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macfrog · 6 months

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if patrick bateman were a woman

cowboy like me [bonus chapter]

surprise!! happy halloween!!!! may your day be spooky and your sex be filthy. here's a bonus chapter of clm to celebrate. love y'all !!! despite being cowboy joel and his reader, this is not canon. does not happen in the cowboy like me series. i wish. it's just a little bit of spooky szn fun with my two favorite star-crossed lovers. !!!

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: sarah throws a halloween party. you and joel have a little too much fun.

warnings: as pwp as a macfrog fic can get, age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), lil bit titty appreciation, a singular daddy mention, a single slice of degradation, but also praise kink, unprotected piv sex, creampie, it's set on halloween, alcohol consumption, cursing

word count: 4k

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Ice, pretzels, lime juice. Ice, pretzels, lime juice.

I’m giving you one job. Ice, pretzels, lime juice. That’s it.

That sounds like three jobs, you’d said.

Sarah ignored you. Be here at seven, alright? Ice – pretzels – lime juice!

It’s seven thirty. You’re finally on her front porch. The tiny section of bare skin between your stockings and black skirt is pimpled with goosebumps. With each inhale you suck in the sickly-sweet scent of fake blood, splattered across your face. You have a bag of ice slung over one arm, a bag of pretzels balanced on top, a bottle of juice hanging from your fingers and an axe under your elbow.

Only – it’s not lime juice. And the axe is plastic.

Sarah opens the door and spots your blunder instantly. “That’s lemon.”

“I know. They didn’t have any lime.”

“They didn’t have any lime? Where the hell did you go?”

“It’s Halloween, Sarah. Everybody and their fucking grandma is drinking tonight. Lemon tastes the exact –”

“Ah!” She holds a finger up. Her red cape flutters in the breeze. “It does not taste the same. Otherwise, why would it be two separate things?”

“Hey, Wonder Woman,” you drone, “mind letting me in? I’m fucking freezing.”

She scoffs, and steps aside. Mutters, “’s not the same thing,” as you pass.

You click down the hall, head rolling to check out her decorating. The living room and kitchen are lit by constellations of tiny tealights, flickering and blinking and casting tall, warped shadows across the walls. There’s a purple neon sign sat against the wall that reads Spooky. By the fireplace sit the two pumpkins she and her boyfriend carved last night; she’d sent you photos and asked you to pick a winner. When you chose the Iron Man head over the silhouette of Tinkerbell, she sent back a middle finger emoji.

Y: It’s cleaner cut. What do you expect? Shoddy work, Miller.

S: asshole.

Sarah’s slotting the ice into the freezer. Struggling, by the sound of it. You swing back into the kitchen to find Wonder Woman on her ass, hammering her fist against the frozen pack to fit it in.

You’re about to offer help, when someone else does it for you. Someone lower, gravellier. A voice like thunder in the distance, a storm approaching.

“You need a hand?” he asks, and when you turn, you almost drop your fucking axe.

He glances to you as he emerges from the dark hallway, the warm glow licking at his graying flicks of hair, nestling in the deep-set lines on his face. His eyes dart down to where your fingers now clutch the plastic handle, holding it against the hem of your skirt like it’ll do anything to cover your modesty.

Your modesty, meaning – the line of sexy black lace curling around your thighs, snug against the supple skin.

What the fuck are you doing here? you mouth, as Joel paces across the kitchen towards his daughter.

He shrugs, palms outstretched. It’s my house?

You roll your eyes, run your tongue like lightning across your scarlet lips. Sarah straightens up, huffs hair from her face and stares blankly at Joel.

He bends, takes the entire bag in one huge palm, and reorganizes the drawer with the other. Your eye drifts to his bicep, flexing under the tight seam of a dark tee. The bag of ice cradled in his arm leaves weak little droplets, running down the tan skin to the crook of his elbow. You want to fucking lick them up, gather the frozen beads on your tongue, hike up up up to the curve of his shoulder, the crook of his neck, the –

“Hey.” Sarah clicks her fingers in front of your face. “You hearin’ me?”

“Huh? No, yeah. No. I wasn’t lis– What did you say?”

She sighs again. Joel groans as he pushes off his knee and stands tall behind her. Wipes the water from his arm with one swipe of his palm.

“Would you put these in a bowl?” his daughter asks, shoving the bag of pretzels into your suited chest. She shuffles off, announcing she’s going to pick a playlist for the night.

Suited is perhaps giving you too much credit. You’re in a mini skirt and waistcoat, a red tie slung loose around your neck. You’ve a clear poncho draped over your shoulders, but with the heat from the million and one fucking candles – and the flush that the forty-something-year-old with his wide frame and fitted sweatpants and toned chest and his big fucking hands has cast over you – it’ll soon be discarded to the newel post.

But when you reach up for the bowl on the top shelf of the cabinet, pushing forward with a palm on the countertop, the marble digging into your pelvis and forcing your ass to jut out – you think yourself pretty fucking smug to be in a skirt that hugs your cheeks and not much else.

You turn, the lip of the bowl in your fingers, and smile sweetly at Joel, whose gaze returns north as you approach him.

“You got nothin’ better to do with your night than babysit a bunch of twenty-five-year-olds?” you murmur, spilling the bag into the blue bowl. You place a pretzel on your tongue, humming at the taste.

Joel smiles, popping the cap off his beer. He spills the amber liquid into his mouth. “I’ll be in my room.”

Your eyebrows lift. “That so? You need any company in there?”

“Nope. Rangers game is on. I’ll be busy.”

The words ghost across your lips. You’ll be busy, you breathe. Joel nods. Then looks you up and down.

“American Psycho?”

“What?”

He flicks his wrist up and down your figure. “What’s his name, again? Pat–”

“Patrick Bateman,” you say together. You nod.

“That’s the one.” Then he turns, leans his jaw nearer until his lips line with your ear. Your eyes shoot across to the empty doorway. Sarah’s skipping song after song in the living room.

Joel’s finger slips beneath the lace trim of your stockings, tugging gently. “I don’t remember ‘im in these, though,” he says, voice low.

You gulp. Swallow to push your heart back into place. “Well,” you glance down, lifting your thigh closer to him, “if he were a woman, he woulda dressed like this.”

“That’s somethin’ I’d like to see,” Joel murmurs, eyes locked on the place where lace separates from skin.

“Yeah?”

He nods. Growls, “Yeah.”

And then he’s walking away.

Within an hour, the house is jumping. Literally. Almost.

You sit at the kitchen island, sipping on a beer, staring down the hall at the sea of bodies – of nylon and polyester, of purples and oranges, of headbands and props and cloaks and hats. There are a lot more than forty people here – a lot more than Sarah intended to turn up.

A lot more than you know, too. She’s barely even four years younger than you, but most of these kids look like they just walked out of middle school. Of the handful of faces you recognize, one is sat opposite you, his arm draped over Sarah’s shoulder, her hand locked in his. She and Ty have been dating for a year now, surviving long-distance when she jets back off to school every few months.

The other you know, unfortunately for you, is swaying by your side. Leaning a little too heavily into you. Asking you questions about college, and then talking over your answers to tell you stories about his college. Asking you questions about films you like, and then interrupting to gawk at the titles you reel off. The only times he doesn’t jump in over your answer, are the times he’s asking who you think might win in a fight between prime Mike Tyson and prime Muhammad Ali. And that’s only because you don’t have an answer to give him.

Jace. Ty’s best friend. Fucking – loser.

“And who the fuck are you s’posed to be, anyways?” he asks, slinging a heavy arm over your shoulder. He reeks of beer, warm and stale. His jaw’s swinging, cheeks popping and suckling on a shriveled piece of gum.

You scowl, shrugging the uncomfortable weight from the nape of your neck. “Patrick Bateman,” you mutter.

“Who?”

“Christian Bale. You know, when he –” Sarah mimes lifting an axe over her shoulder, takes a swing through the air, across the island to Jace.

“No fucking idea,” he says, shaking his head. You’re not surprised.

“Where’s your axe?” Ty asks, as Sarah nuzzles back into his side.

You shrug. “Saw someone using it to stir the punch earlier. ‘s probably in the toilet or something.”

He laughs, flashing his dimpled cheeks. He’s got glistening eyes beneath long, black eyelashes. He’s handsome. Sharp jaw, full lips. Sarah links her fingers at his side, plants her cheek against his shoulder. She’s comfortable. She’s safe. Your chest warms at the sight.

He squeezes her arm, and they share a meaningful glance before there’s a yell from across the kitchen, and their attention is diverted.

When they turn to watch two of Sarah’s high school friends sword-fighting, wielding a plastic lightsaber and your axe, you slink off, swiping two beers from the fridge. Swift and silent, you scale the stairs and fade into the darkened hallway at the top, in pursuit of your own dark-eyed, sharp-jawed comfort.

The sliver of light at the end of the hall draws you in, footsteps silent along the soft carpet. Up here, tucked away in the corner of the house, far from the rattling music and rumble of boisterous chatter – you can hear the soft roar of a crowd, the crack of ball against bat.

Your hip nudges the door open, trickle of condensation running over your knuckles. Joel’s eyes are already on you. He’s laying on his bed, legs outstretched, knee cocked. One arm lies idly on his thigh. You get the feeling he shifted it quickly when he saw the door move.

He balances his chin on the end of the remote, purses his lips and lifts his head. “Now,” he mumbles, “you’re s’posed to be downstairs.”

You shrug, holding the bottles up. “Thought you might need a top-up.”

His eyes thin. He sits up straight, swings his legs over the edge of the bed. You come to a stop between his knees, holding the beer down to him. He hums, taking it with his eyes locked on yours.

“Thanks, darlin’,” he says, and his eyes begin to drift down.

You tilt your head back at the same time he does, lifting the lip of your own bottle. The cold drink washes over your tongue, bitter and blunt in its taste, leaving a furry feeling on your gums. When your chin lowers again, Joel’s hand is on the back of your thigh.

He’s staring at the two knolls between you – your breasts round, nipples peaking under the tight waistcoat.

“Welcome,” you reply, swirling the liquid around in the curved glass. Your voice is barely there. But he hears you, and he must hear the want laced deep through that one quiet word, because he instantly slides his beer onto his nightstand.

He curves both hands around your thighs, fingers lifting higher and higher between your legs until they’re crossing over lace and onto bare skin.

You shuffle forward, leaning your arms on his shoulders and propping your knees on the bed either side of his body. Your skirt rides up, exposing the shard of shocking red lace beneath the pinstripe material.

Joel sees it. Like it’s a rag and he’s a bull. It charges something deep inside him. Something that awakens beneath the thin line of fabric between your legs.

You can feel your pulse in your clit. Fluttering, fucking – hammering. Your cunt feels painfully empty, clenching around nothing. Joel’s palms surf across the tops of your thighs until his fingers are teetering along the hem of your skirt.

“Off,” he instructs, swatting the poncho away.

You shake it from your shoulders the same way you shook the blond downstairs off. Joel nods as the material crumples to the floor. He hooks a hand under your knee and yanks your body closer to his. You almost throw the beer bottle across his bed.

“J– fucking hell, my –”

“Shut up,” he clips, and grabs the beer from your grasp to deposit it alongside his own.

His hands find the tiny buttons of your waistcoat, fingers slip through the gaps between them where your skin peeks through. You can feel his hot breath on your chest. A wave of need washes over you, a desire from deep within your marrow to feel him everywhere. His breath, his tongue, his hands. All of him.

Your entire body weight rests on his shoulders, your fingers locking his shirt in two tight fists. Joel doesn’t seem to mind. Barely seems to notice. He pulls apart the first button, watches with a dark gaze as your breasts spill over. The second button pops open easily, and they bounce lower. When he unhooks the third, they drop into place, nipples pointed, welcoming him in between them.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he whispers as he leans in, mouth flattening against the smooth skin between them. “No bra or nothin’.”

“Knew you’d be here,” you reply, head rolling back as he licks a trail across to the darker flesh of your nipple. His lips close around it and he suckles gently. Your nails dig into his scalp.

He pushes the waistcoat over your shoulders and it drops to the carpet, pooled inside the shell of poncho. As soon as it falls, his hands begin the climb up the seam of your thigh, resting on the brush of red – where he feels the quickly dampening mark on the fabric.

“Thought as much,” he says, head cocking to watch your expression warp as he rubs slow circles into your clit. His voice is as soft as his touch, innocent almost, when he asks, “She like that?”

“Ye-ah,” you choke, leaning back.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and uses his other hand to fish beneath his sweatpants. He rubs himself under the gray cotton, watches as your fingers clutch at the waistband to tug it down, releasing him.

His heavy cock springs up between your bodies, dabs precome on the pointed tail of your tie. You giggle, loosening the knot and pulling the thin silk over your head. Your hands wrap around him, twisting and pumping and dragging the milky arousal from his slit down the smooth, warm skin. Joel’s breath catches when your thumbs swipe across his head.

His fingers slip behind your knees and pull them apart, pull them wider on the mattress. You lean forward, chest brushing against his parted lips, taking your panties in one hand and guiding him along your slit with the other.

You cover him in your arousal, the veined skin soon slick and pearlescent. His wide head slips between your opening, notching against your entrance and forcing the breath from your lungs.

His hands sit firmly on your waist, pushing down on your hips, pushing and pushing until he sinks snug into your cunt. When he pauses, his mouth agape and eyes stuck on the sight of his body connecting to yours, you whine.

“More,” you mewl, voice dripping with need, drizzling all over him.

“We gotta –”

“More.”

“Baby,” Joel says, voice flat but crumbling. “We gotta go slow. I’m gonna – You’re gonna make me come, dressed like that, if we go too quick.”

