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clockwayswrites · 6 months

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Like Betta Fish Do Part 26

WC 1478, Masterpost CW: Canon typical violence, Aftermath of torture

“It’s Danny. They took Danny,” Babs murmured into the comms.

Dick’s heart skipped a beat.

“Basement or subfloor,” she continued, passing the information along to those of them who had been able to slip away in the chaos.

Dick burst out into the roof, still tugging up one of the hidden zippers on his uniform. He flung himself off the roof without hesitation. “I saw Danny twenty ago. They can’t have taken him far.”

“Twelve,” Cass chimed in.

Twelve was even better.

“Oh God, I just saw the timer,” Babs whispered. “We don’t have—”

“Hey, fish,” Jason’s voice came across the line.

Dick almost missed his grapple as he rushed lower to try and see any suspicious vehicles.

“Tim, city power—”

“Working on it,” Tim ground out, cutting Babs off in a way he normally wouldn’t.

“Forty-five seconds!”

“I can’t do it in that! I’m trying—”

A hitched breath. “I do. I'm sorry.”

Then screaming.

The lights flared and then cut out in one of the smaller office buildings crouched in Wayne Enterprises’ shadow.

Dick twisted and flew towards it. Another black shadow joined him in flight.

The comms were painfully quiet and then filled with a burst of chatter. Dick reached up and brushed his off as he landed on top of a cliché white van with a purposeful thump. Before the blue faced goon had even finished turning towards the noise he was unconscious.

Silently, efficiently, Cass and him worked through henchmen, dodging guns and tasers. That had to be how they took Danny. Dick remembered how the other froze up being shocked with his escrima sticks. Remembered how—

Now Danny had been electrocuted again.

Of all the ways for Danny to die…

Dick left Cass to finish off the room and stalked deeper into the basement. He didn’t try to be quiet. He wanted them to find him. He wanted them to try and stop him. They had killed Danny, the guy who had made Jason so happy, who stood up to Nightwing, who smiled and laughed and tried so hard to live!

Who made his little wing want to live.

Dick wanted them to try and stop him.

He slammed open another door. The room had barely any light from the squat narrow windows.

A chair was in the center of the room.

A body was in it.

Dick choked out a name. “Danny—”

And then Danny moved.

“Danny?!” The voice sounded small, choked off, but Danny knew it.

No, villains were involved, that meant it was the one with wings instead.

“Heeey Nightwing,” Danny said. He tried to raise his head to look at the other, but it just lolled back on his weak neck. He was left blinking up at the ceiling. All of him felt like jelly. “I have had… a shockingly bad night. Zero out of ten, would not recommend.”

Nightwing ran across the floor of the warehouse, footsteps loud in the flooded water. “Holy shit Danny, how are you alive?”

“Mmm been killed once by electricity before, ‘m immune now.”

“Yeah, no, Danfish” Nightwing said. His voice and hands both shook as he undid the ropes binding Danny’s wrists. “Pretty sure that’s not how that works.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

“Is with me,” Danny slurred. He tried, desperately, to stay sitting upright when the ropes around his chest were undone, but he was still in that jelly state and slumped forward into Nightwing who, thankfully, caught him. “Hey, think I’m gonna get a new set of Lichtenberg scars out of this?”

The arms around him tightened almost painfully before they relaxed. “Don’t know little fish. Guess we’ll have to see at the hospital.”

“No!” Danny tried to struggle against Nightwing as fear gripped him. “No hospitals.”

“Danny. You were just electrocuted— very publicly electrocuted, we have to get you checked out.”

Danny clung to Nightwing. “Nooo… they’ll know and they’ll want to cut me open and that can’t happen—”

“Danny, hey, it’s okay, we won’t let anyone do that to you,” Nightwing soothed. He held Danny’s face in between his hands, making Danny look at him. “We won’t let anyone else hurt you tonight. How about we call in a doctor we trust to the hospital. Is that okay?”

“They won’t tell?”

“Never. She’s always looked out for us, all of us. She’s patched us all up plenty, even Red Hood. Please? We’ll all worry otherwise and there will be more questions.”

Danny nodded, feebly, in the other’s grip. “Okay. Okay, I’ll go if she’s the one. Get the… the case, the ecto.”

He didn’t want anyone to worry about him. Fuck, had he scared them? He bet he had. He’d been a little scared himself. He didn’t want to be dead dead yet.

Things were just getting good.

“I have him,” Danny heard Nightwing say as the other man scooped him up. He pressed his ear to the chest, relaxing at the rumble of the words. “I have him and he’s alive.”

Two Face was saying something. Laughing at him, applauding him. Jason couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything but Danny’s screaming.

The TV was nothing but static.

Jason was aware, distantly, of the bomb being pulled off the hostages. Of Bruce having to hold back Damian from leaping at Two Face. Of the mayor pulling Bruce back from doing the same. Of another window shattering as Red Robin came through and the Bats descended on the henchmen scattered throughout the room.

Jason could still hear Danny screaming.

Screaming and static.

He lunged.

He was on Two Face before anyone could stop him. The man’s head hit the ground with a sickening thunk. Jason didn’t care. He started punching. He felt the delicate bone under that shocked yellow eye give under his fist. He swung again and again. Two Face clawed at Jason, but he didn’t stop— not until Bruce pulled Jason off the rogue and into his arms.

Jason curled into the hold like he was fourteen and small again. He clung to Bruce with cracked and bleeding knuckles and sobbed. He needed to stop, to pull himself together, to…

“…need to find him. Bruce, I need to find him!”

“Maybe we should let the others,” Bruce murmured. He ran a hand through Jason’s hair.

“No, I need to—” Oh. Bruce thought Danny had to be dead. He could be. He might be. But there was a chance that he wasn’t. And Jason’t couldn’t— “I need to.”

Bruce was silent before he sighed, softly. “Alright, Jaylad, let’s—”

The chatter in their comms that Jason hadn’t even been listening to. Hadn’t been able to listen to, went silent.

“Repeat?” It was Cass who asked, her voice small and demanding.

Barbara reached over and passed him her phone, using it as a cover for what they heard next.

“I have Danny,” Dick said. “I have Danny and he’s alive.”

“Damian, stay with Barbara,” Bruce ordered, already running.

Bruce and Jason took off through the aftermath of the hostage situation, dodging the crowd and downed goons, police and reporters.

“Nightwing,” Bruce urged into the comms.

“He’s alive and conscious but very out of it,” Dick said and continued before there could be any more questions. “Agent A, we need the doctor at the hospital. Call her and then head there yourself. You need to bring a case from inside the Cave. It’s in with the old training equipment, behind the dummies. The case is metal with a green ghost drawn on top.”

The ectoshots. Dick had remembered the ectoshots.

“Right away,” Alfred’s cool tone came across the comms.

“Nightwing,” Bruce said again.

“Not now. Just… fuck, B, he’s alive,” Dick said. Jason could hear the near heartbreak in his brother’s voice. The growing sound of ambulance sirens couldn’t cover it. “Just get here. The Jasper building.”

Jason’s slick dress shoes skidded on the damp concrete as they made it out the back door of the building. The flashing lights were already visible. The fog drenched buildings seemed to glow with them. Danny was so close and they still had failed him.

A police officer stepped forward to stop them as they came around a corner. Bruce intercepted the bracing arm and pushed it back; it gave Jason enough room to rush past and towards the ambulance. Paramedics and police were crowded around it. Nightwing was standing guard.

Jason shoved past them all.

Danny.

He slid to his knees and clutched at Danny where the other was sat on the back of the ambulance.

“Danny.”

“Hey, dead boy. I guess… I guess you get to keep your nickname still. Not mine yet,” Danny rasped behind the oxygen mask.

Jason choked out a laugh against his will. He buried face against Danny’s neck and squeezed the other tighter. He didn’t manage to hold back his tears. “Yeah, guess I do, fish.”

---

AN: *jazz hands* See! It's going to be fiiiiiiiiiiine.

I no longer tag, you can subscribe to the masterpost instead!

#dp x dc #dead on main #like betta fish do

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milllersfae · 10 months

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˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ blurb | coming back home with girlfriend!ellie after a night out

content warning: intoxication. all fluff this time!

a/n: finally got off the abby train to write this. also got really sad tonight and thought this would help a bit. enjoyyy <3

you made soft giggles into ellie’s shoulder as she tried to fish for her keys to your shared apartment. she reminded you more times than you could count to watch your drinks only to meet her with silent nods and thumbs ups as you shuffled your way back to the bar counter that night.

aaand now here you are, legs like jelly, barely able to make it up the front steps. ellie fixed her shoulder from under your arm in hopes of keeping you upright. you clung to her like a magnet as she finally wringled her keys free from her pocket and into the notches of the door handle before making a breathless entrance.

