, one hand over your mouth and chin, the other on your waist. You squirm and shiver. He leans in and burrows his nose in your hair, brushing along the trim of your cap.

“Why are you looking at me?” He growls.

You whine into his roughened hand and touch his wrist. He squeezes your jaw tighter.

“What do you want with me, lamb?”

He exhales over you as he drags his nose down your temple and cheek.

You brush your hand up his sleeve and tug on the black wool. He inhales, his breath gritting like that of a hungry wolf. He bends and nuzzles into your neck, then nips with his teeth.

“Do you know what beasts do with lambs like you?” He rasps.

You quake and writhe, unable to escape his grasp. You latch onto the seam along his shoulder and try to turn your head. His hand slips down and his wide fingertips graze the other side of your throat. 

He presses his thumb behind your ear as his fingers wrap around your nape. He bites down harder and sucks until your flesh throbs. You whimper and dig your nails into his overcoat.

“Please, I’m sorry, Sir.” You grovel. “I was only–”

He hushes you as his other hand creeps around to the small of your back and he crushes you into the stone. He bites again, harder than before. Your eyes prick with tears. You push on his chest and wriggle.

He lifts his head slowly, his breath tickling you until it plumes in your ear. “You don’t look a wolf in the eye unless you wanna get bit, little lamb.”

He shudders and trails his hand up your side. His other slaps on the stone and he pushes away from you. He leers at you as he breathes slowly, heavily. He tilts his head until his neck cracks.

“I’ll be watching,” he whispers and turns on his heel.

You shake against the stone as he struts off. You sink down until you’re on the cold floor and feel the moisture along your throat and the indents of his teeth. The promise he left in your flesh is raw and pulsing.

Because I’m pretty sure Lloyd just doesn’t have friends. Not in the traditional sense at least. His idea of a friend is the person who can get him into a restaurant he wants to try, even if he had to threaten the guy to get it.

But I think if Lloyd did have a friend it would be someone he was very close with. I can imagine him meeting you in college, and at first of course he hit on you to get your attention, but of course you turned him down.

After that, you started studying together, hanging out. It was something right from a rom-com. Except, neither of you really felt that spark.

So after the CIA goes terribly for him and Lloyd branches off on his own he call you, his best friend. The person he trusts more than anything.

Because of he’s out snapping necks, he needs someone he trusts to run the business. And the only person he trusts like that is you.

And that’s how it starts, you handle the business, while he handles the business.

There’s probably one day, when it’s been one of those days. You know the ones. Where it just seems to go on forever. You’re both eating Chinese food in his office, making fun of the jack-off from legal.

And then the spark hits.

It hits you both like a freight train out of nowhere.

Before you know it, you’re in his lap making out like teenagers at the prom.

After that night, your relationship shifts. Neither of you talk about it, and yet you both know. There’s no going back to being friends, there’s no turning the car around.

It takes about six months before you move in, and another six before he awkwardly asks you to marry him.

It’s not a big to-do. In the middle of dinner, he slides a ring box across the table, while he chews on his filet. His eyes darting between his food and you. Just as quietly, you take the ring out and slide it on your finger.

Some people might say it wasn’t romantic, but for Lloyd? He may as well have hired a skywriter.