But fuck, you want to feel him. Want him to buck his hips and fill you in one go – fuck the pain. Fuck the discomfort, fuck the way your walls would clamp in a vice grip around him. You want him to fuck you. Want to be fucked so good that you have to time your moaning with the bassline of the music downstairs, unable to contain the sounds in your throat. Fucked so good that you waddle out of the room, that you fling yourself back onto the couch and wince in pain, a sharp memory of the breadth of him shooting between your legs.

Your hips circle, the heat of your cunt swirling around and around on his tip. He groans, hands tightening on your waist to hold you still.

“Stop it, darlin’,” he growls, the words clawing from between his teeth.

“F-fuck me, then,” you moan, curling your back to slowly edge down on him.

“Ask nicer.”

You smile, heavy lids falling closed. “Please?”

His hands roam around the curve of your ass. He starts to push again. “Nicer.”

Your mouth opens wider the further he slides into you. The more he claims of your body, the further you open for him, the warmer your welcome. Your head tips back, eyes tighten until you see stars. When you feel a weight around your neck, you flutter your lashes open, blink the cyan-colored sparkles from your vision.

Joel pulls your jaw back down to face him. Squeezes on your pulse, holding you between his middle finger and thumb.

“Nicer,” he demands.

You lean in, small hands linking around his thick wrist. “Fuck me, please, daddy,” you whisper.

And he smiles like a fucking devil. Eyes drawn black like ink. He pulls you in until your chin brushes against the rough bristle of his own, lines his bottom lip with yours.

Into your mouth, he asks, “You think you can take it, babygirl? Think it’ll fit?”

You nod desperately, anchoring yourself on his wrist. “Know it will.”

He’s only halfway in. Your heartbeat is thudding around your body, focusing hardest on your clit. Your hips move again, and Joel allows it, sitting back to watch as you sink down further.

“Go on,” he says, watching your body slowly attach to his, “’f you think you can do it. Be a big girl ‘n take it. Slow.”

Something caught between a laugh and a whimper drags between your painted lips – something dripping in desire, built from a need to prove yourself to him, to take all of him inside your body, to feel him in the deepest parts of yourself. You push on him, loosen his grip around your neck and flatten your palms on his chest. And you curve your back, pushing him deeper.

“’s my girl,” Joel says, quietly, as if to himself. “This what you wanted? Comin’ up here, dressed like that?”

Your teeth hold onto your bottom lip. “Like what?” you purr, leaning forward until your noses brush.

Joel tips his chin up, lips flush against yours. “Like a little fuckin’ slut.”

You laugh weakly, feeling him finally in his entirety. “Fuck.”

Joel’s hands take your waist, pushing you down until the pain sends bolts of lightning across your vision. The bruising feeling of his head against your cervix. The sweet stretch of your skin opening around his.

“Beggin’ for it, weren’t ya? ‘n now look, you can’t hardly take it.”

“I can take it,” you hiss back, bracing yourself on the mattress. Your hips lift, holding onto him, bouncing up and down steadily. “I can take it,” you repeat, like a mantra, like the only thing keeping you in the room still. The only thing reminding your body to keep moving.

Joel holds a palm steady against the bottom of your stomach, rubs his thumb delicately against your skin. “So deep, baby. ‘m so fuckin’ deep inside you. That feel nice?”

The meat of your ass slaps against the tops of his thighs. You’re quickening, eyes screwing shut. He feels so good. Fills you up so fucking good. Your legs start to loosen, knees weakening the more you fuck yourself on him. Your head drops between your shoulders when his thumb lowers, circles gently at your clit.

“Keep – keep doing that. Fuck, Joel – touch me. Keep touching me.”

“’boutta come, ain’t you?”

“Sh-shut up.”

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s about to come.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, hips rolling now, losing rhythm between the split of his cock inside you and the lull of his thumb on your clit. Your back arches, vision begins to blur. Your lungs close in on themselves as you give one final gasp to the ceiling, and let go.

Your walls clamp hard around him, and in one swift movement, your bodies are flipped. When you open your eyes again, you’re on your back, Joel’s figure towering over you.

“’attagirl,” he mutters, palms flat against the underside of your thighs. He pushes them flat, folding you in two, your knees resting by your shoulders. “So close, darlin’. Ain’t gonna last.”

You’re shaking your head, holding onto his neck, thighs trembling. “I – can’t, Joel.”

“Yeah, you can. You can,” he assures, dipping his head to place his lips on yours. Your mouth opens up for him, tongue falls against his own. It’s barely a kiss – you’re licking at one another, sure, but there’s nothing tender or gentle about it. Joel pulls away only to glance down and guide himself back inside you. “Gonna be my good girl, aren’t you? Gonna make me come.”

With one seamless thrust, he’s back inside you, pressing your legs harder against your torso. You whine, a blur of pain and pleasure mixing where he fucks you.

“Good girl,” he says, tongue skimming along his top lip. “Nice ‘n wide, that’s it.”

Your back arches into him, arms tighten around his neck, lips settle curved around his own. You’re moaning, his name releasing itself from your mouth in shots of breath. Joel takes your knee and hooks it over his shoulder, letting the other fall to his hip. The angle forces him deeper. Deeper and harder.

But he’s starting to jump. Bucking randomly. He’s panting your name, teeth grazing against your neck in attempt to hold on just a little longer, feel you squeeze him a little more.

“You’re close,” you slur.

“’m close,” he says.

“Gonna come in me –?”

“Baby –”

“– ’n send me – ah – back downstairs full of you? Runnin’ outta me?”

Joel’s head shakes. His eyes tighten. “Fuck, darlin’. Dirty fuckin’ mouth.”

“C’mon,” you beg, “give it to – m-me.”

His hips hammer against yours, punching against the edge of your cunt harshly. You sob out, nails digging into his shoulders, until he halts, and you feel the warmth of him spurting deep inside your body. Feel the way he tenses, empties, and stills.

Your head falls back against the mattress. Joel’s still nuzzled against your neck, breathing labored, lips soaking wet against your skin. You sift your fingers through his hair, combing through it as he comes to.

His chest rocks against yours. Feeling starts to sharpen again, the orgasmic haze starting to bleed into the past. The walls of the house thud with the music from downstairs. You feel the weight of his body on top of yours again.

“Up,” you groan, pushing on his shoulders.

Joel scoffs, pushing against the mattress and rolling over beside you. He slips out, his spend seeping out and spilling onto your thigh.

Your fingers intertwine with his by your side, your nails scrawling into his knuckles.

“I miss you, when you ain’t around,” Joel whispers, glossy eyes blinking at the ceiling. “I’m bored up here.”

You roll onto your side, run your fingers over the halo of sweat around the collar of his shirt. “Good think I ain’t far, then. ‘m only downstairs.”

He smiles. “Downstairs is too far.”

You lean over him and place a soft kiss on his rough cheek. “Just have to keep you at my hip then, don’t I?”

His head turns and his lips find yours. He cups the globe of your head, pulls you harder against his jaw, runs his tongue along your teeth. When you pull away, you shift the damp hair from his glistening forehead.

“You ruined my tie, by the way,” you tell him. “The hell am I supposed to say that is?”

Joel shrugs. “If Patrick Bateman were a woman, ‘n all that.”

#i wrote this in one sitting so please forgive if it's garbage #but halloween has SUCKED for me this year and it's my favorite holiday SO i had to mark it somehow #anyways #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel

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dragonsareverycool · 2 months

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The figure turned to look at Damian and seemed to freeze before its form shifted, rings of light covering it as it did. When the rings faded, there they floated with white hair that moved like it was uneffected by gravity and was moved by wind that wasn’t there. Freckles that looked like stars covered the beings skin, tanned but washed out and ashen, like a corpse. Wide, expressionless eyes that glowed a bright eeire green. Despite this, Damian recognized that face. He recognized that expression too. Despite looking like Tim’s dead eyed stare to most anyone else, Damian knew the expression as one of surprise, of shock. And that face was almost identical to the one in his nightmares of the worst day of his life. He knew that face every time he glanced in a mirror.

“Danyal” he said softly, his own face almost certainly in an identical expression. Despite the distance and chaos between them, Damian was certain Danyal heard him, as Danyal perked up a bit. Then, his form seemed to glitch, colors distorting as his body twitched and part of his body seemed to disappear for a moment. Then, he seemed to fade into nothing, leaving Damian to start panicking. He worried that he had just lost Danyal again.

Then he reappeared startlingly close, putting his hand on Damian’s chest “Here,” he said, the difference in how he spoke compared to Damian achingly familiar, “A drop of your blood and an offering of food if you’re feeling nice. Call my name, it may take a moment but I will appear” he removed his hand, and a piece of neon green glowing paper with strange symbols on it floated after Danyal’s hand before Damian caught it. Danyal’s form glitched again, harder, and his face set in a grimace before he faded into invisibility again.

Fun fact! Sometimes when the grief got bad enough, Damian would mimic how Danny talked and would recite stories about constellations like Danny did. He took many, many precautions to make sure that no one, not even Talia knows that he’s done this. Only Alfred the cat and maybe Alfred the Human knows, and neither will speak a word to anyone about it.

#I’m so scared of this getting popular #I am a lurker and this is my first personal writing offering to the screaming void #If too many eyes are on me I may startle and disappear into the underbrush #dpxdc #demon twins #demon twins au #it has me by the throat #just a little shred of the loving chaos in my mind #I’m so sorry I don’t have much else to give for this au rn #if people want I can make a post explaining the context for this

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gojo-mochi · 6 months

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EEK IM SCREAMING FROM UR WRITINGS- and ur October event?! If u may a request of werewolf!ace please 😭 aksjwksjwkzj and maybe with any dark themes u have in mind 👀

CW: Reader is called “Little Red”, Attempted assault and kidnapping by a stranger (not ace), a bit of blood, creampie, breeding, Oral F!Recieving, Noncon, Ace is a bit toxic and yandere in this. Part of my Kinktover event! (now closed)

Words: 5.3K (im gagging idk what happened don't look at me ok, it my inner werewolf phase coming out at the end)

A/N: Sorry it took so long wahhhh and if the ending ended weirdly OTL

You pulled down on your red hood and tugged at your too-short of a skirt. Sighing out, you lean back on the wall, wondering how your friend not only roped you into coming to this Halloween party but also into wearing a skimpy Red Riding Hood costume. You were supposed to be matching with her, but she decided to go as a slutty bunny, stating, “Wasn’t there a bunny in the story too? No? Oh well, there was a wolf, so a bunny fits anyway!” It did not fit, but you were too tired to argue with her, trying your best to sink into the wall and disappear.

Unfortunately, your friend decided that being a wallflower for the entire party was not in the stars for you. “Come oooooooon! At least dance with me for one song!” Your friend whined as she dragged you by the wrist to the open dancefloor. The heavy, thumping bass drops seem to shake the dancefloor, or perhaps that was just the masses of people grinding and bumping into each other. Your friend dragged you right into the middle of the pit, and with no chance of escape, you sigh heavily, trying to act like the music wasn’t affecting you.

Your friend starts to pull out dance moves, using them on you as she pretends to circle a lasso around you and pull you in. You rolled your eyes at her display and went along with it with a small giggle. Slowly bobbing your head to the rhythm of the music and shuffling your feet, letting your body succumb to the music and the vibes. Getting more comfortable by the time the next song comes on. Swaying your hips and even moving your arms now, getting so lost in the melody that you didn’t notice that your friend left you and was replaced by someone else.

The deep, booming bass of the song made you more energized, shaking your ass and swinging your hips and body in tune with the bass. Your eyes closed so you could let your ears and body fully enjoy the music, thinking that you were still dancing with your friend you didn’t mind when you felt hands on you. Moving down your sides to settle on your hip as their chest slides up to your back. You played along, as you were used to your friend’s antics by now.

Only when you slyly bumped your ass back to grind on her, did you notice that your friend either got extremely buff in the last few minutes or you were actually grinding on a guy this whole time. Your questions were answered when the guy leaned his head down to whisper in your ear. “Damn.. you have some nice moves there, Little Red.” A slightly husky voice rasps out, his hands still on your hips, squeezing them, his fingers digging into your plushness.

You gasp out, twisting your body away from him, and turning around. In the neon flashing lights of the dancefloor, your eyes settled on the large frame in front of you. Your eyes immediately flickered to the furry ears on top of his head, black and fluffy like his hair. You look further down landing on his bare toned chest and totally not staring at his happy trail in the middle of his abs or anything like that. You catch a glimpse of his tail swishing behind him as he leans down once again to speak to you.

“Woah, hey! Sorry, was that too much?” He rubs the back of his hair with an awkward grin. Another flash of the neon lights from above passes by on the both of you, you studied his face a bit more as it does. Noticing the small patches of freckles across the bridge of his nose and his very sharp canines poking out. He places his hands in front calmly as a sign of goodwill. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything!” His voice rings out again, almost muffled by the booming bass from the speakers. The music dropped once more and everyone in the crowd was getting hyped for it, causing everyone to start swarming around the middle.

You got shoved right in the stranger’s direction, his arms came out swiftly to catch you before you fell face first on the ground. Firms arms wrapped around your waist to steady you, your face lands on his chest right above his happy trail. You inhale his scent, an intoxicating blend of musk, woods, and spices that starts off heavy and overwhelming but goes down smooth like a shot of liquor. You unconsciously curl up closer to his chest to breathe in more of this arousing aroma.

Letting the furry stranger easily manhandle you out of the dance pit and off the side. “Hey….hey……Hey there!” The stranger shakes your shoulder a bit, bringing you out of your stupor. A fierce blush heats up your face as you realize how you were still nuzzling your cheek on his chest. You backed away, almost stumbling on your feet, causing the stranger to once again catch you in his broad arms. “I know I’m gorgeous, but falling for me twice in a row? Haha, you’re really cute, you know that, Little Red?” You felt another rush of heat come up as you sputtered out a response.