“you’re trouble baby, you know that?” she quipped, freeing her shoulder to to place you on the couch. your face was a hazy intoxicated mess, vision stuck on the woman looming over you. you reach for her arm, shaking it feverishly back and forth. “take me to beeeed, please?”

ellie made a exhausted groan before obligingly hitching her arms under you; lifting you up towards her bridal style. your eyes meet hers once again, dizzy and love stricken at the sight of your girlfriend.

“don’t stare at me too long, you may not wanna stop.” she said, following with a laugh as you made it through the doorframe of your bedroom. she placed you lightly on the cushion, placing the covers over you. she turned to walk away, not before you could catch her by her pinky finger and stopping her in her tracks.

“can I have a glass of water before you go?” you whined, lips pouted and needy. ellie was worn thin that night, but couldn’t deny the look of want you had given her. she nodded aptly, turning the corner of the room and soon entering back with a glass of water. she placed it at your tableside, before a second attempt to leave again.

“wait!” you exclaim. her head turned with a jolt, eyes ridden with drowsiness. you furrowed your eye brows pleadingly.

“can you stay?”

“honey I think you can fall asleep on your own, I’ll be back l—“

“please?”

ellie’s heart couldn’t take it anymore at the softness of your tone. she turned back and with a sigh and shed her jacket before rolling in bed behind you, holding you by your waist.

“you’re a handful girl! slow down on the drinking next time, please.” she placed a kiss on your shoulder as you nuzzled into your own pillow. you loved her when she was like this, careful with your every moment and holding you like you would slip right though her fingers. you peak a single eye out from under the pillow to look at her, and mumbled out a question.

“if i’m sober next time we go out, can I get a surprise?”

ellie rolled her eyes in humor, shaking her head with a sigh. “sure sure, you’ll get all that n’ then some, alright?” you untuck a hand out of your sheets to poke her cheek.

“promise?”

“I promise baby.”

with her gentle confirmation, you feel yourself drift into slumber.

#cassi!writes ♡‧₊˚#cassi!drabbles ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧ #i wrote this more for myself than anything lol #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x female reader #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #ellie williams fanfic

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 months

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Napoleonville [Chapter 8: The New House]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, infidelity, kids, parenthood, historical topics like violence and discrimination, Cakes with Christabel, angst?? Who am I kidding. Angst!!!!!!

Word Count: 5.9k.

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

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @gemini-mama @daenysx @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @libroparaiso @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbelll @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥰🧁

“I have no idea what he’s thinking,” Christabel tells Alicent, a low furtive murmur around nibbles of a cinnamon French toast cupcake. They are both sitting at the kitchen counter as you scuttle around wiping down burners and handles and knobs, trying not to listen in, unable to help yourself. At the table, Amir is frosting a Lady Baltimore cake and chatting with Criston, who has eaten no less than three miniature cherry pies in the past fifteen minutes. Amir keeps casting you wide-eyed, flummoxed glances. He means: Can you believe these people? No, you can’t.

Alicent sips the glass of sweet tea you poured for her and gazes vaguely around the room. “Oh, you know how Aemond is, dear. He works so hard. He’s so consumed by the Lake Verret project.”

“But shouldn’t he talk to me?” Christabel’s large blue eyes are luminous, persistent.

“Don’t be ridiculous, darling. Of course he talks to you.”

“Sure,” Christabel says, frowning. “He talks to me about the weather and the garden and the koi in the fish pond. He asks if I listen to Dire Straights or AC/DC. Nothing of consequence, nothing revealing. And he never touches me. Alright, fine, there’s a hand on my shoulder or my waist once in a while, for a moment. There are quick, courteous kisses. But that’s all. And he’s so…so…” She struggles to decide on a word. “Formal!”

“Have you tried the cannoli cupcake yet?” Alicent asks, sliding the plate towards Christabel. “It’s just divine. I absolutely adore it.”

“When we’re apart he says he misses me, but he hardly ever calls. He tells me that he loves me, but only if I say it first.”

“He’s marrying you!” Alicent declares as she restlessly twists her assortment of glittering rings, gold and diamonds and emeralds. “What more is there to say, dear?”

“Surely there must be something,” Christabel mumbles. She obediently samples the cannoli cupcake, carving away a tiny sliver with her fork. “Oh, that is wonderful, isn’t it?”

“I think it’s my favorite one yet.”

They have twelve flavors to choose from, some familiar and some new: vanilla bean and triple chocolate of course, the classics, and then also cannoli, cinnamon French toast, carrot, red velvet, Boston cream pie, apple cobbler, peanut butter and grape jelly, Neapolitan, Louisiana crunch, and hummingbird. Christabel surveys the selection and then looks to where you are vigorously scrubbing an already clean stovetop. “Aemond mentioned something about banana bread cupcakes. Do you have one of those we could try?”

And again, you are amazed by how much he remembers: the very first cupcake from the very first night. “Um…I’m not sure, actually. Amir, didn’t we make a batch earlier this week? Are there any still on the table?”

Amir checks the cake plates, lifting glass covers, until he locates a single remaining banana bread cupcake for your customers. He ferries it to the kitchen counter with great ceremony. “Everyone raves about this flavor! And it’s so quintessentially southern. Perfect for a Louisiana wedding.” You give him a miserable, deadened stare and he offers a millisecond smirk of commiseration. What else can we do? Amir means. And you think: Nothing.

Christabel samples the cupcake, an infinitesimal morsel speared on the very tip of her fork. You recall how Aemond tasted like sugar and honey and cinnamon when he kissed you on the night you met, rough, dominating, irresistible, without the aching weight of disappointments or betrayals. If time was a cobweb you could rip and walk through, you’d be back in that May dusk in an instant, you’d live there forever and never leave.

“That’s it.” Christabel grins as she licks cream cheese frosting from her full, pink lips. “This one. I want a banana bread cake.”

“Mmm,” Alicent agrees, taking a bite. “It has so many dimensions! Sweet with just a touch of salt, light and fluffy but with a certain substantial, rustic quality, don’t you think? It’s the cinnamon, perhaps.”

You make a note on your yellow legal pad—a reminder you don’t need—so you can avoid Christabel’s benign, guileless gaze. “Is there a design you’d like for the frosting?”

“Wildflowers.”

Amir emits a startled gasp before he can swallow it back down. You look up at Christabel. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Just like the vanilla bean cake you made for the engagement party.” She draws blossoms in the air with her fingers, whimsical like a fairytale. “There was white icing and then all these gorgeous flowers in a dozen different colors. You could do that for a wedding cake, couldn’t you?”

“Of course.” And then you amend: “Well, Amir can. He’s our Picasso.”

“You’ll need something for the rehearsal dinner too, dear,” Alicent tells Christabel. Then she turns to you, tugging anxiously at one of her auburn ringlets. “You’re the expert, love. What would you recommend to impress upon our guests all the history and mystique of the Deep South?”

Your mind is blank, your thoughts gnarled up with visions of Christabel meeting Aemond at the end of an aisle. Amir sees this and he saves you.

“A Napoleon cake,” he announces with his best salesman enthusiasm, powerful enough to sweep everyone else along with him.

Alicent claps her hands, elated. “Oh, just like the town!”

“It has layers of puff pastry and rich custard cream, very French, very elegant and sophisticated, but also a nod to Napoleonville. And we can add a cherry jam to make it more romantic, if you like.”

“Doesn’t that just sound heavenly, darling?”

“Does Aemond like cherries?” Christabel asks Alicent. You know he does, but you don’t say anything.

“I think so. We’ll ask him tonight to be sure.” Alicent is opening her clutch purse to get the cash to pay you; she is eager to have this errand finished, you believe. “And can you put wildflowers on top of the Napoleon cake as well?”

“You can have the Declaration of Independence written on it if that is your heart’s desire,” Amir says, then steals a glimpse of you. You’re jotting the order down and then tracing over your own letters again and again.

“That’s the color scheme,” Christabel says a bit dreamily, forever woolgathering. “Wildflowers. And I think you suggested it at the engagement party,” she tells you, appreciative. In your recollection, it was less of a suggestion than a confession of what you once dared to hope for. “Everything has to have wildflowers. Even the dress.”

Alicent groans. “Oh, Christabel, not this again.”

