#`▿.･:*▐┆ MUSE. — i. a study of black and blue.

[houserautha]

These Destined Ends

Part 1

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: none for this chapter. Masterlist of warnings overarching the series

A/N: Hello! If you’re here then there’s probably something wrong with you too, so let’s be friends. I haven’t been able to write anything lately until I saw the latest Dune movie and then all of my thoughts became dedicated to Feyd-Rautha. I must get these thoughts out. Help. Me.

“Chin up.”

Your mother brushes your hair back, bronze, like hers, and lifts your chin. Her gaze is critical. You stare back, thinking only of the things that she will find fault in you. An endless amount, you muse. The slightest flicker of expression on Lady Jessica’s face informs you that she suspects what you’re thinking. Your teeth grit.

“Must you do that?” You hiss through your painted lips. The servants have dressed you specially for the occasion. A floor-length black dress and, settled on your shoulders, a red cape clasped together with the House of Atreides insignia.

Jessica withdraws her hand. Your mother radiates femininity and power, a feat you’ve yet reached. Even the cool way in which she regards you drips with regality.

“Do what?” She asks, feigning innocence.

“Don’t make me say it.”

Jessica’s blue eyes harden. “You don’t have to, daughter. It’s plain enough.”

Mother and daughter stare at one another.

She tried to teach you the ways of the Bene Gesserits, but you failed to take to it. You were too expressive, too…volatile. You struggled to detect the slightest change in voice, you could never sit still long enough to study, and your facial features always betrayed you. The only aspect you succeeded in was combat — there was no need to mask your feelings, your thoughts, able to just completely lend yourself to the blade.

But it wasn’t enough.

“You’re fortunate the Reverend Mother has chosen to see through with this arrangement,” Jessica all but snarls. “There’s hope for you still, in form of an heir.”

The Kwisatz Haderach.

The only reason your mother still spoke to you, affords you any attention at all. The fact that you’ve been painstakingly bred to produce him: a Bene Gesserit of male origin, capable of accessing the memories of his ancestors and see through time and space itself.

A terrible mantle for an unborn child.

In the black of night, you sometimes lay your hand on your abdomen and utter apologies to the egg nestled in your ovary; burdened with horrible purpose. If only you could avoid its fate. But you were not even in control of your own.

“I want to stay here,” you plea finally, pitifully.

Jessica steps away from you, brushes off her skirt. “You know that you cannot.”

“I can help Father,” you insist. “You know that he worries about gaining the approval of the Fremen. I can —”

“Enough!” The Voice. It snaps your mouth shut and renders you mute. “This is bigger than both of us.” Jessica snatches your upper arm, pulls you close enough to feel the heat of her anger. “Your father wanted a son. A heir. But it was my duty to produce a daughter. I ignored the pleas of your father because I understand what it is to serve. Don’t make me regret my decision.”

You swallow your disgust, though it lingers like a foul taste on your tongue.

This isn’t the first time that your mother has told you this. Nor did you think it would be the last.

Perhaps making a home among your enemies would be better than staying here among family.

“Fine,” you say. You wrench your arm from her grasp then turn away. It’s futile, you know the heighliner will be here soon to whisk you away, but you can’t stand to be in the presence of your mother any longer. Fortunately she lets you go.

You’re not even aware of where your feet are taking you until the familiar sound of the baliset meets your ears. Gurney rests lazily on the ground in the massive corridor, back against the wall and string instrument in his scarred hands. He doesn’t look at you as you approach nor when you collapse down beside him.

Usually Gurney’s situationally appropriate songs bring you a modicum of comfort, but today it seems more ominous than insightful.

“I won’t miss your singing,” you say.

He stops playing. “You jest.”

Playfully, you crack open one eye and peer at his baffled expression. You try not to laugh. “I don’t.” A sigh escapes your mouth then, and you slump further down, uncaring if you rumple your gown. “I will, however, miss the singer.”

“Don’t bother appealing to an old man like me. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“Hm,” is all you say, lost in thought.

Gurney sets the baliset to the side. His hand finds your knee and he squeezes. “You will be fine, Lady Y/N. I’ve taught you well.”

“Not even what you’ve taught me will suffice for what I’m up against.”

“Nonsense.”

Both eyes open now, you stare pleadingly at the swordsmaster. “Just come with me. Please.”

It’s Gurney’s turn to sigh. With a groan he heaves himself to his feet and offers you a hand. “You know that I can’t,” he murmurs.

His loyalty to your father doesn’t extend to you.

He is Leto Atreides, Duke of Arrakis, after all. And you are just his daughter. A pawn. A womb and nothing more.

You reach out to ghost your fingers over the scar on Gurney’s cheek. “Tell me about them.”

The Harkonnens.

“There’s nothing you don’t already know or haven’t learned from the filmbooks,” Gurney says to you in a terribly soft voice. It’s unfitting of the great soldier. “They are a cruel people. Do not trust them.”

You nod, irrationally devastated that your final plea to Gurney did not work. But his words were not anything new.

Nothing you learned about the Harkonnens has been pleasant — from their oppressive rule and misogynistic society down to their industrialized homeworld. Your chest aches.

First you were forced to leave the lush beauty of Caladan for Arrakis. You had even grown admittedly fond of the desert planet, just to yet again be snatched from another home.

“Thank you, Gurney. For everything.”

He dips his chin in acknowledgment, then holds out his arm for you to take.

Gurney has been like a second father to you over the years. While Leto was out securing political alliances and holding meetings, it was Gurney who kept you company. He aided in your combat training and believed in you when no one else did. To lose him would be to lose a great friend, indeed.

By the time you return to the antechamber where you’d been, Leto has arrived. He looks as cunning and handsome as ever, and the smile he flashes you is enough to cut you to the bone.

If what Jessica said was true about your father wanting a son and being sorrowful he did not get one, you would never know. He has only ever made you feel loved.

“My beautiful daughter,” he greets you. He smells wonderful. The same way he did all of those years ago when he would tell you stories of your grandfather and tuck you into bed, his beard tickling your cheek.

You breathe him in for one of the last times. “Hello, father.”

“You look marvelous,” he says. His smile falters slightly. “Are you ready? I wanted to ensure that you’ve said your goodbyes before we leave.”

Bitterly, you think, Before I leave. Everyone else will return to Arrakis and you will be moored on Giedi Prime, married to a bloodthirsty monster and forced to grow round with his child.

The thought makes your knees tremble.

The Harkonnens controlled the fiefdom of Arrakis before your family and were unbelievably outraged that it, and the flow of spice, had been stolen from them. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what your reception on their planet will be like. It’s any luck if you don’t get slaughtered upon arrival.

Especially since the Baron’s nephew, the na-Baron Feyd-Rautha — your betrothed — was known for his brutal nature. You hoped stupidly that the arrangement of marriage and promise of an heir would be enough to keep you alive.

At least for awhile.

Feyd-Rautha killed his own mother. Who knew what the status of wife meant to him?

“I’m ready as I’ll ever be,” you answer Leto. He squeezes your hand.

You hug Gurney goodbye then board onto the heighliner after your parents. It’s difficult to suppress the tears threatening to fall as the ship takes off in a flurry of sand and departs.

Normally you’d be completely enraptured with the endless golden dunes, but today you stay rooted to your seat and refrain from crying.

The flight to Giedi Prime happens much too quickly for your liking. Already your heart is in your throat, hammering out your nerves in a steady rhythm.

The view from your seat reveals the strange nature of your new home — a black sun. Never again will you see the stretch of blue sky from Caladan or feel the formidable heat of Arrakis. The entire world outside the ship stood in sharp black and white contrast, all color drained from the surroundings and its people.

You spy hoards of Harkonnens gathering beyond the ship, awaiting the arrival of the na-Baron’s wife and their future Baroness.

Your stomach churns. How could you ever lead such ugly, wicked people?

Jessica’s voice engulfs you. “Chin up,” she says again to your dismay. “You mustn’t show any weakness. Not here.”

You raise your chin the slightest amount. Jessica nods stiffly in approval, and it’s in that moment you understand that your mother’s harshness has been preparing you for this. While you hardly feel the urge to forgive her, an odd sense of calm washes over you.

You are an Atreides. And you always will be.

No one can take that from you.

The boarding ramp disengages and you’re the first one to step onto it. A hush of silence befalls the crowds.

You stride forward with as much confidence as you can muster, focusing not on the leering eyes of the Harkonnens but instead on the Baron’s fortress. A large pathway separates you from it, granting you plenty of time to get your fill. It’s as grand as it is excessively boastful; tall, pointed towers cleverly connected, all sharp lines and edges. It leaves the impression of a finely crafted dagger.

A display of power and wealth.

Behind you your parents emerge and the carefully observant crowd launches into disarray — shouts and yells of anger, of hatred, grate your ears. You know that they take it in stride, however, and their strength fortifies your own.

By the time you’ve crossed the distance from the heighliner to the inner walls of the fortress, your eyes are blurried by the strong contrast outside now given away to darkness. It takes a few moments for you to adjust. When you do, you quickly look over your surroundings.

There’s few decorations or art. It’s cold and impersonal and extremely clinical.

Your slippered feet reverberate off the high ceilings.

Bracing yourself, seemingly, has been for no reason. For it’s not the Baron and his nephew that meet you but rather a line of Harkonnen soldiers. Their faces are stoic.

You bristle. “Where is the Baron? And my betrothed? Do they not wish to receive us?”

The soldiers do not answer.

A man appears then from down the hall, a Mentat by the look of him. He’s pale and bald and clad in black like the other Harkonnens.

“My apologies, Lady Y/N,” the Mentat says. “My name is Piter de Vries. I am here to escort you. The Baron and na-Baron will receive you now in the throne room.”

Leto lays a hand on your arm as if to stifle your response. “Please, Piter, lead the way.”

You can’t help but glance curiously at your father. This entire situation was delicate, you knew, but you wonder at his subservience. It’s an insult not to be immediately greeted by their hosts, especially when your guests happen to be the Duke of Arrakis, his concubine, and their daughter. If Leto agrees with this affront, though, he doesn’t show it.

Leto simply strides after Piter with you and your mother in pursuit.

The fortress boasts sleek walls and floors, polished to perfection. Piter guides you to the throne room a short distance away, the sight of it stealing the breath from your lungs. It’s larger than any room you’ve seen before, outfitted on the far side with steps leading up to a grand dais.

And upon the dais, demanding your attention, is Baron Vladimir Harkonnen. The man is as large as the throne room itself but not nearly as impressive, pale and beastly, his enormous weight supported by suspenders. He makes no movement as you enter.

Your gaze moves quickly, eagerly, away from him.

Standing on either side of the dais are his two nephews. Aware that you can’t stand to face your betrothed yet, you fix your attention on his brother. Rabban, you recall his name.

Rabban is bound with hard muscle and swathed in what you can only describe as thinly veiled anger. At his side, his fists clench and unclench restlessly.

Then, without permission, you look to your future husband.

Feyd-Rautha stands as tall as Rabban but roped instead with lean, attractive muscle. His brow sits above dark eyes and a generous mouth. There’s a frightening intensity to the way he stands, encapsulating both nonchalance and a dangerous arrogance. Clearly this man is used to getting his way and will stop at nothing to do so.

And it’s this man that makes no effort to disguise the way he studies you, starting at the top of your head and trickling languidly downward.

A chill dances down your spine.

When he catches this, catches you watching him — he must’ve known that you were — his lips twitch into the faintest of smirks.

Part 2

#dune part two #dune #feyd x you #feyd x reader #feyd rautha #feyd smut

[hijackalx]

Headcanon thingy, but who would the boys (Gale, Astarion, Wyll, and Gortash) react to seeing their lover trying on lingerie?

felt like testing my drabble skills so i added a lil something extra to them 😎💗 enjoy pookie!!

GN!reader

SLIGHT NSFW BELOW

GALE

likes when you surprise him with it. wear some under your clothes as a little treat for when he’s undressing you 😌✨

you look so good that it makes him trip over his words. he’s too busy ogling your body to pay attention to what he’s saying. will have him laughing like a nervous virgin 😹

LOVESSSSS garters. can’t keep his hands off of them. particularly loves the way your thighs strain beneath them when you’re on your knees

instantly wants to enchant the bottoms to make them vibrate and watch you get off like that (don’t ask if that’s actually possible my brain functions on horny not logic)

your outfit is inconspicuous, plain— perfect for covering up the lingerie hiding beneath. you wait patiently in his lap as he unwraps your silken robe, biting back a smirk.

he pauses to take in the sight of the lace hugging your skin, how it flows so delicately around your shape. he tuts, shooting you a familiar, frivolous grin. “feeling naughty tonight, are we?” just moments later, his hands move to rest on your bottoms, a seemingly harmless action that results in a soft buzz and a gasp. “i can work with that.”

ASTARION

insists on going with you to pick some out. follows you into every dressing room to “make sure it fits right” lol. so picky but mostly because he loves watching you try them on

his favorites are flowy/frilly types, like babydoll tops or satin robes. also LOVES stockings of any kind

makes you feel like an actual doll ✨🌸 repeatedly tells you how perfect you are and can’t keep his hands off you. will also try to get you flustered by whispering really dirty stuff about how you look into your ear

likes when you have fun with it and show off for him— be cheeky. do a little spin. bend over in front of him. be prepared for him to pinch or smack your ass though

he sits comfortably on the dressing room bench as you approach him. “how about this one?” you pull your bottom lip in playfully, placing your hands on his shoulders as he takes your body into his grasp.

“mm,” erupts from his throat, watching as his lithe fingers slip over and under the fabric sparsely covering your skin. “now, this one i like.” he places a slow and deliberate kiss to your exposed abdomen, his ruby gaze flitting up to meet yours; there’s an impish glint to them that tells you he doesn’t plan on waiting to have you any longer.

GORTASH

likes to make sketches of you wearing it. has so many drawings of you in compromising positions with it on. definitely keeps them for when he’s alone

loves corsets and bustiers because of how they emphasize your chest, especially in blacks and reds. crotchless panties also drive him INSANE

the sluttier you act while wearing it the better. don’t try to be modest (there’s honestly no reason to be anyway, he’s a freak fr 😹😹)

a sucker for fishnets. likes to take them off and use them to tie your wrists together. will also shove them in your mouth/gag you with them on occasion

his dark irises glance up from his work every so often to study your decorated figure; they follow the arch of your back, the heart shape of your ass, and linger on the exposed area between your thighs more often than not.

“lower,” he directs, and you immediately respond by deepening the angle of your back. he hums contently, scribbles some more, then adds, “spread your legs further.”

you comply once again, happy to flaunt your body under his gaze. the corner of your lip pulls upward, anticipating your reward for being such an obedient little muse.

WYLL

bust this out on your honeymoon and he gets SOOO flustered. i’m talking stuttering/looking away/rubbing his neck

his favorites on you are lacy teddies— especially in blues, purples, and whites. more traditionally sexy styles really get him going

lowkey so obsessed with how you look in it. the kind of thing that’s on his mind 24/7. almost always asking you to put it on for him at the end of the day with a little pout 😹💗

LOVES when you strip for him nice and slow, especially how you tease him by carefully revealing each skimpy garment beneath your clothes. a lapdance is also mandatory

you spot the anxiousness simmering beneath his lax surface— he longs to touch you, but you’d rather toy with him a little more.

prowling closer to where he sits, you slowly unbutton your blouse. with each maneuver of your fingers, you reveal the lingerie lying beneath, watching how his hungry, needy gaze fixates on it.

he inhales sharply as you straddle his lap and take his hand in yours. he lets you guide it over your ornamented body, his eyes heavy with desire as he mutters a low and raspy, “you’ll ruin me.”

#bg3 #astarion #enver gortash #gale dekarios #wyll ravengard #astarion x reader #enver gortash x reader #gale dekarios x reader #wyll ravengard x reader #my headcanons #bg3 headcanons #drabbles

[redflagshipwriter]

Check Yes (to go on a date with a dead guy) ch3

“So, what’s your deal?” Jason asked, when Danny’s mouth was full of food. “You’re dead, I notice.”

Danny choked. He gave Jason a betrayed look with big blue eyes, a hand clapped over his mouth to contain any mess.

Jason smirked back, unrepentant. “I died once,” he shared. “Got better though.”

“You got be-”

“You were surprised about what it’s like to fight humans,” Jason continued. It was hard not to laugh at the confused outrage on his date’s face. “So that implies you fight someone else? You’re fighting ghosts or something? Or do ghosts have some kinda natural enemy? Vampires or some shit?” He might have been a bit flippant but sue him, it sounded a lot more magical than his daily life.

Danny opened his mouth and no words came out. He looked like he was in pain when he grudgingly admitted, “I do have a lot of beef with this one vampire guy, Vlad.”

Jason threw his head back and laughed. That was such a vampire guy name, what the hell?

“No, no, it’s not funny,” Danny protested. He waved his hands wildly, flinging a bit of bean from his burrito across the roof they were perched on. “He’s also a ghost- well, he’s a half of a ghost, but that’s a long story from when he was in college.”

“The half-ghost vampire has an undergraduate degree?” Jason interrupted. He needed to know what this fucker studied. Was it like, social science? Literature? Theater? That might explain Danny’s implied belief that a theme was an inherent rogue thing. No, wait, business administration?

Danny gave him a withering look. “He’s got a Doctorate.”

Jason flung his hands up in defeat against the world. That made more sense than an undergraduate degree somehow. There was just something about the type of person who got a Doctorate that made them, you know, creeps.

‘Or maybe they’ve just got enough specialized knowledge to act on latent creepiness,’ he mused. ‘...Shit, am I developing an anti education stance? Can I blame this on Crane and Quinn?’

Danny was continuing with his explanation of the vampire’s background. Every word made it nuttier. “He’s a scientist, actually, and the mayor of a small town. And he lives in a cheese mansion.”

This was a sharp divergence from vampire stereotypes and he needed to know everything.

“Is the mansion made of cheese?” Jason interrupted. He was leaning in, intent on every word. Why was this vampire the most interesting man in the world?

He got a weird look for that. “No, it just belonged to the Dairy King,” Danny said, like it was everyday knowledge that you could expect a layperson to have.

“Of course, the Dairy King,” Jason said wisely.

"Enough about me though!" Danny flailed a bit. "How did you get my uh, number?"

Ah. Jason took a big bite to delay while he chose his words.

There was no point in trying to hide his vigilante identity from Danny. The guy probably didn't even understand the concept.

So he might as well top whatever story Danny had.

"The bat guy who taught me all about being a child soldier got grabbed by this group of loser cultists, right?" He gestured in a way that did absolutely nothing to illustrate the situation.

Danny cocked his head. "This is off to a good start."

"They tried to sacrifice him. You gotta remember him - big ugly guy, dressed in black and gray, underwear on the outside of his pants in a way that's never been cool?"

Danny didn't seem to have words, but he lifted his hands to make two ears on top of his head.

He pointed with both hands. "That's the guy," Jason agreed. "At the time, we didn't know what kind of sacrifice it was. We were thinking more along the lines of blood sacrifice?" He shrugged as if the idea of B biting it meant nothing to him.

Danny made a pffft sound of air escaping between his lips. "I tossed him back." He flailed in place. "I- isn't- wasn't that- that was a while ago," he stuttered. "I kinda forgot about him."

"...You got offered a cape, then a few weeks later a bunch of others, and you didn't make a mental connection?" Jason checked.

Danny flushed. "Time doesn't match up between the realms and anyway, I'm really busy!" He crossed his arms and accidentally knocked over his drink. "I've got a lot going on in my life. Anyway, for a ghost?" Danny blew a raspberry. "I'm sorry to break your heart, but none of you dress wild enough to stand out in the Infinite Realms. We've got robot dudes and child pirates and giant eyeballs and stuff." He gave Jason a smug look. It was cute.

Jason acted on impulse and reached out to ruffle Danny's hair. He realized what he was doing too late. His hand froze above Danny's head.

Danny tilted his face up and made an inquisitive sound.

"There was a bug." Jason pulled his hand back. What was wrong with him? He didn't go touching other people just because they were cute. "It flew off."

"...Right," Danny said. "You're being very normal." He seemed delighted by this, the little gremlin. "So. You were a child soldier too?"

Jason nearly fell off his perch.

Danny shrieked a laugh and pointed. "Ha!" He crowed. "I win! I shocked you first!"

"There wasn't a competition!" Jason lied. His face was bright red. It was too late to save face. "What do you mean too?" He demanded. "Were you a child?"

"Somewhat recently," Danny said. He gave Jason a catlike smile. "Adults come from teenagers, teenagers come from kids, kids come from babies. Do you need to know-"

"I know where babies come from." Jason cut him off. He tried to look off put at the way Danny laughed at him but fuck it, it was funny, in a dumb way. "Of course you were a kid, that was silly of me," he admitted. "Ghosts are made from humans, right?"

"Well yes, but actually no," Danny said, philosophical. "Some of us. I was. Other ghosts are made from like, vultures, or ideas."

It kinda seemed like ghost taxonomy was more complicated than he was ready to get into at the moment. Those two things were pretty fuckin disparate.

Jason sighed heavily and picked up his food again, just to have something to do with his hands.

A thought occurred. He didn't let it show on his face but he felt sick to his stomach.

Danny was dead. Danny said he'd been a child recently, and a child soldier.

Someone needed their ass kicked.

Danny: we are having such a whimsical time!

Jason: sirens screaming

#dp x dc #red check yes #dead on main

[blusocket]

I've seen some people express some confusion about what Fortnight is about, why it opens the album, what's happening in the video, etc, so here's my attempt at an analysis. For the most part I'll be referring to the characters in the video with the names of the people playing them (Taylor and Post) but at times I'm going to be making direct reference to the events of Taylor's personal life and referring to the muses by their names (Joe and Matty) for the sake of clarity and simplicity.

The song itself uses the suburbia conceit as an extended metaphor for the beginning of her relationship with Matty (he's the neighbor she runs away to Florida with, Joe is the cheating husband.) For more eloquent and detailed thoughts on the narrative of the song you can check out Jaime @cages-boxes-hunters-foxes's post here.

The video is really dense, and I'm not 100% confident in every aspect of my interpretation, but I feel pretty sure that it's making extensive use of visual metaphor in order to tell roughly the same story as the song, just in a different setting. To start, Taylor wakes up chained to a bed in a white dress.

To me this suggests that she's been driven mad by being left at the altar, and is now trapped, surveilled and controlled, in a type of asylum. This represents the end of her relationship with Joe--waiting for a marriage that never came, feeling trapped, mentally unwell etc.

She then takes 'forget him' pills which reveal Post's tattoos on her face when she looks in the mirror.

This represents Matty (the "miracle move-on drug") and shows that he made a mark on her while she was still in the asylum--that is, still in her relationship with Joe. Additionally, in the wide shot where we see the mirror, its size and shape are very reminiscent of a one-way mirror, often seen in interrogation rooms and psychological experiments, further reinforcing the idea that Taylor is imprisoned here.

She then is able to go to the typewriter room and do her work, creating art about how she's feeling, shown by her repeatedly typing "I love you, it's ruining my life" on the typewriter. She's still in pain and feeling trapped. While there, she encounters Post and they create art together, which creates beauty and color in her life. The blue and gold obviously reference her writing about Joe, but the fact that her work is gold and Post's is blue may be a deliberate choice to draw parallels between Matty and Joe, as she does on numerous songs throughout TTPD.

The next scene, where Taylor's hair is down and she and Post are wearing the same black coat and pants, takes place inside her head (symbolized by the shape of the papers they're laying on.) She is dreaming about them being free and creating art together, represented by the papers surrounding them and book she's holding, which has the word "us" written on the cover. She's writing their story before it's begun.

She then reaches for his hand in her fantasy, accepting and asking for this relationship

Then we see that she's being studied and experimented on--the results of the lie detector test read "I love you, it's ruining my life." Her pain is an object of fascination.

Interestingly, Post is part of the group experimenting on her, but when the experiments begin to cause her pain, he liberates her.

This inspires Taylor to destroy the place where she's been trapped, which we see through her opening the filing cabinets that cover the walls and destroying the mirror. I also find the shot of her standing still while papers burn around her interesting and significant; I interpret this as Taylor destroying her own work about Joe. By choosing to leave, she is metaphorically burning--rejecting--the story she wrote about them.

Finally, Taylor and Post enter the dangerous outside world together; the rain echoes the lyric "I chose this cyclone with you" on the album's title track. While I do feel the meaning of Post being in the phone booth is somewhat ambiguous, the framing and the accompanying lyric--"I've been calling ya but you won't pick up" suggest that he's attempting to communicate with her but can't reach her. They are free of her prison, but still separated.

Then, he hangs up the phone and reaches for her hand, and she takes it. The final shot of the video is a close up on their linked hands, presenting us with a cautiously optimistic ending--they are lost and vulnerable in the middle of a storm, but they have each other.

I feel this is a somewhat less sinister, for lack of a better word, portrayal of the start of Matty and Taylor's relationship than is suggested elsewhere on the record, though I believe Post's character being part of the group experimenting on her is significant and the editing creates some ambiguity about exactly when and why she decides to break free. But I hope this clarifies how the video sets up the beginning of this story, the fallout of which is then chronicled over the course of the rest of TTPD.

#taylor swift #the tortured poets department #ttpd #fortnight

[satoruhour]

Hiii!!! I absolutely LOVE your jjk racer au's and am dying for more!!! Could you do one of megumi this time? It can be how they meet or anything really<3 absolutely love all your works and hope your having a great day!!

a/n: hi baby yess thank you for the support <3 i know you’ve been liking my stuff pretty often but im so sorry to have taken so long to get to this! i hope you like it 🥹 / part of the racer!jjk au universe, megs and reader both in uni / 0.9k

[9:02pm, megs 🖤🏁]: hi angel. also you still studying?

there’s a text that comes in from megumi one school night, but you don’t see its contents when your head stays in your hands from the sheer stress of trying to cramp everything before an important exam tomorrow. nothing’s going in, however, from how distracted you seem to be with what questions would appear, whether you’d have enough time, if—

[9:05pm, megs 🖤🏁]: hey, look out your window

your confusion immediately melts away when you hear the rev of an engine along the barren road of the street you stay on, and your breath releases upon seeing the familiar head of black-hair peeking out from the window, a small smile etched onto his face. with a beckoning hand from you, his head tilts and you know what he’s asking. parents not home?

you shake your head, making out an eating gesture, went out for dinner.

it was unfortunate, how they saw megumi as just another bad influence, especially from how racing was still fairly taboo in japan. ‘give it a hundred years and they’ll still be bad for you, the culture, the pollution.’ you can’t bother to hear the rest of your parents’ explanation when you tell them you’ve started dating fushiguro megumi, but thankfully they’re too busy to care about whether your life goes to shit or not.

but you’re lucky megumi treats you like the moon treats the sun: taking the backseat while you rant about that annoying professor. he treats you like painters do to their muse: gentle, delicate, a million memories of your anatomy burned into his brain from how long he’s stared at you.

in a minute, he’s knocking on your front door and you’re there in half, smiling wide to welcome him, albeit with a tension in the corners of your lips. 