I-I was just-! I mean-!” The stranger’s tail swished around happily as he threw his head back in a roaring laugh. Causing some of the other guests to turn their heads and look your way. Your ears burn as they stare at the two of you, you bring up your red hood and tighten the sting, covering your face. He eventually calms down once he sees you trying to leave the scene, with a hand placed on your shoulder to stop your escape.

His ears flopped down on his head and he gave you the saddest kicked puppy look you've ever seen in your life. “Hey, wait! I didn’t mean to upset you..” He pouts out his lips and you almost folded at this point. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, here, let me introduce myself.” He straightens up his back, extending to his full height, and puffing out his chest. “The name’s Ace! It’s nice to meet cha!” You just noticed now that his voice has a slight tinge of an accent behind it, but you couldn’t place your finger on where or what it sounded like.

Ace flung his hand out towards you, a wide smile on his face that emitted sunshine and warmth, only to be darkened by his menacingly large and seemingly real canines. You chuckled nervously as you grabbed his hand and shook it. “Wo-wow, Ace… those are some um-very big teeth you have there. Must have been quite the expensive buy. You really go all out for Halloween, huh?” He squeezed your hand tightly as you said that.

His fingers linger on your wrist before he lets go with the same smile still placed on his face, however, something was a bit off about it this time. “Hehe, yeah! I mean, Halloween is like the one night that I can truly be myself, you know!” He runs his hand through his hair, pushing back his ears as they spring back into place. ‘Wow he really must have dropped a lot of cash on his costume, everything looks so… realistic.’ You mused to yourself quietly as Ace stuck out his elbow for you to grab. “Wanna see how many hotdogs I can scarf down outside?” You raised an eyebrow at him but looped your arm with his either way.

“I bet you won’t go over ten.” You lightly teased him, bumping your elbow into his side, causing his tail to wag rapidly behind him. “Let’s make it a bet then!” He retorted back as you idly wondered how he was controlling his tail like that, you both headed out to the backyard. The “backyard” per se, was actually just the vast land in the back that opens up into a forest. Tables, chairs, lights, and a whole bar-be-que set were all set up for the party. Including a hot-dog eating contest on the side, Ace led you right to it, his stomach rumbling quite loudly as the smokey and savory aroma invaded your nose.

Ace was practically drooling by the time you both reached the table. A shirtless guy with a chainsaw for a head was taking in contestants. “Yo, my man! Let me join in too!” They dapped each other up in greeting. “You lookin’ to suck down some schlongs? You came to the right place, sign up right here and the contest starts in about 5 minutes!” Chainsaw guy gave Ace a clipboard with the sign-up sheet, and he started yelling for the other contestants to gather up.

Ace gives you a wink, unhooking his arm from you and going to sit down at the table. “Make sure to root for me, alright, Little Red?” You roll your eyes but smile softly at him, feeling a warmth start to bloom in your chest. The other contestants all sit down as well, getting ready to feast as piles of hotdogs are placed in front of them. Chainsaw guy counted down from five and blew his whistle, signaling the contestants to start chowing down. Ace quickly grabbed a hotdog in each hand and shoved them in his mouth, the wienerwursts disappearing in the blackhole of his stomach one after the other. Ace’s pile of hotdogs was gone in minutes.

He even started taking hotdogs from the other contestant’s pile, only to get reprimanded by the Chainsaw guy. You belly laughed at the display, watching the people sitting next to Ace give up and push their piles to the wolf man anyway. Later on, it was less of a competition and more of the crowd just cheering on Ace as he kept on wolfing down dog after dog. Some watched in awe and some watched in disgust, you were a mixture of both, the ringing of a bell signals the contest’s end.

People cheered and one even puked on the grass, Ace threw his arms up in the air and started flexing, sending winks and heart signs your way. “That was all for you, Little Red!” He ends his declaration with a loud howl, other party goers got affected by his enthusiasm and joined in as well and you could swear that actual wolves in the forest were howling along in the back. The hair on the back of your neck stood on end as the howls began to die down, something about the way Ace’s voice timbered out from deep in his chest made you wary and scared….

You push down those uneasy feelings when Ace saunters up to you, his hand on his hips as he bows down with a lopsided grin on his face. His fangs glint under the light of the moon, his voice lightly rasps out; “So, what’cha think? I definitely ate more than ten, am I right?” You snort, pushing at his broad chest softly; “I think you ate enough to feed a whole country.” Ace’s grin only got wider at your comment, his tail sweeping the ground behind him; “So that means I won the bet, right?” He slung his arm around your shoulder and one on your hip pulling you in close, putting his lips right next to the shell of your ear.

Even making his voice a pitch deeper as it rumbles down straight to your core; “Cause, I think I want you as my prize for winning the contest and the bet, Little Red.” This time, you couldn’t suppress the shiver that came up your spine, just now taking notice of how big Ace’s hands were, and they were even equipped with pointed nails painted black to look like claws. They point into your sides, sharp but not painful like a warning of what he could do if he added just a bit more pressure.

Your breath gets caught in your throat as you try to quip back with a sarcastic retort, as Ace lowers his head down on your shoulder, taking in a deep breath of your scent, his nose poking at the fabric of your red hood, you could feel his fangs come out a bit as they start to dig in, making you yelp loudly. You push Ace away much harsher this time, your heartbeat going a mile a minute, your face flushed as red as your hood, Ace stumbles back from the impact, his head facing downwards so you couldn't see his expression. You could only hear a heavy growl arising from Ace’s throat when he looked back up at you.

His pupils turned into slits as they appeared to almost glow from the angle he was leering at you from. You took a couple of steps back, your voice coming out in a small whisper; “A-ace?”. But that was enough for Ace to snap back from whatever was happening to him. Shaking his head and slapping his own cheeks roughly twice, his eyes went back to normal when they landed on you once more. He reaches out a hand towards you, but upon seeing you flinch back away from him, his ears fall down, pressing flatly against his head.

His tail also hangs limp, tucked between his legs. “Little Red, I am so so sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I swear!” He pressed his hands down flat on his sides, noticing how you were warily eyeing them, his shoulders hunching down and his head droop down as well. Trying his best to make himself seem as harmless and small as possible. “Little Red, are you still-” “I think I should go-” You both spoke at the same time; “Ah, Sorry you go first-” “No, you should-” You both cut off each other once again, you began to speak once more, not finding the courage to look at Ace directly while you spoke.

“I-I’m gonna go get a drink. By myself!” You added the last sentence in a hurry when you saw Ace take a step forward to follow you. Tugging on your hood’s strings nervously, eyes flicking over to Ace’s form to gauge his reaction, Ace only lets out a pitiful whine at your words. Stopping his trek towards you either way, you didn’t wait for him to start speaking again as you quickly turned around and sprinted across the other side of the backyard.

Your heart pounding in your chest, recalling the predatory look on Ace’s face, the abnormally deep growl he made, and the feeling that you were caught in the maw's of a great beast. You jogged all the way up to the mini bar stationed in the backyard, the bartender gives you a worried look; “Hey, you feeling alright there?” When you went to reply with a “I’m fine.” what came out instead was a painful wheeze. You kneel over, coughing out your poor lungs in front of the bartender, who came over to pat you on the back and offer you some water.

You felt the stares of some onlookers, but they were quickly shooed away by the bartender. When you finally felt like you had coughed up everything your body had to offer, he helped you up back on your feet. You swayed a bit and crashed into his side, he was quick to steady you though. Wrapping an arm around your waist and letting you lean on him, “Woah there, just lean on me, alright? And, drink this too.” He pushed the cup of water near your face, letting you dip your head down so you could take a few sips. The cold crisp water hitting your suffering lungs, made things a little bit better. You gulped down until the cup was empty and gave a huge relieved sigh.

Your heart rate calmed down by this point, you felt like you could breathe normally again. The bartender still held on to your side, smiling gently at you; “Finally some color back in those cute cheeks of yours, haha. I think I’m gonna have to cut you off from any more drinks tonight, miss.” His tone light and teasing, your heart didn’t flutter like it did with Ace though. You managed to give him a smile back, hoping it didn’t show your true emotions.

You shrug off his arm from your waist, giving him another small thanks, however the bartender grabbed onto your arm to stop you from leaving. “Hey, you’re just gonna leave just like that?” He frowned, his grip on your arm tighten up; “I think it my duty as a bartender, to look after drunk girls like you, you know..” You felt bile rise up when he licked his lips at you, you pulled on your captured arm. “Let go of me!” You yelled, looking around to see if there was anyone who would come to help, but the crowd got denser and drunker as the night moved on and the music was deafening.

A hand was placed over your mouth when you tried to scream for help again, you felt yourself getting pulled away from the crowd, you struggled and kicked behind you but the anxiety and exhaustion from before caught up with you. His hand moved a bit downward as he was trying to keep you still, you took this opportunity to bite down on it. He screamed and let you go for a moment but swiftly yanked you back by grabbing on to your red hood.

Tears fell down your cheeks as the collar of the hood started to choke you a bit from how hard he was pulling back on it. Your vision got blurry from all the tears and lack of air, so you didn’t get to see Ace land a dropkick on the bartender, sending him crashing through some tables. As you were gasping for air once more and trying to get your vision to clear, all you heard was grunting and growling. Your eyes cleared up and you got back on your feet to find a small pack of people crowding around something.

You stood on your toes to look over someone’s shoulders to find Ace beating the absolute shit out of the bartender. Blow after blow was dealt, you heard someone leave to puke, you almost puked yourself hearing a sickening crunch of bones being broken. Ace’s hands were bloodied and the guy beneath him stopped moving a while ago it seemed, but everyone watching was too afraid to try to stop Ace. His hair and fur on his tail were frenzied and wild, he stopped beating on the guy and stood up, wiping the blood on his bare chest, taking in a deep breath of air and immediately swinging his head around to meet with your eyes.

You couldn’t hear him from this distance but you could see his lips move to say “Little Red…” and your heart froze up, fortunately your legs did not freeze as they turned and ran as they could. Right in the vast thicket of the forest, you did not care how tired you were, you just wanted to get away from everyone, from the stupid party you got dragged to, from that creepy guy, and from Ace. He wasn’t normal, no, from everything that you saw from him tonight, your mind concluded that he was either on a lot of drugs or wasn’t human.

The moonlight helped illuminate your path forward, deeper and deeper into the forest. You were sure the forest wasn’t this big before, but your plan of cutting through the forest back home is starting to seem like a bad idea now. You stopped for a quick breath, looking at your surroundings for any sign of a landmark. Only to find the same amount of trees on either side, you weren’t even sure which way the party was now. Silently cursing to yourself, you pulled out your phone to see if there was at least a signal to call for help.

Crack

Your head whipped around trying to find the source of the noise, trembling slightly as you voiced out in the darkness. “He-hello? Who’s there?” ... Nothing answered back; only the sound of more leaves and branches crunching and cracking was heard as you strained your ears to pinpoint exactly where it was coming from. As a figure began to emerge from the darkness and into the moonlight, you decided that waiting to see who it was was a dumb idea, so you quickly ran again.

Your legs and chest were screaming at you; your muscles were sore, but you kept pressing on. The adrenaline and fear coursing through your veins help you run just a little bit further each time you think you are going to pass out. Your ears picked up on noises coming directly behind you—the sounds of branches being broken, someone tramping down on the dirt, and a strange low huffing—all invaded your senses as you kept on running.

You didn’t dare look behind you, not caring where you were heading; you just needed to get away from whatever was chasing you. Yet fate decided to have some fun with you, making you trip on the soft dirt, landing directly on your face. You scrambled to get back on your feet, only to be pushed down by someone much larger than you. Their hot breath ghosted over the scuff of your neck, and their hands gripped tightly on your waist as you felt them press their body right up against your back.

“Little Red…”

Your blood ran cold, and a numbing chill went up your spine, freezing your entire body. You know that nickname, that voice... “Ace…?” You get a guttural growl in response, and Ace’s dips down to press his lips on the back of your neck. His claws dig into your plushness when you yelp and try to squirm away from his searing kisses. Each press of his lips on your bare skin burns straight down to your core. His fangs graze over the fabric of your cheap costume, and another growl comes out, more annoyed that the cloth was keeping him away from your sweet flesh.

One hand lets go of your waist to tear at your clothes with his claws, easily ripping the fabric apart with one finger. The chilling night air hits your skin, causing goosebumps to run down your spine. Only to get replaced by the fervent heat of Ace’s tongue licking down your back. A shameless groan came from Ace as he continued to nip and slobber on your skin: “Fuck… Little Red, you taste so good.. So good..” Ace’s head was swimming; all rational thoughts left the window when he saw you get manhandled by that shitty bartender.

Then the chase through the woods? Oh, Ace thought it was so fun, he could have easily caught you when you passed the first thicket of trees, but his instincts enjoyed the hunt, the wait, and the stalking. Seeing you so helpless, sweat pouring down your skin, your scent emitting an enticing mixture of fear and lust. Of course, that's what Ace thought anyway: that this chase was all part of the game and that you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you. That's why you were shaking so much, right? In excitement?

Your tears were probably just for show, not that he cared either way. Something about seeing your face covered in tears, your cute lips quivering into a pout. He wanted to make a blubbering mess out of you, the idea made his pants all the tighter. He rutted against you, his bulge rubbing right on your ass. Grunting as he pushes up your flimsy skirt, growling when the wind keeps pushing it back down again, he decided to just tear it to shreds anyway.