“I don’t know why you’re being so resistant, those dresses were spectacular.”

“Whoever heard of a multicolored wedding dress?” Alicent asks you, Amir, Criston. “It’s absurd. The bride always wears pure white, everyone knows that. It’s tradition! It’s dignified!”

“Well now I get to solicit opinions too.” Christabel reaches into her own purse—a quilted shoulder bag, light blue with red roses and a label reading Souleiado stitched inside—and produces several polaroid photographs. She gives them to you; they are all of her posing in different wedding dresses, stylish white gowns freckled with wildflowers like splashes of paint. “All anyone can talk about is what I should wear, what the guests will expect, what they will chatter about when they gossip afterwards,” Christabel tells you. And in her vast, shimmering eyes you can detect no resentment or slyness, only quiet desperation. “But you’re a real person. So be honest with me, because there’s only one thing I really care about. Will my husband think I look ravishing in any of them?”

“These theatrics,” Alicent sighs to herself, lighting a Marlboro cigarette. Again, she is peering aimlessly around the kitchen. Amir fidgets with the dogwood flower in his hair as he watches you wearily. Criston compulsively eats another miniature cherry pie.

You study the polaroid photos. Each one feels like a split lip, a fractured rib, the shredding elephantine pressure of a contraction. You wait to speak until you’re sure your voice won’t break. “They’re all stunning. But this one…” You place one picture on top of the pile. “This dress was made for you. Just look at your face. Glowing like a lightning bug.”

“Thank you,” Christabel says, beaming, immensely grateful, and she takes the photos back. She seems pacified. “You’re married, aren’t you?”

“I was, yes. Briefly. Not very happily, I must admit. But it was worth it to get my daughter.”

She smiles. There’s no uneasiness; she doesn’t shy away from displays of human frailty. “I’d like a few daughters one day. We could all dress up together and style each other’s hair.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. If I tried that, I’d get my hands chewed off.”

Christabel laughs. She wears a casual blue t-shirt, blue gingham capri trousers, and white flat pumps. Her eyeshadow is a sparkling gold, her mascara flaking onto the apples of her cheeks. She is still marveling at you with those aquamarine eyes when Alicent pulls a list out of her clutch and grudgingly crosses off items with a black ballpoint pen.

“So we’ve got a wedding cake, a rehearsal dinner cake, a dress, a venue, flowers, photographers…I still need to call about hair and makeup…and we need to pick out candles…”

“Where are you getting married?” you ask Christabel.

“The most unique, picturesque, atmospheric place in the entire state of Louisiana, I’m sure of it.”

“We took a drive to visit that church you mentioned,” Alicent says to you. “And it was absolutely perfect. None of our guest will have ever seen anything like it. And it’s so historic! Over 150 years old! The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens.”

Amir squeals, a distressed mewing that he stifles with a feigned cough into his elbow. You stand shellshocked for a few seconds before managing a generic encouragement: “Really! Wow! Amazing! Great!”

Now Christabel is rather melancholy again. She scrutinizes her engagement ring, a large teardrop emerald with a gold band. Her voice is low, like she’s talking to herself. “I just wish…I don’t know. That we had more time together before the wedding, I suppose. Then I think I’d feel like I had more of a handle on things. It’s all been such a whirlwind, such a shock. A good shock, but still. We hardly know each other.”

Alicent prompts her: “You care for Aemond, don’t you, dear?”

“I’m in awe of him,” Christabel replies, a little dazed, a little defenseless. “He’s so clever and gallant. He’s the most inspiring man I’ve ever known. And the scar…it gives him quite a roguish look, doesn’t it? Like a Bond villain. It’s not a detriment in the least.”

“Yes, yes,” Alicent says impatiently, like she’s waiting for the conversation to be over. “Then there’s nothing more to worry about. You care for him, he cares for you, and you’ll have the honeymoon to get better acquainted. Criston, would you go outside and start the Lexus, please?” He dutifully departs.

Honeymoon. Your stomach lurches, the sea in a storm. You can see Aemond’s hands on Christabel’s face, in her hair, skating up her bare thighs. You can hear him moaning her name.

“We’re going to Greece,” Christabel informs you, thinking she’s being polite. “Athens, Mykonos, Santorini, and Corfu. Have you ever been?”

I’ve never been anywhere. But instead you say, forcing a smile: “Not yet.”

When Christabel, Alicent, and Criston have gone, you look to Amir. Your blood has turned to cement: cold, heavy, immobile, trapped. “You realize she’s getting my wedding, right? The one I always wanted. The wildflowers. The candles. The chapel.”

“And she’ll even be taking your favorite dick home at the end of the night.”

You cover your face with both hands and shake your head, trying to clear it, to drive out mirages of someone else’s oasis. This can’t be real. I can’t handle it, I can’t survive it.

Amir pushes his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose and says, gently now: “If we’re catering dessert, we’ll have to go to the wedding. The rehearsal dinner too.”

“Why would they want that? How can they not see how insanely awkward and wrong this is?”

He shrugs. “They probably think it’s normal. Wasn’t Camilla at Charles and Diana’s wedding?”

“If one more person tries to talk to me about Camilla Parker Bowles, I’m going to feed myself to the gator.”

“You’ll have to come to terms with it or you’ll have to end it. Those are the only options.”

“Yeah.” And it’s not just about me. It’s Cadi’s life too.

Amir sits down at the kitchen table, crosses one leg over the other, kicks his foot nervously. He rests an elbow on the tabletop and his chin on the knuckles of his left hand. “I hate to give you more bad news.”

You already know what he’s going to say. You’ve been dreading it for months. “You have enough money saved for San Franscisco.”

“I do.”

You exhale, your shoulders collapsing, tapping your fingertips against the counter. The air conditioner whirrs; the cicadas shriek in the trees outside. The house is hushed and still. Cadi is away at horse camp. Each day you receive a postcard in the mail that you assume the employees forced her to write at gunpoint. “When are you leaving?”

“The end of July. I’ll wait until after the wedding, once all the dust has settled. But I can’t wait any longer than that.”

“I want you to be happy,” you say. “I really do. But I’m going to miss you so much. You’ve been my best friend for a decade. You’re the closest thing I’ve ever had to a partner in life.”

Amir smiles faintly. “Come over here.”

When you sit beside him, he takes your hands in his; and you remember how he visited you in the hospital after Cadi was born, carrying a bouquet of wildflowers he picked himself and a Tupperware container full of crawfish pistolettes. He had been just a casual friend before you found out you were pregnant, one of a group, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t keep him at an arm’s length. Amir was different, and not in a way that you fully understood or accepted yet. But he was the only friend who had no judgment for you when you told him you were pregnant, who cared about how you felt, who wanted to be a part of whatever would happen next. He was the only one who stayed.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend,” Amir tells you. “I’ve never even been on a date, not once. I’ve never been in love. I’ve never had sex that wasn’t a one night stand in a New Orleans club or the back seat of my Ford Escort because those were the only places we had to go. And I’m starting to believe that people like me can’t have more than that. So I have to go someplace where I can have more, where I will have more. I don’t want love to be something that only other people get to experience. I don’t want to be afraid of leaving my house after dark or wake up every day wondering if someone has broken a window out of my car again. I have to go. There’s no future for me here. If I stay in Napoleonville, this place will kill me, one way or the other.”

Okay, you think. I can let him go. After everything he’s done for me, this is how I can be the friend that he deserves in return. “You should leave, Amir,” you say, tears stinging in your eyes. “I hear you, I understand you. I just wish I could go with you.”

“No, don’t cry, don’t cry! This isn’t the end. I’ll fly back to visit, you know that. Grandma’s still here, you and Cadi are here. And you can visit me too. Maybe you’ll even settle down on the West Coast someday. Eight more years and you’re free.”

You try to imagine your life then: Cadi headed off to college—and she will go to college, you’ve already decided that—and your tether to Willis weakened, closer to 40 years old than 30, Aemond and Christabel nearing their anniversary. How many children will they have by then? Three? Four? And the Lake Verret project will be well-established and no longer in need of so much of Aemond’s attention, and the house they call The Last Desire will sit empty on the lakeshore, warm draughts breathing through it like blood in veins. “I wouldn’t know how to exist anywhere else.”

“You’d learn,” Amir says confidently. “Now, have you ever made a Napoleon cake before?”

“I don’t think so. Not that I can remember.” You consider this. “My mom might have a recipe lying around somewhere. I’ll call and ask her.”