“let’s go drift, c’mon.”

you frown, not letting the calming brush of this thumb against the back of your hand change your mind, “i can’t, megs. got studyin’ to do.”

megumi has gotten bolder the more he’s been with you, although still with shaky hands and a speeding heart. he brushes the hair out of your face, knitted eyebrows and red eyes seemingly permanently there from how much you’ve looked at your notes.

“do you actually remember anything you’ve studied, my love?” he’s the one to frown now, fingers gliding down to your cheeks and jaw. it’s comfortable there from how you lean into his touch, and you want to stay there forever, but you only sigh, head falling forward to collide with his chest while his lips make contact with your hair — when you shake your head, you can only feel the smile growing on the other’s face.

“go put my jacket on,” megumi pecks your head and you roll your eyes beneath him because he’s always right and you hate it sometimes, but that reality check is good when you can’t shove the logarithm equations into your brain and your boyfriend is a racer, “let’s go for a drive, hm?” clad in the denim jacket you kept with you on your last visit, megumi’s cold hands hold yours as he drags you to his car, a 2001 Nissan Silvia S15 with some dark blue finishing.

within minutes, you’re already putting exams and notes and studying behind you, laughing in the passenger seat with megumi smiling too, easily driving to the mountain he’s always trained at. with a nod toward you, his eyes just look for yours, a mix of question and ardour that always seem to get the message across. ready?

the drift up the mountain is filled with secret glances and hurting cheeks and the screeching tires of his Nissan, experienced enough to look away from the road to return those glances to you every time he makes a turn and you’re looking like everything right in this moment. megumi can only hope it’s the same for you.

at the mountain’s peak, megumi can hardly hold himself back when you’re staring across the cityscape against his car, eyes sparkling from the moonlight and the blue finishing of the car reflecting against your jaw from below — he feels his breath be fully taken away just like the first time his father had taken him drifting, but it doesn’t (never) compares to whenever he looks at you.

with a hand pulling you away from the vast scenery, megumi fully believes his heart stops when your eyes are torn away from the city lights, focusing only on the other. there’s a soft smile on your face and he leans in, palms clammy and his heart going faster than his Nissan in a race — his lips finally meet yours before you arms wrap around the racer, humming into the kiss. megumi props you on the hood on his car easily, standing between your legs as oxygen begins to become scarce.

“you know we could’ve just kissed at my house, y’know?”

the tips of megumi’s ears redden and you laugh, playing with the neckline hem of his t-shirt, “yeah. well— i couldn’t have one night out with my girl?” 

it’s said so grumpily and quietly that you almost don’t catch it, but the tranquillity of the mountains provides you with uninterrupted silence, save for the chatter of the cicadas and the occasional call of the night birds. the little statement makes you only grin bigger as you prop your feet onto the front bumper, pulling him in by the belt loops.

megumi thinks you’ve only gotten more attractive by doing that, you shiver when his hands go back to your face — the both of you so oblivious to each other's desire for the other.

“yes we can, especially when i want to spend more time with my racer boyfriend, too.”

#96jnie #asks #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk headcanons #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen headcanons #jujutsu kaisen fluff #megumi fluff #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #fushiguro megumi fluff #fushiguro megumi x reader #fushiguro megumi headcanons #fushiguro megumi x you #jjk drabbles #jjk scenarios #megumi fushiguro headcanons #megumi x you

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Magic and Genetics

So, this is not like 100% finished and will be more musings than a full theory. The main reason is that we, as humanity, just don't really know that much about genetics. Like, we get the gist of it, but we can mostly only say: "it's complicated" about it.

Which is true. Like, the idea of dominant and recessive traits the way most people are familiar with (like the eye color chart for blue eyes and brown eyes) is super oversimplified and inaccurate. Like, there are 2 major genes that affect eye color and then there are 8 more genes that affect eye color, hair color, and skin color, but we aren't really sure in what way. We just think they do from observation. Usually, genes behave in a way that is in line with the dominant and recessive traits charts, but there are exceptions to it. Again, we just don't know much about this field.

Because of this, I can't really come to conclusive conclusions regarding exactly how many and which genes affect a person's magic in the world of Harry Potter. What I can do is use the book evidence to try and create a pattern of how magic behaves genetically.

Disclaimer: I'm not a doctor, nor did I study genetics in any professional capacity, this is from online reading and self-study. And most importantly for fun 😊

Why do I think magic is influenced by multiple genes?

So, JKR stated in an interview she thinks of magic as a single dominant gene. This is impossible, since if that were true squibs and muggleborns wouldn't exist and the chart for the likelihood of a child being born with magic would look like this:

And that's just not what we see in the books...

This is all without mentioning how squibs like Arabella Figg can see dementors while muggles can't:

“A Squib, eh?” said Fudge, eyeing her suspiciously. “We’ll be checking that. You’ll leave details of your parentage with my assistant, Weasley. Incidentally, can Squibs see dementors?” he added, looking left and right along the bench where he sat. “Yes, we can!” said Mrs. Figg indignantly.

(OotP, page 143)

This means that squids do have some magical genes that muggles don't.

Additionally, from what we know about wizards as a species they have other differences from muggles that would effect their genetics in less obvious ways, for example:

Wizards heal faster, so cell regeneration is different than muggles.

Wizards have a completely different set of illnesses than muggles, so their white blood cells are also different.

Their brain cells likely live longer since they have an overall longer life expectancy.

Since they can see magic, like dementors and the Leakey Cauldron, we know the sight receptors are different.

Their nerves likely also function differently since they can sense magic in a way muggles can't.

To name a few.

And this is all without going into the fact wizards can reproduce with other species (goblins, veela, and giants to name a few) which actually implies a common ancestor to all of these races, but I'm not going into that can of worms.

What I am going into is how magic works genetically and how predictable it is. As in, if I know the magical status (pure-blood wizard, half-blood wizard, muggleborn wizard, squib, or muggle) of two human parents, can I tell how likely their child is to be a wizard, a squib, or a muggle?

What are squibs?

We don't know of many squibs in the books, these are the list of the known squibs:

Argus Filch

Arabella Figg

Marius Black

Dolores Umbridge's brother

Molly Weasley's second cousin

Squibs aren't a subject wizards like talking about, even not wizards who don't mind muggles like the Weasleys:

"Er — yes, I think so. I think Mum's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

(PS, page 73)

The definition of a squib is a child without magic born of a magical parent. If we look at the list of squibs above, all of them except Umbridge's brother are pure-bloods. This is kind of important because of the limited genetic pool of pure-bloods.

I tried calculating the inbreeding coefficient (basically how likely it is that a specific genetic trait is identical in both parents. The number ranges between 0 and 1) of the pure-bloods in the Wizarding World. We don't have much information on most families, but even looking at the Black family tree, they aren't really inbred (except the Gaunts). The closest relation there is the marriage between second cousins Walburga and Orion. So the inbreeding coefficient of pure-bloods would be above zero, but not high enough to cause serious health detriments for the most part. But, this doesn't mean wizards don't have a problem with a limited genetic pool even without close inbreeding.

Looking at that same Black family tree, we see a lot of familiar names: Flint, Crabbe, Burke, Potter, Crouch, Longbottom, Weasley, Prewett, Malfoy, McMillian... Basically, all pure-blood wizards are related. Some more closely than others, but they are all related. It means that among pure-bloods there is less genetic diversity which tends to cause illnesses and weakness in children over the course of multiple generations.

Such illness can, for example, come in the form of a squib. If the child just isn't capable of having full access to magic, due to their limited genetic pool, they will be born a squib.

But what about Umbridge's brother?

Well, here's the interesting thing. When looking at accounts of children of a pure-blood and a muggleborn, they are all always magical (and usually quite powerful, but more on that later). Umbridge's mother though is muggle. I believe a muggle parent would also have a higher chance of a squib offspring since they don't have magic. Essentially, Umbride's brother received some of the magical genes from their father, and some muggle genes from their mother, leaving him somewhat capable of interacting with magic, but not casting it — a squib.

Essentially squibs have a higher chance to be born from two pure-bloods (due to lack of genetic diversity) or from a wizard and a muggle. If we look at the books, we actually never see a squib being born from a pair of two wizards where one of the parents is half-blood or muggleborn (since they bring new genetic diversity and make the offsprings much likelier to be magical).

What are muggleborns?

So, we covered that squibs are rare and are caused by the lack of genetic diversity in the pure-blood families or by receiving non-magical genes from a muggle parent. But what about muggleborns? How could they genetically exist?

Well, I discussed here the actual percentages of different blood statuses across the Wizarding World. And the percentages looked like this:

57.5% Pure-Blood and Most Likely Pure Blood

22.5% Half-Blood

15% At Least One Magical Parent

5% Muggleborn

And as I covered here and here, I believe magical Britain is approximately 0.01% of the muggle population. This means that muggleborns are incredibly rare in the muggle population and have an overall very low chance of being born. But under what circumstances would muggleborns be more likely?

We know, for example, that the brothers Colin and Dennis Creevey were both born magical. It means, that their parents had genes that make them more likely to have magical children. This means Petunia had a higher chance of being born magical than, say, Vernon, it was still a low chance, but it was more likely.

Now, I'm not the first to raise this theory, but I believe these muggles that have a slightly higher chance for magical children like Mr. and Mrs. Creevey are descendants of squibs. We know that:

"Squibs were usually shipped off to Muggle schools and encouraged to integrate into the Muggle community. . . much kinder than trying to find them a place in the Wizarding world, where they must always be second class..."

(DH, page 136)

So, squibs have been sent for generations to live among muggles. It means that there are multiple "muggles" running around that are actually squibs. They might be able to see dementors or notice something odd around the Leakey Cauldron, but not enough to produce magic. But they still have magic in their genes. And when they have kids, sometimes, through a fluke of luck and genetics a muggleborn can be born.

This means all muggleborns are distantly related to wizards in some way, but still the muggle blood adds some much-needed genetic diversity that makes them less likely to have squib children.

What would magical genes look like?

So, we talked so far about how to predict the likelihood of a child having magic or not. But we also know not all wizards and witches are magically equal. You have crazy powerful individuals like Voldemort, Harry, and Dumbledore. Hermione is an incredibly skilled and talented witch, often the first in class to get spells right. And then you have wizards like Crabbe, Goyle, or Merope who are barely more magical than squibs. Then you have unique magical gifts like being a parselmouth, metamorphmagus, or seer are all inherited, and therefore genetic.

So, let's start with the power/talent difference between wizards that we see. I think this, like squibs, is correlating to the lack of genetic diversity. Sure, you have pure-bloods that are magically powerful or average, but if we look at the most magically powerful wizards in the books — Harry, Voldemort, and Dumbledore — they are all half-bloods. They all have a higher genetic diversity.

Hermione and Lily, are also examples of this added genetic diversity raising the likelihood of magical talent. Both muggleborns, both referenced as talented and bright multiple times. Snape, another half-blood is also referenced often as an incredibly talented wizard.

Actually, Nymphadora Tonks is one of the best pieces of evidence for magic weakening over pure-blood generations and becoming stronger with the new blood from muggles or muggleborns.

The Black family had the hereditary magical gift of being metamorphmagi. This gift has been lost for multiple generations, the first Black to be born with this gift in recent history is Tonks. And it makes perfect sense, Andromeda, a pure-blood with the genes for being a metamorphmagus, marries a muggleborn, Ted, who has the much-needed genetic diversity, so their daughter is finally durable enough for the metamorphmagi magic to kick in.

The Gaunts are another example of just how much the lack of genetic diversity affects a wizard's magic. All three, but especially Mereope, are portrayed as barely skilled with magic, almost squibs. But then we have Tom Marvolo Riddle, magically gifted so much beyond most wizards because he had the added genetic diversity from his muggle father.

Parseltongue seems to be a more dominant trait than the metamorphmagus ability. As even an almost squib in the Gaunt family can speak it. That being said, the Gaunts are implied to be incredibly incestuous, so perhaps it's just a matter of both parents speaking Parseltongue that causes this gene's apparent dominance.

We also know these genetic traits are only passed to wizards. So a squib from the Gaunt family, would not be able to speak Parseltongue. So, while it is a separate gene, it is connected to the other genes that affect magic. That's why a muggleborn born from a Gaunt family squib line, could potentially be a Parselmouth. They won't necessarily be a Parselmouth, but they have a chance to get the gene.

Conclusions

So, let's put all of it together into a series of rules* to how magic seems to work genetically.

*Rules is not exactly the correct word. It's more like, how it would usually behave, but there are flukes to genetics and everything is possible.

Two magical parents would almost always have a magical child. Pure-bloods are more likely to have squib children than half-bloods or muggleborns due to lack of genetic diversity.

A child of a muggle and a wizard has a higher chance of being born a squib than two magical parents. (The chance is still pretty low though and the child is more likely to be magical)

Muggleborns are the result of at least one parent who is a muggle that descended from squibs and has magical genes.

If both parents are squib-descendant muggles, all their kids might even end up magical. (Like the Creevey brothers)

Being a parselmouth, metamorphmagus, or seer are all unique genetic traits that are passed in a separate gene but dependent on other magical genes. Each one of them behaves differently as a gene.

Genetic diversity promises a higher chance of naturally magically gifted children. (It doesn't promise they will be more gifted, just makes their chances better)

Blood purity and a limited genetic pool cause magical children born to these lines to be overall weaker. (Again, there are exceptions, this is just about chances)

#harry potter #harry potter thoughts #harry potter theory #hp theory #hp #wizarding world #hp thoughts #hollowedtheory #wizarding world of harry potter #wizarding population #wizarding society

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Club Midnight (Carol Danvers x Reader)

Summary: A night out goes in your favor.

Words: 932

Warnings: A little mature but not fully NSFW

Taglist: @natasharomanoffswife @natasha-danvers @aaron-despair @username23345 @xjiasx @nowthisisliving27 @higherfurther-romanova @summergeezburr @marvels-writings @onlyafewfindtheway @captain-josslett @hayleyokami @aznblossom @everything201197​   @hayleyokami @b-5by5 @lostandsearching​ @evilcr0ne

-X-

Agreeing to go clubbing with your team had been a… choice.

Tony had suggested it, calling for a celebration of your latest mission. He’d originally suggested throwing an extravagant party but decided he wanted to see the city more, so he’d whisked the team away to Club Midnight and for some reason, you’d stupidly agreed. Maybe it had been the enticement of booze, maybe it had been Wanda’s promise to dance the night away with you.

(Or maybe it was because the great Captain Marvel herself was going and you were desperately hoping to impress her… or end up in a dark corner with her. Whatever came first.)

-X-

Music pounded through your skull as your hips found the beat of the bass. Following Wanda’s lead, you watched colors dance across the witch’s liquor-flushed cheeks, her sweat becoming a galaxy against pale skin.

Vision is a lucky fuckin’ robot, you mused, thoughts loose and free as alcohol coursed through your veins. If Carol hadn’t caught your eye all those months ago, you probably would’ve chased the brunette swaying drunkenly in your arms. Dragged her down a darkened alleyway…

Tossing her head back, Wanda laughed and looped her arms around your neck.

You smooth talker, her voice swirled through your mind like warm honey. But I don’t think Carol would be too pleased if you tried.

“You don’t care what Vision would say?” you wondered curiously, tilting your head with a smirk.

She shrugged, playing with the hair at the nape of your neck with delicate twists of her fingers. “Vision is… comfortable, but he lacks fire. If I had thought I stood a chance with you, I would’ve taken it ages ago but…” she glanced over your shoulder at the glaring blonde, dressed in a simple but tantalizing black dress, lingering near the bar. “Someone claimed your heart long ago and who am I to stand in the way?”

Your smirk faded into a soft, captivated smile. “You are a precious woman, Wanda Maximoff. Don’t settle just because it’s easy.”

Leaning forward, you pressed your lips to her hairline affectionately. She burrowed into the embrace for a moment before stepping back with a knowing grin. Your eyes narrowed for a moment before a red glow sent you spinning around, away from the witch.

“Did I interrupt?” Carol questioned, voice gravelly with barely concealed jealousy.

Dragging her into your arms and onto the floor, you wordlessly urged her to fall in with the rhythm of the song. “Not at all, sugar. I was just waitin’ for you to come keep me company.”

Strong fingers dug into your shoulders as Carol matched your actions. Hers were a bit stunted, unfamiliar with such things, but you didn’t mind. Slowly grinding your hips into hers, you stored away every shift in her expression and nearly moaned as her perfect teeth buried themselves in her bottom lip when your thigh slid between her legs for just a moment.

The songs came and went, but all you could see was the haze overtaking blue eyes. Could feel the thrum of your heart beating violently against your ribs. Could taste iron on your tongue when you bit too hard.

As she loosened up, Carol’s cheek found yours as her movements grew more natural. One hand on the back of your neck, one on your shoulder, the smell of her perfume flooded your senses. Her hot breath tickled the shell of your ear.

“I haven’t danced like this in a long time,” she murmured, her lips fluttering just so against the tense flesh of your throat.

Swallowing dryly, you chuckled breathlessly. “I honestly couldn’t tell.”

She stared at you, studying the curve of your jaw and the heat in your gaze. You looked properly debauched and she hadn’t done anything yet. Like you wanted to consume her very essence, as if she were an oasis and you were a dehydrated explorer lost in the desert.

One particular roll of your hips sent the flame in her core rocketing into an inferno, the slick of her thighs noticeable. She briefly wondered if it was leaving a stain on your pants, but the way your head tipped closer to hers drove the thought from her mind.

“I really want to kiss you,” you admitted quietly, watching the emotions flicker in her eyes. “I have for a while.”

Carol shivered at the reverence in your voice. Like she was a goddess you intended to worship thoroughly.

“So do it,” she challenged, her brow barely having the chance to arch before your lips found her. It was a bit messy, tequila lingering on your tongue, but as it traced along hers, she found she didn’t mind. Moaned as your fingers gripped her hips roughly, certain there was a dark, wet spot on your leg.

Pulling back slightly, you panted against her lips. “C’mon.”

You stumbled through the throng of people crowding the dance floor, unbothered by their blatant staring. Carol’s fingers were so warm laced with yours and it grounded you, even as you found a secluded corner away from prying eyes. Her back met the wall readily as you trapped her between the poorly painted space and your body, foreheads pressing together for a moment.

“I really like you,” you whispered, afraid to break the curtain of lust shrouding you both but needing her to understand this wasn’t a drunken romp. “I have for a while.”

Her lips curled into a pleased smile.

“Good,” she purred, fingers curling around the collar of your shirt. “Because I don’t plan on sharing you after this.”

#mcu imagine #avengers imagine #carol danvers imagine #carol danvers x reader #captain marvel imagine #captain marvel x reader #the avengers imagine #reader insert #reader imagine #marvel imagine

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 9: Why Don’t We Go There]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (+18), beef cattle, drugs, alcohol, smoking, Walmart, vegan baking, David Archuleta, mental health struggles, pregnancy, pigs, bodily injury, death, miscarriage, Jace acting vaguely human, angst, Southern Baptists, Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

Word count: 8.6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: ​​@doingfondue​ @catalina-howard​ @randomdragonfires​ @myspotofcraziness​ @arcielee​ @fan-goddess​ @talesofoldandnew​ @marvelescvpe​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @mariahossain​ @chainsawsangel​ @darkenchantress​ @not-a-glad-gladiator​ @gemini-mama​ @trifoliumviridi​ @herfantasyworldd​ @babyblue711​ @namelesslosers​ @thelittleswanao3​ @daenysx​ @moonlightfoxx​ @libroparaiso​ @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics​ @mizfortuna​ @florent1s​ @heimtathurs​ @bhanclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @heavenly1927​ @mariahossain​ @echos-muses​ @padfooteyes​ @minttea07​ @queenofshinigamis​ @juliavilu1​ @amiraisgoingthruit​ @lauraneedstochill​ @wintrr13​ @r0segard3n​ @seabasscevans​ @tsujifreya​ @helaenaluvr​ @hiraethrhapsody​​​

Only 1 chapter left! 💜

The last day of summer, the first day in Kansas City: emerald seas of soybeans, cornstalks taller than you are, massive tractors rolling laggardly on the shoulder of the road, red-tailed hawks perched on utility poles, cloudless cerulean skies, sunlight that beats down like soft rain. There is a long, rambling dirt driveway that leads from Route 210 to your parents’ farm. When you climb out of the Escalade, you cannot hear traffic or voices or some playlist of bygone pop hits or ice cubes jangling in misty glasses or the roar of jet engines. You can hear only the sounds of the Midwestern earth: wind in the leaves, cicadas humming, the distant mooing of black angus cattle. For a moment, Comet Donati just stands there breathing in the unhurried, golden air like the atmosphere of a new planet, their lungs acclimating, their eyes wide and peering around. Where have we landed? Any signs of intelligent life?

There are footsteps and then the squealing creak of the screen door as your dad throws it open. Along with your parents pour out five Australian cattle dogs. They bark uproariously, herding the new arrivals like errant calves. Aemond laughs and crouches down in the dust of the driveway to pet them. Rhaena screams and clings to Luke.

“Belmont! Bel, you git down!” your dad scolds, pulling her away from Rhaena by the collar: pink, so everyone knows she’s a girl. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart, she don’t bite none.”

“Unless you’re a cow, of course,” your mom adds, tittering merrily. She starts handing out glasses of sweet tea, already dripping with condensation. Outside it’s 80 degrees even.

Your dad whistles as he studies Aemond’s scar, his sightless left eye like a pool of blue fog. “That must’ve hurt like a son of a bitch.”

“Jeff!” your mom objects mildly; she abhors swearing.

Aemond considers your dad: a man who doesn’t flinch away from him, who doesn’t bury truths under the cover of night. “It did.”

“My uncle came back from ‘Nam with something like that. Was never right again.” He taps his own skull. “You must be tough as nails to be carrying on like you are, son. What happened to you was a damn shame.”

“Jefferson, please!” your mom says.

“The man’s been to New Jersey, Carol! I think he’s heard worse words than bitch and damn!”

“Her name’s Belmont?” Rhaena says, frowning nervously at her canine tormentor: rust-orange, brown-eyed, tail wagging eagerly at the prospect of making new friends.

“You betcha.” Then your dad informs Aemond: “That’s Lone Jack you got there.” He points to the remaining dogs. “And the others are Carthage, Kirksville, and Island Number Ten. We call her Tenny.”

“They’re all named after Civil War battles,” you tell Comet.

“Civil War battles in Missouri,” your dad says. He turns to his guests. “Were you aware that over 100,000 Missourians served in the Union Army? Ulysses S. Grant’s first military assignment was in Missouri. He met his wife Julia here.”

“Daddy, they’re English. They don’t know what the Union Army is.”

“Were they for or against staying colonies?” Aegon asks, and Criston covers his face and groans.

Your dad spots the motorcycle Aemond rode here from the airport, weaving between the Escalades until Criston stuck his head out a window to yell at him. “Lord almighty, is that a Gold Star?! Made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company?”

“Yes sir,” Aemond says, smiling down at a delighted Lone Jack and scratching his long pointy ears.

“An ingenious piece of machinery! ‘55?”

“1960.”

“Remarkable.” Your dad admires it. He’s wearing red flannel, Wrangler jeans, the UChicago hat that you bought for him your freshman year of college.

“We’ve been told you don’t eat meat,” your mom says to Aemond, with a gentle, sympathetic tone like she’s conscious of some bad luck that’s recently befallen him: a grim diagnosis, a storm that carried away his house. “So I’ve got some chicken soaking in buttermilk to fry up for supper.”

Aemond chuckles uncertainly.

“No, she’s serious,” you tell him. And then: “Mama, we went over this on the phone. He’s vegan. That means no animal products at all. No meat, no poultry, no fish, no dairy, no eggs, nothing that came from an animal.”

“Well I’ll be, what the heck does he eat?!” your dad says. “Carrots? Acorns? Sticks and leaves? He can graze out in the pasture if he likes.”

“We’ll find you something,” you promise Aemond.

Your dad surveys Aegon (white cargo shorts, neon pink tank top, sparkly matching Crocs) and then Jace (black skinny jeans and a violet sequined blazer with nothing underneath except a mosaic of tattoos). “I suppose you two will be wanting to share a room. Well, it ain’t my place to pass judgement, I reckon. But I don’t want to overhear nothing that couldn’t be done in church.”

Jace is confused. “Huh…?”

“No, Daddy, they’re not gay.”

“What, me?!” Aegon exclaims. “Gay?! For Jace?!”

Jace says: “Sir, if I ever start looking at Aegon that way, I give you enthusiastic permission to take me out back and shoot me dead like a horse with a bum leg.”

Your dad guffaws, a deep gruff rumble like an earthquake. “I don’t think I could oblige you, buddy.”

Your mom gestures to the front door. “Y’all go on in and make yourselves at home. We got a few extra bedrooms and a nice big den if anyone’s willing to sleep on a couch. But be warned: you’ll probably end up having a dog or two snuggled up with you.”

“We are guests here!” Criston shouts at the band as they begin dragging their luggage inside, suitcase wheels bumping up the creaking wooden steps of the wraparound porch. “You will not humiliate me! You will not break things! You will not cause any problems whatsoever or you can stay at the Hilton with the security guys and I’ll have them handcuff you to a bed!”

“He will,” Aegon warns the others. “I’ve seen him do it before. To…um…somebody.” He disappears into the five-bedroom farmhouse: mint green paint, white accents, two rambling stories plus an attic and a cellar.

Criston waves to the security detail as the Escalades turn around in the driveway—stirring up dust like a parched cough of earth—and then head back towards Route 210, towards the light pollution and acclaimed barbeque joints of Kansas City. Now Aemond is standing by the barbed wire fence of the pasture and looking longingly at the black angus cattle grazing on tall swaths of windswept, green-gold switchgrass. Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville are all bounding around him hoping to elicit praise and scratches. Tenny has taken a liking to Baela and follows her and Jace into the house. Belmont, still held captive by your dad, whines and struggles.

“Aemond, you can’t pet the cows,” you say. “They’re beef cattle. They spend most of their lives out in fields, they don’t get handled very often, they’re not used to people. They can be aggressive.”

He is disappointed. “Oh, okay.”

“You can pet the pigs though,” your dad says.

“Pigs?” Cregan perks up. “There are pigs?”

“Sure are. Well, they’re pigs now…come Thanksgiving, they’ll be hams! Hahaha. They’re right ‘round the back of the house. You’ll show ‘em, chickadee?”

You reply: “Yeah, Daddy. I’ll show them.”