With one hand pushing down your back, he moves his other hand to move your legs apart enough for his hand to rub on your panties, his forefingers going right in the middle, teasing your clit and digging in with his claws just enough to make you worry. You tried to squirm away, knees grating on the dig, your hands trying to grab on, whether it was for a weapon or for balance—you didn't know at this point. Your mind just screamed at you to get away, but Ace wasn’t going to let that happen. Even if the chase was fun, he was getting impatient at this point; he needed you badly.

He easily dragged you back by the thighs, pushing your ass back right on his face. You squealed, feeling his tongue trace the outline of your folds, pushing your panties in as far as it could. You let out a high-pitched and embarrassed whine when Ace takes a huge inhale, his nose right in the middle of your wet panties, practically breathing in your scent into his veins. Getting even drunker from his actions, you scramble as hard as you can, your nails digging in the soft dirt, your legs shaking, but Ace's grip on you was tight, and he wasn’t going to give you even an inch of freedom.

Using his sharp teeth, Ace gently bit down on the edge of your panties, making sure not to hurt you even in his frenzied stage. He pulled back on it, tearing a small hole in your underwear. He repeated this action until your pussy was exposed to him. “Ace.. do-don’t.” Your quiet and pathetic pleads fell on deaf ears, as Ace immediately dove in, his tongue lapping up all your sweet arousal. Loud groans bubbled up from his throat, his tongue slobbering all over your folds, drool flying out from how fast his tongue was lapping on you.

You squeaked out moans of your own; it was sloppy, but Ace had a large, hot tongue that hit in all the right places. Anytime his tongue sloppily hits your clit, your body gives a little shake, and your hands clenched into fists as you try to fight off the feeling of pleasure from this action. The vulgar slurping noises coming from this were deafening to you in the quiet night air. “Fu-fuck!” Your eyes almost rolled back when Ace shoved his tongue inside of you, the wet muscle working its way to a sweet spot.

It was thick and long enough to almost fill you up like a cock would; it only succeeded in making you crave something bigger to fill you up, even though you might deny that at the moment. You felt your stomach start to get tight, and your thighs shook and shook as Ace was unrelenting in tongue-fucking you. You could only squeeze your eyes shut as your body gave up and released all over Ace’s face. Your juices cover his cheek and chin, as he happily slurps up all the rest coming from you.

He pulls back with a satisfied hum, standing back on his knees so he can pull down his pants and wring out his hard cock. You were panting and trying to recover from that orgasm when you felt his tip rub against your folds. Your mind went into fight mode again, kicking and screaming at him, but it was no use. Ace leaned back down over you, his chest covering your entire frame and his mouth placed directly next to your ear as he grabbed his cock and slowly began to push it inside. Just the tip was enough to stretch you out; “Shush… It’s ok, just trust me, Little Red.” He grunts into a soft growl, finally feeling his cock get engulfed by your tight hole. “I know you wanted this too… I’ll give it to you, don’t worry. I-nghh-I’ll mark you tonight and you’ll be-hahhh-my mate forever.”

You barely register his words and their meaning when he completely thrusts his cock into you, his hips slapping harshly on your ass. Taking a moment to enjoy how your pussy was already trying to milk him dry, so tight, wet, and inviting. He moved his head down so his lips went on your pulse point on your neck, angling his hips back slowly, starting a slow thrust. Each time his cock fully went in, it made you choke on air from how it was completely filling you up. You barely had time to adjust to his length before Ace went at a faster pace.

Any inhabitants of the forest were subjected to listening to the lewd sounds of your moans, the slapping of skin on skin, and Ace’s deep growls and grunts. Your cute moans soon turned into a scream as Ace bit down on your neck, marking you and drawing blood, his hand clawing at the front of your shirt, ripping that apart as so he could grope at your chest. The stinging pain combined with the overwhelming pleasure made your brain short-circuit. Another orgasm was building up, as Ace let go of your neck and lapped up the blood, feeling you get even tighter, he started going faster.

“That’s it, Little Red. So fucking tight, I’m gonna breed this tight pussy. Hahhhh. You’re gonna look so good filled up with my pups.”

Wait, does that mean he was going to cum inside of you?! You tried to stop him but all that fell from your lips with a soft whimper, with a particularly hard thrust, you came once more, on his cock this time. Ace let your pussy squeeze him for all he’s worth, releasing his cum inside of you. The hot seed covered your walls and spilled out, Ace let out a tender whine, feeling his cock almost empty from this. But he wasn't done yet; no, he needed to make sure that you were going to take everything tonight.

He gradually pulls out his cock, whining at the loss of heat but quickly works as he flips you on your back. Now you were facing him for the first time since you entered the woods. The feral look in Ace’s eyes made him seem like an entirely different person. He almost seemed a lot bigger than before. There was no time to think about that though, as he rammed his cock back inside you, causing more of his cum to spill out, but that’s ok, he was gonna fill up you again and again.

He folded your legs to your chest so he could hit at the right angles and made sure your pussy could hold all she could. Plap after plap of his hips hitting against yours, your body was just a toy for Ace to breed and use at this point, but he was anything but a selfish lover, gently rubbing at your swollen clit with the pad of his thumb, being extra careful not to use his claw. Giving you heated kisses on the side of your neck and praising you with every breath you take. You quickly came again, the sheer feeling of being overpowered like this, you were his now. No question about it, that what your mind told you at least, giving up and letting Ace do what he wants with your body.

“Hahhh-Fuck-Take it, take it all, Little Red.”

“I’ll take good care of you, you’ll be the perfect mate for me, our puppies-nghhh-are going to look so fu-fuckin cute, I swear.”

“Mine…mine….Mine…!”

Letting the pleasure overtake you, as he cream inside your pussy once more, this time he didn’t stop fucking you, the spillage of your own arosual and his cum made the squelching noise all the much louder. His cum overflowed onto your thighs, you were sure at this point that your pussy couldn’t hold that much anymore but Ace was determined to change that fact. Fucking into you deeper and deeper with every orgasm, you were stuck in this position… and did I forget to mention, that a fullmoon was happening tonight as well? Looks like you’re in for a long night.

#ace x reader #ace smut #one piece smut #one piece x reader #softy write #softy kinktober #tw noncon #₍ᐢ. ̫.ᐢ₎ softy writes #kinktober 2023

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derinthescarletpescatarian · 5 months

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Here it is, guys! Chapter 1 of that vampire story I promised! I'll put up another chapter at the Patreon goal of US$1,120/month!

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yougavemeyourheartyouknow · 8 months

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Go-go Dancer (Miguel O’Hara x fem! reader) one shot

A/N: this is based off the unreleased Lana Del Ray song, I was listening to it while writing this lol. Anyways, OOC Miguel, this hasn’t been proofread so ignore typos and whatnot. Mdni

Age gap (legal), cursing, mentions of sex/sexual stuff, sex worker, reader is from a wealthy family like loaded, Miguel being lonely and needy lol. Miguel being a bit of a prev.

(Y/F/N)- your full name, (Y/N)- you’re name [first name only],

Word count: 1.4k

Masterlist

—

I drop it like it's hot on the pole, on the pole

Shining in the club, neon gold, neon gold

They call me "Firecracker" and alcohol's a factor

I drop it like it's hot, baby bold, baby bold

A little bit of fun for your soul, for your soul

They call me "Firecracker", 'cause ain't nobody faster

—

The beeping of a moving truck had gotten Miguel’s curiosity as he peeks out of the blinds from his living room window. The house next to him had been empty for sometime, so seeing that someone had moved in was a surprise. What was more of a surprise was him seeing you, a young, attractive woman that had made his mouth dry and his blood rush down to his dick, being handed the keys to the home next to his, a big smile of joy on your face. Now, Miguel wasn’t loaded but he was certainly well off, being one of the top scientist at Alchemax, he sure made a pretty penny, so seeing some young 20-something college student buying the two-story home next to his in one of the nicer neighborhoods in Nueva York was a bit of a sight. He quickly came to the conclusion that you probably came from money. He took a sip of his coffee as he started to walk away from the window, deciding it was time for him to get dressed and ready for work when he heard his doorbell ring. He stopped in his tracks, raised a brow, before turning back around and opened his front door and met face to face with you. He had to grip his coffee when you opened those beautiful lips to speak, so he didn’t drop it.

“Hello!” You smiled, putting a hand out for him to shake, “My name is (Y/F/N), I’m your new neighbor.” You smiled from ear to ear, you were more beautiful close up. Miguel cleared his throat, before bringing his hand to meet you, giving it a firm squeeze and shake.

“Hello (Y/N), My name is Miguel O’Hara, nice to meet you.” His tone was calm and collected, unlike his mind. His whole body felt like it was on fire from just touching your hand, until you finally pulled it away.

“It’s nice to meet you Mr.O’Hara.” You say with a smile, your eyelashes fluttering as you blinked

Fuck.

It took everything within Miguel’s power to not roll his eyes to the back of his head and let out a lewd groan, the way you said Mr.O’Hara-fuuuuck. It didn’t help that Miguel hasn’t been with a woman since his divorce a year ago.

“It’s nice to meet you too.” He said in a steady voice as best he could, bringing his hand down to his side, giving you a small smile that made you weak in your knees, “Let me know if you need anything, my door is always open.” And he meant anything.

“Thank you Mr. O’Hara, I’ll see you around.” You said with a small wave as you finally walked off his front door, it took Miguel a second to tear his eyes off your figure as you left.

—

I'm the girl next door, let me come in

I know I go-go dance but I do it for kicks

I never have to work 'cause my daddy is rich

—

“Sorry to bother you Mr. O’Hara, but I was on my way to class and I noticed that some of your mail was mixed in with mine.” You said before handing him a stack of mail, your freshly manicured hand just ever so slightly grazing against the side of his. Miguel ignored the spark he felt run though his body, instead focusing on the very expensive looking Cartier bracelet that wasn’t there last time he saw you.

“Is that a new bracelet?” He asked with a raised brow, using his free hand to point at the bracelet while his other one grabbed his mail, you just smiled, a small giggle escaping your lips as you brought up your hand to eye level so he could take a better look at it, your giggle made his blood pressure spike.

“Oh yeah, my father bought it for me, it’s nice isn’t it?” You giggled.

Ahhh. It all made sense now, your daddy was rich.

“Oh yeah, very nice.” Miguel said with a sly smile, tucking the pile of mail under his armpit as he let out a small chuckle, his chuckle made your heart flutter. “Did he also buy you your house and that bmw in your driveway?” He teased.

A blush creeped up on your face, your hand rubbing the back of your neck as you gave him a sheepish smile, “yeah, I told him that he didn’t need to, that’s I didn’t need his help with the money but he insisted.” You explained, causing his eyebrow to raise in curiousity.

“Oh so you’re a college student and you're working huh?” You just nodded to his question before he continued, “…if you don’t mind me asking, what do you do for work?” He asked, and he swears he saw a glimmer in your eyes after the question was asked.

“Oh, nothing interesting...”

—

I'm partyin' all night, shinin' in the lights

Is it a crime to wanna shine

In my white go-go boots and my silver design?

I know it makes you wild

—

Today was the day, Miguel O’Hara was turning 37 today, and he knows he isn’t old old, but being in charge of the arachno-humanoid poly multiverse, plus the Spider-Man of Nueva York AND being a scientist at Alchemax, he felt like his body was aging a lot faster due to stress.

So he wasn’t looking forward to when his coworkers/friends, Jessica Drew and Peter B. Parker had dragged him out of his office later that night, finding himself standing outside of a random night club.

“I’m not going in there.” Miguel glared at Jess, who just smiled and nodded her head with a laugh.

“Oh yes, you are.” She said to Miguel, who just huffed and was about to reply, but was stopped when he left Peter’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him to the other side of the double doors.

Once he and his two spider-friends make it through the doors, Miguel was assaulted with loud explicit music, the place was dim, but somehow also bright from all the red and orange stage lights. The smell of sweat and alcohol filled the air, and not to mention all the cages, the poles, the stage and the tables, all filled with provocatively dressed women dancing to the beat of the music. It was almost otherworldly, extremely different from the calm and quiet atmosphere from the outside of the club.

It took Miguel a second to snap out of his thought, he didn’t even noticed when Peter had put a glass of Rum and Coke in his hands, he was about to turn around and leave the club, wanting to go home and pretend the night didn’t happen, but his body froze and his eyes widen in shock at the sight in front of him.

It was you, (Y/N), his neighbor dancing on top of a table. Wearing a red feathery short miniskirt that barely covers your ass, black fishnets, red platform boots that stop at your calf, and a red bedazzled bralette with tassels that would hit your exposed stomach lightly with your twisted your torso and hips. Miguel’s mouth went dry as he watched your body move effortlessly to the music, your hair swinging behind you as you danced, Miguel couldn’t help but stare at the sight in front of him.

You could have killed him from your beauty right there and then.

Jess and Peter noticed his staring too, giving each other a smirk and a look, before Jess walked off to find a worker, requesting a private room as a “birthday surprise” for Miguel.

—

I'm your go-go dancer, midnight answer

Jukebox sweetheart, queen of the night

—

“Hello Mr.O’Hara.” You smiled as you entered the private room, where Miguel was already sitting, locking the door behind you before you continued, “I heard it’s your birthday. Why don’t you let me give you a very special present to celebrate.”

—

Vegas baby, if you pay me

Anything you like

Go-go-g-go-go dancer tonight

—

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o hara fanfic #spiderman 2099 x reader #miguel o'hara #astv miguel #astv spiderman 2099 #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #astv #spiderman 2099 #spiderman 2099 fanfic #SoundCloud

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 9 months

Text

Comet Donati [Chapter 6: No Control]

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+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, all-you-can-eat sushi, bodily injury, violence, hungry deer, Selena Gomez, angst!!!