“Yes, do that,” Amir agrees. “If she doesn’t, I’ll try to dig one up at the library. We’ll want to have a few practice runs before the rehearsal dinner. Gotta impress the Rockefellers and their soulless millionaire ilk. Unless you were planning to have a homicidal meltdown and make the custard out of antifreeze or something.”

You chuckle. “No. Probably not.”

“It would be difficult to blame you.” And he turns on the little pink Panasonic radio: Alone by Heart.

~~~~~~~~~~

In a spacious corner booth of the Olive Garden in Gonzales, Aemond is talking about Lake Verret as you pick at your Tour of Italy and Frank Sinatra pipes through the speakers. You could swear they have the same three songs playing on a loop: Fly Me To The Moon, My Way, Luck Be A Lady, back to outer space again.

“But by total coincidence, Daeron has been researching desalination techniques for his latest article. Apparently there are ways to try to mitigate the damage and reduce the brackishness of the water, so we’re going to be—”

Abruptly, you ask: “Where does Christabel think you are right now?”

Aemond’s forehead crinkles, his fork hovers above his plate of herb-grilled salmon. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and his Marlboro jacket, jeans, Adidas sneakers. “Why do you care?”

“She’s getting the wedding I always wanted, did you even notice? She’s getting married at the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens in Belle River. She’s getting wildflowers and flickering candles.” And she’s getting you too.

“Okay,” Aemond says slowly. “I’m not involved in any of that.”

“I think you are, actually, because you’re kind of the groom.”

“But I don’t do the wedding planning,” he insists. “I have no idea what Christabel has arranged. My job is to be there on the day in a suit and that’s just about the extent of the real estate it takes up in my brain.”

“She’s never mentioned any of that to you? Not once? You’d swear on your life?”

He sets down his fork with a clang and stares fixedly at you. Your waitress glances over from several tables away where she is refilling a couple’s sweet tea glasses. “What do you want me to say? I’m sorry you had good ideas and other people liked them. It fucking sucks that you didn’t get the wedding you wanted when you were seventeen. But that wasn’t my fault. I didn’t know you yet, and you didn’t know me. You can’t blame me for what Willis or anyone else did.”

“But it’s not fair,” you choke out, sounding weak and juvenile, and you hate it but you can’t stop. “I understand that you’re marrying her, I get that, but she can’t have everything.”

“Look…” Aemond laces his hands together on top of the table, and his voice softens. “Even if Christabel didn’t exist, even if you were from my world, even if you were a duchess or a socialite or the daughter of the president of the United States of America, I still couldn’t marry you.”

You scoff; it’s despicable. “Because of Cadi?”

“No,” Aemond says, like that’s preposterous, like he’d never consider her to be a liability. “Because I have to have heirs.”

“Fuck you,” you hiss with vitriol that stuns him. Now the waitress is gawking. “You’re going to manipulate Christabel into walking down that aisle and then immediately get her pregnant?”

“Why are you mad at me?! I’m listening to you, I’m respecting you! You don’t want to have any more children of your own, fine, completely reasonable, I would never ask you to have a baby and go through all of that again for the sake of the Targaryen dynasty, but somebody has to!”

“You really don’t understand why I would empathize with a teenage girl trying to raise a child when she’s lonely and exhausted and confused about why the man she married isn’t turning out to be who she expected?”

Aemond shakes his head like it’s not a valid comparison. “She wants this.”

“She doesn’t know what it is. She doesn’t understand what she’s signing up for.”

“Everyone from a family like mine goes through this,” Aemond says. “My grandparents did, my mum and dad did, Aegon did, even bloody Charles and Diana did, and now it’s my turn. There are growing pains, but people adjust and it all works out eventually. Christabel will learn to manage her expectations, and once the children are born she can find happiness wherever and with whoever she wants to.”

“But you’ll be with her,” you forced out, voice fracturing, and at first Aemond doesn’t grasp what you mean. “You’ll…you’ll sleep with her. You’ll touch her, you’ll kiss her, you’ll do everything with her.”

“Surely you, as someone who called up a stranger from a personal ad in the Bayou Journal, comprehends that sex can be a solely physical act under the right circumstances.”

“So what, you’ll fuck me and then go home to her? Or you’ll fuck her and come home to me? And I’m supposed to live like that?”

“Yes,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s easy.

You gaze morosely out of the restaurant window. In the distance is a Dollar General, a Burger King, the Kmart where you had to buy your own engagement ring.

“Do you want me to tell Christabel to change the wedding?”

“No.”

“Because if I tell her to pick a new venue, new flowers, new cakes, whatever, she’ll do it.”

“No. She likes her wedding. I can’t take that away from her. She thinks I’m her friend.”

“Cupcake,” Aemond says, tenderly now. You turn back to him. “I don’t want to fight with you. I’m going to be gone for a while, four or five days. I have to fly to Norway and inspect some of the offshore rigs we have up there.”

“In the North Sea?” you ask, alarmed. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I mean, it’s oil drilling. It’s one of the most deadly professions in the world. But that’s how we built our fortune, our legacy. I’ve survived before, I’m sure I will again. If you need anything while I’m gone, you can call the house. Criston knows that you’re to be taken care of.”

“No one else can go to Norway instead of you?”

“I have to go.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my responsibility.”

“Because Viserys told you to?”

“They amount to the same thing.”

“I don’t think you should listen to him.”

“I have to go,” Aemond says again. He takes out his wallet and lays $30 on the table. “But there’s something I need to show you first.”

As Aemond’s red Audi Quattro barrels down Route 70 southbound towards Napoleonville, you say very little to each other. Once you were strangers, and the words flowed easily and your bodies intertwined with effortless need, and now you have known each other for nearly two months and shared days and nights and confessions and yet every ghost filled up the space between you until it was a splinter, a gap, a gulf, a chasm. You miss the person he was when he showed up on your sloping, creaking porch steps back in May. You miss the person you were before you found out about Christabel.

A Men At Work song comes on the car radio, and it takes you a moment to figure out which one. It’s Down Under, a bewildering hit from 1981. “I never understood this song,” you say, staring through the open window as a jungle of southern live oaks, dogwoods, and cypresses rolls by. Rivulets of opaque, slow-moving bayou water snake through the wild green. Pelicans flap their wings in the pink-golden dusk sky. “What’s a head full of zombie? What’s a Vegemite sandwich?”

Aemond laughs, a smoldering Marlboro Red nestled in his left hand. You wonder if once he’s married he’ll wear a gold band on his ring finger, if he’ll take it off when he cheats with you. “Cupcake, it’s obviously about Australia.”

“What?”

“Down Under? As in, literally below the rest of us in the Southern Hemisphere? Head full of zombie means they’ve been smoking weed. Vegemite is a kind of yeast spread they put on sandwiches. I’ve had it, it’s disgusting. The whole song is in Australian slang. Everyone knows it’s about Australia.”

I didn’t. You look out your window again. Aemond takes note and swiftly backpedals.

“But I mean, I can see how an American wouldn’t know that. No big deal, okay? To anyone in the Commonwealth, Australia is like our fuckup sibling. It’s our Aegon. But you guys probably don’t really learn about Australia in school. So…yeah. It’s probably not as obvious as I assumed.”

“Maybe I missed that lesson,” you say. Maybe I missed that year.

In a brand new neighborhood just outside the town center of Napoleonville, Aemond parks in the paved driveway of a ranch house on a three or four acre lot. The yard is bordered by a white masonry fence with chicken wire around the base to keep snakes and gators out. There are a few dogwood and bay laurel trees, and one monstrous southern live oak that’s probably two hundred years old. Aemond cuts the Audi Quattro’s engine and steps out into the twilight.

“Aemond? What are we doing here?”

“Follow me.”

“Why?”

He walks around to your side of the car, opens the door, and leans down to grab your face with his right hand, his fingers hooked around the curve of your jaw. Instantly, there is a bolt down your spine: hunger, warmth, weakness, momentum that is thoughtless like falling from a great height. “Follow me,” he repeats, grinning mischievously. “Right now.”

Aemond has a key that unlocks the front door. Inside is rose pink carpeting and mauve walls, a sunken conversation pit, popcorn ceilings, mini blinds on the windows, closet doors covered with mirrors. You can see your face reflected in them, puzzled.

“This is the living room, clearly,” Aemond says as he continues briskly through the house. As an afterthought, he kicks off his Adidas sneakers so he doesn’t track any dirt inside. You do the same, sliding off your cheap flats from Kmart. He points down a hallway. “There are two guest bedrooms down there, and then a big one at the other end of the house with its own private bath. Here’s the kitchen…” He leads you through it, mint green with pristine black and white tiles on the floor. “And over there is the dining room.” It’s a kind, golden yellow like dawn or sunset.

“Aemond, what—?”

“Bedroom next,” he interrupts, hurrying you along.

At the end of the hall, he opens a door to reveal a sprawling chamber. It is blue like his bedroom in the Targaryen mansion, but not a deep, vivid sapphire color; it is a pale blue like prairie flax or a clear midday sky. The carpet is lush and soft. There are mirrors on the ceiling.

“Those are optional,” Aemond clarifies, pointing upwards. “But personally, I like them.”

“Aemond, whose house is this?”

“It’s yours,” he says.

“It’s what?!”

“Well, technically, it isn’t yours quite yet,” he admits. “I bought it in cash, it will close in a week or two. At that point I’ll sell it to you for $1—the same price as one of your cupcakes, incidentally—and then it will officially be your house. And it doesn’t even have a sinking foundation or any alligators. Imagine the possibilities.”

“But…but…”

“Cadi’s bedroom is green, like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I’ve been told the yard is big enough for one horse, or two very small horses. Ponies, I guess.”

“You cannot buy me a house,” you say, aghast.

“I think I already did.” He holds out the key to you, resting in his palm among lines of prophesy.

You are paralyzed; it takes you forever to find your words. “Aemond, I’ll never be able to repay you.”

“You don’t owe me anything. It’s a gift, not a trade,” he says, the key still lying in his outstretched hand. “Every cent I spend on you, every second I spend with you, is solely because I want to do it and for no other reason. There’s no obligation. There’s no quid pro quo. And that’s what I feel like you don’t understand. I have no logical reason to keep you in my life, absolutely none, aside from the fact that I want you to be here. And I want that with everything I’m made of. I never stop wanting it. So let me help you. Take the key. Take the house.”

His right eye is on you, imploring, commanding. At last, you lift the key from his palm. Studying it like the cryptic letter of a foreign language, you murmur: “You shouldn’t have done this.”

Aemond rakes his fingers through your hair, tilts your face up towards his, skims his lips feather-lightly from your cheekbone down to your lips—though he doesn’t kiss you, only ghosts his flesh over yours, a taste, a taunt—and then up to the curl of your ear. His whispered voice is colored with wicked scarlet desire. “You don’t tell me what to do. I tell you what to do.”

If he yanked off your t-shirt you would let him. If he unzipped your denim shorts and slipped his artful fingers inside them he would find panties soaked through for him. You would let him do anything he wanted to you, here in this glass-fragile liminality before he becomes Christabel’s in law, in body, in inked and inerasable history. But it would not be because you want to, not because you feel ready in your bones, not because you trust him again. It would only be because you could not bring yourself to resist.

Aemond reads this on your face; he stops before you have to tell him to.