As the rest of the band claims sleeping spots and unpacks their suitcases inside, you lead Cregan and Aemond—and Lone Jack, Carthage, and Kirksville, all blue speckled with random splatters of white markings like stray dabs of paint—to the pigs. They have a large, muddy enclosure surrounded by a wooden fence that stops at your waist; pigs, fortunately, cannot really jump. They immediately come trotting over to their visitors, tails swishing and snouts twitching, spewing a chorus of guttural oinks. Aemond leans down to pet them, beaming, then takes a Ziploc bag of raw cauliflower out of his jeans pocket and starts dropping pieces into the pigs’ gluttonous, slobbering, gaping mouths.

“Wow,” Cregan says. He’s grinning broadly, something that’s rare for him. He slips out his phone and starts taking pictures. “Iris is going to love this.”

On the second floor of the farmhouse, a window slides open. “Aemond!” Aegon calls. “I need help! It’s an emergency!”

“What’s your problem?” Aemond snaps.

“Tell Jace I need the bigger bedroom!”

“Please go away.”

“Aemond! Do not betray your favorite brother!”

“Hey!” comes Daeron’s muffled objection from inside.

“Aemond! Threaten to break Jace’s face again!”

Aemond exhales in a loud sigh and then makes for the house.

Still taking pig photos, Cregan glances over at your belly: ten weeks. Not enough to be properly showing, but enough that you can feel a difference, an extra inch here and there, a heaviness that settles in you like stones plinked in a jar. Your parents don’t know. Nobody knows but Aegon. “So,” Cregan says. “Have you told Aemond yet?”

Your attention jolts to him, a lightning strike, a surge of adrenaline. “What?”

“I remember what it looks like when someone’s trying to hide the fact that they’re pregnant.” He smirks. “And I remember that night at Club Camelot.”

People are going to start figuring it out eventually. Aemond is going to figure it out. “Do you think he’ll take it well?” you ask hopefully.

“No,” Cregan says.

In your chest, a sinking like dead weight: “Oh.”

“But he’ll probably come around to the idea eventually.”

After he’s said something unforgiveable. After he buries another knife in me, spilling blood and scraping marrow. You stare down into the pigpen, observing them root around for remnants of cauliflower and blink their awfully intelligent eyes, too clever for the fate they’ve been assigned.

Cregan lights a cigarette and puffs on it, taking advantage of a rare moment out of Criston’s line of sight. “When I first found out about Iris, I did not behave in a way that I would consider to be honorable. But fortunately, nature gives everyone time to adjust to these things. I had my head right by the time she was born. If I had to guess, I’d say it will be similar for Aemond. Then again…” He takes a deep, meditative drag. “I’d like to think I was never as fucked up as he is now.”

You study Cregan. “So you’ve been watching me. I’ve been watching you too. You haven’t been partying as hard. A few vodka shots, a secret cigarette on occasion. But no more disappearing with Aegon to do lines in the bathroom or arranging drop-offs with drug dealers.”

He shrugs. “Someone has to be the adult. Someone has to help Criston look out for the others. It used to be Aemond, but not anymore. He’s different now. One day he’ll figure out where he’s supposed to be and he’ll stop touring with Comet altogether. So I’m going to do it. There are people who need me.”

“Comet is your family,” you say. “Just as much as your mother and siblings and Iris. They love you. They belong to you, and you belong to them. And that will never change.”

He smiles; his greyish eyes are teasing but kind. “Good luck, Stargirl. You need it.”

“Thanks, Cregan.” And together, you leave the pigs and join the rest of the band inside.

Your parents’ farmhouse, the same one you grew up in—a different world, a different you—is painted in shades of gold: late-afternoon sunlight, chicken thighs and drumsticks browning in canola oil, mashed potatoes wet with cream and butter, corn cut from the cob, an enormous pan of baked macaroni and cheese, homemade rolls, a butterscotch pie cooling on the windowsill. You find a vegan alternative for Aemond in the pantry: a box of Barilla spaghetti, a jar of Ragu marinara sauce. Criston insists on cooking it so everyone else can enjoy their supper. Cregan asks your parents about tips for raising pigs; Rhaena asks about the history of the farm; Aegon eats butterscotch pie until he has to roll out of his chair and lie sprawled on the hardwood floor for a while, Australian cattle dogs licking at his pink palms and cheeks. And when Aemond finally receives his spaghetti and marinara sauce, you think: That’s the same thing he was eating in Rome. And you remember the razored sting of the comet tattoo, the nightscape motorcycle ride, the incomplete truth about Aegon, the realization of what you felt for his scarred, perfect, brilliant, haunted younger brother.

“I didn’t know the weather would be so nice here,” Baela says as she scoops herself a third helping of macaroni and cheese. Tenny lies by her feet under the table, her muzzle resting on her paws.

Your dad nods, but his words hold a warning. “It can turn quick.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“He could be a stay-at-home dad,” Aegon suggests. It’s the next day and you’re up in a hundred-year-old white oak tree, killing time until the Escalades arrive to shuttle Comet to soundcheck and their first of two shows at Arrowhead Stadium in downtown Kansas City. You’re sitting on a colossal, sturdy branch only four or five feet off the ground, your feet dangling; Aegon is a few limbs above you, alternating between swinging like a monkey and lying on his stomach so he can peer down at you with those large, oceanic eyes.

“No. If he chooses to, sure. But not because he has no other options. A baby is not something to paper over a quarter-life crisis with.”

Aegon thinks, then is struck with inspiration. “He could work for your dad on the farm!”

“The beef cattle farm?” you say. “You want the traumatized vegan to spend the rest of his life as a cog in the blood-drenched machine of American industrial agriculture? Besides, I’m sure he hates Missouri.”

“I don’t know, I mean I thought I hated Missouri too. But lowkey it kind of slaps.” Aegon closes his eyes and smiles as the warm, sunlit breeze breathes through him, tousling his hair. It’s long again, it’s almost down to his shoulders. He smells like sunscreen and Axe body spray and the homemade waffles your mother made for brunch, soggy with dollops of butter and a river of amber-colored maple syrup. Something’s missing. It takes you a moment to realize it’s the scent of beer. Your parents don’t approve of drinking, the house is bone dry. Aegon hasn’t complained about that yet, a miracle, Moses turning the Nile to blood. Maybe Missouri is good for him after all. “How’s Starbaby?”

“Good, I think. I’m not nauseous anymore. Now I’m just super hungry and horny.”

“Oh my God, you can’t say stuff like that around me, now I’m having immoral thoughts.” He squeezes his eyes shut, frowns mournfully. Goodbye forever, pornstar pussy. “When are you going to tell Aemond?”

“Soon,” you say noncommittally, like a coward. Not a coward: someone who’s been hurt before. Not just hurt: slaughtered, buried, exhumed, robbed for the jewels on the bones of her fingers. You’re finally whole again. You’re in no hurry to imperil your resurrection. “Cregan knows.”

“Rhaena knows too.”

“What?!”

“She asked me in Dallas, but she waited until I was sloppy drunk first. Smart girl. I tried to deny it, but honestly she already had it figured out.” Aegon looks at you meaningfully. “If you wait much longer you’re going to lose control of this thing. It’ll get to Aemond before you can. And I think it will be worse if he finds out from somebody else.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. I’ll tell him, Aegon, I promise. Before Comet flies out of Kansas City.” They’ll be leaving you here, though no one except Aegon and Criston know that yet. Their private jet will take them to New Orleans, and then Miami, and then all the way to South America: Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paulo, Bogota, Buenos Ares, Lima, Santiago.

Now someone is trekking across the field behind your parents’ house and towards the centenarian white oak tree. It’s Jace. He’s wearing a rather understated outfit today: a lavender polo, denim shorts, boat shoes. His dark curls whip and tangle in the wind.

“Ugh,” Aegon says once Jace close enough to hear. “Why don’t you go try to pet a rage-filled, 2,000-pound mound of unprocessed cheeseburgers?”

“I’m here for my complimentary therapy session.”

Aegon stares at you. You stare back. The only sounds are made by the earth and the sky and the animals, air in the leaves, the low mooing of cattle. You both wait for Jace to rescind his request. He does not. At last, you relent. “Okay. Fine. Aegon?”

“You want me to leave you alone with this inked-up ogre?”

“Confidentiality is important. I’ve always given it to you, Jace deserves the same.”

“Does he really?” Aegon flings back; but he obediently climbs down from the tree and walks to the farmhouse. Your parents have no booze, no internet, a landline telephone, and a single tv with basic cable. Everyone else is in there playing Uno, doing animal-themed puzzles, and baking apple cider cookies in honor of the first day of autumn. You’d think Comet would be losing their minds after adapting to months of nonstop, breakneck excitement, but they seem to be enjoying themselves. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. You don’t miss the jet, you don’t miss the bars or the five-star hotels, you don’t even miss your apartment in the city that is still being sublet by some grad student with a Flemish Giant rabbit. You wonder if you ever wanted to leave the farm at all, or if you only wanted to leave the way you felt about yourself the last time you called this place home.

Jace grins and hauls himself up onto the tree branch to sit beside you. “Want to see my new tattoo?”

“Comet has definitely already been to Kansas City.”

Still, he’s acquired one, left wrist, black ink: a single star the size of a quarter. “For you, Stargirl. So I don’t forget about you. So I don’t lose you in the sea of gorgeous women I have marooned myself in.”

“It looks like a pentagram,” you say. “That’s appropriate, since you’re basically Satan.”

He’s not offended. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to talk about?”

“I already know.”

“Do you really?”

“You’re happy, but you feel bad about it. You wanted to be the leader of Comet, but you wish it could have happened a different way.”

Jace opens his hands and offers you a crooked, wry smile. “I might jibe at Aemond, but I don’t hate him. Why else would I let him knock out four of my teeth without expecting any penance in return?”

“No, you certainly don’t hate Aemond.”

“And what happened to him…it sucks. I mean, obviously, it was life-ruining for him. Not ruining, I shouldn’t say that. I’m sure he’ll get a new life someday. But it wrecked him in ways I’ll never be able to understand.”

“You’ll have to let him go when the time comes.”

“Yeah,” Jace says, unusually somber, gazing out across the field of white wild indigo, prairie dropseed, blue star, yarrow.

“And if Baela gets into ballet school, you’ll have to let her go too.”

Now Jace turns to you, startled. “I can’t. I’d miss her.”

“Yes, but you aren’t right for her. Sometimes we have to give people the freedom to realize they want something more than us. It’s the greatest act of love we can do for them.”

He laughs, a disdainful little snort. “That’s what everyone says. If you love someone, let them go. But then nobody ever really does it. They cling and they manipulate and they beg. Nobody helps the people they love leave them. Nobody escapes the indignity of becoming a regret.”

Please don’t let that be true. Please don’t let Aemond regret meeting me, touching me, maybe even loving me. “Why do you think that is, Jace?”

And he says, like it’s obvious, like you should already know it: “Because letting go is too fucking painful.” He hops off the branch and drops into the tall grass below. Then he extends a hand to help you down. “Come on. I bet those apple cider cookies are ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You see glimmering dresses, incandescent string lights, neon signs, the winding reptilian sheen of the Missouri River in the distance, faint dots of stars muted by the city’s synthetic luminance. You taste your faux Bramble: ice, cranberry juice, a sliver of lemon on the rim, sweet and tart and cold. The speakers are thumping out Prayin’ For Daylight by Rascal Flatts. Aegon is in neon yellow. You almost wore the same, but the flowing yellow gown you bought in Reykjavik suffered an unfortunate Australian-cattle-dog-related incident before Comet left your parents’ farmhouse for the concert. You opted for the short sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars instead…and hurried out the door before your parents could catch a glimpse of your comet tattoo.

“No way!” Baela cries as she checks her phone. “Look, look!” Liam Payne has just posted a selfie on Instagram. Cuddled up next to him on a beach in Ibiza is Shelby, tan and with her long blond waves flying everywhere. The comments are a smorgasbord: Cutest couple EVER! Aww, did you and Aemond break up again :( Enjoy your vacay, girlie! Guess love really can’t conquer all. You are stunning, Shelby! I’m still hoping you guys get back together. You deserve better! What is Aemond even doing these days?? Is this why Comet took A Girl Named After A Car off their tour setlist :(((

“Damn, poor Liam,” Daeron says. “Should we warn him?”

Aegon replies: “Bruh, this is so tragic. That dude has enough demons already.”

“Good luck, Liam,” Luke says, toasting his Mai Tai against Aemond’s fully-alcoholic Bramble. “Thoughts and prayers.”

“Maybe he’s dumb enough to sign up to be her boy band baby daddy,” Aemond quips. You and Aegon exchange an uneasy glance. Then Aegon gets an incoming FaceTime call. It’s Taylor Swift. He beams—he lights up, he glows—and rushes away to find a quiet spot where he can talk to her. Criston chases after him, extra vigilant since Aegon’s overdose in Las Vegas.

You gulp down the rest of your not-cocktail cocktail. The bartender calls over: “Another cranberry juice, ma’am?”

“Cranberry juice?!” Daeron says. “That sounds…healthy?”

“Why aren’t you drinking?” Baela asks you. It would be a rude question if you didn’t know each other so well. Though not quite as well as she thinks. Cregan and Rhaena peer awkwardly down into their glasses, eyebrows raised.

“Because. Um.” You hesitate. Aemond looks over at you curiously. “I’m an alcoholic.”

Baela blinks. “You’re what?”

“Um. I was developing an alcohol problem so to be safe I stopped drinking altogether.”

“How mature of you!” Rhaena chirps, then drags Baela towards the dancefloor. Luke and Jace go with them. Daeron and Cregan depart to charm some potential paramours: a flock of Kansas City University students for Daeron, a bachelorette party of flattered, giggly soccer moms for Cregan. You procure another cranberry juice from the bar and then return to Aemond. You are alone together, a strange combination of adjectives: solitary, secretive, appreciated, known. You migrate towards the edge of the roof and sip your matching drinks, wearing your matching black clothes, wind in your hair and the sounds of late night traffic on the streets below.

“So this is the place,” Aemond says, playful, wistful. “Where you and Aegon…met.”

“It feels so different now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look out over the city, breathing in humid night air and a verdant, ancient wildness. “You know how when you’re a kid, you’ll go somewhere and it feels endless and magical, and then you go back five or ten or fifteen years later and you’re disappointed? Like, that’s it? Is this even the same place?”

He swigs his Bramble. Ice clinks; the glass is frosty in his hand. “I know what you mean. But it hasn’t been that long. A little over a year.”

“I guess I’ve changed.” More grounded. Less restless. Less aimless. More pregnant.

“I hope Comet hasn’t traumatized you.”

You laugh, and he’s looking at you like you’re the only two people at this rooftop bar, in this city, on this planet: one river blue eye, one pool of sightless otherworldly mist. He hasn’t worn sunglasses since Shelby’s deportation from the band’s retinue. “Not yet.”

He is mischievous. “There’s still time.”

Not much of it. Aemond’s iPhone rings, Mr. Brightside. He checks it. “Is that Shelby offering you ten thousand blowjobs if you take her back?”

Aemond smiles. “No. It’s Helaena.” He answers and puts it on speakerphone. “Hi, LaeLae. Can I call you tomorrow? I’m at a very loud, very crowded rooftop bar.”

“With her?” Helaena asks, delighted.

“Yes, actually.”

“Okay. Call tomorrow. I wanted to tell you about the praying mantis I found in the garden. Check the weather. Goodbye!” She hangs up before Aemond can.

“Weather…?” he muses, then shakes his head and slips his phone into the pocket of his dark jeans. He returns his attention to you. “Ten thousand blowjobs, huh? I think I’d rather have another ten minutes in a bar bathroom.”

You are so game. It’s humiliating how game you are. Dear Starbaby, today I had slutty bar bathroom sex with your slutty dad, the same place I hooked up with your super slutty uncle. “Really?”

“No,” Aemond says sheepishly. But the corners of his lips are curled up in fond nostalgia. “That’s not my usual style.”

“What is your style?”

He drains his Bramble and turns to you. “Do you want to get out of here?”

You want few things more. “Yeah.”

You leave your empty glasses on a tray by the edge of the roof. Aemond lets Criston know that you’re taking one of the Escalades back to the farm. Aegon pauses his conversation with Taylor Swift just long enough to wink at you. No need for condoms, he mouths with a grin. And then he shouts, as the opening notes of Starboy blare from the speakers: “Stargirl, it’s our song!”

The Escalade makes one pitstop: the Walmart just off Route 210, the same one you always shopped at growing up. Aemond piles the requisite ingredients for vegan chocolate chip cookies in the screechy-wheeled cart, flour, baking soda, salt, white sugar, brown sugar, dark chocolate chips, rice milk (Aemond swears it tastes like Rice Krispies), vanilla extract, coconut oil. You wander down the aisles together talking, joking, finding excuses to touch each other, hands on wrists and collarbones and waists.

As you scan the items at one of the self-checkout kiosks, two guys buying frozen pizzas and White Claws peek over at you and start snickering. You grab snippets of their conversation like fireflies from the air: critiques of your body, critiques of your soul. You ignore them. This happens sometimes when you’re home. Someone from high school will recognize you, someone will remember.

Aemond is staring at them. Not staring; glaring, seething, mentally splitting flesh and dislodging teeth.

“Aemond, it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’m not upset. Just ignore them.” He walks away from you. “Aemond, don’t!”

He grabs the closest man’s shoulder and spins him around. “You got a problem?”

Both men gawk up at him, mouths hanging stupidly open and eyes inane like fish. The one he’s clenching sputters: “I’m sorry, are you…are you…are you Aemond Targaryen?!”

“I’m the guy who’s about to go to prison for second degree murder if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

He puts both hands in the air. “Hey man, I am actively shutting the fuck up. You have a nice evening.”

Aemond releases the man with a shove that sends him staggering back into a rack of tabloids. He returns to you, puts the bags in the cart, starts pushing it out to the parking lot.

The man turns to his friend. He is starstruck, elated. It might be the best day of his life. “Bruh, I just got assaulted by Aemond Targaryen…!”

The Escalade glides through the dark to your parents’ farm and drops you and Aemond off in the dirt driveway before zooming back towards the city. Aemond insists on carrying the shopping bags…but he doesn’t go inside. He stands near where his Gold Star is parked and gazes up at the night sky: moon, stars, the hazy white shadow of the Milky Way, all unmarred by the arrogant, buzzing radiance of electricity.

“Aemond?”

“You can see everything out here,” he says. “Maybe Kansas isn’t so bad.”

“Missouri.”

“Missouri,” Aemond agrees. “But you’re still the best thing about it.”

You smile. “I don’t know the names of any of those constellations.”

He points to show you. “Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Perseus. Draco. Hercules.”

“Heroes,” you say.

“And animals.” He ascends the steps of the front porch. They creak beneath him, weight that will soon be gone, to New Orleans and Miami and South America and God knows where else.

Your parents are watching the 11:00 news in the den. The weatherman is issuing tentative warnings for tomorrow. Summer is gone, storms are coming in. They politely ask what you and Aemond are up to and then try not to look repulsed when you mention vegan cookies. You’re actually pretty excited; you love cookie dough, and because it will have no raw eggs in it, you can eat as much as you like without endangering Starbaby.

On the kitchen counter is the same CD player that your mom has owned since 2008. You press play on whatever she has currently spinning around in there. MercyMe? TobyMac? Danny Gokey? What you hear instead is Crush by David Archuleta.

“That’s a throwback,” Aemond notes.

“My parents love David Archuleta. He’s Christian, he’s cute, he’s gracious, he doesn’t swear. I remember them incessantly calling in to vote for him when he was on American Idol. They put in a prayer request at church to help him win the competition. I guess God used his executive veto power.”

“Do they know he’s…?” Aemond draws an invisible rainbow in the air with his fingers.

“No, they don’t use Google.”

“We won’t tell them. He needs the record sales.”

You and Aemond mix the cookie dough and then portion it out on a baking sheet. He slides the sheet into the oven, sets the timer, and then notices the reserve of dough you’ve left in the bowl. You dip your pinky finger in and then lick it slowly, savoringly: sweetness, chocolate, fats obtained without the sacrifice of a soul.

“Looks good,” Aemond says, a little hoarsely.

You swipe your index finger around the curve of the bowl and then offer it to Aemond. He holds your hand still and licks your finger clean, his tongue dragging over your skin, goosebumps rising on your arms, heat stirring up everywhere. You’re transfixed by him; you can’t stop watching. Then he closes the gap between you and cups your face in his palms and kisses you, not in some glittering city or on a stage or for an Instagram post but in the kitchen of a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, the home of nobodies. His lips are sweet, swift, seeking more. He only pulls away when the noise of heavy footsteps approaches the kitchen.

“Smells great in here, chickadee! Even if they are vegan cookies.” Your dad says the word vegan like someone else might say the name of a tourist destination halfway across the globe. He can’t quite get the pronunciation right. His eyes snag on the bare skin between your shoulder blades. “Lord almighty, what is that on your back?!”

Your comet tattoo, that’s what. “Uh, Daddy—”

“It was my idea,” Aemond says quickly, seamlessly. “They’re my lyrics. Lyrics I wrote before the accident, I mean. And I was feeling just…purposeless, and useless, and really doubting myself. She wanted to show me that my work still mattered. So when the band was in Rome, Jace got a tattoo and I suggested she get one too. It’s entirely my fault.”

“Huh,” your dad replies uncertainly. “Is that right? Well, I suppose there’s not much to be done about it now.” He chuckles and moves your hair so it’s covering your tattoo. “Let’s not mention it to your mother. She’s already got high blood pressure. Say, can I try one of them cookies when they’re ready?”

Criston and the rest of the band arrive back at the farmhouse just as the cookies are coming out of the oven. Miraculously, no one is drunk enough that your parents are aware of it. Everyone samples the vegan chocolate chip cookies and agrees that they are nearly as delicious as the cruelty-enhanced version. You and Aemond watch each other from across the kitchen that’s now crowded with people, hearing them but also not, wanting more and knowing you can’t have it, here in this place with little privacy and very few remaining secrets.

Comet scrambles to get ready for bed, racing to claim bathrooms and banging on doors to peer pressure people into finishing their showers faster. Back in your bedroom, clean and alone and wearing an oversized Backstreet Boys t-shirt and your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants, you rearrange your pillows over and over again and try not to think about the band leaving in two days. Strangely, you don’t really want to go with them; you don’t want to board the jet, you don’t want to sightsee, you don’t want to be surrounded by people ingesting poison in all its forms. But the thought of being away from the band—from Aegon, from Aemond—is impossible, unbelievable, horrifying. You’re humming something as you crawl into bed. You don’t even realize what song it is until you’re under the covers and sinking into sleep: The Man Who Can’t Be Moved.

You’re only asleep for ten or fifteen minutes. When you wake your eyes are watery and you can’t remember your dream—you almost never can—but you know that Aemond was there. Now he’s here in your room as well. He’s gently stroking your cheeks, your forehead, sitting on the edge of your bed.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” he’s murmuring, only a silhouette in the darkness. But you would recognize him anywhere. “You had a nightmare. You were crying, I heard you.”

“Were you lurking outside my door or what?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead he asks: “What were you dreaming about?”

“You.”

And when you reach for him, he meets you without hesitation, his hands in your hair and his lips on yours, blankets thrown aside, his weight between your thighs, your fingertips ghosting against his face, reading his past and future like braille. He bites your lower lip, nips at the curve of your jaw, kisses a path down your throat like the contrail of an airplane. You yank off his t-shirt. He lifts away yours. He’s touching you everywhere, fingers beneath your pajama pants, smothering his moans against your neck so no one else will hear.

He whispers breathlessly: “I don’t want to rush this time.”

“I’m yours for as long as you want me.” Forever, I hope. And then: “Can I turn on the light? I want to see you.”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. And then he reaches out to click the lamp on. The nightstand is cluttered with your souvenirs: refrigerator magnets, snow globes, figurines, cosmetics, snacks, crochet celestial objects, the frisbee from New Jersey, your plushie sika deer nestled together with the hammerhead shark from the aquarium at the Mandalay Bay. In the weak golden lamplight, you study Aemond like a painting, a marble statue, a comet you’ll only see once in a lifetime.

You say, softly like a prayer if you believed in such things: “You are so fucking beautiful.”

He doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t stop. He wants to see you too. Your clothes are gone, every scrap of fabric and concealment; if he is cognizant of any minuscule changes in your body, he is not suspicious of them. Now he is bare for you as well, now he is pushing your thighs apart so he can marvel at you, taste you, drench his mouth and chin in your wetness, bring you to the edge of a cliff with no bottom, no rocks to rupture against. Now he is inside you, tremendously big but also careful, listening to you, watching every line of your face, slowly, so exquisitely slowly, his tongue darting between your lips and his palm against your cheek. And you remember how Aegon felt—always so simple and yet transient, soothing and welcome but never necessary—and Aemond could not be further from that. Nothing about what you have with him is simple. It is profound and intense and singular, and the thought of it not lasting forever is agony.

Afterwards, he retrieves his vintage metal lighter—small, square, Targaryen etched into one side—and a shimmery gold pack of his Benson & Hedges cigarettes out of the pocket of his pajama pants that are crumpled on the floor. He lies on his back and takes deep, drowsy drags, smoke like opaque morning mist in the air, one arm draped across you as you rest your head on his chest, lungs and heart and bones and blood.

Secondhand smoke isn’t good for the baby. You get up out of bed and sneak across the treacherously creaky hardwood floor. “Let me open a window.”

“So your parents won’t know?”

“Yeah.” You push the window open and then turn to him. “You should stop smoking. It’s really bad for you.”

Aemond smiles faintly. “Why would I care about that?”

“It’s bad for the people who love you too.”

He looks at you for what feels like a very long time. “Come back,” he says at last.

You do: to Aemond, to his warmth and lust and tenderness, to the space he occupies that will soon be empty like the vast expanses between comets, between stars.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I would like to say something.” You rise from your seat at your parents’ long dining room table, perfect for hosting judgmental-church-people gatherings and family reunions. Lunch for Comet Donati is steak and baked potatoes, lovingly prepared by your mom just before she and your dad left in their Ford F-150. It’s Sunday, and your parents will be at church socializing with their friends until late afternoon. Aemond is suffering through another meal of boxed spaghetti and Ragu marinara sauce. He doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite; not for food, anyway. You take turns glancing at each other and then looking away, smiling, flushing. Now he is intrigued by your announcement. His brow knits into thoughtful little grooves. The Australian cattle dogs scuttle around under the table for scraps. The television is on in the den. A tornado watch has been issued for the greater Kansas City area; no big deal, they get alerts like this once or twice a week here sometimes. It rarely amounts to carnage. Outside the sky is a tumultuous grey but not especially sinister at the moment: no greenish hue, no cloud rotation.

“You agree that Aegon hooking up with Taylor Swift would be disastrous for everyone involved,” Jace jokes.

“No, I know what it is,” Aegon says. He pokes at his baked potato with his fork, melancholy.