Selected Chapter Quote: “He can’t see on that side, you fucking snake!”

Word count: 9k.

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

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Your last day waking up in Singapore: lying in bed and watching the shadows of birds shoot across the ceiling like falling stars. Your wrist aches in its splint. The door to the balcony is wide open. The wind blows in hot and damp off the South China Sea. You hear him before you see him: the swipe of a keycard, the swinging of the door, the clop clop clop of undoubtedly neon Crocs against the hardwood floor.

You look over at him, not moving from the bed. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Then Aegon notices something in the tiny trashcan beside your nightstand that’s cluttered with souvenirs. Nestled between empty soda cans and Starburst wrappers is a mostly full pack of birth control pills. He stares at it for a while before he says, tentatively: “Trying for a little bundle of joy? With anyone I know?”

“Definitely not.” You sigh, turning back to the ceiling, morose. “Baela and I did 23AndMe like a month ago, and we just got our results back. She’s distantly related to royalty. I have a defective gene that makes me extra susceptible to blood clots. So if I take hormonal birth control I could have a stroke or something.”

“Damn, that sucks,” Aegon says.

“Yeah.”

“But it’s good you found out, you know? I wouldn’t want you dropping over dead.”

“Yeah,” you say again, flatly, ungenerously.

“Hey, no big deal, Stargirl. You know I’d use condoms anyway.”

“Well I might at some point in my life want to have sex with someone who’s not you, so.”

Aegon steps closer; he appears upside down as he studies you from above, sunburned forehead knit into thoughtful grooves, smelling like Tiger Beer and Axe body spray and…you think…chicken wings. His hair is in disarray, his aviator sunglasses tangled in blond knots. He’s wearing a lavender tank top, like dusk, like a bruise. “Ohhhh, I get it. This is an Aemond and Shelby thing.”

You hate that you’re so transparent, like a window wiped clean of fog and fingerprints. You hate that he’s right. “Why are they even together? What the hell do they have in common?”

“Now or before?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Well, before…” Aegon scratches at his cheek. There is a bug bite there, a tiny pink welt left by the venom of a mosquito or a spider. “It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Aemond got the satisfaction of boning the kind of girl who would have screamed if he touched her back in high school. Shelby got a massive career boost. She had 900,000 Instagram followers when they met. Now she has over 20 million.”

That recurring, futile refrain: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her.

“And I won’t lie. They had some good times.” Aegon grins down at you. “Just like we did.”

“What about now?”

“Now…” Aegon ponders this. “Now I think they’re both lost. Neither of them knows what comes next. Aemond leaving Comet. Shelby hitting that age when people like her start checking off the husband and kids boxes. When you’re thrown off a ship, you cling to the life raft, even if it’s small or ripped up or half-deflated or whatever, right? You try to hold on to what you have left. You return to what’s familiar. And that doesn’t make it right, but it’s what people do.”

“It is,” you agree mournfully. “So Aemond was the one who broke it off.”

“Yeah.”

“And then he took her back.” She called and called and called, he finally answered.

“He had a moment of weakness. Now we all have to live with it.”

“I didn’t know that.” Then you sit up on the bed and look at Aegon. “When the label wanted to get rid of Aemond, why didn’t you fight for him?”

“That’s just the way of the world, Stargirl.” He shrugs, an inevitability, good weather, bad weather, sun and clouds and storms. “He couldn’t stay in the band the way he is now. And the problem isn’t what he looks like. The problem is in his soul. But I have no idea how to fix it.” Aegon smiles, warm like summer. “I thought maybe you would. That’s why I called you.”

“You didn’t even know me,” you tell him. “I was just some girl from a bar.”

“No,” Aegon says softly, and he does not elaborate. And then, bright and cheerful again: “You’re really going to earn your paycheck at our next stop.”

“Where are we going?” You recall the names you’ve heard bouncing around since Comet arrived in East Asia, the cities you’ve seen on banners and t-shirts and Instagram posts. “Bangkok? Kuala Lumpur? Manila? Jakarta? Seoul?”