~~~~~~~~~~

On July 1st, Cascade Stables is swarming with parents as they descend upon the property to collect their children and meet the horses they’ve spent the past week with. There is a stereo somewhere blaring Your Love by The Outfield; apparently, this does not disturb the horses. You find Cadi beside the stall of a very tall, willowy beast, ears upright and alert, one bulging eye onyx and the other a striking icy blue. Its coat is white with a splattering of rust-colored stains. Even its mane and tail are comprised of alternating strands, dark, light, earth, clouds, cocoa powder, granulated sugar.

“His name is Patches,” Cadi tells you proudly as she pets the leviathan’s velvety muzzle. “He has a wall eye. And he’s a real handful and usually they only allow the experienced campers to ride him, but they let me try and he listened so well I got to keep him all week!”

“Wow, that’s incredible! Good job! Did you learn a lot about how to take care of him?”

“Yeah. They taught me how to feed Patches and clean his hooves and put a saddle on him. And how to hit him with a hairbrush when he tries to bite me.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Right. Okay.”

“Can we buy him? He’s for sale. Probably because of all the biting.”

“Who, Patches?” You definitely cannot afford to board a horse; and then you remember the new house. “I’ll think about it.”

Cadi peeks around you. “Daddy isn’t here too?”

“No, honey, I’m sorry. He had to work. But he really wanted to see the horses and he is looking forward to hearing all about your adventures.” This is a lie—Willis seems only dimly aware of the concept of a horse camp, and he is staunchly incurious by nature—but a compassionate one.

Cadi accepts the explanation readily enough. “Alright. Is Aemond your boyfriend yet?”

“Um.” You thread the horse’s forelock through your fingers to buy yourself time. It seems unwise to try to deceive her again; Cadi will learn about Christabel sooner or later. “No, we’re still just friends.” You pause. She watches you, knowing there’s more. “Actually, he’s getting married this month.”

“What?!” Cadi is shocked, but she’s outraged too. “To who?!”

“To a nice lady named Christabel. And I’m sure they’ll be very happy together.” Another lie. And you think for the first time: If I settle for being Aemond’s mistress, if I let it tear me to pieces…what am I teaching Cadi?

Your daughter doesn’t say anything for a long time. She pets Patches’ speckled face, her own expression tense and thoughtful, lines and worries that should be far beyond her age. At last she says quietly: “Is it because of me?”

You are mystified. “What, honey?”

“Is the reason why you and Aemond can’t get married because of me?”

There is a flash of crimson wrath in your skull—protective, animalistic, wronged on her behalf—but no one to direct it at. “No. No, absolutely not. Why would you say that?”

Cadi shrugs, and you recognize it as her self-preservation, faux-flippant shrug. “I don’t know. One time I heard Michelle’s mom talking about how no decent man wants to deal with some other guy’s kids. And that’s me when I’m at your house. Another guy’s kid.”

Oh, fuck you, Janet. “No,” you say again. “Aemond likes you a lot, Cadi. He cares about you.” He picked out a house that could accommodate a horse for you. “You’re the opposite of a problem. He actually likes me more because of you, I think.”

“Okay.” And she’s relieved, although she’s trying not to show it. “Then why is he marrying someone else?”

“Well…it’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

Where the hell do I start? “Aemond and I are very different people,” you tell Cadi. “And we want different things out of life. We like to spend time together, but that doesn’t mean that we’d be able to share our whole lives…homes, careers, values, everything. His family has a lot of expectations of him that I don’t feel right supporting, but Aemond wants to respect their rules. And, you know. He’s a robber baron.”

“But he doesn’t talk about Jade Dragon Energy or oil around me. He talks about history.”

You sigh, watching dust motes swirl through the hot, sunlit stable air, listening to horses nicker and huff. “I know, honey.”

“I don’t even think he wants to be a robber baron. I think he wants to be something else.”

“Like what?” you ask, picking stray bits of yellow straw out of her short, disheveled hair. And remarkably, Cadi tolerates this.

“I don’t know, just…just…” She battles with the words, then finds one she likes. “Free, I guess. Just free.”

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n

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phrogfungi · 3 months

Text

Come on, Bleed

Killer! bakugou x fem! reader

MDNI

WC: 2.5k

Notes: afab! reader, mentioning of drug/alcohol use, stalking, mentioning of death/killing, blood play, mentioning of blood, knife play, sadism/masochism, biting, marking, voice kink, praise, fingering, finger sucking, p in v, unprotected, creampie, dubcon, slight cannibalism, reader doean't know his name, killer bakugou is more of a hitman (lol),

A/N: I was listening to 'love you like an alcoholic' while finishing this </3

•°•°•

❦ this is a collab with the lovely @vampyrsm ❦

•°•°•

The feeling of eyes watching you. You felt it since two days ago. On the train while making your way home from work. At the grocery store as you went from isle to isle. In the street when walking to a friend's party, drunk of your mind and whatever drugs you took only just taking effect. Maybe it was those same drugs that made your brain barely notice the hulking figure you bumped into.

There was a laugh—not a big one, but it was still there. "Sorry sweetheart. Gotta watch where you're goin' y'know." His crimson red eyes peeking through his spiky blonde hair sent shivers down your spine and made bumps appear on your skin.

The voice was husky and deep, and maybe it was the alcohol, but damn was it attractive. As for him, he knew you were drunk. He knew you were high. He knew everything because were the eyes that were watching you for two weeks.

You gave him a quick smile before turning around and continuing to walk in the direction of your house. "Hey, wait! You're drunk right?" You faced him and let out a little giggle.

"Maybe... just a little bit," you responded, bringing a finger to your nose and booping yourself, that smile reappearing on your face.

If you were in your right mind you never would've done that.