“I want to thank you for giving me this amazing opportunity,” you tell Comet. You have perhaps not dressed for an occasion of this significance: flip flops, a tie-dye One Direction hoodie, an old pair of shorts you found in your bedroom dresser. You like the way Aemond watches you when you wear them. “And I’ve experienced so many things, and learned so much from all of you, and I sincerely hope that we’re going to be in each other’s lives forever. But for right now…for this tour…Kansas City is my last stop with Comet.”

“What?!” Baela cries.

“No!” Rhaena gasps, her dark doe-like eyes glistening.

People are asking you why, people are asking you to reconsider. Aemond only stares, a sharp hostile look, menacing like storm clouds.

“I really, really appreciate everyone’s concern. But it’s been over three months, and this was never intended to be a permanent arrangement. Right, Aegon?”

“Right,” he reluctantly agrees.

“And it’s time for me to figure out what the rest of my life is going to look like, because I can’t just follow Comet around the world forever.”

Cregan nods to Criston. “Did you know about this?”

“I did, yeah,” Criston confesses. “We finished up the paperwork last week.”

“But we’re going to miss you,” Baela says. She sounds shockingly close to tears. Jace tries to soothe her and she shrugs his hand away.

“I know,” you concede. “And I’m going to miss you too. But we’ll still talk all the time, and I’m always willing to help you guys with anything, and maybe in the future I can visit—”

Aemond stands, his chair squealing against the hardwood floor, and flees from the dining room.

“That went well,” Jace says.

Aegon points towards the doorway Aemond left through and asks you: “Do you want me to…?”

“No, I’ll do it,” you say, and go after Aemond. He’s outside by the pigpen, his hair and t-shirt whipping wildly in the strengthening gusts of late-September air. Sparse raindrops fall from the sky. The pigs are agitated, pacing, oinking, scampering in and out of the shed they have for shelter. Aemond is smoking, embers glowing on the end of his cigarette; you purposefully stand upwind from him.

His voice is stunned and dazed and beneath that dangerously angry. “You’re leaving the tour.”

“Yes.”

“When we get on that jet tomorrow, you’re not going with us.”

“No, I’m not.”

“And you told Aegon and Criston but you didn’t tell me.”

“I had to tell Criston. And Aegon…” What can I say? What is the truth? “Aegon is easier to talk to about things like this.”

“So you feel like you can’t talk to me?” Aemond demands.

“Well, yeah, because sometimes you’re kind and patient and the single most incredible man I’ve ever met, and then something rattles your demons awake and you’re this…this…this vengeful, mistrustful, irrationally insecure person, and I can’t do anything right because you’ve already decided what my intentions are.”

“I want you to stay with Comet,” he says suddenly.

“I can’t, Aemond.”

“In Tokyo you asked me what I want, so now I’m telling you. I want you to stay.”

“Why, so you can sometimes love me and sometimes hate me, and refuse to build a new life for yourself, and relive what happened at the Budokan over and over and over again because that’s the background noise of everything you do now? Why?”

He gestures vaguely. “So we can figure things out.”

“I’m figured out, Aemond! You’re the one who isn’t and I can’t help you anymore, you have to do it for yourself, you have to want it!”

“You’ve never wanted to stay with me. You’re a liar, you’re a user. I’m glad Comet could fill that gap in your resume.” He takes a forceful drag and exhales smoke that the wind snatches away. “All you do is keep things from me.”

Venomous, violent disappointment blooms dark and scarlet in your veins. “You have no idea how much I’ve kept from you.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

You watch him, mourn him, commit him to memory for when you can’t see him anymore, every thread of him, miraculous and doomed. Saint Jude, you think, a man your parents as good Southern Baptists do not pray to. You tell Aemond: “You’re a lost cause.”

“And you’re a nobody.”

You turn away from him like ripping a page in two. You don’t want anyone to see the tears welling up in your eyes, escaping down your cheeks, marking you as someone who was weak enough to believe you could save him. You know that’s not the way it works, you know people have to be willing to accept the truths you help them uncover like prehistoric bones. Still, you believed in him. Why? Why?

Because I wanted to. Because I love him.

Your flip flops pound against the soil of the driveway, raindrops leaving spots like freckles, dust flying everywhere. You swipe at the tears that blur your vision. When you are far enough away that nobody can see you from the farmhouse, you rest your trembling hands on your belly. The life in progress there is half-built of Aemond, you carry pieces of him around with you like coins jangling in you pocket. You can’t forget him. You can’t forgive him. It shouldn’t be possible to be so close to somebody and yet so far away.

There’s no one out on Route 210. Your flip flops cross from a dirt road to black pavement. You lose track of how long you’ve been walking. Five minutes, ten minutes, it doesn’t matter. What are minutes when your mind is years away?

How will I keep Aegon in my life without tabloids finding out about the baby? What will I tell my child when they ask who their father is?