“Tokyo.” Aegon is still smiling, though in an off-kilter way now, uneasily, his murky ocean-blue eyes somber. The scene of the crime. Where the accident happened. Where Aemond believes his life ended. “We’re performing at the Budokan.”

~~~~~~~~~~

White clouds turn to sapphire waves, then emerald green fields and forests, then buildings in a million different shades of grey that stretch on forever, steel and concrete and asphalt and glass. Tokyo is the largest city you’ve ever seen, the largest city imaginable. It is a labyrinth that makes you think of the hay mazes that farms back home set up each autumn; it beckons you in and then dares you to leave.

As the band hurries through Haneda Airport, you are pursued by paparazzi and hyperventilating fans. The usual suspects—Aegon, Daeron, and Jace—can be relied upon to high five, smile, flash peace signs and hand hearts, blow kisses, pass out crochet astronomical objects, and shout such endearments as (woefully mispronounced) “Konnichiwa!” and “We love you, Japan!” Shelby waves like she’s goddamn Princess Diana. Aemond bows his head, his eyes enigmatic behind his sunglasses, his steps swift. Luke holds Rhaena’s hand; Baela walks with them. You hide behind Cregan. He casts quite a large shadow.

“I look real rock and roll now,” you joke, gesturing with your splinted arm.

Cregan replies in his rumbly subterranean voice: “I think I have you beat.” He pulls up one of his sleeves—floral print, silk, Valentino—and shows you the underside of his right forearm. Bisecting the flesh from his wrist to the crook of his elbow is a long, faint, moon-white scar that you’ve never noticed before, never even heard anyone mention.

“Oh, ouch! You broke it?”

“Compound fracture.” He covers his forearm again with his sleeve.

“When? How?”

Cregan hesitates. Suddenly, he no longer wants to be having this conversation. “Years ago.”

Just outside the airport waits that trusty fleet of black, tinted-window Escalades; but Aemond has requested that his 1960 Gold Star be there too. He takes his keys, helmet, and jacket from one of Comet’s hulking security guards. Shelby’s detail is notably more subdued since that night in Singapore; the man who dislocated your wrist has been exiled from the tour. Aemond climbs onto his motorcycle and starts the engine. The sound takes you back to Rome: when your hopes and spirits were high, when you and Aemond were still living on the light side of the moon.

“You in the mood for a ride, Shelby?” Aegon asks, smirking unkindly, taunting, chomping loudly on cotton candy flavored Bubble Yum. “Don’t forget your helmet. We’d all be lost without you.”

Shelby combs out her beachy blond waves with her artful fingers, tan, reedy, nails turquoise and adorned with golden koi fish. “You’re psychotic if you think I’m getting on that bike.”

“Jesus,” Jace mutters. He is as shocked as anyone by his abrupt demotion to only the second most villainous person in Comet’s retinue.

Aemond doesn’t react, doesn’t say anything to Shelby, doesn’t even look at her. But he does glance over at you. And the words rise in your throat like a burning sun at dawn: I’ll go, I’d love to go, I trust you, I want you. But before you can say anything, Aemond has knocked the kickstand out of the way and is weaving through thick afternoon traffic towards the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. And as the Escalades roll and the band chats around you—indistinctly, abstractedly—you keep staring out the window and searching for glimpses of Aemond like the rare flash of a meteor in a city sky; but you can’t find him.

Criston knows he’s brought Comet to dangerous ground, peppered with quagmires and landmines. So he has planned a ruthlessly hectic itinerary. As soon as you’ve received your room key and unpacked, it’s time for dinner at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant down the street. Criston herds the band there like the rugged Australian cattle dogs that your parents have back in Kansas City nip at the heels of snorting, intractable Black Angus bulls. You sit between Baela and Aegon, who is wearing his neon green tank top, matching Crocs (per usual), and khaki cargo shorts. He’s also gulping sake bombs until they dribble down his sunburned face. Countless varieties of sushi and side dishes rotate by on a conveyer belt, colorful little plates waiting to be snatched up: salmon, tuna, eel, octopus, shrimp, miniature omelets, fried tofu, Wagyu beef, squid, yellowtail, veggie rolls, chicken and pork dumplings, seaweed salad.

“You okay over there?” Aegon asks, grinning as he watches you stab at your eel sushi, topped with some kind of mayo-like sauce and delicious but tragically challenging to eat.

“I didn’t know how to use chopsticks before my dominant hand was put out of commission.” You glare down the row at Shelby. She glowers back. Since that night in Singapore, you circle each other like snarling undomesticated animals, wolves or coyotes. Now you’re on her radar. Now she knows there is something—that mysterious, ever-shifting, worrying something—between you and Aemond. She just doesn’t know what it is. Neither do you, neither does he, neither does anyone.

“Want me to feed you?” Aegon slurs flirtatiously. He plucks up a piece of your eel sushi with his chopsticks and promptly drops it in your lap. “Oh. Fuck.”

Baela presses the button on the counter to summon the server. “I’ll get you a fork.”

“You are a saint,” you tell her. “Patron saint of initiative. Or drive, whichever you prefer the sound of.” Aegon is mayhem, Aemond is lost causes. What am I?

“And you are an uncultured hick from Kansas.”

You smile at her. “Missouri.”

Your fork soon arrives. A few seats down the row, you hear Shelby ask innocently, like it doesn’t mean anything: “How old is Louis Tomlinson’s son now?”

Aemond shrugs. He’s watching the conveyor belt for vegan options; he keeps missing them when they pass by. “I don’t know, five?”

“No, Freddie?!” Luke says. “He’s gotta be like seven now. We saw him last summer at Niall’s pool party.”

“He was so cute,” Shelby says. She’s sitting on Aemond’s good side, as always. She rubs his back and you fight the urge to break her fingers one by one, snapping them in half like dry autumn twigs, lifeless and hollow. “Wasn’t he cute, honeybunch?”

“Sure,” Aemond replies distractedly. And of course Shelby is the type of person who believes that becoming a father will heal a man, rather than just dooming his children to be collateral damage.

Aegon peeks over the conveyer belt at the chefs who are preparing plates in the middle. He lurches and wobbles. Criston covers his own face with his hands, mortified. “Hey, hey, can I get a Crab Rangoon please?”

A chef says something in Japanese, soft and polite but clearly imploring him to sit back down.

Aegon repeats slowly: “Crab! Rangooooooon!”

“Hey dumbass,” Jace says. “That’s Chinese. We’re in Japan.”

“Oh. Right.” Aegon sighs, retreats, and orders himself another sake bomb.

You grab a plate of veggie rolls and another of fried tofu sushi off the conveyer belt and pass them down the row to Aemond. Shelby sends you the most venomous of glares, but Aemond mouths when she’s not paying attention: Thank you.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two shows in Tokyo, two performances on the stage where Aemond was mutilated. Of course, you don’t see mutilation when you look at him. You never have. You see the way the light hits the angles of his jaw and nose and cheekbones and think of marble faces in museums, generals, kings, saints, angels. You see the crystalline blue of his right eye and think of rivers, cool and rushing and clean. You see the ethereal haze of his left eye and think of other planets. You don’t know why everyone else reads his scar and blindness as a tale of unspeakable ruin. You can’t imagine seeing Aemond that way. It would be easier, less painful, simpler for you if you could. Maybe you could stop wanting him. Maybe you could stop dreaming about him, wisps of longing and memory that escape you as soon as you wake.

Aemond does not attend Comet’s concerts at the Budokan. They’re the only ones you’ve ever known him to miss. He rides out on his Gold Star instead, and then reappears to join the band for their post-show ritual in Jace’s suite, grim and quiet and scribbling in his black-paged notebook, smoking his cigarettes, sipping his Brambles. You cannot blame Aemond. You weren’t here last December when a piece of rigging collapsed during soundcheck and nearly killed him, and yet you can’t stop thinking about it; you can’t stop yourself from glancing up at the rafters during shows, wondering exactly how it happened, picturing Aemond bloody and unconscious on the stage, half-blinded and robbed without knowing it yet.

Tomorrow night is Comet Donati’s final performance in Tokyo, but today Criston has a day trip planned. He has filled every spare second of this tour stop with distractions. The band travels by bullet train (or shinkansen) and then local railways to Nara, the city that served as Japan’s capital in the 700s. Criston hires a tour guide—an 80-year old man called Toru-san, who possesses an incalculable amount of knowledge and also a very, very thick accent—to lead you all around Nara Park to see Isuien Garden, the Kasuga Taisha Shrine, the Nara National Museum, and finally the Great Buddha. Nara Park is full of food and souvenir vendors, as well as 1,200 sika deer that you can pet and feed, albeit at risk of being trampled by overenthusiastic herbivores. There are signs posted with warnings to exercise caution, complete with cartoon illustrations of deer gone rogue.

It’s 95 degrees outside with 80% humidity. You are drenched with sweat and guzzling boba tea. The handle of your bag from a gift shop is slung over your splint. Toru-san, despite his long pants and cardigan sweater, is looking spry as ever and is deep in conversation with Luke and Rhaena; he is regaling them with a bottomless well of Nara trivia. Cregan and Daeron are still browsing through gift shops, mostly for the opportunity to escape the heat and hover, sighing with relief, in front of every electric fan they come across. Aegon, lobster-level red—you aren’t sure if he’s more sunburned or flushed—is snoring under a tree as deer nibble at his cyan tank top and white cargo shorts. Aemond purchased probably $200 worth of deer crackers and has attracted a sizeable crowd of furry new friends. He’s like he always is around animals: beaming, immersed, at peace. Shelby is capturing pictures and video clips of him from a distance.

Nearby where you stand under the shade of a black pine tree, Baela is dressed in a crop top and yoga pants and stretching in the middle of a patch of grass. She keeps having to stop to shove deer away from her as they tiptoe close, searching for snacks. Jace is using Google Translate to flirt with a crowd of Japanese fangirls who have recognized him. They are giggling so loudly you can hear them from across a field. Baela is trying to ignore this. She falls out of a pose and sighs irritably, then walks over to you. Together, you watch Jace for a while, you slurping on your boba tea, Baela frowning with her hands on her willowy waist.

At last, she says: “Sometimes we love people who we know don’t deserve it. But that doesn’t make us love them any less. We just hate ourselves for not being stronger.”

“I think you’re incredibly strong, Baela.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. Strong enough to leave him. Strong enough to begin living your own life again.”

Her expression is suddenly uncharacteristically vulnerable, fearful. “I don’t know if I can do it. I’ve never been an adult without him.”

“You’d figure it out. And you wouldn’t be alone. You’d have Rhaena, and Luke, and ballet, and all your friends and family—”

“And you too, right?” she asks. “You’ll still be my friend? Even after you go back home?”

You are stunned into a silence that Baela first mistakes for rejection. Her face falls. “No no no, I’m not hesitating, you just caught me by surprise. Of course I’ll still be your friend after the tour is over. I’ll be your friend forever.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And you’ll visit me in prison if I snap one day and throw Jace into a meatgrinder?”

You laugh and hug her, your sweat dampening each other’s clothes: her orange crop top, your Backstreet Boys t-shirt. “Absolutely. For sure.”

“Okay. I gotta go practice some more.” She spends long hours down in the hotel gym while everyone else is sleeping or partying or preparing for shows, running and stretching and yoga and repeating the same dance routines over and over again. You applaud and whistle as she leaves. “Stop,” Baela complains, but she’s grinning.

You procure another boba tea. You find a nice shady spot on a bench. You check your phone; there’s maybe fifteen more minutes until the band is scheduled to leave for the train station to begin the journey back to Tokyo. Naturally, Criston has dinner already planned: kaiseki ryori, a traditional multi-course meal. You wonder if there will be vegan options for Aemond. Your eyes drift back to him. They always seem to. He’s dragging his palm down the face of a ten-point buck as he feeds him a crumbling brown cracker. There’s a fawn curled up in Aemond’s lap. His blond hair is slicked back off his forehead, his black shirt mostly unbuttoned. Sweat gleams on his chest. Your fingertips ache to draw sloping lines and lazy circles in it.

“I never worried about him,” Criston says. He’s appeared beside you, arms crossed guardedly. You move over so there’s room for Criston on the bench. He sits, distant and troubled. “I always worried about the others. Aegon and Jace especially. But not Aemond.”

“Because he never needed you,” you say quietly.

“He didn’t,” Criston agrees. “And so I wasn’t there to protect him that day.”

The day of the accident. “From what I understand, it wasn’t something you could have prevented.”

“No, I couldn’t have stopped that piece of rigging from falling. But I could have made it so he wasn’t standing under it.”

You wait for Criston to explain. That’s an element that people often underestimate: the power of waiting for someone to be ready.

“It was soundcheck,” Criston says. His voice is strained, hushed. He repeatedly touches the stubble of his beard, a nervous habit. “Aemond was on time, as always. Aemond was exactly where he was supposed to be. But no one else was. Aegon and Jace had gone off to a strip club or a burlesque show or something, I don’t remember. They came back to the hotel and were absolutely hammered, they were crawling around on the hallway floor and puking in corners, laughing hysterically, completely out of their minds. Cregan and Luke were there trying to get them cleaned up. I was on the phone with Cregan, he was pissed, probably the most angry I’ve ever heard him, he kept pausing to yell at Aegon. He’d dragged him into a cold shower, but Aegon was fighting, trying to bite and kick him and whatever the hell else. So eventually I decided to go to the hotel and deal with it. Aemond offered to go with me. I told him no, you stay here, I’ll bring the other four even if I have to get the security guys to toss Aegon and Jace over their shoulders and carry them. Then I left.”

“And that’s when it happened,” you realize. “While you were gone.”

“Yes,” Criston says. And he gazes across Nara Park, here in body but his mind trapped in the maze of the past.

“You had no way of knowing what would happen, Criston. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I should have told him to come with me back to the hotel. Or I should have stopped Aegon and Jace from getting wasted. If they’d been on time, if soundcheck had happened as scheduled, no one would have been standing where that piece of rigging fell. Aemond would still be the leader of Comet. He would still have his face, his sight, his life.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say again.

“Alicent blames me,” he confesses. And you only know who she is because you’ve asked Aegon: the wife of Viserys Targaryen, the mother of his three sons. “She’ll never forgive me.”

Is that really why she avoids you, Criston? Or is there another reason? “If that’s true, it’s only because she’s feeling a lot of horrible things—grief, pain, regret, guilt—and she’s directing them at you. You haven’t earned them. You’re just the person standing in the line of fire. They’re a reflection of Alicent’s inner turmoil, not of your own worth. I think you’ve done a phenomenal job trying to keep this band safe and happy. And I know it’s not easy. I know it’s damn near impossible.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, looking at you with large, dark, truthful eyes like a dog’s.

And you imagine a world in which you’d never seen Aegon after that night in Kansas City, never met Aemond, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan, Daeron, Criston. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

Criston reaches over and—for a moment, so briefly you could have imagined it—rests his hand on your shoulder like he sometimes does to Aemond and Luke. Then he leaves to collect Cregan and Daeron from a shaved ice vendor. Shelby has strolled over to consult with Toru-san, presumably so she can add his trivia to her Instagram posts and TikTok videos. You go to Aemond.

“I have a confession to make,” he says solemnly as you approach.

The oxygen vanishes from your lungs; you try to hide this. “What is it?”

Aemond smiles up at you. “When the tour guide was leading us here, I thought he kept saying that the park was full of bears. And I didn’t want to kill the mood or anything, but I was definitely concerned about going on a field trip to feed over 1,000 uncaged bears. I am very, very relieved that he was in fact saying deer.”

You chuckle and sit next to Aemond on the grass, petting the fawn in his lap. It blinks sleepily at you, its fur soft and spotted, its ears pricked up and curious.

“What’s your souvenir for this stop of the tour?” Aemond asks.

You pull it out of your bag to show him: a small stuffed sika deer complete with floppy felt antlers. “Isn’t it adorable?”

“It is,” he says. “Are you going to have room for all these keepsakes in your apartment back home?”

“Already fantasizing about me leaving, huh?”

“No,” Aemond says, seriously now. Deadly serious. “No, I’m not.” And then Criston is shouting through cupped hands for everybody to huddle up so you can all head to the train station.

It’s not until the band is trekking out of Nara Park towards the blissful promise of air conditioning that you realize someone is missing. When you look around, you see Criston, Aemond, Shelby, Aegon (rubbing his eyes and yawning), Baela, Jace, Rhaena, Luke, Cregan, and a smattering of security guards dressed in black.

“Wait,” you say. “Where’s Daeron?”

A chorus of confusion: “What?” Huh?” “He’s not here?” At last, Criston spies him sitting alone on a wooden park bench, glumly eating through his mountain of shaved ice.

“What the hell is he doing?!” Jace says impatiently, swiping perspiration from his forehead.

Aegon massages your shoulders. “I think this might call for your particular area of expertise, Stargirl.” And when Aemond’s eye flicks to Aegon fleetingly, resentfully, you think for the first time: And where were you, Aegon, when Aemond was waiting all those months ago? Whoring, drinking, self-destructing in ways that take other people down with you? Then you leave him.