"Well, why don't I walk ya home then? It really isn't safe at night, especially for drunks." He let out a soft laugh as you excitedly nodded your head. Turning around, you pointed toward the direction of your house.

As if he didn't already know that. Still, despite knowing all this, he followed your directions leading to your house with you slumped across his back as a cause of your jelly-like legs and drunken stupor. Picking you up was a small task for him, and walking with you on his back as he held your thighs wasn't even making him sweat.

He slowed down in small fear as he felt your mindless chatter die down and your grip around him loosened. Was he supposed to be worried about his victims?

Letting a sigh escape his nose, he tapped on your thigh, "Doin' ok?" He let himself come to a stop when you didn't respond and looked over his shoulder to you. He let out another sigh–a relieved one–and continued walking once seeing you were asleep.

Walking with you on his back wasn't a problem in-and-of itself, keeping you asleep, however, did prove to be an issue. There were multiple other drunks who didn't know how to walk without bumping into everyone and everything–including him. Dogs were barking at him as if they knew he was gonna make your blood spill in your own home. Cars were rushing by and honking at him as praise that he was ‘getting lucky’ or as insults of ‘taking advantage’ of a drunken girl.

As if he would want to fuck one of his victims. Fuckin’ idiots. Sure, he may have imagined you once or twice or ten… or fifteen–either way, he knew he didn’t have a chance.

Waking you up by shaking you and setting you down, it wasn’t long until your brain was awake enough to fish for your house key, unknown of the prying red eyes staring unashamedly at your ass–the round plumpness of it being a feast for the perverted side of his mind.

“D’you wanna come inside?” You asked, turning towards the nameless man with a twirl. The question caught him off guard. It’s true it was getting late, and he needed a way in your house anyway–whether it be breaking in or being invited, the latter being the case at the moment.

“Sure,” a faux smile placed on his mouth as a way for you to form a false sense of security. You quickly unlocked your house and pushed the door open, the door making a creaking sound as it swung.

"D'you want something to drink? Coffee? Tea?" You asked, trying to be considerate of your, now-guest.

"No, I'm good. You should go head to bed though," he responded, and it sounded like a good idea. As you entered your room, the man following behind you, you turned on your phone to use as a light source. Walking over to your bed you could hear a sound behind me, like rustling clothing.

"You really shouldn't trust everyone you meet,"

The man you invited into your house was now whispering in your ear, raising goosebumps along with his voice. A knife was pressed against your throat, drawing subtle drops of blood that caused a slight tingle between your legs. An arm was placed around your waist, which you assumed was to keep you in place, and your back was pressed against the firm muscles of his chest.

"I've watched you for a long time." You didn't realize just how husky the voice was until it was in your ear. "Longer than I do my other victims." A pleasurable shiver went down your spine as you rubbed your legs together, seeking some form of friction. You should've been filled with shame, your life was being threatened, but all you could think about was that gruff voice and the pricks of pain your brain was turning into fuel.

"Ya should feel lucky." You could almost hear the smirk he had dancing across his lips. With a breathtakingly fast motion caused by the arms that were just holding you, you were now being pushed onto your bed. Your eyes squeezed shut as the bed sprang to life and made you slightly bounce.

Through the dim lighting, you pried open your eyes to find yourself inches from a smirking face. Drawing in a shaky breath filled with anticipation, you tore your eyes away from his gleaming red ones before he continued. "I don't usually let my victims live this long." Fingers gripped your jaw firmly, which forced your eyes back to his. "Especially when there's a contract."

The hand on your jaw refused to let you look away and you felt the cold of metal pressed against your throat once more. "What?" You were generally confused and it started to feel like ice was passing through your veins. Who would want you dead?

He responded with a light laugh as if it was obvious, then scowled immediately after at the thought of who hired him. "Someone wants you dead but, too much of a pussy to do it themselves." In his own words, he pressed the knife harder, reopening the scab that was already forming. He let out a sigh and your phone automatically turned off, allowing you to no longer see the face inches from your own. "I've been entertained enough by you though. You're gonna die now."

With those words still thumping in your confused brain, you felt him drag the knife down, stopping just above your heart. You felt him adjust so just the tip was below your rib cage and blood was pooling out and collecting at your collarbone. You let out a subtle gasp and gripped the bed sheets and as it wrapped around your fingers, there was a pause of unmoving silence.

Without another heartbeat, you felt the weight of the knife drop on your chest and warm breath fan across your face. "Are you fucking serious right now?" It wasn't aggravation in the question, but more amusement.

You let out a soft mewl at his words and you felt the warmth of his body leave along with the weight of the knife. As your eyes now adjusted to the darkness of the room, you could see how he was standing just above your bed, giving you a look that only read that he was questioning himself. One of his hands was over his mouth, hiding the toothy grin that appeared seconds after, and his other wrapped around his abdomen, still clutching the now-stained knife.

You were about to protest against him, complain that he stopped, until you heard him snicker. Now silent, you watched as he unwrapped his arm to drop the knife beside you. "You must be into some real kinky shit huh?"

As soon as you opened your mouth to respond, you clamped it shut at feeling fingers grazing your throat, lapping itself in the blood that was seeping out the small slit. Another mewl let out as you saw him bend his head down to huff a lick across your wound.

Slowly, he left kisses as he trailed his lips down your neck, the trail soon leading to your shoulder, then collarbone. Your half-dazed attention was brought back to his hands as you felt one of them slip under the hem of your shirt. Unintentionally, you bucked your hips forward when you felt his thumb and index twist your now-hardened nipple, earning a chuckle from the one causing it.

"Patience," he whispered in your collarbone before sucking up the blood that collected in the area. "I wanna enjoy this as much as possible,"

As soon as his words fell from his mouth, he grabbed the knife that landed next to you, a gnarly snarl placed on his bloodied lips. One thing you didn't anticipate was him placing those bloodied lips on yours as the knife dipped under your shirt and slowly cut the fabric, tearing it apart from the bottom up.

While trailing kisses down your neck, he trailed one hand down to your breast, creating pleasurable friction on your perked nipple. A sudden masochistic pain swelled in your neck, making you let out a moan as a cause and a bite mark soon formed.

"You're shaking, love." he chuckled against your neck before leaching your blood from your skin, repeating this action until there were multiple marks on your neck, which he proudly stared at.

"Feels good," you gasped out. As you wrapped your legs around his torso, you could feel his boner pressed against you, making you gasp and become wetter than before. You realized just how wet you were when you felt one of his hands dip down past your panty-line to play with your bundle of nerves.

All you heard was a chuckle form from his throat, making you whimper. He sat up to face you, your faces inches apart, blood staining the edges of his mouth as he kissed you. It was a heated kiss, filled with tongues and clashing teeth. You could taste your own blood on his tongue as he kissed you, making the kiss somehow more feverish.

Just as you began to lean into the kiss, however, your hands moving up towards his jawline, he pulled away and dropped the knife next to you once again. His hand pulled up towards your lips, he slipped his thumb against your tongue. Instantly knowing what to do, you closed your mouth around his thumb and sucked, a sweet taste filling your mouth.

"Good girl," he almost purred, face smirking at his own appraisal. In your drunken mind, you smiled as well, happy to receive praise. He then slipped a thick digit into your dripping wet cunt, making you moan around his thumb. An almost electrical feeling ran through you, as he pumped his finger, pumping it in and out. In and out. In and out. All you could think about was how his finger moved inside you and how good it felt.

You moaned around his thumb as he leaned down to take your breast in his mouth. As he sucked, he left another mark he could swell from pride as he looked at it, glad to finally mark you as his, just as he did in his fantasies multiple times.

You could feel the muscles around your abdomen tighten and he could feel your walls tighten around his finger. Knowing you were about to cum, you tried to let him know, but he shoved his finger farther down your throat, making you gag. "I know," he responded just as you came, your body convulsing as you twitched, your mind becoming fuzzy as your tongue dripped out the side of your mouth.

Before your mind could recover, his thumb exited your mouth and you heard the sound of him unzipping his pants, his pants falling towards his knees along with his boxers. You tried sitting up, supporting yourself with your elbows. You tried seeing what was going on, your scatterbrained mind barely comprehending the sounds you heard. However, before you could see what was going on, he took off your shorts, along with your panties, leaving you completely exposed to him, and he wrapped his hands around your thighs and slipped inside your cunt in one, quick, thrust.

A quiet moan exerted his mouth as he slipped inside you, feeling the tightness of your velvet walls surrounding him. You could hear him panting through his nose above you as he waited for you to adjust to his size, his size stretching you out, making an almost painful burn spread underneath your skin. Once he started moving, however, is when the pain started to subside and pleasure filed in its place.