A vicious wind, so strong it snaps branches from trees and almost knocks you over. And then you hear it, that sound that every inhabitant of the Lower Midwest knows: a deep rumbling like a train. You peer up into a sky that is dark and murderous and glowing a strange sickly green. And above your head, spiraling with increasing speed: a funnel cloud, an emergent tornado.

~~~~~~~~~~

Criston is herding everyone towards the cellar, bellowing, waving frantically: Aegon, Luke, Rhaena, Jace, Baela, Cregan, Daeron, five yelping Australian cattle dogs. Through the window, they can see the tornado approaching the farmhouse, a column of shadowy atmospheric fury, unpredictable and unstoppable, here and then gone, the meteorological version of a comet.

Aemond slams the door as he sprints inside from the field behind the house. He breaths heavily, his chest heaving as his clear right eye studies the band’s panicked faces. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘where is she’?!” Aegon pitches back. “She was with you! She’s with you, right?!”

Aemond looks at Aegon, looks through the glass at the tornado, grabs the keys to his 1960 Gold Star off the dining room table.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re running, but you can’t see; there’s dust and debris everywhere, there are pieces of trees and fences careening through the air, when you breath you choke on airborne earth. The wind keeps pushing you off the road and then you have to fight your way back. You have to find your parents’ driveway. You have to get to the house. The sun is gone, and the roaring like a freight train is louder, louder, louder. And now there is another sound too, a different sort of growling, mechanical and familiar. Punching through the haze like a bullet, Aemond and his Gold Star screech to a stop beside you.

“Get on!” he screams over the storm, then helps drag you onto the seat behind him. You link your arms around his waist and then you’re flying together, just like Rome, just like before Reykjavik or Paris or Singapore or Tokyo or East Rutherford or Las Vegas or any of the other cities happened, back when you believed you could cure him like a witch with a spell, back when you wanted him in a way that was unburdened by truths you wish you didn’t know.

The Gold Star rockets by trees, utility poles, fence posts seconds before they are ripped from the ground by 200 miles per hour winds. Aemond steers roughly onto the dirt road of your parents’ driveway. You cling to him, breathing him in: smoke, cologne, memories, nightmares, dreams. In the rearview mirror is a maelstrom of dark, churning grey peppered with wreckage.

Something collides with the motorcycle, a pence post, a tree limb, you don’t know, it doesn’t matter. The Gold Star is knocked off the driveway like a bloodied tooth from a jaw. You sail off of it as it begins to roll; you hit the ground hard on your back, loose a pitiful wounded howl, try to start crawling towards the farmhouse.

“No, stay down, stay down!” Aemond is saying over the roar of the tornado. He covers you, he shields you, he pins you to the ground, he puts his hands over your eyes. The last thing you see is the Gold Star lying on its side a few yards away, its wheels still rotating. It’s over 400 pounds, too heavy for Aemond to lift even if you helped him, even if that couldn’t hurt the baby.

The baby?? Your own hands go to your belly. You try to ascertain if the heat throbbing in your back has traveled anywhere else, reached with blood-red, needle-sharp talons to your child, to your future.

The wind is letting up; is that your imagination? No, the tornado is receding, the debris fall to the earth, the deafening runaway train made of rogue air evaporates. Cautiously, Aemond rises from you. When you look at him, the right side of his face is riddled with shallow, bleeding gashes; but his eye is mercifully unharmed.

“Aemond,” you say, pained, reaching for him, trying to clean the blood from his face with your sleeves, a hoodie with some boy band on it, men you don’t know and don’t care to meet, fantasies that pale in comparison to the reality that stains you like rust.

“I’m fine, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I think so…”

They come stampeding down the driveway: Criston, the rest of Comet, the barking Australian cattle dogs.

“Oh my God, they’re alive!” Jace exclaims, and soon everyone is there, surrounding you and Aemond like a circle, a ring, an orbit, something that goes around and around and might fade but never ends.

You aren’t worried about the baby. There’s no cramping, no pain except the throbbing in the curve of your back, blood loosed and then trapped, indigo bruises tattooed under your skin like ink. You press your palms to the earth and brace yourself so you can stand. No one is helping you get up; why is no one helping you? Why are they only staring, gasping, covering their mouths with shaking hands?

“You’re bleeding,” Aemond says, a panicked voice through fog. Slowly, like trying to run in a dream, you look down. There are thin rivulets of scarlet snaking their way down your thighs, calves, shins, ankles, painless ruinous tributaries, constellations unraveling until the patterns cease to exist, no myths, no monsters, no men, just senseless pinpricks of distant light you’ll never know the names of.

“No,” you whisper, like you can stop it from happening if you refuse to believe it, like it’s a mistake you can talk yourself out of. You gaze up at Aegon. Knowledge flies between you, something shared like an heirloom or an oath.

“Call an ambulance,” Aegon says to Cregan. “Tell them that she’s…” His eyes dart to Aemond and then back to you. “Tell them to hurry.”

Aemond is holding you, he is touching your face, he is asking: “Are you cut, do you need stitches—?”

“I’m alright, it’s nothing, it’s—”

“What are you talking about?! It’s not nothing, you’re bleeding, why are you bleeding?”

“Aemond, it’s nothing—”

“Tell me what to do, tell me how to help you!”

“It’s just…” And a sob breaks from your throat, and your words are brittle and splintering, and you can’t lie to him anymore. You’re out of time in so many ways. “It’s just the baby.”

#aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aegon ii #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen ii

[ravenagrimm]

Ace Trappola and Deuce Spade- Movie Night

Notes: All characters depicted are college students and are over the legal age of 18.

Warnings: 18+, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, NSFW, language, threesome, MMF, handjob, blowjob, fingering, nipple play, cunnilingus, double penetration, cream pie, overstimulation, praising

Context: It’s a Friday evening after class at Night Raven College. You arranged to have a movie night, at Ramshackle Dorm, with your two best friends from Heartslabyul, Ace Trappola and Deuce Spade.

Word Count: 6,830

See you soon! You typed in the group text between Ace, Deuce, and yourself. You put your phone down and opened your closet. “Now… What to wear?,” you mused out loud as you rifled through various options. You had told the boys it was a pajama party, but the reality was that you never wore anything other than undergarments to bed. You had never even bought nightwear since arriving at Night Raven College. Groaning, you pulled out a pair of shorts that you usually wore to study. That’s when you saw them. A pair of pale blue silk booty shorts sitting at the bottom of your drawer. “Oh, I forgot about these!” It had been one of the first pairs of shorts you had purchased from Sam to lounge around the dorm on a Saturday. Replacing the other pair, you slipped them on over your bare bottom.

Next was the shirt. You cast the towel aside from showering and found a small cropped tank top with spaghetti straps. Pulling it on and glancing in the mirror you figured the white was a perfect fit. The material was extremely thin from over washing and you could see your nipples through the fabric. Your breasts were large, so they pushed the fabric out and away from your body, leaving plenty of underboob showing. The tank top hardly covered your body. You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect outfit for tonight. You couldn’t help but smirk before combing out your long [H/C] hair. With one last glance in the mirror you headed downstairs to the Ramshackle Lounge. The night was fairly cool and there was just the slightest draft. You shivered and decided to start the fireplace. You grabbed blankets and extra pillows and threw them on the floor in front of the large tv that Cater had generously given you as a gift from one of his Magicam sponsors. He had claimed he didn’t know what to do with it since he already had one, but knowing him he had worked his butt off with the sponsor to be able to get it for you. You smiled softly looking at it.

A sharp knock on the front door pulled you back to reality. You rushed over and opened to see your two best friends each carrying large bags in both hands. The night was cold, causing your nipples to very clearly peak through your top. “Hey [Y/N]! We brought soooo much stuff. We’ll be good for the whole night!” Ace said excitedly. Deuce stared at you, a slow blush rising to his cheeks. “Aren’t… Aren’t you cold?” Was all he could manage. Ace snorted. “I don’t know, Deucey. I think it’s pretty hot.” Deuce shot him a glare. You chuckled, taking one of the bags from him. “That’s what the fireplace, blankets, and you’re for, silly,” you replied. Deuce’s already light pink face flushed red.

“Come on boys. Snacks and movies await!” You chided them, heading back inside, the two close at your heels. Leaving their shoes and coats at the door, you saw the “pajamas” the two had chosen. Ace had opted for a pair of black and purple Night Raven basketball shorts and a plain red tank, while Deuce had chosen a pair of red Heartslabyul sweatpants and an oversized yellow Savannaclaw top. “You have a Savannaclaw shirt?” You asked him. Deuce looked down at his top. “Ah, yeah. Jack gave it to me after track practice a few weeks ago after I had left my shirt at home. He said I could just keep it if I wanted. I thought it was kinda cool to have a shirt from another dorm, so I kept it. I actually ended up trading him for a Heartslabyul one. Though… It’s kinda big on me.” You chuckled. “A little?” Ace commented. “Oh, like it would be any smaller on you?” Deuce retorted. “Not in the slightest,” Ace laughed. “Oh, by the way, where’s Grim?” “Oh, he won’t be back tonight. Leona had some fish feast going on, so Ruggie invited him for the extravaganza.” Deuce shook his head. “Those two…” It was your turn to laugh. “Tell me about it!” The three of you laughed together.

“Okay! So what did you two bring?” You exclaimed, kneeling down by the bags the boys had brought. “Oh, yeah!” Ace started. “Okay, so we brought this really big blanket from the dorm and this SUPER huge pillow!” The red-head pulled each out in turn and laid them out on the lounge floor. The blanket was a black and red heart and the rose shapped pillow seemed rather ordinary in size. “Ummmm, Ace… I thought you said—“ “Just watch [Y/N].” Ace pulled out a little bottle that said Drink Me and poured it on the pillow. The pillow blew up to the size of a bed in an instant. “No way!” You leaped on the pillow, falling into its cush. “Told you she’d like it,” Ace muttered. “Oh right, as if I didn’t think she would,” Deuce replied, rolling his eyes.

You crawled back to the bags and opened the next one. You pulled out multiple cans. “Soda?” You questioned. “Yup! We brought a bunch of different flavors,” the spade answered. “I also got a whole assortment of snacks for us from Sam’s. I tried to get some of my favorites, but also some you should definitely try that are classic junk foods from around Twisted Wonderland.” Your eyes glittered with excitement. You hopped up and danced to the tv. “As for me, I talked with Cay-Cay and he let me log onto his cloud account where he stores all his movies. He suggested a bunch to me, but I think we should watch your favorites, since none of these movies are familiar to me.” “Me first!” Ace called out, grabbing the remote. “Over my dead body!” Deuce yelled back at him and attacked him. While the two wrestled on the floor you searched through the snack bags. “Did you two at least bring popcorn so that I can watch this show?” The two were far too busy fighting to respond. You glanced at them and shook your head before setting everything out in an orderly fashion.

“Got it!” Deuce yelled. “You suck!” Ace yelled back. “You’re just mad because I’m better at wrestling than you!” “I’ll show you who’s better at wrestling!” Ace went to leap at Deuce again, but you stepped between the two. You pushed back on his chest. “Sit. Down.” You gazed into his crimson eyes. He smirked. “You gonna make me?” “Don’t tempt me,” you countered. He took a step toward you. You shoved him down into the oversized pillow, but he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down on top of him. He laughed. “That’s what you get!” You rolled off his body and groaned, staring up at the ceiling. He chuckled and rolled on his side to gaze down at you. “You’re cute when you're mad,” he snickered. He reached out a hand and brushed the hair from your face. The teasing light in his eyes softened. “Ace…” you whispered. Before anything else could happen, Deuce plopped down on your other side. “Stop fooling around you two! It’s movie time!” The spade pressed play and you popped up from your vulnerable position. You grabbed a slew of snacks and opened a random soda flavor. And so the movie night began.

By the end of Ace’s favorite movie the junk food fest had started to die down. Into the third movie you wanted to get cozy with your two favorite men. The night was getting colder and your nipples were permanently erect with the constant draft into the lounge. You yearned to be close to them. “Pause for a second!” You requested. You got up to fetch the giant heart blanket from the middle of the room. You leaned over and gave the two a view of your very well defined ass, the shape of your core showing through the silky fabric. Deuce blushed rose red and Ace pulled one of the Ramshackle blankets over his lap. You grabbed the blanket and rejoined the two men. You couldn’t help but grin a little at Deuce’s red face. “You alright?” You asked innocently. “Fine,” he blurted out a little too quickly. “Fine. I’m fine,” he repeated in a more controlled manner. Ace shook his head. “Good,” you replied before snuggling up to him and placing a hand on his leg. You could feel him tremble under you. You turned and placed your feet into Ace’s lap, beneath the blanket. He smirked at you, but didn’t say anything. You adjusted yourself and let your feet graze along his lap. He closed his eyes. “[Y/N]…” he whispered. You smirked at him, doing it again, feeling him hardening beneath your touch. “Hmmmm? What is it?” He just shook his head and pressed play again.

Deuce was frozen in place, unsure what to do. He was ever the gentleman, but there was no denying that he secretly wanted this and there was no way he’d ever be able to bring himself to push you away. You let your hand run along his leg absentmindedly. You could see him getting hard through his sweatpants, which he kept trying to cover up with the large blanket, but there was little use hiding it from you, who was already very clearly aware of how you were making him feel. You kept shifting your feet ever so slightly on Ace. At some point he grabbed your feet and moved them for you along the tent in his pants. It felt strangely good. He was far gone from concentrating on the movie. Every once and a while you glanced over to see him lean his head back and close his eyes. He scooted closer to you and leaned his head against your shoulder. You could hear his ragged breath. Heat poured into your core.

You shifted your hand to the inside of Deuce’s thigh. You heard his breath catch in his throat. “[Y/N],” he whispered in your ear. You could hear how labored and tortured your name was on his tongue. You sat up a bit and turned your head to him. Your faces were just inches apart. Your gaze darted between his teal eyes and his parted lips. His eyes were desperate. You could feel the heat off his body. Your desire to touch him only grew greater. You neared him ever so slightly and slid your hand to his completely hardened cock. Deuce instinctively bucked his hips into your hand and closed the gap between your lips.

He kissed you rather feverishly as you palmed him through his sweatpants. Ace raised his head from your shoulder. You pulled away and turned your head to him. You nearly hit him, being so close, your noses brushed. He gazed at you lustfully for the briefest moment before kissing you. He grabbed your free hand and brought it to his painfully hard cock. You stroked him through his shorts and kissed him harder.

Pulling away from his lips, you shifted so that you could sit more comfortably between the two. You added some pressure to them both earning a small whimper from Deuce. He placed a hand over yours to guide you. You gazed down at their tented pants. You could feel yourself growing very quickly wet, just from the sight. You nosed Deuce’s neck and kissed along it. He shifted his head and reconnected his lips with yours. Ace was eager. He moved himself in front of you, putting a knee between your legs. He pressed it to your heat. He guided your hand back to his body to keep stroking him through his clothing. He then took the opportunity to move the straps of your tank top off your shoulders and began kissing along your collar bone. His hands reached for your breasts and began to knead them, rolling your sensitive nipples between his fingers. Occasionally he caressed the bare skin of your underboob. You moaned into Deuce’s mouth who then kissed you harder.

You wanted to feel more. You needed to feel more. Moving your hand, you slipped inside his sweatpants. You very quickly realized he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. You took his cock in your hand and ran your thumb over his leaking tip. He broke away from your lips with deeply knitted brows and moaned, “[Y/N].” “You’re not wearing anything,” you whispered to him, continuing to stroke him. Ace chuckled. “Naughty, naughty, Juice.” Deuce bushed crimson. “I-I never wear anything under my sweats,” he stuttered, trying to defend himself. You gave him a bit of a squeeze. He grabbed your leg. “Please don’t stop,” he begged. You kissed him briefly. “I hadn’t planned on it,” you replied with a smirk. “But I’m going to need you to take off your shirt.” Without even a moment’s hesitation both men pulled back and tore off their shirts. You kissed the spade’s neck. “Now, keep stroking yourself for me for just a moment.” He nodded.

You then turned your attention to the ace of hearts who leaned over and kissed you. You wrapped your arms around his neck and entangled your hands into his hair. His hands, in turn, explored your body, touching everything he could reach. His kiss was needy and rough, but he was skilled. He opened your mouth and let his tongue dance with yours. You let your hands drop down his body and trace his toned muscles until you reach his shorts. You tugged down on them and pulled away from his lips. He wore card themed boxers. Desire coursing through his veins, Ace grabbed the bottom of your tank and pulled it up and off over your head. He quickly brought his lips aggressively back to yours and pushed you down into the pillow. Your legs instinctively latched around his hips, his hard cock pressing against your heat. “I want you, [Y/N],” he panted in your ear. You tugged on his hair a little so that you could look into his crimson eyes. “And you’ll have me,” you chuckled. “Just a little patience, my card soldier.” You kissed him again, relishing the feeling of his bare skin against your own.

“[Y/N],” the other card soldier moaned. You pulled back and smirked at Ace. You moved a leg between hips and hooked around one of his ankles. Using your hands, you pushed on the opposite shoulder pulled on his arm, rolling the red-head to his back. You pulled yourself on his groin and rolled your hips into him. He grabbed your waist and groaned. “Oh, that was really hot,” he grunted. You smirked and continued your grinding motion. You held out your hands for the spade. “Come here, Deuce.” He obliged and scooted closer. “Come up on your knees.” He did as he was told. You started kissing along his bare chest, trailing kisses all the way down. You took time to kiss, lick, and suck on his erect nipples. He was trembling. “You can touch me,” you whispered against his soft skin. He hesitantly put a hand in your hair. “Sorry… This is all still a little new for me.”

You pulled back and looked up at him. You put a hand on his chin and pulled him close. “You don’t ever need to be sorry for something like that. I may have more experience, but your body is still new to me too. We are both learning. I want you to know you can touch me however you want. If I want you to stop because I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you, okay?” You could see the concern in his teal eyes soften. He nodded and kissed you. You palmed him again through his sweats. Ace shook his head. “You two are so lovely dovey romantic.” You ground your hips into him, hard. He groaned. “Just because you don’t need a safe word, Ace, doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t,” you commented, turning to him. He smirked and sat up. He brought his lips to one of your nipples and bit down lightly before sucking on it. You moaned loudly, squeezing Deuce ever so slightly. He moaned in turn. Ace chuckled. “Now there’s the moan I’ve been waiting to hear from you.” He brought his lips back to your nipples while his hands traced your back and gripped your ass. You growled playful at him, before turning your attention back to the blue-haired man next to you.

“Stand up,” you whispered to him. He nodded, his body still quivering. “You’re shaking,” you mentioned. Deuce blushed a bit. “It’s not because I’m nervous. It’s because I’m SO hard and I NEED you to touch me,” he said a bit embarrassed. You grinned up at him and bit your lip. You neared his tented pants and placed a kiss on his hard cock. You looked up at him. His face was flushed and his mouth hung open. You kissed his body again and then reached up to grab the hem of his sweats so that you could slowly pull them off his body. His cock sprung free. Deuce kicked the pants to the other side of the room. He had two large veins that ran down the entire length. He was a bit longer than average and had a fairly standard girth on him. The tip was a blushing pink and was leaking like a faucet.

You took his cock in your hands and then brought your lips to the tip. You gave him a kitten lick. He gasped loudly and his body shook. Something you loved about being intimate with him was his sensitivity. Every little touch was pure ecstasy. You licked him again, drawing another whine from him. You stroked him and took him into your mouth. Deuce ran his fingers through your hair, his hand trembling. You hollowed out your cheeks and started pumping with both your mouth and hands. His shaking became worse. “[Y/N]… I can’t stand anymore. My legs are going to give out,” he moaned. You pulled back. “Sit, Deuce. I can still pleasure you.”

The spade quickly sat down on the massive rose pillow and leaned back against the one couch. He spread his legs, his leaking cock laying against his toned stomach. You pulled Ace off your body and gave him a sultry look before swinging your legs off him. On all fours, you crawled over to Deuce. He was already panting, his lean muscular chest heaving in and out. You gave him a peck on the cheek before lowering your mouth back onto his cock. As soon as your lips were around his length, he let out a nearly pornographic moan. You felt your thighs clench involuntarily and the wetness in your core spread. You used your free hand to massage his balls, earning gasping whine.

Ace sat up and watched your wagging ass as you sucked on Deuce’s cock. He grinned as he saw the wetness of your tiny shorts. He traced your heat with his fingers. You moaned against Deuce’s cock. The vibrations caused him to buck his hips. He grabbed your hair and the heart blanket, throwing his head back into another loud moan. Ace chuckled and continued to trace your heat, occasionally placing a kiss on the plush of your ass. Now it was your turn to tremble. The ace of hearts then grabbed your shorts and pulled them down. “Oh, looks like our little prefect was being naughty too,” he teased, noticing you also weren't wearing any undergarments. Placing another kiss on your bare skin, he took a finger and sucked on it before inserting into your core. You clenched your thighs, your walls closing around his finger. You moaned against Deuce’s cock again. He whined and tugged on your hair. Ace chuckled. “That’s my little red rose,” he praised.

Ace slid a second finger into your heat. You whimpered a little. He pumped his fingers in and out of your spongy walls. The feeling was sensational. You clenched your walls around him in approval. “You like that, [Y/N]?” You clenched again in response. He chuckled. “Maybe I should give you more then.” Ace inserted a third finger into your hole and hit your sweet spot. He brought his free hand around your legs so that he could rub circles on your clit. You clamped down hard onto his hand and moaned desperately against Deuce’s cock. Deuce jerked his head back and moaned loudly in turn.

Your attention was slipping from pleasuring the blue-haired man as Ace pumped his fingers in and out of you. Waves of pleasure surged through you with every circle he made on your clit. You tried to refocus on the spade in front of you. You swirled your tongue around his cock, blew outward, grazed your teeth along his length, and even hummed, playing every trick in the book. He held your [H/C] hair tightly in his grasp, guiding you along his cock, his moans coming out with every stroke. You could tell he was getting close. You felt Ace pull his fingers out of you and then shift to lay between your legs. He caressed your upper thighs and gripped them in his hands. You suddenly jerked and pulled yourself off of Deuce with a gasp as a warm tongue slid over your slit all the way to your clit.

Ace chuckled, nibbling your clit. You reached down and grabbed his hair. “Ace~” you whimpered. He kept sucking. You closed your eyes and grasped for breath, your arms starting to shake. You sat up, sitting on his face. Deuce whined from the sudden lack of stimulation until he saw the look on your face. Mouth open, eyes closed, brow knitted together. He shifted to his knees and grabbed your face to kiss you. I tried to kiss him back, but was constantly interrupted by your own whimpers. Deuce raised his hands to your breasts and fondled them, lightly brushing over the nipples. You winced, breaking away from his lips and pressing Ace’s head between your legs. He hummed happily. You gripped at his red hair. You felt his tongue enter you. You tugged on his hair.

Deuce moved his lips along your jawline and down to your neck. You gripped his shoulder to stabilize yourself. He kept moving down your body until his lips met your nipples. You ran a hand through his navy blue hair. He was so gentle. His light soft touches were almost unbearable. He, plus Ace working his tongue on your core, were sending you straight to the edge. And quick. The heat was rising within you faster and faster. The coil in your core was tightening and threatening to snap at any moment. “I-I’m going to cum,” you whimpered. Deuce sucked on your nipples and Ace sucked hard on your clit. The knot snapped and a surge of fire wracked through you. You gasped and moaned loudly, every muscle in your body shaking as you released. Cum poured out of your body into Ace’s open mouth, who lapped up every bit of it. When you finally calmed down from your high, Deuce kissed you feverishly. He grabbed you around the waist and pulled you off of Ace’s face and laid you down next to him, pulling himself on top of you. His hard cock lay on your stomach. 

You lay there kissing him desperately. When he finally pulled away all you could do was pant. Ace weaseled his way by your side and reached out a hand to turn your face to his. “You taste like Trey’s lemon tarts,” he smirked. You flushed a deep crimson. “Might even say it’s my favorite dessert now,” he teased. Deuce grinned with that troublemaker smile of his. “I think I need to taste that for yourself,” he crooned, leaning in to kiss you again before sliding down your body, leaving a trail of kisses all the way down. Ace took the opportunity to kiss you, pushing his greedy tongue into your open mouth. He grabbed your hand and brought it to his aching cock. “Take them off,” you whispered to him in between kisses. Ace wasted no time removing the last of his clothing and quickly tossing it aside. You took his leaking cock into your hand and started to pump up and down. Ace’s cock was average in length and girth. It was an angry shade of red, which got darker toward the mushroom tip. He kissed you harder, grunting into your mouth. “Fuck, [Y/N]…”

Deuce had finally kissed his way down to your core and kissed your still sensitive clit. You yelped against Ace and bucked your hips involuntarily. He snickered, clearly having gotten into his confidence streak. He lowered his head and lapped up the remaining juices that came out of your body. He raised his head with a big grin and pulled himself back on top of you, positioning his cock at your entrance. “You’re right, Ace. She really does taste like Trey’s lemon tarts. Even better, I’d say.” “Told you,” Ace muttered in between kisses.

Deuce leaned down to bring his lips to your neck. He nibbled and sucked at the skin. You gripped Ace harder causing him to groan. Every few strokes you ran your thumb over his tip. You could feel how desperate he was for your touch, the way his body shivered. Deuce moved his hips to prod your entrance. You gripped his bicep and he pushed himself into you. You pulled away from Ace and moaned, gripping Deuce tighter. You moaned his name. He pushed himself in slowly until he bottomed out, feverishly kissing your neck all the while. Ace pulled your lips back to his and bucked his hips to get more friction from your hand that had slowed. 

As Deuce began to pump himself in and out of you, you instinctively moved your hips to meet his. Every time he hit your sweet spot you gasped and moaned loudly, your back arching away from the cushion on which you all lay. Deuce was panting hard, little groans escaping him every time he pumped his cock in and out of you. You tried to bring yourself to focus on pleasuring Ace.

The harder you focused, the faster the focus slipped. With every thrust Deuce grinded against your clit, waves of pleasure washing over you. Your body shuddered with pleasure. You moaned loudly. You let go of Ace and kissed Deuce. The ace of hearts complained. When you pulled back from the kiss you whispered, “Deuce, slow down. You’re going to make me cum again.” He chuckled and kept pumping himself in and out of you. He kissed your temple. “Good, that’s what I want.” He sped up his pace. Your legs were shaking with the building muscle tension. “Ace~,” you moaned. Ace bolted up and leaned over you. He smiled with that wicked grin of his. “Oh, that’s a good girl~,” he cooed, egging you on. He took his cock in his hands and stroked himself while he just sat there and watched you, your face contorting with ultimate pleasure.

You could barely handle it anymore. Every muscle in your body was shaking and screaming for release. Ace brought his lips to your ear. “Be a good girl and cum for me,” he whispered. You gasped and threw your head back into the pillow, then screaming with release. You grabbed Ace’s hair with one hand, pulling hard, and raked your sharp nails across Deuce’s back with your other. He groaned, loving the bit of pain. The spade didn’t cease his pace as you clenched your walls tightly around his cock. There was no feeling better in the world than being able to feel yourself cumming around a cock shoved deep inside you.

When you finally calmed down, the spade slowed down for a moment. “Think I can make you cum again, [Y/N]?” He asked, his confidence peaking. You chuckled between panting. Ace moaned, still stroking his cock. You turned my head to look at him. “I want you inside me,” you begged him. Deuce made a face of objection. “But I haven’t cummed yet!” He argued. “And you’ve been hogging her all night!” Ace retorted. “I want you both inside me.” The two card soldiers fell silent immediately. They glanced at each other and then at you. “At the same time?” Deuce squeaked, nervous again. You pulled him in by his chin and kissed him. You brought your hips to meet his again and again and again, keeping his slow pace. You pulled away and nodded. “Yes,” you breathed against his lips. You glanced over at Ace who was nearly drooling. He attacked you with an open-mouthed kiss, driving his tongue back into your mouth. You kissed him back and entangled a hand into his mop of red hair. When you pulled back you glanced at them both. 

“Ace, I want you to lay down on the pillow.” He grinned and immediately laid down next to you, his swollen, leaking cock sticking straight up in the air. Even though you had just cummed, you were already desirous again and wanted him. Badly. “Deuce, I need you to pull out of me for a minute.” He pouted. “Trust me,” you coaxed him. He nodded and then slowly pulled out of you, quite reluctant. As soon as he was out, you felt empty and missed his cock immediately. You looked down at your body to see his cum covered cock leaking precum all over your core. You nearly pulled him back into yourself.

You shifted and stood up. The two men watched you curiously. You straddled Ace and lowered yourself onto his aching cock. He gasped as you filled yourself with him. You clenched your walls around him, so needy for him. He gripped your hips and started to bounce you lightly on him. You immediately started moaning again. You leaned over him, placing a hand on his chest and moved your hips at a steady pace for a minute just so you could feel him dip in and out of yourself. He grunted with every thrust. After a minute you calmed down and slowed your pace. You looked back at Deuce. “Come here, my spade~,” you cooed. He flushed red, but scooted over to you, his cock still rock hard. You leaned over Ace completely, his cock buried deep inside you. Your ass stuck out for the blue-haired man. “Put it in me,” you told him. His eyes grew wide. “Please,” you whined. “But, [Y/N]—,” he started. You cut him off. “I need you in me. I need you to fill me up. I need you to pleasure me.” You were begging at this point. He glanced down at your cocked stuffed leaking core and your other hole which was nearly pulsing just for him.

Little did either of the men know that you had been preparing for this for a while now. You had been playing and practicing on yourself. You’d even gotten some help and practice with Leona. You were ready for this.

“Come on, Juice. Put it in her,” Ace chided. “Please, Deucey,” you begged again. You wagged your ass for him. Ace moaned with the unusual movements. You bounced yourself ever so slightly up and down on his cock again causing wet sounds to echo through the lounge. “Oh, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his fingers digging into the plush of your ass. Deuce finally relented, his cock so stiff it hurt. Lining himself up behind you, the card soldier touched his tip to your other entrance. You gasped slightly at the feeling. You were SO sensitive. He started to push himself in you, groaning at the tightness. You gripped the blanket and pillow, gasping as his cock slid deeper and deeper into you. You could hear the wet sounds from the lube you had prepped yourself with earlier that evening. Your walls instinctively clenched around him as he bottomed out. You could feel him twitch inside you. You had never felt so full in your life. You savored the moment of being stuffed with that much cock.

Ace held tight to your hips and moved himself in and out of your core while Deuce then began to pump in and out of your ass. You started uncontrollably moaning with a new level of pleasure you had never experienced. You were practically drooling, unable to keep your mouth closed. Your mind could barely comprehend the amount of pleasure and number of sensations that wracked through your body. Every second was pure ecstasy. The two men were moaning as well. And loudly, at that. Ace was bucking his hips wildly, pumping himself in and out of you as fast as he could manage. Deuce, being in your other end, made you tighter for Ace and really heightened the friction. Deuce was in absolute heaven, shoving his cock in as far as he could with every stroke. You could feel yourself clenching around them both, bringing groans of pleasure from their gaping mouths.

For the third time tonight, you felt yourself quickly being brought to the edge of ultimate pleasure. You concentrated hard to try and stave it off as long as possible, but you knew you couldn’t hold on for more than another minute or two. You knew the two card soldiers were close as well. Ace was relentless in his pounding in and out of you. He had moved his one hand to your clit and was rubbing perfect circles. You were nearly screaming at his point. You could barely hold yourself up on all fours, your body shook so hard. Deuce also sped up his pace. You felt almost as if they had both somehow swollen inside of you. You felt even fuller than before.

You no longer felt like you could contain yourself. The burning fire rose to the surface and exploded to a degree you didn’t even know was possible. Every muscle in your body released at once and celestial level pleasure tore through every fiber of your being as you screamed out. Your walls clenched tighter than ever around the two men and then pulsed as you cummed around both their cocks. Your body was violently shaking from the level of pleasure and muscle tension you had encountered. Deuce cummed almost instantly after you. He sped up very quickly and leaned over you, rutting his hips into your ass. He grabbed your big breasts for support, that hung over Ace’s body, as he yelled out in pleasure. Thick white cum flooded into your body. He slowed down, but did not pull out. Ace also sped up, but his thrusts became sloppy and uneven. Within another thirty seconds he moaned loudly and cummed. Hot ropes of cum poured into your core. He slowed too and kept his cock in you as well.