Through the heat that lays thick over the city like a tangle of vines, you trudge to the bench where the youngest Targaryen brother is lingering. “Daeron? What’s wrong?”

He stares gloomily down into his shaved ice: blood-colored, strawberry, ichigo. “Everyone thinks I’m always joking and optimistic, but I’m not.”

You ask gently: “What are you really, Daeron?”

“I don’t know what to be. That’s the problem. I worry about it all the time. I can’t win. If I’m sad, then I’m ungrateful for this tremendous opportunity. But if I’m happy, it’s like I’m dancing on Aemond’s grave.”

“He’s not dead, Daeron,” you say.

“Well, yeah, obviously.”

“But a lot of the time people talk about him like he is. You speak around him, over him, through him. Do you think he doesn’t notice?” Do you think he can’t feel the weight of that dark gravity that roots him to the earth? Do you think he can disentangle who he is from the wreckage that has buried its shrapnel in his bones?

Daeron isn’t insulted by what you’ve said. Instead, he seems fascinated. He seems grateful, like you’ve sat down to help him with an especially baffling puzzle. “What would he want from us, do you think?”

“I think he wants to know that his time in Comet wasn’t wasted. That even if he leaves, he will still be a part of this family. I think he wants to be acknowledged. He doesn’t want pity or awkward silences, he doesn’t want to pretend that the accident never happened. He wants to know that his life will go on in spite of it.”

Daeron ruminates on this, taking a bite of his towering mound of shaved ice. “If I said something about him at the last Tokyo show tomorrow, do you think he’d mind? I’ve had this idea for a while, but I didn’t know how he’d take it.”

“That depends on what you say.”

Daeron asks, peering up at you with large pale eyes: more translucent than Aegon’s, more harmless than Aemond’s. He has been shown more kindness than either of them; he is perhaps less deep, less singularly brilliant, but also less burdened. It is a trade many would happily agree to. It is a trade they would pay for in blood. “What should I say?”

You smile at Daeron. “The truth.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“I’d like to take a moment to share something with all of you,” Daeron says into his microphone as soon as Comet finishes The Worst Way To Be. The audience lowers their cheers to a reverent, intensely attentive murmur.

“Wait, what?” Baela whispers to you and Rhaena as you stand in the front row. Shelby, who had been looking rather bored, whips out her phone and begins a live stream. Aegon, Jace, Luke, and Cregan are upbeat and beaming—as is expected of them, as is required—but they pass each other nervous glances like folded paper notes in a high school classroom. This is not in the script.

“I just want to say thank you,” Daeron continues. His voice reverberates off the walls of the Budokan. “Thank you to all of you guys, of course. Our amazing, incredible fans. Thank you for letting us live this dream of a life.” There are claps and whistles, shrieked declarations of undying adoration. Daeron takes a deep breath. His hands are shaking; you can see the microphone tremble. “And thank you to my big brother Aemond.” Instantaneously, the crowd goes as close to silent as it is possible for a stadium at max capacity to be. The others are gawking at him openly now, unable to paper over it with masklike smiles. “I had been following Comet around for years before I got the offer to officially join. So I know how much work and talent Aemond poured into this band. I’m beyond honored to be up on this stage tonight performing for all of you, but I wish it could have happened a different way. I wish Aemond could be here too. And no matter where he goes in the world or what he does next, he will always be the person who made Comet Donati possible. And he will always be my greatest inspiration. I love you, man. We all love you.”

And the audience erupts into deafening cheers and applause, all for a soul who could not bring himself to attend the show. There are chants of We love you, Aemond! that go on for more than five minutes. Aegon is shouting as loudly as anyone; Jace, Luke, and Cregan are running around the stage and encouraging the crowd. They are a little shellshocked, but they are genuine.

Even Jace, you think, you marvel. Even Jace is honoring him. He doesn’t hate Aemond after all. He provokes and he taunts, sure, and he crosses lines on occasion, but Jace doesn’t hate Aemond. He might even miss him.

For their last night in Tokyo, Criston has grander aspirations for the band than the usual wind down in Jace’s suite. He gets everyone—Aemond included, fetched from the bar of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, already several Brambles deep—into the Escalades to drive to Club Camelot, where Criston has reserved one of the three floors for Comet. It swiftly fills like a flute of champagne: women in sparkling gowns, men with baiting smiles, security guards and label executives and friends and acquaintances and models. The tiles on the floor are black and white, but bathed in sapphire luminescence that covers everyone like rain. Empty hands are filled with frosty bottles and glasses clinking with ice. The song that thunders out of the speakers is a throwback: Butterfly by Crazy Town.

Cregan has acquired a harem of sorts; you look once and he’s flocked by three gazelle-like companions, you look again and there are five of them. Jace is mingling freely. Aemond is talking to Daeron—thanking him, it appears, offering heartfelt gratitude—while Shelby greets a pack of influencer-types as they arrive. They squeal and jump up and down with her in their clicking stilettos, then take turns snapping each other’s pictures. Criston actually appears to be somewhat relaxed. He sips on a Sapporo Premium and chats with one of the guys from the label, gesturing casually with his expressive hands. Aegon is curled up in a booth with Selena Gomez. Yes, Selena freaking Gomez. He keeps playing with her glossy dark tresses and making her giggle, propping his sunburned face up on his knuckles, glowing in that way that he does. It’s not just for you. It’s never been just for you. And sometimes he’s close to you and sometimes he’s not, and right now he’s on the other side of the solar system, he’s out in the Oort cloud, he’ll be back to visit earth in a few hundred years. Aegon disappears into the bathroom every few minutes. You see smudges of white powder on his hands, under his nose. If he tried to talk to you right now, you wouldn’t know what to say to him. He would feel like a stranger.

You’re watching Aemond. You wish you weren’t, but you are. He’s in all black, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. You nurse a Bramble and follow Baela, Rhaena, and Luke around the dancefloor, barely able to hear them over the music. Luke is lightheartedly making fun of Baela for something. Her earrings? Her shoes?

“I’ll have you know that I’m very important around here!” Baela cries over the music. “I’m the patron saint of drive!”

“Patron saint of driving herself to the Gucci store, maybe,” Luke says.

They’re all laughing. You feel like you’re observing them through a transparent wall, like you’re at the aquarium and they’re a dazzling rare species and you’re some grubby kid with your palms pressed to the glass. What am I still doing here? Why did I ever think I belonged here?

You break away from Baela, Rhaena, and Luke and drift by Shelby and her fellow influencers, not intending to eavesdrop but catching a few fragments of their conversation like Jupiter and Saturn capture moons. As Aemond talks to Daeron across the room, Shelby is lamenting her love life. She thinks she’s being discrete, but she’s had more than a few gin and tonics.

“No, he still…he probably doesn’t want me looking at him…he’ll let me blow him, but he won’t actually…you know…?”

And you remember what you told him on that balcony in Reykjavik: I think you haven’t fucked anyone since the accident, and you’re terrified to.

You were right. You’re still right. And here you are, like mirrors: Aemond not fucking Shelby, you not fucking Aegon, and there’s no especially good reason for either except that it just doesn’t feel right. After a while, Shelby and her entourage leave to check out another nightclub down the block. More photo opportunities, you suspect. A change of scenery.

“How’s your wrist?” Jace inquires. He’s found you loitering on the outskirts of the dancefloor. He’s wearing a black sequined blazer with nothing underneath except skin and ink. He’s unsteady on his feet, a Vesper sloshing in his glass. Now the song that’s playing is Ed Sheeran’s I Don’t Care, featuring Justin Bieber. In the booth she’s sharing with Aegon, Selena Gomez audibly groans.

“Great. It actually feels better when no one talks to me.”

Jace cackles, far too loudly. “You are hilarious. Hey, hey, listen.” His free hand skates around your waist. Instinctively, you jolt away from him.

“Nope.”

“Listen.” He grips you more adamantly. “Let’s do this.”

“No, no, that’s a very kind offer but I’d rather chew off my own limbs, thank you.”

“Look, I don’t care if you’ve hooked up with Aegon,” Jace purrs into your ear, sweating out vodka and gin, his curls brushing against your cheek. “Hell, I don’t care if you’re still hooking up with Aegon. I’m better than him. I have to be, right? That fat drunk. I’ll show you.”

You try to pull away from him again. You’re wearing the short sparkly dress you bought in Reykjavik, black velvet and silver stars. “Jace, don’t touch me.”

“Come on, Stargirl, give me a shot—”

“Jace,” you say harshly, your eyes blazing. “Do not touch me.”

“Okay,” he sighs; and, to his credit, he releases you. He holds up his palm in surrender. “Okay, fine, but when you change your mind—”

Aemond soars in out of nowhere, a comet, a meteor, the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs. His fist connects with Jace’s jaw. Jace’s Vesper goes flying; blood spurts from his mouth, split lips and lost teeth. “Don’t you fucking touch her!” Aemond is roaring. He has Jace pinned to the floor, black and white and sapphire and red. “When she says not to touch her, you don’t, you hear me?!”

People are screaming and descending upon them, trying to pull them apart. Your Bramble shatters against the tile floor. Criston is here, and security guards, and Baela and Rhaena and Luke and Aegon. Everyone is talking at the same time, so it’s almost like no one is. Jace is striking at Aemond from the ground. Aemond hits him again, and again, knuckles into defenseless flesh and bone, blood vessels bursting, nerves on fire. The music stops, the lights come on.

“Aemond, stop!” you shout. “Aemond, Aemond, you’re going to kill him!”

“Let him go, Aemond, please!” Baela is yelling, and there’s raw terror in her voice.

Then Jace lands a solid punch at last, a hook that comes in from Aemond’s left. Blood pours from Aemond’s nose, it’s on his face and his throat, it’s running down his chest. Cregan arrives, locks his arms around Aemond’s waist, and heaves him away. Before Jace has a second to recover, Aegon wrenches him up by the collar of his blazer and slaps him open-handed across the face.

“He can’t see on that side, you fucking snake!”

Criston bellows: “Aegon, back up, back up, back the fuck up!” He finally gets a good look at Jace: bleeding, bruised, teeth missing, blinking dazedly at the spectators, too stunned to feel the pain yet. “Oh my God!” Criston whirls to Aemond, who is struggling against Cregan’s grasp. “How’s he going to perform in five days, huh?! Jesus Christ, he looks like he’s been butchered! How am I going to cover that up?! How is he going to sing?!” Criston pulls Jace to his feet; he practically has to carry him. Baela follows after them, more distressed than you’ve ever seen her, flowing tears and strangled sobs. Rhaena and Luke go too.

You, Aegon, and Daeron rush to Aemond. He’s bent over and spitting blood onto the floor so he doesn’t choke on it. “Not broken,” Cregan pronounces after examining his nose. “Just gonna bleed real bad. Needs pressure on it.”

“Are you okay?” Aegon asks you, a hand careful and tender on your face. He’s back again, for a minute, an hour, a day.

Your voice quakes. “Yeah.”

“What did Jace do…?”

“Nothing, nothing that bad, I mean he grabbed my waist but—”

“Aegon?” Selena Gomez says tentatively, waiting nearby and hugging her arms around herself.

“Yeah, one second, love. Give me a second.” He appraises Aemond and whistles. “Man, you are wrecked.” And not just physically. He’s incensed, he’s in shock. You reach for Aemond’s hand and he lets you take it.

“You got him?” Cregan asks you.

“I’ll clean him up. I’ll take care of him.” And as blood continues to run down his face, you draw Aemond towards the bathrooms. You lead him inside the women’s room and lock the door, blue walls and white florescent light. Somewhat ungainly—relying mostly upon your non-dominant hand—you press a pile of paper towels against his nose and tell him to hold it there. Then you wet more paper towels and wipe down his knuckles, his face, his throat. The blood on his chest has run beneath his glossy black shirt. We match, you think randomly. “Can I…?”

He yanks the shirt over his head, then returns the mass of crimson-stained paper towels to his nose. Fortunately, the bleeding appears to be slowing. You erase the smudged trail of scarlet that runs all the way to the waistline of his dark jeans. When you reach the end of it, Aemond flinches away from you; not a pained flinch, but a fearful one. He turns his back on you and walks to the other end of the small and shadowless room. He braces one palm against the wall and sighs deeply. He throws the wad of paper towels in the trashcan and then covers his face with his hand, shaking his head.

“Aemond,” you say. And you wait for him to look you in the eye. It takes a long time. “What do you want?” Why were you watching me and Jace? Why did you lose control?

“Nothing,” he replies immediately.

“That’s a lie.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does,” you insist, your voice fracturing. “It does matter. Just tell me what you want.”

“Why, so you can let me down easy? Or worse, pretend to be into it to make me feel better, to help piece me and my fragile little ego back together? I don’t beg for anything. You really think I’m going to beg you to want me?”

“No, you’re too fucking proud, you’d never even ask for it. You’ll beat people half to death for things you’re too much of a coward to say out loud, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?!”

“Then why are you even in here with me?! Just go back to Aegon, I know that’s what you want. I guess you’ll have to wait in line behind Selena Gomez, but he’ll work his way back around to you eventually.”

“Jace stole something from you, right?” you say. “You feel like he stole the band from you after you were kicked out, and then tonight you felt like he was stealing something else, and that’s why you freaked out and almost murdered him—”

“No. No, because you’re not mine.”

“What do you want, Aemond?” you ask him again, tears of exhaustion and desperation in your eyes.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, coming in closer. “So you’re absolved, you’re free to go, I don’t need your goddamn charity—”

Your good hand juts out, and what you plan to do is plant it against his bare chest and push him away. What you do instead—as if by muscle memory, a reflex, an instinct—is reach up to plunge your fingers into his hair. And then his palm is cradling the small of your back and his lips are on yours, moving seamlessly like how currents thread through the ocean. He helps lift you up onto the counter; there is just enough room between two of the sinks. Your legs link around Aemond as he presses himself to you, lips still tinged with coppery blood, bare chest, his waist, his hips. Your back hits the mirror—cool and unyielding, the ink of his lyrics flat against the glass—with enough force to make a thump.

“Are you okay—?”

“I’m more okay than I’ve been in years.”

He tilts up your chin and kisses you deeply, dizzyingly, his tongue darting between your lips. He tastes like his Brambles, sweetness cut with the bite of gin, and smoke, and something else too, something that’s just purely him, something you could drown in like the river of his clear right eye. Gently, you bring your fingertips to his face, to his scar. “Don’t,” he pleads softly, pained.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Don’t—”

“Aemond, look at me.” And you hold his face still so you know he hears you. “There’s nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you.”

You watch it hit him like a stone into water, ripples that wash away everything he’s felt before. He knows you mean it, he can feel it, the same way you can feel the care with which he caresses you, not just lust but engulfing warmth, wordless veneration. He whispers between kisses: “Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want.”

Your lock your gaze with his, then reach down to unbutton his jeans. It’s difficult with the splint, but you manage. You think he might stop you, you prepare yourself for it, but he doesn’t. Instead, Aemond’s hands vanish beneath your dress and slip off your panties, black lace you hadn’t planned on anyone seeing tonight. As you kiss his face—jagged scar, flushed cheek, the slope of his jaw—his fingers slide into a pool of staggering heat and wetness.

He moans. “Oh fuck, that’s for me?”

“I’ve wanted this from the start.”

“Show me…show me how you like it…”

You guide his hand to exactly the right spot and give him a rhythm, a pressure, a pace that rolls a euphoric shudder down your spine. He’s barely touched you, and already you’re shaking all over; you’re throbbing, you’re dazed with that delicious needful aching, you’re gasping into the sweltering, salt-strewn dampness of his neck. His fingertips stroke you in commanding circles—only a few times—until you’re on the precipice, until you stop him. You’re ready, even though he’s huge: long and thick, revealed as he tugs down his jeans and boxers. He pins your uninjured hand against the mirror and kisses and bites at your throat as he eases himself inside you: a stretching that is intense but not unpleasant, hunger being satisfied. And when he thrusts—carefully at first, waiting for you to tell him he can be rougher—there are so many layers of pleasure that it stuns you, it leaves you speechless. Has it ever been like this before? Never, never, never, not once, not for a moment, not with anybody. His future was stolen from him, but he’s taken your past from you; he’s carved it out like a gemstone from the earth and locked it away in a vault no one remembers the passcode to.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, you beg. “Aemond, please, please, I want to come for you…” And you gasp as his fingers skim down your belly again, stroking you forcefully as his thrusts become deeper, quicker, impossibly powerful.

His voice is low and murmuring. His scent is everywhere; it’s all you know how to breathe. “You okay, baby? You alright?”

“Yes, yes, oh God, Aemond, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”

“I won’t stop, baby. You’re doing so well, you’re almost there.”