He started slow at first, slow and gentle, but as soon as you started clenching around him is when he started to go faster, rougher. His hand moved from your hips to your breast, squeezing tightly around it, making a moan slip out from your throat.

Moans and the sound of skin slapping against skin soon filled the room as he thrust in and out of you. Feeling the muscles in your abdomen tighten once again, your orgasm was coming so fast it almost hurt, and he could tell. He placed a hand on your cheek right before speaking mindless words into your ear. The words, however, as comforting as they were, fell silent toward deaf ears, your mind too pleasured to pick up on them.

You let out one last moan before you clenched around his cock as you came, your face contorting into pleasure. As if that was his last straw, he let out one last thrust before he came inside you, his white cum filling your insides as he let out a beautiful moan of his own. He stilled his thrusts, pulling out of you as he panted above you, obviously tired.

Before he could do anything further, his own phone rang. He took it out his pants pocket, the phone vibrating in his hand, and read the number. Instantly knowing it was his client, he answered it and brought it up to his ear. His client's annoying voice filled his ear as he sat down beside you and looked at your fucked-out expression, smirking at what he was about to say and the fact he could bring you so much pleasure.

"Yeah, she's dead, sir. Don't worry," He responded, his hand moving to caress the top of your head, his hand playing with your hair as his white, sticky cum slowly spilled out of you. As if it wasn't any more obvious he wasn't going to kill you, as soon as he hung up the phone, he laid down beside you, pushed your hair out the way of your face, and landed a kiss on your forehead.

#katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x y/n #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bnha collab #bakugou smut

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removeoffthecraudestoppers · 1 year

Text

I went to the aquarium today so here's my headcanon for the Bats' favourite things at the aquarium.

Damian: he knows the names of all the seals and most of the handlers.

Cass: she and Steph like to watch the rays in the tunnel and copy their dumb faces at each other until Cass is doubled over laughing. :} :3 :]

Steph: The turtle in the Touch and Learn exhibit once bit Damian on the finger and now that turtle is Steph's favourite animal in the whole world.

Bruce: Octopuses. Fascinating, dangerous, alien creatures. There is so much to learn from them, both their physiology and their social behaviour.

Alfred: He likes the penguins and nobody dares say a damn word about it.

Dick: tropical fish. He gets all his fashion advice from them.

Duke: could sit and watch the giant tanks of jelly fish all day. They seem so chill but they're really beings of utter chaos. Plus, they don't have brains, which is cool.

Jason: Everyone assumes he likes sharks or something dangerous but he actually prefers seahorses.

Clark: Moray eels.

Tim: Aqualad

#batman #dc #batfam #batfamily #batkids #bruce wayne #damian wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #cassandra cain #duke thomas #clark kent #superman #stephanie brown

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purple-scrunchie · 2 months

Text

More Heathers Headcanons bc they're rotting my brain

Heather Chandler:

absolutely dogshit at croquet. Only plays to knock other people out

mostly Heather

*slaps roof * this blondie can fit so much anger

has a deep respect for Duke but sees too much of herself in her (and therefore as a threat) and doesn't know how to deal with that healthily

Has an older stepsister she's only met twice

They write each other letters and they're quite close

refuses to let herself or any other Heather date the football team (she says "we don't date the help")

secretly likes her friends but doesn't know how to go about telling them she loves and appreciates them as people

her love language is getting people matching earrings for their birthdays

Heather Duke:

ex dance kid (iykyk)

wrote emo poetry in 7th grade (she burned it all last year though)

queen of malicious compliance

knows a shit ton of card tricks

is not allowed to shuffle the deck on poker night

she knows what she did

queen of telling scary stories (has made Heather, Heather, and Veronica sob like little babies before)

had a photography phase too

still has loads and loads of undeveloped film left over in her closet from this

her dad used to take her fishing and she secretly still loves it

Heather McNamara:

hates swimming

hates water in general

This girl only drinks milk it's a problem

Has literally everything you could ever need in her bag

once mistook her mace for her sunscreen

never again

ex theater kid (she was really good but then got busy with cheer, which took priority because her parents said so)

used to want to be an actress

now she wants to be an equine vet so she can get paid to be a horse girl all day

Not stupid at all, just has a selective attention span

broke her arm when she got thrown off a horse in 3rd grade

Veronica Sawyer:

has all 3 Heathers in her contacts as 'Heather'

she knows what's from who based on the messages

her bag is so damn disorganized she's basically Mary Poppins

we're talking everything from extra snacks to industrial-grade superglue

wanted to get a tattoo but her parents said no

she got JD to do it for her anyway (it's a really shitty rendition of her childhood cat, JFK)

lives off peanut butter & jelly sandwiches

still falls for the toothpaste in Oreos prank

bit her nails until Heather got her that nasty anti-biting polish for her birthday last year

Jason Dean:

red sox supporter

owns a tattoo gun

owns a real gun too

and a signed baseball bat (too bad he can't read the signature)

should not own any of these items

best friends with the movie theater clerk

uses this to see so many movies for free

the definition of "I know a place"

likes to walk around in the woods

just fuck around and throw rocks and shit

He told Veronica that if he ever goes missing that's the first place she should check

#scrunchie's ramblings #heathers headcanons #heathers #heathers 1988 #heathers the musical #heather chandler #heather duke #heather mcnamara #veronica sawyer #jason dean #my blorbos

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cypherdecypher · 8 months

Text

Animal of the Day!

Turritopsis nutricula (Turritopsis nutricula)

(Photo from Penn State)

Conservation Status- Unlisted

Habitat- Atlantic Ocean; Indo-Pacific Ocean; Caribbean Sea

Size (Weight/Length)- 5 mm

Diet- Plankton; Fish eggs

Cool Facts- Dubbed the immortal jellyfish, Turritopsis nutricula can reverse its aging and, in theory, never die due to old age. Once sexually mature, they can change their cells to revert to a juvenile state. The changes in its cells can be observed in their digestive tract and their outer umbrella. These deep sea jellies are rarely ever seen outside of cameras on oil rigs and oceanic drone exploration. However, these jellies are still threatened by a multitude of predators and ocean pollution. Through observation of their cells, medical institutes are hoping that the way the immortal jellyfish de-ages its cells will give us insight on a possible cure for cancer and even reverse aging in humans.

Rating- 12/10 (Honestly, just ridiculously cool.)

#animal of the day #animals #jellyfish #marine animals #friday #august 11 #immortal jellyfish #Turritopsis nutricula #biology #science #conservation #the more you know

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vicsy · 7 months

Text

They had an agreement, thing is.

Lance hadn't forgotten even in the midst of getting his brain scrambled and his body feeling like jelly once the last bits of the adrenaline seeped out of him; evaporated like droplets of water on the heated surface of the Singapore race track, streaked with burnt tyre marks and covered in the debris of his car.

His dad caught up with him at the doors of the med center, tugging Lance in for a mindful hug, away from cameras and those media vultures. The doctors had already cleared him of the worst but Lance couldn't fight a jittery feeling, even with Lawrence's hold steadying him in more ways than one. He powered through it, though, managing a quick foray to catering and finding nothing to his liking.

Lance's phone was a minute or two away from blowing up, messages and notifications piling up. He called his sister instead of texting her back, gingerly sitting on the side of the hotel room bed, the aftermath of his crash reverberating through his bones, a faint buzzing under his skin. When Chloe picked up with envious speed, as if she's been waiting, Lance cut off whatever she was gearing up to say, his voice steadier than he felt.

Fine. He was fine. He didn't have to see the pics; he's been there, he lived through it. Saved him from the mockery of it all, for sure.

He set his phone on the nightstand beside a pack of painkillers the doctors prescribed and a half-drank bottle of water, slumping against the headboard, floating on the verge of passing out. It took some time to settle in, Lance diligently cataloguing every painful pang and uncomfortable pull of muscles that made him grit his teeth until he settled carefully on his side, facing the panoramic window.

He hadn't forgotten, even in sleep, and when Lance opens his eyes, disturbed by a familiar noise of the door opening, something stirs at the back of his mind, a warning flashing before his bleary eyes.

It was their thing. On media day, Lance found himself chatting away with Esteban when Fernando came up to both of them, discreetly palming Lance's ass, then dipping his fingers in his back pocket to fish out a keycard. Este only looked in horror and Lance barely contained a tiny laugh bubbling in his chest. Fernando's nonchalance as he waved the keycard playfully at him and shot a pointed took Esteban's way earned Lance a nasty smack on the shoulder and a frantic tirade half in French, half in English.