As your body calmed down you shifted a bit, trying not to collapse. Deuce yelled with sensitivity. You leaned over and kissed Ace, who was panting on the pillow below you. He kissed you back surprisingly gently. “That was the fucking hottest thing I have ever done in my life,” he whispered. “That was the absolute best thing I’ve ever felt in my life,” you murmured back. He leaned in and kissed you again, a bit rougher.

You pulled away and glanced back at Deuce. “You want to pull out, Deucey?” You asked him. He nodded, unable to speak just yet. Deuce carefully slid out of you. The sensation brought another moan out of your mouth. “Oh, still needy are we?” Ace teased. You shot him a look. You could feel the cum dripping out of you. The spade was completely entranced by the sight. He brought his thumb to your hole and massaged it gently. You moaned again. “I never thought that watching my cum drip out of your body would be so hot, [Y/N],” he muttered, still perplexed. You let him continue to massage you. You just wanted him all over again, even though your muscles were exhausted. You didn’t think you could handle cumming again tonight.

You looked down at Ace. “Your turn,” you said. He grinned wickedly. “But what if I want to keep you all plugged up with my cum?” You smirked. Leaning down, you kissed him again. He raised a hand to sensitive nipples and rolled them between his fingertips. You moaned into his open mouth. “Come here,” he directed. The ace of hearts gripped you by the hips and rolled you over into the cush of the oversized rose pillow. You savored the soft material on your bare skin. You let yourself relax, grateful to no longer have to bear your own weight. Deuce kneeled down at your legs. Very slowly Ace pulled his cock out of your body, causing his cum to leak out of you. You lay there, legs apart, completely bare, and covered in cum, before your two best friends. Ace glanced down at your white stained body and core. He very carefully touched your still engorged clit. You yelped with sensitivity. He grinned and touched it ever so lightly again. You bit your lip and whimpered. “Fuck, [Y/N]. How are you this fucking hot?” Ace questioned. He leaned over and kissed you a bit aggressively before deciding to suck on your nipples. You moaned and grabbed his messy red hair. Deuce, curious and mesmerized by your exposed, cum-covered body decided to touch you in Ace’s place over and over and over, bringing forth moan after moan. He was completely spellbound by your unrelenting need to be pleasured.

The spade then dipped his head and began to lick and suck on your clit. You instinctively bucked your hips into his mouth only causing more pleasure. With your free hand you gripped his midnight blue hair tightly and moaned loudly once again. Ace had his face buried against your chest, switching back and forth between each side, sucking hard on your hypersensitive nipples. Deuce glanced up at you, your mouth hanging open, your brow knitted together again. “Just one more time, [Y/N].” I nodded, unable to deny him and the pleasure he was giving you. You moaned again as he put his mouth back to your extremely sensitive clit. Taking three of his fingers, Deuce pushed them deep inside of you, after spitting on them. He motioned come hither with them and you nearly screamed with pleasure as he hit your sweet spot over and over. Your legs started shaking again as the heat in your core began to build. You knew you wouldn’t last long at all this round.

Ace kept placing kisses all over your neck and chest, but mostly concentrated on your erect nipples that yearned for his lips. Ace continued to pump and curve his fingers in and out of you while he ate at your clit. The muscle tension started to build and the fire within you threatened to overflow once more. Within three minutes of Deuce starting, you could no longer contain yourself. You felt yourself release, screaming out again with all consuming pleasure. Your entire body shook with fire as you cummed around the spade’s fingers. He quickly pulled them out of you and began to lap up your juices. “Ace, get down here,” Deuce ordered. The ace of hearts quickly released your overstimulated nipples and worked his way down between your legs while Deuce sucked on his cummed covered fingers like a lollipop. Ace took his turn lapping up your core and hypersensitive clit. He gave one last slurp against it and then a soft lick. You whimpered with the overstimulation.

When he was finished the two flopped down one either side of you. Deuce pulled the large heart blanket over us. You could barely move, you were so exhausted. You turned your head to the spade. “That was… better than I could have ever imagined,” you managed. They both chuckled. Deuce leaned in and kissed you softly, pulling you to his warm bare body. “We should absolutely do this again,” Ace concluded. “You know. For practice.” You chuckled quietly. Deuce nodded and kissed your forehead. “For once, I agree.”

The End.

Please do not edit, copy, translate, or modify.

#smut #twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #twst smut #twisted wonderland smut #disney twisted wonderland #ace trappola #ace trapolla x reader #ace trapolla x yuu #deuce spade #twst deuce #deuce x reader #deuce x yuu #deuce x y/n #ace trappola x reader #ace trappola x you #ace trappola x y/n #deuce spade x reader #deuce spade x yuu #ace trappola smut #Deuce spade smut

[discowizard88]

Late Musings

Running your hand softly across the sprawl of John’s rarely exposed chest, your hands raised and dipped along the geography of his body. Carefully considering your movements, you repositioned your head to study John’s. Lost to the rare treat of peaceful sleep, he laid still with his arms wrapped around your body in a loose hug that hid their cage-like nature.  

Eyes closed and mouth parted, you could only hear the faint sound of his breathing and feel the ghostly tickle of his exhale on your face. 

You loved him like this: when his brows laid neutral, his lips gentle and free from that sharp smile that always left you feeling uneasy, a rare moment when his body wasn��t covered by his superhero costume and his muscles weren’t constantly tight like a cord waiting to snap. 

It was one of these rare but treasured moments that you could imagine him genuinely contented. He always seemed to melt in the embrace of your affection, and for a time, you thought that was all he needed: genuine care, but with proximity came clarity. He was a black hole, something constantly consuming even when he reached out; he doomed those he grasped to destruction. Having starved too long, he had incarnated desperation for something to fill him without considering the casualties of his voracity. 

However, it was in those little off-beat remarks of self-deprecation and vulnerable musings that left you dangling hope for him. John could never be described as the most self-conscious person, but he was far more self-aware than most believed him to be. He knew something was irrevocably wrong with him.

The little boy that never quite escaped the badroom.

“What are you doing awake this hour?”

Startled from your musing, your gaze meant his hooded blue eyes and lazy smile. Eyes fixed on your own, a warm affection swam in those beautiful blue orbs as they always did for you.

His magnificent sapphire was another thing you loved about him. Eyes that possessed a marveling luminous effect even when deprived of lighting or, in a more hazardous case, John’s lasers. The color was like arctic ice that shifted in its sharpness depending on his given mode. You wouldn’t deny their danger, but perhaps that’s what added to the pair's captivating nature, that at any moment, they could kill but always remained beautiful.

You smile softly, “Just admiring, my love.”

John leaned down to meet your lips, and with a Cheshire smile, he captured and kissed you. You giggled into his lips, and some of you cringed at the schoolgirl thrill that coursed through you. 

You had meant John, as most did when he was on the job as Homelander. 

It was love at first sight, or at least it had been for John.

Pulling back for air, you escaped but not without a playful possessive bit on your lower lip.

You smiled as you ran your tongue over the site of accident while he wore a playful smirk that displayed his upper teeth and vicious canines. 

John held one of your hands and raised them to his lip to trail a series of soft kisses over the palm as he looked at you and you at him. His soft lips danced across your fingertips as his eyes swarmed with a growing intensity that captured you in their magnificent blue once more.

Following no set path, John kissed the knuckles of your hand before skimming his lips down your arm as he pulled you closer into his orbit.

You loved him, and he’d be your doom if you stayed.

He intertwined his legs with your own, and you felt him harden against your thigh.

How could you ever leave.

Thank you so much for reading! Also I am open to The Boys request if anyone has any. Please look at my profile for further details.

#the boys amazon #the boys homelander #homelander x reader #homelander fanfiction #x reader #the boys tv

[getinthefuckingjaeger]

Sensory Prompt: 20 (Reflections in Glass), Buck and Bucky

(4&38)

(for @jakes3resin - its been in the drafts for a couple of weeks, since the first time you floated the idea)

“Jesus, Buck.” 

The sounds of a quiet sigh and the rustling of pressed uniform tickles Gale’s ears as he struggles to pick up his head from the bowl of his folded arms.

Slow as molasses, he opens his eyes with the window in his line of sight. It’s early - or so late that it’s early. The world outside is a still-life painting of sleeping high rise buildings, all covered under the shadows of the blue-black darkness of twilight. His own reflection in the window watched him right back, sunken tired eyes and all.  

He blinks hard, once, then deflates. 

In the semi-darkness of a city nightscape, Gale finds himself on the floor and folded nearly in half, back curved like a bow with his folded arms resting on the low coffee table in front of the window. His back aches, his legs numb, and his neck protests as he pushes himself away from the coffee table and slumps against the side of the hotel bed. At least the carpet is lush, he muses, hands rubbing and grabbing the fibers. 

He stares blankly at his reflection in the window, seeing without truly seeing the sleeping city beyond the glass panes. He sits in the quiet like a sentinel. 

Waiting.  

“Buck.” 

Another sigh, this time exasperated, bounces in the silence of this magic hour. Gale closes his eyes for half a second. Fear and resignation stir and fall into a familiar dance in him. Gale hears the familiar sounds again - the whispers of a starched uniform fold and give with every movement. His eyes falls from his reflection in the darkened window to right hand, studying the way the carpet peeks between the valleys of his fingers. 

“Buck come on, man.”

Only a little reluctantly did Gale lift his eyes from the carpet to the darkened window. He watches as a familiar figure bleeds into existence in the window, like a drop of color in a glass of water. Gale sees a man crouching beside him with his elbows resting on his knees, his handsome side profile tarnished only by the slight displeased pout of his lips.

Gale hums in acknowledgement. He is too tired to shake off this daydream, too wrung out to pretend that he does not welcome his specter, too empty to pretend that he doesn’t want to fall into its arms and follow it into the dark.

“I’ve never been more glad than I am now that you don’t drink - I’ll never complain about that ever again, hand to God.” 

He watches his specter rub its fingers over the prolific mustache - a gesture he has seen thousands of times in their short lifetime together. Gale feels the warmth of unshed tears starts to build and nausea climbs up his throat. 

There’s an animal made of love living in his chest, one that used to be soft and sweet, pliant and receptive to Gale’s touches and kisses. All that cloying sweetness is now gone, leaving a feral living-dead beast in its wake that lives off grief and regret, and it is clawing to get out - through bones, muscles and tendons. It is willing to claw its way out to freedom even if it kills Gale. 

And Gale, who has never let go of anything that he loves and loves him back, hopes that the beast does kill him when it escapes because at least then, he won’t have to live without it. 

He watches the man in the window settle beside him, pressed together from shoulder to elbow while the man’s long legs are splayed carelessly in contrast to Gale’s crossed legs. He thinks, with no small amount of jealousy, that the Gale in the window must be warming up now - that body in the window has always emit warmth like a furnace when it lived and breathed.

Curt used to drape his entire body over that broad, reliable back and made a show of sighing in contentment, delighted in the knowledge that he’s safe from Gale’s chronic inability to share. 

This is why I’m the big spoon, fellas. This right here is heaven.

Gale’s eyelids flutter when the animal gnaws at his breastbone. He lifts his left hand to rub his chest, his fingers firm through his soft sleeping shirt. 

“Big day, today.” 

The man in the window picks up window-Gale’s right hand and presses it between his big, labor-roughened ones. Gale watches as he fits their fingers together like puzzle-pieces before pressing their joined hands against his chest. Gale imagines he can feel the stiff material of that crisp buttoned shirt and the tie tucked neatly between the folds. 

“Listen, I don’t want you thinking that I’m all bent outta shape because you asked Benny to be your best man,” the man in the window kisses their joined hands. Gale wishes the animal in his chest would just eat his heart on its way out. “He’s a good guy, the best friend you’ll ever have. After me, that is.” 

The sky outside is starting to lighten - orange and yellow just starting to climb up the horizon, blending into the blues of the departing night sky. Their reflection in the window starts to blur at the edges with the light. Gale’s own right hand, empty of its complimentary left hand that used to belong to a man bigger than life itself, twitched. 

Eat me, kill me, do anything but don’t let me live without you. He thinks fervently as the pressure in his chest mounts, the beast’s attempt at a daring escape reaching its climax. He imagines the little beast, its mouth red with the gore of his torned-up heart, ripping into the sinews of his chest and digging its way out of its grave made of flesh and blood. 

“Someone had to go, Buck.” Gale can barely make out the outline of the man in the window with how fast the sun climbs on the horizon. He feels tears flood his eyes, his breaths coming in short and harsh. He sees a beautiful smile bloom on that beloved face, one so earnest that the force of it pushes beautiful blue eyes into crescent moons that used to light Gale’s night. “And I’m glad it was me, not you.” 

Gale can feel the animal’s claws piercing the skin of his chest now - so vividly that he wonders if he will see red bleed through his sleep shirt if he looks down. He wonders if his lifeblood will soak into this stupid lush carpet that he’s been ruining with his fingers for want of something else - something untouchable, unattainable, something stolen from him- to latch onto. 

His breaths are coming in too fast, too short. His eyes are overflowing. There is no way to stop the storm. He is drowning on dry land.

“I did set it up right.” 

The man in the window is just a blur of colors now, like watercolors on cellulose paper. Dark curls a blob of black, blending into splashes of beige, that bleeds into the drab olive of their uniforms. Despite all that, Gale can just see enough to pretend that the man is kissing window-Gale’s temple. 

His mind frantically searches through its ruined depths to pull up memories of the same lips pressing countless kisses to his face, his body, every inch of his skin in secrecy, hidden in alcoves and abandoned sheds and in the belly of a decommissioned B-17. He craves the sensation of warm dry lips against his skin, the euphoria of soaking up little pieces of John Egan's soul through skin to skin contact.

Sunrise peeks through the window. Its blood orange color spills onto the hotel floor like spilled wine, slowly but surely staining the carpet. 

“I just set it up for you.” 

The animal bursts through Gale’s chest in a mess of grief, blood, and gore. It tears a wretched sob from his throat, long overdue, for the first time since he jumped over that wall in Germany. 

The sun rises.

And his John is gone.

-

-

(read my partner in crime's thought's on this)

#masters of the air #mota #buck x bucky #john bucky egan #gale buck cleven #bucky egan #buck cleven #mota fic #clegan #clegan fic #jaeger writes

[merakiui]

11:11 — sugar dew sewn anew.

yandere!rook hunt x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, violence, murder/death of reader, description of blood/injuries, rook is rather morbid and creepy in this fic note - this fic is the result of a character fic poll, in which rook was the winner.

“You wear a very forlorn face when you paint, mon cher.”

You swivel on the stool, legs unfolding at the ankles, to properly peer past the easel at the man who sits in a gold-and-white satin chair, backdropped by various animal heads. They’re mounted with such care, each one organized according to where it lies on the food chain. They almost form a pyramid when you look at them from where you’re seated. From a dusky brown house mouse to a pitch-black crow, the heads range in species and size, all arranged on a vermillion wall. 

The biggest one, sitting in the very center of the display, right above your client’s head, is a chestnut-colored buck with a pair of magnificent antlers curling from its scalp. From where Rook sits, it almost looks like those horns are sprouting from his head. Contemplating the discrepancies between man and buck, you swirl your brush through a muddy cup of water and survey the rest of the aureate placards until you reach the top.

There’s a mount lacking a head. 

It was the first thing you took notice of after stepping through the halls of this quaint cabin to reach the sitting room. Although, after spending hours enclosed in cedarwood walls, it feels more like a trophy room—a place meant to showcase the spoils of every hunt rather than welcome people with disarming decorations. 

Rook crosses one leg over the other and, resting his elbows upon his knee, steeples his hands. You peer at the antlers, noting the valiant curvature, before meeting his verdant stare. A grin slowly sprawls on his lips once he realizes you’ve caught his gaze. 

“I concentrate on my source,” you explain with a shrug, still twirling the brush through the water. “Steady focus makes a steady hand…or something along those lines.”

“And yet you never smile, even when working so diligently to bring your masterpiece to completion.”

“If I viewed it as such, then I would have reason to smile.” Your contemptuous scowl slides to the canvas, where you’ve painted two dull green eyes set into a freckle-speckled face. The beginnings of a smile trace the portrait’s plush lips, withholding secrets no one will ever know. “I’ve yet to create a masterpiece. Therefore I can’t smile.”

“Oh, you’re much too critical of your art!” Unclasping his hands, Rook places one upon his chest, as if he must calm his heart after hearing your response. “I’ve studied your work, both through a screen and in person, and as your devout follower I can wholeheartedly say it is beautiful in every way, even down to the miniscule flaws other critics often spot with sharp, perceptive eyes!”

“You speak as if I lead a cult,” you admit with a sheepish chuckle. “I’m just painting the things I find interesting.”

“For a reason, I assume?”

“Usually it’s to find inspiration for what I hope will be my first masterpiece. I’d like to finally feel proud of my work.” The brush peruses the colorful selection on your palette, settling into the green you’ve mixed from yellow and blue. “It’s not that I’m unhappy. I just can’t find it in me to love what I produce.”

“But you enjoy creating, yes?”

“Of course. It’s what I’ve been doing for years. Painting allows me to understand the world and its inhabitants through my own lens.” You put brush to canvas in a series of small, significant strokes. “So when I’m painting… Well, I guess I just want to try to love the things I put on my canvases, even if it’s impossible.”

“Is that so? Then I’m beyond flattered you would ever consider using me as your most beloved muse!” He tilts his head, suddenly more animated than when he first sat down to pose for you, and adds, “I love you, too. Very much, my little artiste.”

“Are you just saying that so I’ll paint you handsomely?”

“Why, I would never say anything that would influence or persuade your process! Just as I love sweetly and solemnly, I also love monstrously and mercilessly. The primal facets of humankind are not exempt from my loving eyes. Even the most dirty and deceitful corners of this world—I love those just as fiercely. So should you choose to depict me as a fiend, I will adore your representation regardless of its harsh implications. After all, there’s beauty in tragedy.”

“And would that make life the greatest tragedy?” You hum as you add a sadistic glimmer to the eyes on the canvas. They pierce you with their unblinking stare, hollowing your soul until they reach unfathomable depths. “Or maybe it’s the ability to love with such a big heart?”

“Are you suggesting love is a tragedy? I suppose, in some sad sense, it is. Unrequited feelings, shattered hearts, lovers separated by way of death or divorce, and even the type of love that curdles like spoiled milk—oh, the misfortune! Each is a tragic tale spun from a mixture of melancholy or the intensity of hatred and all-consuming loneliness. But even so, no matter how horrendous it may seem, I hold each in my heart. They’re beautiful because they have the unique ability to shape a person into someone new—for better or for worse.” 

You lower your arm, hesitating while the excuses rise to the surface, before turning to look at him. “I’ve never known real love, Mr. Hunt, which is why I’m trying to capture it while I paint. I suspect I’ll be able to smile at my work because it will be something I’ve fallen in love with. Only then can I consider it a true masterpiece.”

“Your way of thinking is simply très bien!” He drums his fingers along his knee, humming his contemplation. “I’d love to unscrew your skull and poke through your brain. I wonder what memories have shriveled your ability to love…”

“It’s not that it’s shriveled. It’s just…” You shrug, losing your previous statement. “The words ‘I love you’ are just that—words. I have no use for meaningless sentiments. If I force myself to love, it feels wrong. I can like people and things, but loving them is too much. I can’t cross that line. If I did, I’d be a liar.” 

“Ah, so it’s like that…” Rook chuckles, but none of what you said was remotely humorous. His voice lowers to a whisper, ghostly and haunting, as if wrapping around your head and settling into the very folds of your brain. “I find it charming that you’re unable to love and I love too much. We possess many differences, and yet at the very center of it all we’re merely human beings composed of flesh and blood. It’s a beauty more stunning than the most radiant sunset!”

You pretend to have not heard him, resigning yourself to your work as you spend an absurd amount of time trying to illustrate the peculiar glaze in his eyes. They’re always so bright, but here you’ve painted them as soulless, viridescent sockets—a dark, dense forest having lost its vivid greenery with winter’s frost. But then there is not an ounce of ice within Rook’s eyes. They are always smoldering with many things: enthusiasm, intellect, new opinions just waiting to be shared regardless of whether or not you wish to hear them. It’s a genuine warmth, but something feels strange. Out of place. Much like the headless mount poised right above Rook to form the tip of the pyramid. 

Why is that mount lacking a head?

Without realizing it, you’ve abandoned your task with fixing his eyes to start on the antlers poking from a head of canary-hued hair. 

“You live up to your surname, sir.”

“Please, you’re much too formal with your fan. You need only call me Rook, should it suit your fancy.” He giggles when you pin him with a dubious glare. “Is it so wrong to label myself as such? I go to great lengths out of admiration and support of your work. Wouldn’t that, by definition, make me your fan?”

“I’m not very famous.”

“In my eyes, you are the famed sun and I am merely the moon who hopelessly pursues.” 

“Really? Well, I wasn’t aware I had an eloquent hunter for a fan.”

“Do you find my hobby eccentric?”

“No. It’s normal to enjoy all sorts of pastimes. Hunting is as much of a hobby as it is a sustainable sport. In older times, most people would hunt for the sake of survival.”

Rook nods, his gaze flicking towards the heads on the wall. You dip your brush in brown paint to add more color to the antlers. “It takes immaculate patience to be a hunter. Most hunts are not always successful.”

“Is there a reason you hunt?”

“It’s in a human’s nature to obtain the unobtainable, and I seek beauty in its most visceral forms.”

“I see…”

“Do you?” Rook crosses his legs again, but this time his posture is stiffly statuesque. “Is obsession not the most flattering form of dedication?”

“It’s not exactly how I’d go about defining dedication… But then I suppose everyone has their reasons.” You steal a peek at the headless mount. “Do these heads mean anything to you?”

“Why, of course! They are the beautiful animals I have pierced with my arrow, whether or not I intended to. Often, when you trek through the territory of beasts, you might need to release a mortally wounded animal from its suffering.”

“So a mercy kill.” Your eyes return to the painting, where you set to work adding tiny blossoms along the curved antlers. “Doesn’t that upset you?”

“So goes the cycle of life, I’m afraid. I would be a daring fool to interfere with the balance of the world.”

“Have you ever lost any of your hunts?”

Rook hums, tapping out a rhythm against the top of his hand. The pads of his fingers fall in rapid succession: tick, tick, tick, tick. “As a matter of fact, I have! Just last week, after your departure, I lost the mouse I’ve been trying to catch for years now.”

“Years? Shouldn’t you give up?”

“Not until I feel that mouse’s heart beat within my enclosed fist.” He smiles wide, flashing flawless rows of pearly whites. Under the dim lighting, they appear sharp and predatory. “I suspect I’ll get lucky tonight.”

“How can you be sure? Mice are difficult to catch with bare hands. You’ll need a trap.”

“Mon cher, you wound me! I would never make such an amateur error.” He chuckles to himself, relishing in the cruelty of a joke that doesn’t quite land. “When I set my sights on something, it’s a guarantee I will catch it, even if I must play a dreadful waiting game.”

“My apologies. I was only passing on a helpful tip.”

You pull away from the canvas to inspect the strands of white dahlias curled around the man’s antlers. Frowning, you raise your arm, intending to slash through the portrait with a streak of black paint, when it occurs to you that you need only add red. 

But before carmine, you return to nature reflected in wide greens.

“Has my dear artiste ever hunted before?”

“No, not really. I seek inspiration all the time, but I wouldn’t call that a hunt.”

“Oh? Please elaborate.”

“There are stakes in a hunt. Life and death. Danger. A battle of wits between predator and prey. Looking for inspiration is just a matter of searching and exploring. It might lead some down scary paths, but for me it’s a matter of reading more books or taking a stroll through the town. I don’t like dangerous things, so I tend to avoid them.”

“It pays to be cautious, no?”

“Right. Shouldn’t you be the same, Rook? As a hunter, don’t you worry about what might happen if you aren’t careful?”

“Of course there are worries! That comes with every profession and hobby.” He gestures to the plastic tarps plastered to the floor and walls. “You worried you’d sully my floors, and to ease such a fear I put these protective plastics up. My worries for hunting may be different, but they are worries all the same.”

“I guess that’s true… Well, what do you worry about?”

“Whether I’ll be fast enough to catch my prey when they’re unarmed and unaware.”

“O-Oh… That’s a little…”

Rook laughs a guttural laugh—a sound that comes right from the depths of his chest. “Imagine something you’ve always wanted. Picture it slipping through your fingers, just out of your reach, and now you’ve lost the chance to seize it. Is that not worth a worry or two?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never tried to chase after things I knew I wouldn’t be able to have.”

“Mon cher, you must learn to take risks. How else will you live?”

“I live perfectly fine without the need to step out of my comfort zone.”

Rook hums. “I think you’d change your tune if you found yourself in a risky situation.”

“Define risky.”

“Life and death.”

You pause, your brush poised at the pupil in his eye. “Everyone wants to survive. It’s in our nature as animals. A very basic instinct.” 

“And despite our most dedicated efforts to stall the inevitable, death catches us all—some sooner than most.”

“This is getting kinda…morbid.” 

“Haven’t you wondered,” he asks, and you don’t hear the wood creak under approaching feet, “what someone might do if they found your corpse?” 

He’s behind you. Five steps away in this cubic space. The man with antlers has crawled out of the canvas that once confined him, and he’s behind you. 

The mount on the wall lacks a head. 

The man in the chair lacks antlers. 

The creature in the portrait lacks humanity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a voice recorder tucked away beneath the chair. 

You swallow thickly, your heart in your throat. “I… I’m not sure. I’d hope they’d give me a proper, respectful burial if I died of natural causes.” 

And if it wasn’t natural causes? 

You don’t hear him verbalize the question, but somehow you catch it amidst the smothering silence.

“If it wasn’t natural causes…” You force a laugh, but it’s flat and misplaced just like the headless mount. “That would be murder, right?”

His shadow looms behind you, cast ominously dark over the earthly colored canvas. Slowly, so slowly, your free hand lowers to the pocket in your artist’s apron, where a dozen palette knives rest. Trembling fingers peruse the selection, locating the one with the sharpest point, and it’s the heaviest burden you’ve ever secured in your fist. You remain sitting horribly still on the stool, listening only to the frantic, slick sound of blood rushing in your ears. 

Steeling your frayed nerves, you whirl just as he descends. 

There’s a pause, a stumbled heartbeat, and then raw fear coagulates into confusion when you find him sitting primly in his chair, his verdant stare striking through you as if it’s an arrow he’s just loosed. It hits its mark, for it leaves you pinned in perplexity. 

He was behind me.

“And… And what about you?” you ask, your tongue heavy and thick in your mouth. “If someone… If I found your corpse, what would you want me to do with it?”

He was behind me. I’m sure of it.

“That wouldn’t happen.” His lips curl into a cat-like smile, and he angles his head curiously. “Normally it’s the other way around.”

You see it, then. The silver glint of a sharpened meat cleaver. It lies in his lap, where his fingers curl around the wooden handle, and all while holding eye contact he continues to smile. His teeth are refined cutlery in the light: artfully honed, yet not quite serrated, they’re tough enough to bite and tear and chew. Like a deer trapped in the hauntingly hypnotic glow of oncoming headlights, you don’t dare move. Perspiration wets your brow, slides down your back between your shoulder blades. You lick your lips. Anticipation claws through your intestines, nestling in the very pit of your stomach. Bile creeps its way up your throat like acidic fingers.

What’s happening?

“Come now, ma souris, don’t give me such a sullen face! I’ve shown you my hand. Isn’t that a miracle more beautiful than life itself?”

Your hold on the little palette knife tightens. “One person’s going to leave this room,” you say, your eyes sliding to the recording device, “and it’s not going to be me. Isn’t that right, Rook?”

“I can’t possibly say,” he affirms, dulcet and smooth like rivers of blood running ruby-red from a broken nose. His finger drums a rhythm against the flat side of the cleaver. “But I can certainly guess.”

Carefully, you rise from the stool. His eyes track you, so full of the vitality of the color green. More than that, they’re bright with bloodlust and you’ve been caught in the crosshairs of his cutting gaze. He peers at your unfinished painting and chuckles.

“Even your interpretation of me is beautiful! It’s an honor to be your fan, ma souris. Truly, I’m quite happy.”

You brandish the palette knife as if that will do anything to protect you from him. He stands from his seat, a monster adorned in gloomy garb. Like a stain against the red wall of heads, he no longer fits into the picture you once thought he did. Rather, he is blight in human form, a sinister omen housed within a skeleton encased in friendly skin. 

And he’s walking right towards you, putting one foot in front of the other, in no hurry to rush. The cleaver taps against his hip as he approaches, each bump mirroring every one of your heartbeats with startling accuracy. 

“Are… Are you unhappy with my portrayal?” you ask, not particularly interested in his reply, but desperate to keep him talking at arm’s length. 

For every step he takes, you take two backwards. 

“Not at all! In fact, I’m flattered.” Rook narrows his eyes at you, sickly entertained. “You’ve made prey out of a predator. Not many are capable of such a generous feat.” 

Your back connects with the door. Swallowing thickly, you search for the door knob. “Do you really see yourself as one? You don’t have to be one. Y-You can be neither. You’re only human.”

“Ah, but humans are the worst kind of predator.”

“What makes you say that?” Your fingers wrap around the metal door knob.

“Humans are afforded choices. We think through decisions. We make merry with our enemies and then hurt them after they’ve properly settled. We are complex in a way that differs from other animals. Predators are bound by survival, always trapped in high-stakes life or death, unable to truly make a decision that ventures beyond whether they wish to live another day or become sustenance for those who sit a rung above on the food chain. You see, we are not simple predators.” He raises the cleaver and points it at you. “As for humans, we can decide if we want to feel something when we hurt and kill. We can communicate in languages simple predators can’t use. Oh, the beauty of words!” He chuckles, elated. “To pluck a phrase from my vast lexicon: I’m going to take your life for myself, ma souris. Stow it within the depths of my very soul so that I may be the only one to treasure your rarity.”

The confession guts you quicker than his knife ever could. 

Wrenching the door open, you turn on your heel and step through, ready to break into a sprint, when heavy footfalls make their way towards you from behind. He covers the meager distance in seconds, wrapping a muscled arm around your torso and yanking you back into the room. You scream, words and sounds mixing into something incoherent, and elbow him in the ribs with as much force as you can muster. He releases you and you, fueled with panic and adrenaline, drop to your knees just as he swings, your hand closing around the palette knife you had previously lost. 

Somehow you manage to get back on your feet when he descends again, this time intentionally missing your shoulder when he brings the cleaver down. It cuts through the sliver of space between empty air and your own body, narrowly missing you by a hair. You throw yourself against the wall, entangled in a plastic tarp that comes loose from its hooks. They fall around you in noisy pitter-patters, something akin to metallic rainfall, and you hit the floor with a harsh thump.

And all the while, the mounts continue to peer at you with glass eyes.

“There’s no need to fall over yourself in a frantic haste. You’ll waste all of your energy, and even then adrenaline won’t be enough to fuel you. I’ll catch you if you aren’t careful…” He smiles at you from where he stands, green eyes cold with calculation. “Let’s take a moment to chat, shall we? I’d like to regale you with the five stages of the delightful thing known as prey drive. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“No, of course not,” you spit, vitriol lacing every syllable. Your pupils flit about the room, tracing the cleaver in his hand and then flickering towards the chair. The recording device sits in shadow, just within your reach. If you can stand up, take two steps forward, and drop down when he moves to intercept, you might be able to retrieve it. “Enlighten me since you seem so eager to run your mouth.”

Rook chuckles and enunciates his every step with a whistle. He reaches the chair in three steps and kicks the recording device out from under it. You watch it skid across the floor towards you, settling mere inches from your feet. You glance at it; it’s still recording, seconds stapled into it with every tick of your heart.

“A dog searches.” His back is turned to you, and he gazes at the mounts on the wall. You lower just enough to swipe the device from the ground. It’s not heavy in your palm; rather, it’s palm-sized and it slips into your pocket like a silent knife through butter. “And when it finds, it stalks. Have you caught the pattern yet?”

His neck is right there. All you need to do is rush up to him, grab him from behind, and drive the palette knife so far into the side of his neck that it’ll surely cause some sort of distress. Or you could turn and run. You have evidence. You have his address. You have your car. You can escape. You can drive far away from this horrifying cabin in the woods and never return. You can live. 

You can run.

“And from there…” 

So you do.

He whirls just as you dart through the door, over the threshold into the hall, and you miss the crazed twinkle reflected in wild, untamed green eyes. Rook’s laughter follows you, airy and light like a comforting breeze. He’s alive with murderous delight, and you’re nearly dead with fright. 

“Ensues the chase!” he calls out, so close in the cramped confines of the hall that his voice nearly grazes you. 

You swallow your sobs, pressing onwards with hardened resolve, and follow the length of the hall until it spits you out into another room. It’s undeniably a kitchen, what with the refrigerator and microwave pushed into a corner, but it’s furnished more like a lab. Nearly every appliance is metallic and the floors are tiled, constructed with surfaces that are perfect for washing away pesky fluids. A drain is built into the very center of the floor, sticking out like the nastiest bruise. You spy meat hooks hanging in place of where spatulas and whisks ought to be—both of which are innocent culinary tools meant to assist in food preparation rather than something killer. 

Spinning on your feet, you locate the door opposite of where you stand in the small kitchen-lab and take a momentous step towards it, hoping it leads you closer to an exit and further from your hunter, when a cold hand seizes your wrist, spidery digits curling into your skin. A shrill scream rips from the depths of your throat, surely shredding your vocal chords into bloody ribbons. You struggle, yanking your arm in vain, for his hold is impossibly strong. He tugs you towards him, his feet moving in time with the shuffling of yours. It’s a stiff stalemate of a waltz. You pull away and he pursues, his hand creeping up your arm in an attempt to pin it to the nearest surface. With another helpless shriek, you tear yourself free, staggering backwards against the metal table, which rolls further away on well-oiled wheels. Your horrified reflection blinks back at you in the shine, and with a sunken heart you realize it’s a dissection table. 

“Mon cher, I must say, you wear disarray so naturally. It’s far too forbidden for my simple eyes to behold.” 

“Why… Why are you doing this?” Your voice is thick with terror, sore from screaming, and you wipe furiously at your glossy eyes. “Please stop… You’ve had your fun. Now… Now let me go. I… I promise I won’t come back here again. Y-You can keep all of the supplies and the canvas. Just let me go…”

A secretive smile stretches slowly across his lips. “Oh, how Fortuna graces me with the benevolent opportunity to admire these special sides of yours. To be able to witness the rawness of pure horror after cornering the most dangerous animal of all…” He pricks his finger on the tip of the blade and adds in a breathy whisper, “Beauté.”

A disgusted shiver claws its way up your spine. You glare at him. “So it’s the thrill you enjoy, yeah? It doesn’t faze you that you’re going to kill an innocent person?!” 

He tilts his head. “Rather than snuffing your light, I intend to give new life to your excellence. In many ways, aren’t I also an artist?” 

“Like hell! You’re crazy!” You take a step back when he advances, moving towards you like a graceful panther stalking its prey. Your grip on the palette knife tightens. “What did I ever do to you to deserve this?” 

“Nothing, mon amour.”

“N-Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing!” he reaffirms, rather conversationally, and the frustration-riddled tension in your body deflates all at once. 

“But… But I thought—” You shake your head, hopelessly searching for a means of convincing him otherwise in his pursuit, and say, “I thought you… You said you loved me! Can you really hurt someone you love?”

Rook hesitates, his feet shuffling to a halt, and he peers blankly at you, all emotions veiled in a stoic mask. “While it’s true that I will always cherish you in life, I must also come to love you in death. If I’m unable to accept even the rotting and decaying sides of everlasting love that most shy away from, then I’m simply undeserving of my title as a hunter. If I seek the wonders of life, it’s only fair I seek the wonders of death all the same. You understand, don’t you?”

“No! In what world would I ever understand that logic?!” You point the palette knife at him. “You don’t have to kill me. You really don’t have to…”

“I suppose, if I’m to apologize for anything, I should ask that you forgive my greedy behavior. I’m hopelessly infatuated with your work, so allow me to thank you for all that you have shown me tonight. I promise to repay your tenderness tenfold.”

He smiles, stepping aside to allow you passage through the door, and foolishly you take the bait. It’s a run through tar—something you’d only ever experience in a dream, in which outrunning a villain is an impossible task. You make it through the door and out into the hall, and from there your only goal is to mindlessly flee towards safety. Tears obscure your vision, clinging to your lashes like fragile sugar dew. 

You think you see the outline of a faraway door, but perhaps it’s just the illusion brought on by mournful tears. 

You think you’ll make it to freedom, but perhaps it’s just the animalistic desire to survive that ignites your nerves. 

You think you can escape the horrors of encroaching affection, but it slips into your hand, tight and reassuring. 

Tugged into the kitchen-lab, your back collides with Rook’s chest. His grip is bone-crushing, and you don’t hear anything he’s saying—is he humming or waxing poetry?—but you feel the warmth of spreading blood as it soaks through your shirt and stains your artist’s apron. The palette knife slips from your grasp, landing on the floor with a noisy clatter. You peer down at your abdomen, where the cleaver is snugly nestled in your stomach. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

He’s stabbed you. 

The cleaver. 

It’s in your stomach. 

It doesn’t hurt. Not at first. The shock snuffs the agony. He twists it gingerly, once or twice, before he yanks it out. Sticky strings of torn flesh and blood cling to the blade, connecting it to the injury he’s inflicted. Then you feel the rush of torturous, agonizing pain, and it stings more than anything you've ever experienced before. Red-hot, thick trails of blood trickle through your fingers when you shakily place your hand upon the wound, hoping to stop the flow. Rook clicks his tongue and guides you towards the dissection table, your feet dragging bonelessly upon the floor as you’re led along. You try to fight him, but everything’s so painful, and so all you can manage is a slight shake of the shoulders. Your world spins, and your mind reels as it struggles to process the dangerous gash. 

“After the chase,” he says, lowering you onto the table despite your blubbery protests, “the dog grabs its prey in a sharp-toothed bite and then it kills.” 

“S-Stop… You…” Your fingers curl into shredded skin, and you press down with as much strength as your shuddering body can muster. Blood continues to seep through the cracks between your fingers. “You… You’ll kill me…”

“Well, that’s the point, no?” Rook pets your cheek, fondness glittering in his green eyes. 

You peer up at him through bleary eyes, reaching for his face with a trembling hand. “Please… I’m begging you… It h-hurts… Please…” A helpless sob wracks through your frail form. “Please, Rook…”

For a while—whether an eternity or merely a few seconds, it’s hard to discern—he watches you fade in and out of consciousness, your groans a haunting melody in the discomforting quiet. Eventually, his hand finds yours on the table, limp and twitching, and envelops it in a firm hold.

Blissfully ignorant to your wheezing gasps, he begins to murmur: “‘Out—out are the lights—out all. And, over each quivering form, the curtain, a funeral pall, comes down with the rush of a storm. While the angels, all pallid and wan, uprising, unveiling, affirm that the play is the tragedy, ‘Man.’” He looms over you like a ghastly shadow, lips arranged in a gleeful grin. “‘And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.’”

The time is 11:11 at night when you finally fall into Death’s frigid embrace, never to wake again. 

11:11 - the mystical time at which the universe tugs celestial cotton from its ears and listens to wishes and woes alike. it is not a promise that all wishes will be granted and all woes will be soothed at this hour.

The time is 11:11 in the morning, and sweet, twittering birdsong flutters into the trophy room through a window left ajar. 

The sun has long since risen, casting radiant beams through the thinning slices between the trees. Rook Hunt hums as he works, deft fingers perusing various cosmetics arranged on a metal tray. Eyeshadow is applied to delicate, paper-thin eyelids, each one pinned open in the permanence of preservation. Glass marbles are set into hollow sockets, colored in memory of the eyes that were once attached to a brain via optic nerves. He matches foundation to the skin tone, which works well to hide meticulous stitching and mottled flesh. He’s humming in tune with the birds, the nearby rushing stream, and the swaying foliage caught up in a wind gust, relishing in nature’s symphony. 

“You claimed you’d finally smile after you’ve learned to love,” Rook observes, petting the top of the head, feeling human hair beneath his rough, calloused palm. “And now you beam brighter than the sun outside! Perhaps it’s because of me? You’ve always been so honest with your heart. It’s a facet I most adore.”

His gaze slides towards the unfinished painting propped against the wall, where an antlered man smiles at his viewer, his green eyes filled with a mysterious forest. 

“Have you always thought me to be prey?” Rook pauses, awaiting an answer, and snatches a lipstick from the selection. “Or maybe this is an artist’s ideal vision… Perhaps it’s a fantasy you’ve wished to see or a place you’ve always wanted to visit. Escapism is most magnificent when it’s comforting.” He opens the lipstick and surveys the color with his observant greens. He inhales deeply and catches notes of the cedarwood cabin walls and the floral perfume he spritzed on his dear artiste. “Though it may not be your masterpiece, it’s one that will forever fascinate.”

Red blooms on dry lips that can no longer scream or protest. He cups a cheek stuffed with the finest wood wool, palming an area that was once bruised and broken. The grisly mark has been painted over, and now it is out of sight and, as far as the hunter is concerned, out of mind. As the saying goes, before one can broach beauty, one must suffer some degree of destruction. 

Rook steps down from the ladder and sets the tray of cosmetics on the gold-and-white satin chair. He lifts his hands, fingers forming the borders of a rectangle to frame you in his own portrait. At long last, the headless mount has its head and the pyramid of trophies is complete. There’s a crooked smile sewn into features expertly stitched to finalize beguiling taxidermy. 

With a covert grin, Rook peers through his fingers at your head situated at the very tip of a tragic triangle.

“After all, prey are the prettiest when they’re dyed scarlet.”

#if i said jade's version of this concept was far more lighthearted would anyone believe me? #yandere twst #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere rook hunt #yandere rook hunt x reader #yandere rook #yandere rook x reader #tw: death #tw: murder #tw: violence

[marvelmusing]

Dine With Me

Part of the Light and Love AU

Pairing: Sun Summoner!Aleksander x Fem!The Darkling!Reader

Summary: After he has another dejecting lesson with Baghra, you invite Aleksander to join you for dinner.

Warnings: very brief mention of suggestive content

My Masterlist

“Aleksander?”

He turns his head quickly at the sound of your voice and soon he spots you stepping out of a darkened hallway towards where he’s stopped in the entrance hall of the Little Palace.

In a few strides you’re beside him, and the two of you make your way down the corridor he had been approaching.

He adjusts the fabric of his blue and gold kefta, certain that you’ll be able to see how tired he is from a mere glance.

“How was your lesson with Baghra?”

He winces at the thought of it. The corner of your mouth lifts slightly, eyes scouring over him as he says,

“I think I’m improving.”

You nod.

“Have you eaten yet this evening?”

He shakes his head.

“My lesson overran.”

“Dine with me.” As he opens his mouth to protest, you beat him to it. “I insist.”

He still considers arguing. If any of the other Grisha hear about him dining with the General it’ll only add fuel to the fire that he’s becoming the your favourite.

“I don’t want to intrude on your night,” he reasons weakly.

“You won’t, I can assure you.”

The genuine smile you give him when he nods chases away any doubt he had before.

»»---------------------►

The company is a welcome change for you as you eat your evening meal and seeing that Aleksander’s appetite has improved reassures you that he’s doing well.

He might not be overly optimistic about his summoning abilities but you can see a subtle change in him since that first day.

Now he leans back in his armchair, staring at fire as it crackles softly in the hearth and you hope he feels content. Throughout the meal you had talked about all manner of things, as you had finished a comfortable silence had settled over you both.

Aleksander continues to watch the fire, even as his eyes grow heavy. His head drops slightly, brushing against the headrest of the chair but he attempts to straighten himself.

“The walk to the dormitories is quite the trek,” you muse quietly as his eyes flutter. “Rest a little, if you would like?”

He watches intently as you gesture towards your bed.

“Are you sure?” he asks, though he’s already preparing himself to stand. You nod.

“Of course.”

With the intention of only resting a little after eating, Aleksander doesn’t remove any of his clothing or lie under the covers. He tilts his head back onto the pillow and stares up at the ceiling for a brief moment.

Then his eyes are fluttering closed and within a minute he’s asleep.

He might be used to early mornings in the First Army but as a mapmaker the current level of exercise, training, and studying likely had him feeling exhausted.

Once you’re certain he’s sleeping deeply, you untie the laces of his boots and slide them off. His kefta is a little more difficult to remove, but after a few calculated moves the garment is hanging on the door of your wardrobe.

To ensure that he sleeps comfortably, you unfasten his breeches and place them on your vanity table before tucking him under the dark covers of your bed.

Then you begin to dress for bed.

It’s much earlier than your usual bedtime, but tonight you have no desire to ignore the heaviness of your eyes and the ache at the nape of your neck. Climbing into bed beside Aleksander is the only incentive you need to get some well needed rest.

When you open a drawer to retrieve a nightdress you hesitate. You won’t lie to yourself, you have been trying to gain Aleksander’s attention.

With winter approaching a longer nightdress would be more appropriate, but sharing the bed with Aleksander would likely keep away the chill if you chose something shorter. Something like the nightdress you’re currently holding.

A soft velvet dress, dark green with black lace adorning the bodice. Perhaps this would get his attention.

Without much further thought, you remove your clothes and pull on the nightgown. The air is cold on your bare legs as you hang your black kefta beside Aleksander’s blue and gold. As much as you want to see him wear your colour, you’re waiting for the right time to ask him.

Hopefully that moment will come soon.

With this though in mind, you slip under the covers, settling onto the mattress beside him. It’s only once your head sinks into the pillow that you realise how tired you truly are. With Aleksander resting in your bed, you finally find yourself able to draw in a deep breath and relax.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall into a peaceful slumber.

»»---------------------►

A loud knock drags you from your sleep and it takes you a few seconds to gain an awareness of your surroundings.

One glance at the timepiece on your bedside cabinet reveals that you had overslept.

“Saints!” you hiss lowly. Then you call out towards the door, “Give me ten minutes, Ivan.”

At the sound of your voice, Aleksander begins to stir, blinking sleepily as you slide out of bed. A small sound catches in the back of his throat and you turn around quickly in concern.

“Is everything alright?” you ask.

His hair is ruffled from sleep and the bags under his eyes have smoothened themselves out since last night.

He nods slowly, his eyes fixed on you with a hungry glimmer than he struggles to hide and you feel warmth flush over your skin.

How long had it been since someone looked at you like that?

Stepping behind the folding screen, you pull on your trousers, select an ivory lace bra, and haphazardly throw on a white shirt.

You stand in front of the mirror at your vanity table while you button up your shirt. Not necessary, but it allows Aleksander to catch a glimpse of your lace clad chest.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up at the weight of his gaze as you tuck in your shirt.

As you sit down on the armchair to pull on your socks and lace up your boots, you hear the covers shifting over Aleksander’s body as he sits up.

When you move over to retrieve your kefta you notice the pretty pink flush over his cheeks and the tightness of his jaw as he keeps the bedcovers bunched over his thighs.

The effect you’ve had on him sends a thrum of desire through you, although you manage to school your expression as you turn to face him.

“I have a meeting with the king this morning,” you explain as you shrug your kefta over your shoulders. “Would you like me to ring for some breakfast before I leave?”

“No, thank you.”

You nod in acknowledgement as you adjust the collar of your kefta. There’s another knock at the door, signalling the end of your ten minutes.

He meets your gaze and you find yourself wanting to throw yourself back into bed and bury your face into the crook of his neck as he peels off your clothing.

Instead, you smile softly and give him a small bow,

“Have a lovely day, Aleksander.”

»»---------------------►

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur @ilikefictionmen @budugu

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny

»»---------------------►

-

#aleksander morozova #sun summoner!aleksander #aleksander morozova x reader #the darkling x reader #the darkling au #shadow and bone au

[fairy-writes]

then how about this: Akaza with a demon that's actually from hell and not from accepting Muzan's blood?

MAKE A DEAL

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Demon Slayer

Pairing(s): Akaza x Reader

Word Count: 0.9k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Gender Neutral!Reader, Demon!Reader

Notes: thanking everyone EXTENSIVELY for helping me with this idea!

__________________________________________________________________________

Akaza didn’t dream. 

Not really, at least. 

It wasn’t like he needed sleep. Demons didn’t require rest to function, but when you couldn’t go out during the day, sleep became a close friend.

So when he opens his eyes in his dreamscape, he is more than a little confused. 

Especially when he spots you. You were sitting with one leg crossed over the other on a log and watching him with eyes that, frankly, made him a bit nervous. They were yellow, a luminescent golden iris surrounded by an inky black sclera. The color was accentuated by what you were wearing—a pristine, white, knee-length, toga-like outfit. 

Something ancient from a bygone age. 

Long forgotten.

Just who were you?

Out of the blue, you said a name. 

Your name? 

He sat up (When had he been lying down? He never laid down. He always slept with his back against a wall.), taking in his surroundings. He was in a forest with massive pine trees surrounding him on all sides, with a small creek burbling and splitting the ground between you two. 

“Who are you?” He asks, and you simply smile at him, showing off pointed teeth that are too straight. Too white. Too unnatural.

“I already told you, silly.” You reply in jest, and he scowls. 

He already wants you to leave. 

You pout and stand, adjusting the hem of your toga and then your sandals before hopping down off the log.

“Fine then.” You huff and make to walk away into the woods when Akaza realizes something. 

“Are you reading my mind?” He asks, and you stop, looking over your shoulder to watch him with those glowing yellow eyes. 

“And if I am?” You ask, and he clenches his fists.

“Stop it.” Is all he says. 

At that, you shrug and go to take another step.

“Oh well. I was looking forward to a lovely conversation with the infamous Upper-Rank Three. But I suppose I can go talk to Upper Two. He’s usually asleep about this time.” You muse, and Akaza feels a jolt of rage shoot through him. 

Douma? 

“Why would you talk to that scum?” He snarls, and you turn around, eyebrow raised, and head cocked to the side. 

“Because I am looking for conversation. But you seem to have the conversation skills of a toddler. Telling me to “stop it” like a three-year-old.” You reply, tone teasing but surprisingly not upset. You sounded delighted that he was even talking to you.

Why?

But your comment has him gritting his teeth. 

Something about you irritates him. 

But… against his better judgment… he sits down on a rock when you gesture for him to do so. You sit back on the log, crossing one leg delicately over the other, and study him as if you were a bird studying prey. 

He hated feeling like this—like he was in the presence of someone more powerful than he. 

“So? What do you want?” He asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Your eyes narrow briefly, and then you roll them,

“To make a friend? See what it’s like being one of Kibustuji Muzan’s subjects? All of the above?” You say, and he freezes at the name of his master. 

Surely, you were a demon like him. 

How were you able to say his name so freely?

He waits for the screaming. 

The tearing apart of your body. 

The blood. 

Everything that comes with saying his name. 

But no such thing happens. 

You watch him with a curious sort of expression, and then a thought occurs to you. 

“You think I’m one of his?” You gape, and when he nods silently, you begin to laugh. 

And laugh.

And laugh.

It’s the type of laugh that shakes your whole body. The kind of laugh that makes it hard to breathe. A whole-body experience that goes on seemingly forever. You gasp and wheeze as you hunch over to wrap your arms around your stomach. Somewhere in the back of Akaza’s mind, he’s worried about you falling off the log and indecently exposing yourself. 

Eventually, you get your snickering under control, wiping tears from your eyes as you stifle more giggles. 

“That is simply a preposterous thought! To think I’d be lumped in with the same league as Muzan?! Ha! I’m much more powerful than he is!” You sneer, and Akaza has to stop himself from staring in astonishment. 

More powerful than his master? 

Was such a thing possible?

You seemingly read his mind (yet again) and answer before he has the chance to articulate his thoughts. 

“There are other ways to become a demon, you know. I’m living proof of that. Much more efficient, too. I can go out in the sunlight and everything!” You say, and Akaza is reeling.

Another way to become a demon? 

Just how—

“You just have to make a deal with me.” You interrupt his thoughts with that grin that makes him uneasy. Something about you seems off… Something he can’t quite place. But… he asks something on his mind.

“What sort of deal?” At that, your grin widens almost impossibly so, and you extend a hand. 

“You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” You say, and against his better judgment, Akaza takes your hand in his and shakes it. 

Only to watch your eyes darken until the inky blackness swallows him whole. 

“Perfect.” 

#akaza x reader #akaza x y/n #akaza x you #kny akaza x reader #kny x reader #kny x you #kny x y/n #kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer #demon slayer akaza x reader #demon slayer x reader #fairy writes

[heliosthegriffin]

Shadow Knight, and the Magical Girls IV

Chapter Four

Jaune was naked he realized. He also didn't know where he was. Only that he had a very thin sheet covering his remaining decency. This was not a first, however.

Waking up in a unknown location that is. He had made a habit of not dying, and that happened to lead him to going around in a fugue of blood-lost a lot times, collapsing, waking up, and getting back to it.

Waking up in somebody's house? That was new. Nobody had brought him home before.

He paused.

Phrasing.

Nobody had taken his unconscious body into they're house, and stripped him naked before.

He paused.

Phrasing.

He was not making this sound better.

Alright, he got it, nobody had stitched him up this good before, he hardly even noticed them, it was nice.

Still, he looked around for his clothes.

And, more importantly, his gear. He couldn't get back out there empty handed, he had tried that before, and it did not work well.

Getting off the table, he wore the sheet like a robe, not that it covered much, in fact, he felt more indecent wearing the sheer material over his body than if he were to walk around naked.

Standing up, he did check up and once over, finding a mirror against the wall, examining his status.

Well, he wasn't going to win Mr. Vale this year, it seems. Or any year, but at least his face was mostly untouched, other than a couple bruises from the explosion.

Explosion? Oh, yeah. That did happen, wow, that was crazy. How did that happen, was it a gas leak or...

Those Girls, with they're powers? Those Magical Girls. Why did they blow up a freaking street?

Were they insane?

Jaune thought about that, and nodded.

So, beside Shadow-Monsters that live underground, there were also super-powered crazy girls flying around at night.

He felt he could safely rule out this being a Government experiment now, and felt he could safely move to alien invasion next.

And, if this is an alien invasion, they're doing a terrible job.

Just release a dna-altering virus and be done with it.

Maybe, just maybe, just because Aliens discovered FTL travel didn't make them anymore intelligent than them, it could easily be like a dog falling into the drivers seat and accidentally starting the car.

Jaune shook his shaggy hair, enough musing, he decided. He needed to leave, he had no idea how long he was out for, but he needed to get back out there, the longer he waited, the more people would suffer.

"Holy-, Amber! He actually woke up! We didn't kill him!" A voice spoke then paused, and Jaune felt himself being looked at. "Oh! Also, he's gorgeous when he's not bleeding out!" A unfamiliar voice-, no wait, he heard it briefly earlier, spoke from behind him.

Turning around, he saw her, a woman of average height and build, coming out of the bathroom. Her hair short and close-cropped, with a brown-black hair, and large, pale blue eyes who looked at him curiously.

She dressed loosely, wearing blue hot-pants, and a white tank-top, revealing she had a sleeve of tattoos on either arms. She smiled at him, and Jaune felt a sense of danger from her, as he took her measure, noticing while she was average height and build, she was tightly muscled and lean.

Like a fighter.

"Hey, ease up, tiger." She called out nonchalantly. "I don't bite, not unless you ask nicely." She teased him.

Jaune took a step back, whole body tensing up, he did not like this. He was at the disadvantage here.

"Who are you?" Jaune asked bluntly, feeling the world narrow on to her, studying her like a frog on the lab table, looking at her stance, breathing rate, eye dilation, and a hundred other little things that might suggest that she was dangerous.

"Gee," She blushed. "Don't go looking at me like your about to eat me up," She paused and looked away. "Vernal, Vernal Mayday." Something clicked in her head. "Wait, you're legal right? I mean you're built like a statue, but you look kind of young, oh shit, you're not. I've been coming onto a minor."

"I'm 17," Jaune admitted. "So, yeah. I'd appreciate it if you would stop."

"Yeah, I'll get back to you in like year, cool?" She said weakly. "Unless...?"

"No. Uh, no. Sorry. I kind of have a whole, wait, I don't need to explain myself." Jaune said half to Vernal, and half to himself. "So, how'd I get here, and where is my stuff."

Vernal opened her mouth to explain, but turned her head seeing something. "I'll let amber explain. So, sit down for a second, it won't kill you."

Jaune sighed, doing as he was told. "Could I have my pants back?"

Vernal gave a awkward smile. "Sorry, uh, we kind of cut them off of you to get you fixed up."

"Oh." Jaune said sadly. "Thanks. So, it was you that fixed me up?"

She nods, taking a seat across from him, holding a cup of coffee. "Amber and I, speaking of which-"

Jaune saw a door open, and a pretty brown-skinned girl make her way towards him in a way that he found reminiscent of his older sisters. "Thanks the Brothers!" Then she wrapped her arms around his neck. "We thought you weren't going to make it a couple times last night!"

Jaune hadn't been hugged in a long-time, not since he had started making it his life's work to fight against the Shadow Monsters. He had put up barriers between himself and everyone, family included.

It might have been selfish to isolate himself, but if he died out there, he didn't want anybody to be sad when it happens.

So, he felt very surprised to be hugged by a pretty girl he hardly knew.

He opted to pat her bat half-heartedly.

Then he looked at the clock. It was morning, if barely.

Well, the Shadow-Monsters would be retreating now anyway, so he didn't have anywhere to be yet.

Then she pulled back. "First off, thank you. Second off, what the hell was all that last night?!" She asked grabbing his shoulders.

"Yeah, Amb's was up in arms about giant scorpions or something, and then you show up, Mr. Knight. I've heard about you, uh, that's why I hit on you, I thought you were a bit older... Anyway, whats up with your one man-crusade." Vernal looked at him from behind her coffee.

Jaune gulped. Then he sighed. Then he looked them both in eyes one after the other.

"I'll do my best, but first, I need something to eat." His stomach backed his claim with a growl. "Second, I'd like some pants." Amber took a look down at his barely-covered body and blushed, backing away slowly. "Third and finally, I don't have all the answers myself, so if I miss something, it's not because I not telling you, it's because I don't know. So, are you sure you want to know? Something knowing the truth is scarier than knowing nothing at all."

Amber looked to Vernal, who looked back with a nod.

"I want to know."

"Same."

Jaune took in a breath, clearing his lungs. "Well, it started last year, in the my sophomore year of high-school,-

-------------

Ruby waited in front of the school as the sun rose. She let out a yawn that wouldn't be out of place on a puppy, and stun-locked anybody who might have seen it out of cuteness.

She never got up this early! School didn't start till 9am, so most days she slept until 8:50 and then rushed to school! But, today was different, today was the first day of the rest of her life with Jaune!

Ruby blushed.

Phrasing.

As Best Friends Forever, that is, and totally wasn't waiting on him because, she didn't have his number, and wanted to ask him to be her bodyguard this afternoon, so she could pick up almost-illegal smut.

She definitely wasn't doing that.

"Morning, Ruby." Came a kind voice, that nearly made her jump out of her skin.

Coming up jogging next to her was her other BFF, Pyrrha, who glistened with a sheen of sweat, that drew attention showing off her toned, flat stomach, as she was currently in her jogging outfit, which consisted of a deep-red sports bra and athletic shorts.

Many boys, and girls, had dared waking up before school to catch a glimpse of her in the state, though none actually had the courage to go talk to her.

Nobody wanted to get on the bad side of the champion of Mistral Junior Historical Martial Tournament, 4 years running, and idol in her own right, Pyrrha Nikos.

Ruby clutched her chest. "You half-scared me to death!"

Pyrrha giggled. "I'm sorry. Anyway, what are you doing here so early? Did you forget something? School doesn't open for another hour, you know?"

Ruby's eye drifted away. "Uh, you know, just waiting to get some good ol' education! Can't wait for school!"

Pyrrha raised a eyebrow. "Is that so, Ruby? In that case, I can quiz you over yesterdays classes while we go on a short 10k jog."

Ruby paled. "I'm good!"

"So, what are you really here for?"

Ruby shyly looked at the ground. "Jaune."

"Really?" She looks around. "Where is he?"

"Not here."

"What time does he get here?"

"I don't know." Ruby pouted. "I don't even know where he lives! Nobody would tell me!"

"Who did you ask?"

"Yang, Weiss, Blake, Myself, CCT..."

"I'm sorry, I don't know either."

"Not that you could find that out just, by asking around," Came a strict voice that made both stand ram-rod straight. "The Arc's are notoriously private, and live on the edge of town." Ms. Goodwitch, the disciplinary of Beacon and Deputy Head-Mistress.

At least in public spheres, beyond that, she was also a master of supernatural art of Aura, and lead trainer for the current generation of the defenders of Light.

Also known as, Magical Girls.

"They're also know for being trigger happy, so don't go intruding on they're compound." The Head-Mistress added idly.

"You mean house, right?" Pyrrha asked weakly.

Ms. Goodwitch fixed her glasses. "No, no, I don't. Though," She looked at the two girls. "You two shouldn't worry about that." They're was a certain glimmer in her eyes.

"That said, why the interest in Mr. Arc, Miss Rose? Has he acted in a manner untoward to you? If you desire it, I could have him expelled by this afternoon."

"No! He's great!" Ruby said in a panic.

"Yes, he's been nothing, but a gentleman to her," Pyrrha added hastily.

"I merely was joking, Mr. Arc isn't a bad boy despite his image. It's good to know he's finally reconnecting to people, again. That said, you won't find him this early, he's made a bad habit of arriving just as the bell rings, the sheer about of tardys he should have would have gotten anyone else expelled, if not for the cowardice of the teachers at this academy. I wouldn't expect to see him at earliest for an hour or more."

Ruby dropped to her knees in sorrow. "That means," She pauses. "I got early for no reason!"

Ms. Goodwitch smiled at her, but there was certain evil to it that made Ruby shiver. "I wouldn't say that, in fact that means we have time to train away any," She pause with a grin. "Any flaws in your 'skills' miss Rose."

Pyrrha gave her a sympathetic smile.

"And, you too, of course Ms. Nikos." The teacher turned to her with a smile.

Pyrrha smiles falsely, shuttering internally.

"Though, I'd like to ask a favor, though. When you find Mr. Arc, direct him to me, I need to have a conversation with him."

"Really? About what?" Ruby asks.

"His grades, Ms. Rose. They have slipped well below Beacon's standards, and we need to address this, or he will have to leave the school." "What!? Oh man," She turned to Pyrrha. "What do we do, Pyrrha? We're going to lose our new BFF!"

Pyrrha kept up her fake smile. "It's fine Ruby, we can help him out, and soon enough, it won't be a problem." Though she was calm, Pyrrha also felt worry. Jaune was the first excitement she had felt in her civilian life in years, losing him would be terrible.

Ms. Goodwitch gave them a pleasant smile. "I am proud to see the camaraderie in between you two and your fellow students, hopefully this will be a good influence on your fellows." Then a faint purple glow surrounded the two girls, forcing them to walk forward. "Now, lets us get some training done with the time we have."

Internally Pyrrha and Ruby screamed.

----

At some point during his story, Jaune had acquire a fluffy pink bathrobe and some athletic shorts that one of Amber's previous boyfriends had forgotten.

He hadn't bothered to tie the robe shut, leaving his scarred and muscular chest out to the air, if one looked to the side, they could see stitches going up his sides and the angry red-pink flesh under it.

In front of him was a empty plate covered in grease stains, and another, and another. He was a monster, he had eaten everything in they're refrigerator over the course of his story, it was horrifying, and not a speck on him.

Still, Vernal had to admit, it was a attractive quality in a way, a strong body needed a lot of fuel, it just another way of showing strength. Still, he was buying them grocery's.

"Monsters are real. I go out at night and fight them, also they're some sort of gang of super-powered girls blowing up things. I have no idea why, and they're probably a conspiracy to prevent this knowledge from getting out, as no information exist on these things. The End." Jaune finished, summing up his tale.

"Wow, that's crazy." Vernal added.

"Yes. It's also true."