That was Thursday. Lance ended up spread out on the bed, panting into the mattress helplessly, thighs shaking as Fernando took his fill and they fell asleep tangled with each other, sated. On Friday night, he went down to his knees, Fernando's eyes screwed shut and his back pressed against the door of his hotel room, fingers tangled in Lance's hair, the keycard he stole lying on the floor beside him. Two could play this game.

And tonight, they're not supposed to–

There's a muffled sound of footsteps and then the bed dips. Lance moves to roll onto his back, only to stop short as a hand wraps around his middle, strong and possessive. Fernando presses his body alongside his, sure and steady; warm but out of place.

"Fernando?" Lance calls out, dumbly, in some sort of dizzy disbelief.

He wasn't superstitious. It was Fernando's forte. Anyone else would have laughed it off but Lance listened to Fernando's reasoning the night after they raced in Spain, stealing two days out of the schedule to be away from their pressing obligations, media shitstorm and judgmental looks. Lance doesn't remember leaving the bed much but the sunset over Oviedo burned itself in his memory, along with every little quiver and moan Fernando wrenched out of him, sealing their lips together as the sun slipped below the horizon outside an open window.

"Is bad luck," Fernando had said, propped up on one elbow, mouth curving in an easy grin that pulled a lazy smile out of Lance, almost automatically. "Better we always miss one day and meet after the race, no?"

Fernando kissed the corner of his mouth, gripping the back of Lance's neck, and he'd agreed to the terms, never the one to protest. It didn't matter to Lance much back then, setting a tray with their food aside in favor of pulling Fernando on top of him, chasing what neither of them should have ever had.

And yet.

A day before the race, they stay in their rooms; they don't fuck. No funny business.

They had an agreement and it shouldn't be broken over Lance's own string of bad fucking luck or whatever karmic debt he acquired; over the hunger he knows resides deep in Fernando's soul. Over the one that flickers within Lance, a trivial thing before the real enormity of it swallowed him whole.

Fernando's palm slips up and down his thigh, fingers passing over the hem of his sleep shorts and Lance's breath hitches. He's never said no, but he's not in the right condition for anything, let alone lying there and taking it. Usually Fernando rolls him onto his belly and Lance goes, pliant and willing and already breathless with anticipation. Now, his body freezes like he's about to crash again and his mind wanders.

Offhandedly, Lance tries to remember if Fernando had called or texted him but what would be the point of it now? He breathes in shakily, staying painfully still.

"Hey, I don't–"

Fernando cuts him off.

"Shh," he whispers as if annoyed, softly kissing the nape of Lance's neck once, twice, then splaying his palm across the flat plane of Lance's stomach. "You sleep now. Tomorrow, we race."

It knocks Lance off balance, the way he entirely missed the mark. He feels Fernando burrow his face in his hair, breath tickling his sensitive skin. He holds Lance close, his grip unrelenting, borderline suffocating and something cracks open in Lance's chest, spills out and makes him shiver. The tension eases and he tentatively covers Fernando's hand on his body with his.

Crawling out of the corner Lance backed himself into, he settles in the bewildered comfort. In his eyes, Fernando is two men at once — the one who who isn't scared of means to an end in order to win and the one who comes up with a different nickname to call Lance in private, making his heart flutter.

And in the never-ending aftermath of his crash, in the face of those who always turn their back to Lance, the latter man claims his victory. Lulled by Fernando's steady heartbeat against his shoulder blades, Lance slips into fitful sleep, hope nestling deep in his ribcage.

He wakes with a jolt. Feels like he's fallen into a pit, panicky and sticky with sweat, heart hammering away an uneven rhythm. A heavy weight of Fernando's hand is still slung across his back, a solid point of contact. Some semblance of relief lurches in his throat along with nausea.

Lance knows something is wrong. He sluggishly gets his hands underneath himself, struggling to lift himself up, and falls back on the bed with a pathetic little noise. His alarm hasn't gone off yet. It's barely light outside.

His limbs won't cooperate, no substantial strength in his muscles, his t-shirt sticking to his skin uncomfortably. Head pounding, Lance blinks rapidly, suddenly out of breath, like he just completed the race. What a fucking joke. He screws his eyes shut, his mind racing.

A hand pushes on his shoulder to roll him onto his back in a sick reverse of what he's used to. When Lance blinks his eyes open again, Fernando's sleep-rumpled face swims into his vision. He can't read his expression right, just takes in the lines of worry on Fernando's forehead. He must look like hell.

Lance shakes his head against the pillow, the pinprick of tears in the corners of his eyes. Fernando's shoulders sag as he rasps:

"Is fine, Lance."

It's not. He's not fit to race, a hopeless case at this point.

"I can't," Lance chokes against the unfamiliar lump in his throat. "Fer, I'm– I can't."

He hurts all over, pain erupting in different parts of his body and then flaring everywhere at once. Lance feels so fucking betrayed, restrained, pitiful. He remembers waking up from surgery, groggy and still half-broken but it feels worse now, feels baneful. Lance moves to swipe damp hair from his forehead, hand wavering, laden.

Fernando takes him by the wrist, lifts his hand gentle enough and Lance allows to be manoeuvred, guided. Then; a kiss placed over the scar there, warm lips pressed to his clammy skin, grounding him. Lance lets an ugly sob free.

"Is fine," Fernando repeats, a hollow look in his eyes. His fingers tighten around Lance's wrist. "I race for us both this time."

He leaves, soon after; Lance stays behind.

He almost wishes Fernando good luck, out of habit. Almost. Lately, Lance has been all out of it but he'd spare some for Fernando, unprompted. He promises Lance to wear one of his gloves for the race. For luck. Lance's face twist as do his insides. He's always been dismal at masking how he really feels.

The last twenty laps Lance watches from the back of the Aston Martin garage, tucked safely away from the reporters. His body still feels sore, like a foreign entity that exists outside of him but it pales in comparison to the feeling of his stomach dropping as Fernando spins on the track and keeps losing and losing and losing.

Perhaps, it's Lance's luck that does him in. Misplaced blame tastes acrid on his tongue.

As the celebrations unfold, he seeks Fernando out from a distance. He catches him among the sea of mechanics, race suit undone halfway, the same hollowed look from this morning haunting his features. He stalks forward, past where Lance has glued himself to one of the chairs. He makes no move to follow. Fernando doesn't grace him with a mere gaze. In the background, fireworks erupt.

Back in his hotel room, suitcase laid on the floor in disarray, Lance distracts himself and puts his phones aside, itching to shoot a text or anything, really. Fernando has been radio silent since the end of the race, leaving the debrief earlier than usual. Lance isn't some dumb, love-sick teenager, he knows well enough that after today's debacle Fernando would need space. He waits with patience honed with years.

And waits.

Then gives up, momentarily scorned. It's almost past midnight. He should have known better; Esteban would be right to laugh in his face.

They had an agreement.

It's unfair to the core since Fernando shattered it himself and the reason why was kept implicit, just beneath the surface. Too many ifs cross Lance's mind like someone opened the floodgates of his thoughts. If he was insignificant, Fernando wouldn't bother right from the very start but they're way past the point of no return. If Lance was wiser or older or not himself, he would not have cared at all and even now, he fucking shouldn't. If isn't good enough of an excuse to feel the skin on his wrist burn with a ghost of a kiss; to crave the safety of Fernando's embrace. To be the sole center of his undivided attention.

It's still Sunday night.

They had an agreement.

Lance downs the last of the painkillers and drags himself under a thick blanket, the aircon cranked to the max and all the lights turned off.

The door stays shut, the night passes by. His ache grows stronger and doesn't subside.

Morning greets Lance with a taste of defeat and the knowledge settling deep in his bones. He could race with his heart out on the track but could hardly wrestle a win against the clutches the race itself has sunk so utterly deep into Fernando.

Lance's luck leaves him no chances. After all, he was born to lose.

#vicsy writes #strollonso #i though 'how can i make this day better' and chose to make it worse #singapore was hella depressing for strollonso nation #essentially Nando is like we can't fuck before the race it's bad luck and better not see each other #but lance's crush made him go soft.....#anyway sorry for this half baked nonsense #alonstroll #fernando/lance #lance stroll #fernando alonso #strollonso fic #f1 fic #lancenando #lowkey haattee thiiiissssss #listen to Born to Lose by Des Rocs while reading this #can't believe I have to endure the horrors of both Nando and Lance suffering

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