Amber was staring into her coffee. "So, huh, yeah. I don't really have a response for all that."

"Don't need one." Jaune drained a glass of water. "You have the knowledge now, it's up to you how your use it. You saw it with your own eyes, it's up to you to do ignore it, or seek it."

Jaune looked at the time. He was late for school. He shrugged, not like he actually accomplished anything there, maybe it was time to drop out? Not like he was going to graduate, much less, make it through the year.

It wouldn't hurt for him to skip a day, he had done so before after particularly bad hunts. But, he probably should get home, but how was he going to bring his tools back with him, his clothes were shredded?

Jaune sighed. He needed more caches.

"Alright, I'm in." Amber said suddenly.

"What?" Jaune said with all the warmth of the hadal zone. "Excuse me, but I wasn't making a recruitment pitch. I was just giving you answers, to make sure you're careful, not to come and help me."

Amber frowned. "I wasn't asking."

Vernal raised her mug. "Me too, then."

Jaune looked at them bewildered. "I tell you monsters are real, and your first response is, 'I'm in?' What's wrong with you, two?"

Vernal grinned. "Same thing as you, I suppose."

"You can't expect to tell people to do as I say, not as I do, can you?" Amber added. "Look, I'm not saying I want to go out and be a street-warrior like you, but you clearly need help, you're in over your head, and the fact you're alive is a miracle that only the Brothers could make happen."

Jaune had no response for that.

"I'm saying, we're going to help you from now, we can't have The Shadow Knight going around dying from blood lost, can we?" Amber continued.

"Fair point. Also, please don't tell anyone, I don't want to get locked up." Or break out of jail, Jaune thought.

"No problem, and I don't think most people are eager to find-out that they're vigilante hero is a teenager." Vernal added.

Jaune leaned back in his seat, and got up. "I guess, I should get going, I'll be back for my stuff later. I'll bring over some notes later, maybe you two can figure out something I haven't."

"What do you mean, leaving? You are need rest." Amber said firmly.

Jaune looked at the clock. "Un, I have school?" He lied about his intentions.

Amber handed him a slip of paper. "Now you don't, you have a doctor's note, now go sleep on that couch."

Jaune nodded meekly, and within minutes he was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

Vernal and Amber watched him sleep for a moment.

"So, we're helping him now?" Vernal ventured, not against the idea.

"Yep," Amber added. "I mean, think about it, Vern. We can't get clearer sign then this. For so long, we've tried to get out of the 'life', and now a bonafided hero drops in our laps, if that not a sign, I don't know what is." Amber bit her lip. "But, I do know, if we want to be better people, we gotta help him."

Vernal laughter. "A underground doctor for the Xiong family, and A ex Branwen tattoo artist want to be the good guys now? Well, sure why not?" She grinned ruefully. "If we want to wipe our sins away, I don't see a better shot."

"Yeah, me, neither."

In his sleep, Jaune stirred, briefly, as though internally accepting they're pledges of loyalty. Not that he wanted that responsibility, not in any number of years.

His life was stressful enough, the idea of being responsible beyond what he already did was way too draining.

----

Ruby stormed over to the table. "He skipped school!" Ruby bellowed at her pals, who took her storming over in the same way one did to a toddler fighting them with a foam sword.

With barely held back giggles. Ruby was far too ... Ruby to be make anyone shake in fear.

"Is that so?" Weiss said with faux-curiosity. "Well, guess we won't be seeing much more of him then. It's obvious that he doesn't take school seriously enough to be worth our time."

Yang leaned back, shirt stressing against her ample chest. "In other words you can't stand him standing us up?"

"That is not what I said!" Weiss huffed. "Why not ask that fool's friends?" She jerked a thumb toward a solitary table with two pretty girls sitting by themselves, with only one doing any talking.

But to be fair, she was doing enough talking for ten, and the other was doing enough listening for any 3 letter agency.

Ruby paused. "He has friends?" She then corrected. "Besides me, you guys that is. Jaune is. My BFF. Your guys too, so that makes them my BFFS too, and-"

"Ruby." Blake said politely. "Turn your mouth off before you burn your brain out."

Ow. "I resemble that remark." Ruby said glumly. "Anyway, how'd you know that he friends before me?" Ruby looked at Weiss with narrowed eyes of suspicion.

Weiss casually pulled out a stack of documents. "Please, the Schnees have eyes everywhere."

"Expect to ethics." Blake added.

Weiss growled. "Not now, Blake."

"Or your father to what your mother gets up to in her spare time."

"Last warning." Blue flames briefly shot from the pale heiress's eyes.

Blake smirked and went back to reading.

Weiss, though, took that as a victory, and went back to haughtily presenting information to Ruby.

"Weiss ..." Ruby said quietly. "I think it's cool if you have a crush on Jaune, but stalking him isn't the right way to go about it." She looked at Weiss with eyes full of pity.

"I DO NOT HAVE A CRUSH ON JAUNE ARC!" Weiss bellowed, face red and breathing heavily.

"Classic tsundere." Blake said to Yang.

"I know right?" Yang nodded, turning to Ruby. "Poor girl is down bad." Her sister nodding along, with Ruby put a hand on her friend shoulder, and gave her a thumbs up. "You have my full support, bestie. Oh, this means you get to be my bestie in law and Jaune too!" She turned to look for him. "Congrats, Jaune! Oh right, he's not here." She then pouted.

"What do you think Pyrrha?" "Oh, me?" Pyrrha said looking up from her studying. "Hmm. I don't approve of stalking." Internally, she mused. 'She can have her turn when I'm done.'

The cafeteria was quiet in awe, Jaune Arc was barely above scum in the school, but internally they're respect for him grew three-sizes that day, for he pulled a Schnee.

To him they all thought, 'Mad respect, bro, mad respect.'

Weiss screamed and then stormed away in a flash of anger, no one questioned it, assuming it some-sort of Tsundere quirk.

"Poor girl, can't take her own feelings." Ruby said with pity. "Well, guess I'll go ask them about Jaune, maybe they can explain why he decided he wanted to be a dirty, selfish, skipper of school and classes, who is a meanie jerkface."

"Wow, Ruby. I didn't think you could be so foul-mouthed." Yang teased lightly.

"Well, that's just how I feel, ok?" Ruby pouted, once again not understanding sarcasm. "I'm sorry that got so caught up in my emtions."

"It's fine," Yang waved her off, and standing up. "Lets go fine out what his friends know."

The remaining girls then walked over to the ginger and raven haired girls.

"So, that's why I think Spruce Trellis is a alien from the planet hidden from us by the Authority." Ginger girl said with utter confidence.

The black-haired girl merely nodded, then turned to them. "Hello, what do you need?" She added bluntly.

"I didn't do it." The ginger added.

"We haven't even asked anything, yet." Yang said.

"You got nothing, and you will never have nothin." The ginger continued, then leaned back, crossing her arms.

"My apologies for her behavior." The black-haired one said. "Can we help you?"

Ruby put her hands on the table. "Where is Jaune Arc?" She said bluntly.

The red-head picked up a butter-knife, waving it threatening it dangerously at Ruby. "You got nothing on us! He didn't do it! I have his alibi, He's a gentle soul! I trust him with my life, I'd have his baby's if Ren wasn't here! Jaune would never kill anybody who didn't deserve it! That's it!" She jumped on the table. "They're on to him, Ren! We got to protect him!" She then tried to jump at the girls, only for the other girl to grab her by the shirt and put her back down on the seats.

Ren shrugged, passing off that moment of insanity as if nothing had happened. "My apologies, but we haven't seen Jaune today, is something the matter?" Ren asked politely, but all the girls felt they're blood-chill under her gaze.

Ruby took a step back, fighting the urge to use her aura on them. "N-no, it's just he's my new bff, and I'm worried about him when he didn't show up today."

"Oh." Ren said simply. "Good. In that case, he's probably not feeling well today, he's been working a night-job recently, and from what he's told me, it's very exhausting."

"You're Jaune's friend!" She turned to Ren. "He's allowed to be making them on his own?" Ren shrugged. "Awesome! That's means your my friend too, now! I'm Nora, Nora Valkyrie, and this is my partner in crime, Lie Ren!"

"Just Ren, please."

The girls made introductions, quickly, before sitting down.

"So, Jaune has a job?" Pyrrha probed, her respect growing for him. "And, still comes to school? I thought his family lived on a compound, why does he need a job?"

Ren steepled they're fingers. "That's his business, not ours, but he's very skilled with his hands."

"That coming from ... first hand experience, eh-eh?" Yang joked.

Ren nodded. "Yes, he does beautiful work, and always left me satisfied."

"Oh, your close like that?" Yang leaned back, surprised.

Nora nodded furiously. "Oh like you wouldn't believe! We've been tight forever, I know both of them so well, I could paint you a picture of them both naked blind-folded!"

The Magical Girls in Public Dress blush. 'Wow.'

"I didn't think he had relationships like that." Ruby muttered.

Yang blushed, looking away. "Maybe, we should talk about something else, now."

Blake leaned in with interest. "Go on."

"Um. Does he meet with you two often?" Pyrrha asked, trying to be discreet.

"Not as much as we used, too." Nora sighed. "But, it's always memorable when we do!" She then immediately brightened up.

"Jaune has a very busy life outside of school, so we make the most of our time here at school." Ren added.

"You mean, here?" Blake leaned forward.

"Yeah, we're joined at the hips here!" Nora exclaimed. "We're like buns in the oven of life!"

Ruby coughed, still red. "So, good to know. Think you can tell us some more stuff about Jaune, my, I mean our, bestest friend forever?"

Nora opened her mouth.

But, Ren covered it. "I'm afraid that you'll have to wait till Jaune is back," Ren gave a look at Nora. "Jaune should be the one to ..." He paused looking for the word. "To explain his quirks to his, I mean, our friends."

Nora nodded. "Right. Sorry, girls. Oh, but I could tell you about that time Jaune busted me out of Juvie!"

"That was a dream, Nora." Ren sighed.

"It was an awesome dream, Ren."

"Could you tell me anyway?" Ruby asked, eager to hear it.

Nora looked at her in surprise. "Really?" She searched Rubys face, then smiled, only to look nervously at the other girls. "You three wouldn't mind, would you? I've been told I talk too much, before."

Yang nodded. "Go for it, girl! I love a good story."

Blake shrugged, then put her book in her lap. "I don't mind a change of pace."

Pyrrha searched Nora's face. "Does Jaune listen to your dreams?"

Nora gave a mega-watt grin. "Oh, like you wouldn't believe, he even askes question! I mean," She looked shy for a moment. "We met in middle-school, and I had been talking non-stop about my dreams, and Ren hadn't been there to help, uh, what's the word, put a leash of me?"

More blushes.

"And, so meanies had told me to be quiet, which I get, but they didn't have to be jerks about it. And, all of a sudden this blonde boy I never met stands up and tells them, he wasn't done listening to me." She smiled in a far-off way. "He actually got into a fight for me, over it. That was the first time he had ever fought anybody, unlike his beefy-bod now, he was a 60lb twig, and got his butt handed to him."

That was a hard to picture in Ruby's head, despite only knowing Jaune for a short time, at least better now, it was hard for him to picture him losing. To anyone, actually. Even to her, or the other girls.

She shook her head, that was absurd, Jaune was strong, but he didn't even have Aura.

But, Ruby had to admit, he had a strength of will and character that made Aura seem so minor by comparison.

Nora laughed. "He didn't care though, just kept getting back up, telling the guy that I needed to be apologized too he's always been so stubborn.

"He was crying, nose-bleeding, eye completey black with bruises, and he just would not stay down, it got to the point where the other boy got so tired of him he couldn't move, and Jaune stood of over him.

"Imagine for a second, how scary that is, you're some big 12yr and beating the snot out of boy half your size. You feel great, high as heaven, and then he gets up.

"Your hands get heavy, your arms start to hurt, you can't breath right anymore. He stands up again, bleeding, bruised, but not beaten. Your hands ache from hitting so much, you trip, and he stands over you, dripping blood off his face, and his eyes stare into yours, just repeating the same phrase.

'Tell her you're sorry, tell her you're sorry, tell her you're sorry,' over and over again.'

"Anyway, he got so scared of Jaune, he wet himself and changed schools! It was great!" Nora cackled.

Ren nodded. "I wasn't there for it, but I came to the office as soon as I heard Nora had been called up there. Jaune was there holding her hand," Ren turned to her with a smirk. "You forgot to mention you were crying into his chest about how sorry you were forgetting him hurt, and that you'd be his best-friend forever, and then immediately saw me, and then, she told me, I was his best-friend forever, too." Ren sighed wistfully. "We've been inseparable ever since.

"Ren!" Nora whined. "Don't go making me look like cry-baby!"

"That's beautiful." Yang rubbed her eyes, her voice choking.

Blake and Pyrrha staring at her like she grew a second head.

"Excuse me," Yang said still rubbing her eyes. "Sorry, I don't want to get all soppy and weak. I just can't stop myself when I hear something like that." Ruby patted her sisters back.

Nora looked away. "It's cool. Glad you liked it..."

The table went silent.

"Would you mind if we started coming to set over her with you two girls, during lunch?" Pyrrha asked hesitantly.

Ren smiles. "No, not at all." He paused. "Wait, girls?"

------

#jaune arc #fanfic

[slaymitchabernathy]

Escapism.

| this story is inspired by the song 'Escapism.' by RAYE |

“Thanks.”

That’s what she says to him when he offers her his cigarette without saying a word. She likes guys like him, quiet. There’s nothing quite worse than a man who can’t shut the fuck up.

Soarynn would know.

That’s why she’s standing outside of a bar on a rainy Saturday night with a complete stranger by her side. It could be worse. He could be ugly.

She met the man less than an hour ago but she’s gathered enough to know the type of man he is. And to her, that’s more important than the man he wants to be.

He’s tall. Tall and brooding, an excellent combination in her humble opinion. He’s well-kept and mannered which means he comes from money. That’s okay. She does too.

His fine-looking watch lets her know that he knows how to use that money. A stark comparison to the man who broke her heart last night. He’s got blonde hair. It’s more golden if anything. It suits him though, goes well with those pretty blue eyes he’s got. He’s handsome too. He knows it.

“No problem. Didn’t take you for a girl who smokes though,” he muses, watching her take a long drag of the cigarette. It’s one of the nicest ones she’s had, although Soarynn does her best to refrain from smoking, it makes your breath smell bad and she can’t have that. Soarynn lets out a breathy laugh and hands it back to him, “Don’t want you to take me for anything tonight if I’m being honest.”

He studies her. It scares her. Not in a bad way. Not in the “he might kill me in this back alley” way. But because heaven knows how long it’s been since someone has shown this type of interest in her. He hums, looking her up and down. She's glad she put some effort into her appearance tonight, in her little black dress and her high heels. Even in heels, this handsome stranger is still significantly taller than her.

"Well, is there a reason you're out on the town then?" He asks, giving her a curious look. Soarynn smiles up at him because it's cute. Cute how interested he is in her and she can't blame him, not when less than an hour ago she was teasing him on the dancefloor, her diamond bracelets practically dripping on him when she wrapped her arms around his neck. It's fun, she's having fun.

Soarynn sighs, carding her fingers through her soft blonde hair, remembering why she came out in the first place. "Let's get a drink first," she suggests and he nods, even holds the door open for her like a proper gentleman. They settle down at the bar and she orders two wines because she ought to get something out of this interaction tonight. And tonight she wants him. Wants to feel another human body on top of hers.

"So tell me why you're out here all by yourself," he presses, thanking the bartender who brings their drinks. Her wine and his bourbon. Soarynn bites her lip, isn't it bad manners to talk about your past relationship with a man you're trying to sleep with? But then again, she has nothing to lose. Not anymore. She takes a sip of her wine, savoring the taste before nodding.

"A little context if you care to listen," she starts and he leans forward until there's a good six inches between them. It's not flirty, and she definitely can't smell him right now, how he smells like roses. It's loud in this bar, that's why he's so close. At least that's what she tells herself.

"I found myself in a shit position, the man that I love sat me down last night and he told me that it's over."

The handsome stranger furrows his brows when hearing that and doesn't hesitate with the words that effortlessly leave his lips.

"Dumb decision."

Soarynn nods, glad someone else sees it that way. "Figured I could drown my sorrows in wine and champagne tonight, maybe even dance with someone," she says, sitting back in her chair and taking another sip of wine. His eyes travel up and down her long legs and she doesn't mind, he looks like the the type of man to appreciate the effort women put into their appearance.

"Well you danced with me," he points out. He's right. Soarynn remembers how his hands felt on her hips, how well they went together. Soarynn licks her lips, "I suppose I did." There's a moment of silence between the two of them, just drinking each other in. He leans forward again and opens his mouth but hesitates for a moment, "Go on," she encourages, her tongue becoming loose from the alcohol. He swallows, "Are you looking for someone to take you home tonight?"

Soarynn smirks. Men are so easy. But she wants easy. If she wanted difficult she'd go back to the man who broke her heart. "I'd be open to the idea," she purrs, watching him glance at the door before looking back at her, "I...I don't quite know what you're looking for in a man though," he admits, scratching the back of his neck. Soarynn tilts her head and considers what he just said. What does she want?

"I'm looking for a man who's on the same page."

That seems to hit home with him and he chuckles, "Then I can be your man for the night." That's all she needs, all she wants, one night. "Well then I think it's only fair that I know the name of the man whose company I'll be in for the rest of the night," she states matter-of-factly. The handsome stranger grins and takes a sip of his drink before replying, "Coriolanus Snow."

She raises her eyebrows, she's never heard of him before but he carries himself as if he's very important. "What do you do for work, Coriolanus Snow?" She asks, testing out his name on her tongue. He runs his fingers through his golden curls, "I'm interning as a Game Maker." Soarynn nods, seemingly impressed. She could never take part in that line of work, too brutal.

"And your name?" He asks, his bright blue eyes staring directly into her blue-gray ones. Soarynn feels a smile tugging on the corners of her mouth, "Soarynn Nightingale."

Coriolanus smiles too, "Well Soarynn Nightingale I hope you know what a stunning creature you are."

Soarynn can't stop herself from blushing. How long has it been since she's gotten a compliment like that? She finishes her glass of wine and looks at the next one before looking at the door. She knows she should finish it but she also desperately wants to get out of here and find out if Coriolanus is as good in bed as he is on the dancefloor.

He seems to notice her internal dilemma and places a hand on her knee, "Take your time darling, I'm not going anywhere." Oh, he's going to be fun. Soarynn giggles, the wine causing her to let down the elusive walls that she normally keeps up, "Okay Coriolanus Snow," she says, taking the full glass.

They talk for a while longer while she finishes her glass and finds out they both attended the Academy and both live on the Corso. She also finds out that Coriolanus is three years older than her. Good, she likes older men. When she finally finishes her glass Coriolanus pulls out his wallet and settles both their tabs, because he's such a gentleman. Soarynn allows him to lead her out of the bar, his hand on her lower back. It's not controlling or dominating, it's comforting. Comforting to know that he's right behind her and isn't going to leave her like she's been left before.

Soarynn can't even hide her surprise when a car pulls up to the curb and Coriolanus opens the back door for her, "You have a driver?" She asks while slipping into the leather-wrapped backseat. Coriolanus chuckles and slides in next to her, his hand instantly finding her bare thigh, "I do." She's properly intoxicated at this point and has no problem speaking her mind and it seems to amuse Coriolanus so she doesn't hold back with her teasing, "So you're really rich then huh? So rich that you don't even drive your own car." Coriolanus raises his eyebrows and gives her a smile, "Yes, so rich I don't drive my own car."

Soarynn rests her head on his shoulder and takes notice of how strong he is, "Are we going to yours or mine?" She doesn't really care but men tend to like making all the decisions and since he paid, she'll let him choose.

"My place," he says, and the car begins to pull away from the curb. Soarynn lets out a yawn, "Your place," she agrees before closing her eyes. A little cat nap never hurt anyone.

꧁ ꧂

"You like living in the penthouse?" She asks in between kisses, pinned up against the wall of Coriolanus Snow's impressive penthouse. She can't see much of it since it's dark but she's seen enough to know that he's too rich for his own good. She is too, but that's beside the point. Coriolanus squeezes her waist as he continues kissing her, "It has its perks." Soarynn smirks and runs her fingers through his soft curls, inhaling the sweet scent of roses. His whole penthouse smells like roses. She'll have to ask him why later. After he's fucked her.

Soarynn groans when he pulls away and lets him pull her through the grand hallways until they're bursting into his bedroom. It's dark and brooding just like him. Soarynn kicks off her heels and sits on the edge of the bed, tilting her head up as he leans down to kiss her again. His lips are so soft and he's quite the kisser. His hands fly to the back of her dress, a corset that proves to be a most daunting sight where men are concerned. But Coriolanus loosens it with practiced ease. Soarynn goes for his belt when she feels him tense and then she feels it.

The cold metal of his gun.

She didn't take him for a man who carries a gun on him, not when this is where he lives and when his job is relatively safe. But she doesn't linger on it and simply unbuckles his belt, deepening the kiss. Coriolanus pulls away and his hand goes to the weapon he's been concealing and he looks somewhat unsure of what to say, "I didn't mean to scare you," he starts but Soarynn shakes her head, "It's okay. We all have to protect ourselves," she tells him softly.

Just because he has a gun doesn't mean he's unsafe. But it leads her to wonder if the people he surrounds himself with are unsafe. Still, she doesn't let it linger and watches him place the gun on the bed before he goes to unbutton his shirt. "Are you part of some gang?" She asks, her curiosity getting the best of her. Coriolanus shakes his head with a small smile on his lips as he discards his shirt, revealing his sculpted abdomen, "No darling, I'm not part of a gang."

Well, that's a relief. It only leaves about five hundred possibilities as to why he has a gun but Soarynn doesn't press the subject and simply helps him when he goes to pull her dress off revealing a matching set of black lingerie. His eyes rove over her body and she can see his growing problem in his pants. "Why don't we take these off?" She asks sweetly, batting her eyes up at him.

Coriolanus swallows and nods, "Excellent idea."

Soarynn didn't doubt that he'd be carrying something to brag about with him down there but she was downright speechless when she got a good look at his cock straining in his boxers.

Coriolanus slips a finger under her chin, getting her to look up, "This old lover of yours, did he ever fuck you the way you deserved to be fucked?" Soarynn squeezes her thighs together and slowly shakes her head, "No," she whispers. But do men ever care about pleasing their partners?

Coriolanus seems to care a lot as he picks her up and slings her over his shoulder, getting Soarynn to let out a squeal as she kicks her feet, "He also never carried me around like a rag doll," she adds, giggling when he tosses her back onto the bed, this time near the headboard. Coriolanus smirks, "Well it's high time you find out what you've been missing." Soarynn's glad he's on the same page and allows herself to admire him while he crawls on top of her, his breath hot on her neck while he gives the skin soft kisses.

She threads her fingers through his curls, letting out a soft moan when he sucks a little harder. His hands grab her waist and goodness he's got big hands. All of him is big. His height, his frame, his cock.

She can't wait to feel his cock inside of her.

His hands travel down to her black lace panties and he's quick to tug them off of her and throw them to the floor. Coriolanus kisses his way down her body, taking his time to admire her. When he finally gets to her cunt he lets out a groan at the sight, "It seems you're gorgeous everywhere," he tells her. Soarynn sighs in anticipation and Coriolanus doesn't keep her waiting. He eats her out like a starved man, paying close attention to her clit once she lets out a high-pitched moan.

Soarynn's entire body shakes while he pleases her, she doesn't even know what to do, what to say. He's left her speechless. Coriolanus laps at her cunt, tasting all her juices while his arms keep her from bucking him off. "Oh, please," she gasps, feeling herself getting closer and closer to her first orgasm, "right there." Coriolanus only goes harder once he hears her begging and Soarynn can feel that wire inside of her getting ready to snap. It only takes one hard suk on her clit for him to finish her off. Soarynn cries out his name while she cums and Coriolanus continues to work her with his mouth through her orgasm, only pulling away when she goes limp.

Soarynn's chest rapidly rises and falls while she attempts to collect herself and catch her breath after that amazing moment. Coriolanus chuckles and presses a kiss to her inner thigh before he crawls back up to her, capturing her lips in a heated kiss. His teeth gently tug on her bottom lip and Soarynn can feel his evident boner through his white boxers, "It appears you have quite the problem," she notes, grinding her hips up against him. Coriolanus groans and grabs her hip, "Don't tease me, darling."

Soarynn smiles against his lips, "But it's so much fun."

He scoffs and reaches down to finally free his cock from his boxers and Soarynn hasn't seen a cock quite like his before. It's got this curve that she just knows it going to feel so fucking good and it does nothing to ease her eagerness. "Let me get a condom," he mumbles, reaching for his nightstand but Soarynn is quick to stop him by grabbing his arm, "No need, I have the implant." His eyes widen but he nods, "You're sure? I don't want to see some child of mine a year from now running around the Capitol streets."

Soarynn smiles and does her best to hide the slight pain that shoots through her chest because she's reminded then and there that this is a one-time thing. After this Coriolanus will want nothing to do with her and she'll go back to being heartbroken. That's fine, perfectly fine.

"I'm sure," she says, slightly moving her hips to encourage him to put it in already. Coriolanus catches on instantly and grabs his cock and guides it to her entrance, "Let's see if you feel as good as you taste," he whispers, slowly pushing in. They both groan at the intrusion. He feels so fucking good, stretching her out just the way she likes it. "Oh fuck," she whimpers when he bottoms out, the tip of his cock pressed against her sweet spot.

Coriolanus looks down at the sight of his cock buried in her cunt and lets out a deep sigh, "Never felt anything like you before," he tells her, slowly pulling out before slamming back in. Soarynn lets out a moan, her hands flying to his broad shoulders, "You can have it all," she tells him, her mind clouded with lust. That seems to open the floodgates because Coriolanus begins fucking into her at a hard and deep pace.

Soarynn's toes curl and she lets out a string of moans as he fucks her so good and deep, "Please," she whines, "please, please, please." Coriolanus grabs her waist and squeezes it tight, "You like it?" Soarynn tries to nod but even that's difficult with his cock so deep inside of her, "I love it," she says, her tone breathy. Coriolanus grunts and picks up the pace, "You look so perfect Soarynn. Such a perfect cunt, so pretty wrapped around me." His words do nothing to help the orgasm she feels creeping up on her and her eyes begin to roll back.

Coriolanus rests a hand on her lower abdomen, pressing down hard and it scrambles her brain and Soarynn can only let out pitiful noses, "There you go," he says, "give it all to me Soarynn, let me fuck you the way you should be fucked." Soarynn can feel her walls tightening around his cock and he swears, clearly feeling it too. Her nails are digging into his porcelain skin but he doesn't seem to care.

"I want you to cum for me Soarynn," he says, and it's more like a demand than anything, "cum for me and be my good girl Soarynn."

She's crying now from the overwhelming pleasure and can't think of doing anything else but her orgasm. He angles his hips and lands another thrust right against her sweet spot and Soarynn melts right then and there, her orgasm taking over her body.

All she can think about is Coriolanus. She's surrounded by him, can't get enough of him and he quickly reaches his own peak, his cum spilling into her cunt. Soarynn moans at the sensation, how good it feels even though he's a complete stranger. Coriolanus finally stills inside of her and catches his breath, his brow sweaty. Soarynn looks up at him and she expects the instant look of distance, the insulation that she leaves now that they're done but instead, she's met with a look of adoration. Something she's not too familiar with.

"You're so pretty," he mumbles, his hand coming up and gently tracing her jaw. Soarynn offers him a tired smile, "Thank you, thank you for everything." Coriolanus grins and presses a kiss to her forehead, "Of course, darling. I hope tonight provided you with that escape you were looking for."

Soarynn can feel her eyes getting heavy and she thinks she found it, that escape she was so desperate for as she falls asleep in Coriolanus Snow's bed.

꧁ ꧂

One month later

It's almost dark when she gets out of work. Soarynn wraps her coat tighter around her small frame as she hurries down the street. She got off of work late but that's no surprise. Fashion waits for no one.

All she wants to do is go home and soak in a nice warm bath, maybe watch a movie while she curls up with her cat. The Corso is only a few blocks away and while she normally doesn't mind a walk she wishes she wore better shoes today. The high heels sounded great at seven in the morning but not so much anymore. So Soarynn lets out a loud groan of frustration when the intersection she means to cross is under construction. "You'll have to go around miss," one of the workers tells her. Soarynn puts on a fake smile and nods, turning right back around with a now soured mood.

Walking around the block sounds less than desirable which is why Soarynn doesn't hesitate to cut through an alley that should land her on the other side of the block if her sense of direction is correct. She's halfway through when she hears voices.

Angry voices that belong to angry men.

She turns and looks back at the way she came but it seems so far now. She might as well keep forging ahead and pray no one notices her. One of the buildings on her right has a source of light coming from it and Soarynn can see several shadows, the owners of those voices no doubt. Soarynn keeps her head down, hoping to briskly walk by without any confrontation.

How naive of her.

She barely walks five steps before a low whistle cuts through the arguing and all conversation stops. "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" Soarynn glances to her right to see four men descending some steps, all wearing expensive-looking suits which further puzzles her as to why they'd pick on a girl like her. This is behavior she'd expect from lower-class men. "Out here all by yourself?" One of them asks, wearing a wicked grin as he gets closer to her. Soarynn instinctively backs up, "Don't touch me," she says, her voice cold. This pulls amused chuckles from all the men who shamelessly eye her up and down, "Feisty one huh? I like them feisty," the man says, taking another step towards her.

Soarynn scoffs and shoots him a nasty look, "You can fuck off." He's so close now, too close and Soarynn wishes for nothing more than to take off running but she knows she won't make it far. Not in heels. His friends get closer too, forming a circle around her. "I think my boss would be interested in you too," he drawls, reaching out to touch her face. Soarynn doesn't hesitate to bite his finger and he hisses and pulls his hand away, "You're a bitch huh?" He asks, his voice getting louder.

She can see his friends watching her carefully, their hands casually in their pockets, "I'm none of your fucking business," she snaps. This makes him narrow his eyes and he reaches into his coat, a moment later pulling out a gun and Soarynn's heart sinks.

The last time she laid eyes on a weapon she was with Coriolanus. But this isn't Coriolanus, this man isn't kind or funny or even handsome. And she hasn't seen Coriolanus since that night.

"You're gonna come with us or I'm gonna leave you out here with a bullet in between those pretty little eyes, understand?" He asks, pressing the barrel of the gun to her forehead. Soarynn nods because what else is there to do? He grabs her arm and she lets him pull her towards the tall brick building, his friends right behind them. She can hear them snickering about how their boss will love a little thing like her but she keeps her head down, trying to remain calm. She hopes they might simply take her purse but it seems they want to take something else instead.

She nearly trips going up the steps and the man's harsh grip on her does nothing to help. He pulls her into the building that seems to be a warehouse of some sort. Soarynn can't place the building in her mind but it doesn't seem to be important right now. "You keep your mouth shut," the man tells her, shooting her a stern look, "he doesn't like mouthy brats."

He knocks on a metal door and Soarynn braces herself for a horrible, old-looking man who likes to prey on young, innocent girls like herself. A muffled voice calls them in and the door creaks open as they walk in and Soarynn quickly scans the room for an exit. There's not even a window to try to climb out of. "Found you a little alley cat boss," the man proudly brags, pulling her forward. Soarynn scowls and finally looks up at the large mahogany desk in front of her and her eyes slowly travel up to the tall man standing behind it, his back turned to her. He seems to be pouring himself a drink from the bar cart behind him but her eyes widen at the color of his curls, the broadness of his shoulders.

She knows this man. Met this man. Talked to this man. Had sex with this man.

"Coriolanus," she whispers, her throat feeling so dry.

Her captor immediately lets go of her arm when she says his name and his eyes widen. The tall, broad man turns around at her whisper and Soarynn stares up into the blue eyes of Coriolanus Snow.

He looks surprised to see her, see her in his office with these men who work for him and bring him young girls they steal from off the streets. He shoots the group of men an angry look, "Out. Now." If she wasn't scared for her life then she'd think it was funny how quickly the men scampered out of the room, muttering apologies.

Coriolanus looks her up and down, taking in her petrified state, and pinches the bridge of his nose before he rounds the desk, stopping right in front of her. Soarynn can't bring herself to look him in the eye. He said he wasn't a part of a gang but she's starting to wonder what this is exactly. His hands reach out to take hers and she flinches, every kind memory of him washing away in her head.

Coriolanus doesn't let that stop him as he takes her small hands in his large ones, giving them a squeeze. Soarynn swallows and finally gains the courage to look up at him, this stranger who's clearly not who he said he was. She finds no trace of kindness in his eyes this time.

Finally, a small smile creeps across his face.

"Hello, darling."

| Part 1. |

| tumblr oneshot/drabble |

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