“Aemond…yes…I love this…”

“I love you.”

He what…? He WHAT…??

And it doesn’t just drag you over the edge; it pushes you, it propels you, you go plummeting off the cliffside and freefall for miles. There’s no disguising it. You have to bury your face in his chest to keep from crying out, clinging to him, your fingernails leaving indents like crescent moons. Aemond, fighting his own climax viciously, lasts just long enough to fuck you through the aftershocks and then empties himself not just physically but also of the shame and aimlessness of the past seven months, of his fears, of his suspicions.

“Wait,” you say as he pulls away from you. You yank a paper towel out of the dispenser and wet it with cold water. First you cool his forehead and the back of his neck with it, then you wipe his fingers and his cock. Still perched on the counter, you wet another paper towel for yourself.

“No,” Aemond tells you. “Let me.” He takes it from you, opens your thighs, and kisses your mouth—teasingly, biting and sucking your lower lip—as he spreads your folds and cleans them of his seed, abundant hot white fluid that you can feel dripping out of you. As he passes over where you are most sensitive—where you can already feel longing for him rebuilding brick by brick—you jump a little, and you both laugh. I could go again, you think. I could do this with him forever. And then, as Aemond descends from the chemical high like a plane gliding down towards a tarmac, you watch as those old familiar poisons—shame, aimlessness, fear, suspicion—begin to fill up in him again, slowly but unmistakably.

He throws out the paper towels and takes several steps back. He starts putting on his clothes, staring at the wall, then at the mirror, not at you but past you, at himself, his clear river-blue eye wide and vacant. He looks horrified by what he’s done; or perhaps, rather, by what he’s said.

You grab your panties off the counter and step into them, readjusting your dress. “Look, uh…if you didn’t mean what you said…that’s totally cool. I get it, sometimes people say things in the moment that aren’t real, there’s the oxytocin and the dopamine, and I don’t want you to feel…uh…you know…like you have to keep up a false pretense or anything…”

Aemond turns around and walks out of the bathroom, the door slamming behind him.

“Okay,” you say to yourself. “Okay. I can fix this.” You use the toilet quickly—UTIs are not welcome here—and then head out onto the dancefloor.

The lights are dim again, and thank God for that; your makeup is smudged, your hair unruly, your eyes glazed, your dress rumpled and stained. Cregan is the only person still waiting. “Hey,” he says flatly, then squints at you. You avoid his astute greyish eyes.

“Hey. Where is everyone?”

“Criston took Jace to the hospital. Baela is there too. Rhaena and Luke are back at the hotel. Aegon is presumably balls deep in Selena Gomez. Aemond just sprinted out of this club and I’d guess he’s headed back to the hotel too. Daeron went after him. I think that’s everybody.”

You shift your weight from foot to foot uneasily. “Shelby?”

“Oh, right. Haven’t seen her. Still out with her friends.” His eyes sweep over you. “On a scale of one to ten, how homicidal would she be if she found out about whatever happened in that bathroom?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Uh huh.” Cregan strides towards the stairwell that leads down to the front door. “Let’s go.”

Back at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, you swipe your keycard and flick the lights on in your suite. You stand there alone, feeling the evidence of what you’ve done: sore muscles and bruised skin and pooling wetness, both yours and his. You are absorbed with thoughts of what you’re going to say to Aemond when you confront him, how much of your truth you are willing to bare. And then your eyes catch on the small trashcan beside your bed, which reminds you of the one back in Singapore, which reminds you of your pack of birth control pills discarded on a pile of crumpled soda cans and snack wrappers.

I haven’t taken a pill in days. How many days? A week?

“Oh my God,” you breathe. And then, more frantically: “Oh no, oh no, no no no…”

What do I do? What the hell do I do?

You race out into the hallway and knock on Baela’s door. Nobody answers. You try Rhaena’s next. She appears in her pajamas, pink and dotted with tiny green Tyrannosaurus rexes. “Hi,” she says agreeably enough, but she’s rubbing her eyes drowsily.

“Hi. I’m really, really sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency.”

She perks up considerably. “Okay, how can I help?”

“Where’s Luke?”

“In the shower.”

“So he can’t hear us right now?”

“No, he can’t.”

“Good. Do you know when Baela will be back from the hospital?”

“Not anytime soon,” Rhaena says. “She messaged me that Jace needs stitches and has a concussion. They’ll be there all night, at least.”

You exhale, a defeated little squeak. “Is Aegon around? With or without Selena Gomez?”

“No, they haven’t come back yet. I have no idea where they are.”

“Okay.” You swallow noisily.

“What’s going on with you?” Rhaena asks, concerned.

“This really is not a Rhaena situation. This is a Baela or Aegon situation.”

“Alright, but neither of them are here. So I’m who you’ve got.”

You stare at her. “I need Plan B. Do you happen to have any Plan B?”

“Plan B…? Like, you just had unprotected sex with someone Plan B?”

“Yes, exactly, that one.”

Rhaena gapes, scandalized. “With who?!”

“Confidential,” you say briskly. “Do you have any or not?”

“No, I definitely don’t have any Plan B lying around.”

“No,” you groan. Tears are welling up in your eyes. “What am I going to do? How do I get Plan B in Japan?!”

“We’ll figure this out,” Rhaena says. She dashes to her nightstand to grab her iPhone. “Don’t panic. It’ll be okay. Let’s Google 24-hour pharmacies in Tokyo…”

You don’t have Criston here to summon an Escalade—nor would you willingly risk him finding out about this—but Rhaena uses Google Translate to ask the hotel’s front desk to call a taxi. She shows the taxi driver an address, figures out how many yen you owe him, and then asks him very politely (if haltingly) in Japanese to wait ten minutes while you’re inside the pharmacy so you can take a return trip as well. He seems to agree.

Rhaena accompanies you into the pharmacy and repeats these steps: Google Translate, an exchange of yen, the receipt of a service. She tells you that based on her quick research, Plan B is usually by prescription only in Japan, but pharmacists will sometimes be willing to prescribe it on the spot to a patient in need. Rhaena spends a long time typing out a message for the middle-aged, bespectacled pharmacist, then points to you. This is my friend, the maybe-pregnant slut from Missouri, you imagine her saying. She needs emergency contraception. It’s really in all of humanity’s best interests for her not to continue her bloodline.

“You have to show him your ID,” Rhaena tells you.

You give your passport to the pharmacist, and then he hands you a small package. You and Rhaena purchase a bottle of Coke Zero as well. You gulp down the single tablet as the pharmacist watches with bushy raised eyebrows, amused. You are pleased to discover that the taxi driver has waited, and within fifteen minutes you and Rhaena are back at the hotel.

“You’ve talked to a lot of people tonight,” you tell Rhaena matter-of-factly as you ride the elevator back up to the band’s floor.

“Oh, yeah. I guess I did. I mean, I’ve been practicing. And you needed me.”

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

Rhaena smiles sheepishly. “Thanks.”

“And I’ll be even more proud of you when I get my period.”

She giggles, she trots off to her suite, you retreat into yours. You collapse onto the floor and gaze up at the ceiling, studying the specks and grooves in the tiles like constellations.

“It was only one time,” you say to the ceiling. “I was on the pill for years. That takes a while to leave my system, right? I mean, what are the odds? It’s fine. It’s totally fine. Nothing’s going to happen, right?”

Right?

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

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jiminiecrickets · 1 year

Text

THE PARADISE PARADOX. PJM / M!READER

summary. jimin loves the way you taste.

wc. 3k (nsfw under the cut)

tags. smut | established relationship, vampire “fuck gender” jimin, top reader + bottom jimin (who’s in charge changes), big dick!reader (so real), riding, begging, fingering, praise (r. receiving), unprotected sex, swearing, blood + blood drinking

it is a dark night, but perfectly clear. what little breeze wandering through the streets carries itself with a flippant sing-song hum, teasing the brims of hats and the silk ties of businesspeople. it travels towards the centre of the city and eases the flushed skin of drunks who overestimated their limits, brushing over their backs in sympathy as they empty their stomachs into the bins.

at last, it twirls around a blond's hair, fine strands of spun gold fluttering as the breeze settles, like a puppy finding its owner. he brushes a lock of hair out of smoky, vivacious eyes and smiles behind a black mask.

"thank you for coming out with me tonight," he hums, interlacing his fingers around his knees. "whenever you're around, i always feel better."

you smile and lean back on your palms, the concrete rough on your skin. you turn your eyes skyward, squinting through the pollution in search of stars. you find none in the sky, but then you drop your gaze to his, and you find everything you're looking for in those dark eyes. "glad to be of service, young master."

he rolls his eyes and they crinkle at your pretentious cadence. behind him, the nightclub throbs with life, blood, and bass. "i'm not all that young," he comments, tucking his hair behind his ear. "haven't been for quite a while."

"really?" you lean closer, inspecting his face. you brush your knuckles down the curve of his cheek. "oh. i see. hiding the crow's feet with smudged makeup? how infinitely clever."

he shoves your shoulder and huffs at your laughter. "you think you're so funny..."

"c'mon, peaches. you know i'm joking – pouts look cute on you."

he nudges your ankle with his chunky doc martens and rises to his feet, dusting off his dark pants with a grumpy sigh. he glances back at you expectantly. "you're supposed to disagree with me. that's how being my boyfriend works. i don't even want to sit with you anymore."

you stare up at him with big eyes. he shakes his head, and when your head begins to tilt, he crouches down in front of you. his white shirt hangs open over his collar and only a single button is done up right over his belt, revealing a plentiful expanse of ivory skin. upon noticing the low drop of the shoulder seams, you realise that you have finally found your missing shirt.

in fairness, he looks much better in it.

"eyes up, lovely." he bumps the soft skin beneath your chin and your gaze flickers upwards. he smiles behind his mask. "better. now, no more puppy eyes. that's my ace card." he pauses. "you're mostly forgiven, by the by, because i'm still hungry. will you stand up, or will you just sit there and make sad faces at me until one of us gets a kiss?"

"i really like the idea of the last word you said."

he bumps your cheek with the front of his mask and his eyes turn into sweet crescents as he hums. "is that enough to persuade you into helping me?"

he places his ringed hands on your knees. it's three in the morning and the streets are empty, filled with nothing but shadows of shadows, and the neon pink sign behind you reflects the shimmery glitter brushed onto his eyelids. little pink hearts glow in the corners of his irises, the name of the club barely a smudge of white, and he giggles in victory as you push yourself to stand. he takes your offered hand and swings it between your bodies as you cross the street, a light skip in his step.

you glance down at him with an easy smile and press a kiss to the crown of his hair. "so – hungry, huh? club didn't satisfy your needs?"

"no." his eyes darken the longer you hold his gaze, warm and heavy. he nearly purrs, "indulge me, love, and i’ll forgive you for being so mean."

he snakes his hands over your chest and around your shoulders, careless in the empty streets. naturally, your hands come to rest on his waist. that sharp gaze of his burrows its way through your very being, and his eyes curve as if he's smirking under that mask; he knows what he does to you, brushing the pad of his finger against your warm jugular so innocently. you could drown in him – his lips, his smiles, his soft skin and softer words. he runs his thumb gently over your bottom lip.

indulgence has always been your worst sin.

—

yn.

the way he says your name makes your skin crawl. is that a shiver of want, or a shiver of fear? he rocks his hips lightly against yours, barely discernible from a chaste shift of his hips except for the flush rising to his cheeks, and you find it doesn't matter anymore.

nothing matters. nothing matters but the way he looks at you with gentle dark eyes, some beautiful byronic lover, and the way he kisses you – the way he kisses you makes you shudder, born of your own ego.

he kisses you with softness, with discipline, touching you as if afraid of the damage he might do to your delicate skin with just his nails. some impatient part of you wishes he would touch you without thinking so much about the pressure, the strength, the speed; he's a tiny little thing, after all, your instincts scoff – what could he ever do to you?

but the smarter part of you knows how easily he overwhelms men twice his size. a grin on his red lips, a boot on their throats, asking if they still think he's just a helpless pretty girl.

"you're thinking too much," he whispers, sending a thrilling rush to your head. he plays with your hair, grasping the soft hairs at the nape of your neck and tugging – gently – backward. slender white canines dig into his kiss-swollen lips and his pink tongue peeks out, as if savouring the taste of you. "is it at least about me?"

"don't ask rhetorical questions," you reply with the sort of breathless helplessness that has him twitching in interest. "how could i think of – ah!"

jimin draws back from your neck with a pleased hum. "so sensitive," he teases, feeling your heart rabbiting under your ribs. it pulses through his very core. "i barely bruised you. how will you take it when i break skin?"

the warm, tender mark in the shape of his teeth throbs as he returns to it, his hips rolling with need on the edge of snapping into frenzy. you tug his shirt – your shirt – up from his belt and he obliges, lips mapping out the pattern of veins just beneath your skin. with so few buttons to fiddle with, it finds itself on the floor in half a second, and jimin giggles as your breath catches in your throat.

he's beautiful – all that seamless skin, pure as anything and taut over lean muscle like a marble statue. he guides your hand to his belt. your thumb trails the curve of his collarbones down the split between his chest, past his navel, and he tugs at your hair as his pillowy lips meet yours, breath cold and sweet. he does what he wishes with you, and your clothes, and he acts as if he has all the time in the world.

he isn't always so pale, like a porcelain doll. you see his hunger – feel it throbbing against you – and his cold caresses against the heat of his kisses make you dizzy. your head rolls back as he moans softly against your adam's apple, zeroing in on the hot blood that roars through your veins.

he's cold. he's hot. he's teasing, and yet gives you everything you want, blinking up at you with pretty, pleading eyes; it's the only time he'll ever defer to you, fingers running impatiently over the broad expanse of your chest, and you take a mean pleasure in letting him grind against you without a taste of the one thing that drives him wild.

"not yet," you husk, and he shivers as you wrap your hand around his length, tugging languidly. "i need a little incentive."

with a moan, he pulls at your buckle and zipper, crushing his lips to yours with a lapse of control – his teeth nick your lip and he gasps as it spills onto his tongue. "baby—"

"peaches."

he whines as you lean back against the couch. your tongue darts out and smears the blood over your lower lip. jimin watches with a starved expression, lips parting to moan as your thumb flicks over his leaking tip.

"th-this isn't fair," he says breathily, struggling to keep his voice steady. he takes you in his palm more eagerly than his words would suggest and he licks his still-bloody lip. "i'm so hungry..."

"i asked if you wanted to grab someone on the way home, peaches. you were the one who insisted it wasn't worth the effort." your lips move down his neck, warm breath tingling his skin. "or did you just get jealous, seeing me make pretty words at another boy?"

he gasps out a cry as two of your fingers slide into him. he was so focussed on the heat of you sliding in his palm that he didn't even hear the tear of the wrapper.

you turn him soft. vulnerable. you pump your fingers into him slowly and he grinds his hips down with a wanton moan, a soft, shaky purr right in your ear that makes your cock pulse.

"i don’t get jealous," jimin murmurs, impatient and raspy. he crushes his lips to yours and his hips jerk as you add a third finger. only now does the burn become something resembling pain, and his thoughts fizzle out as he empties another packet of lube onto your dick and strokes it – the sound you make, all the way down from the base of your ribs, is enough to sear a permanent place in a secret crevice of his mind.

"'course not," you grunt as his pretty moans turn breathless. one hand runs over his pink cock to press against his perineum and he cracks the moment you find his prostate, letting loose a high, quivering whimper as his thick, creamy thighs snap closed around your wrist. "always so sensitive... not so coy now, hm? where'd all that fire go?"

his brow furrows in annoyance. when he opens his mouth, you push your will against his – his sentence falls apart, nerves burning with need.

"s-stop messing around," he gasps, unfocussed eyes fluttering as his fist around your cock quickens. his thighs tighten around your hand, grinding roughly into it. he swallows, mouth dry and throat at the beginnings of drought. "so fucking hungry, baby... i need it..."

you pull your hand away and place it flat on his thigh at the junction of his hip, squeezing in warning.

you hush him softly and he moans into the kiss. hot breath fans his cheek and he shivers, dark eyes even darker with lust. "patience, peaches." your voice lilts with a tease. "you shouldn't have put off feeding for so long – you can't even pretend like you're still in control."

his teeth hurt, and his gums – fuck – are really starting to throb. it was self-inflicted and he couldn't think of anything except release – his whiteout high, the thick coppery flow into his mouth...

his dark eyes open to the side of your throat. he can hear it. he can feel it. rushing through you is pure red life, sweet and heady like wine – flowing, flowing, to the rapid beat of your heart.

you slide your fingers out of him. he swiftly drops down onto your cock with a pretty cry of pleasure and you groan as he leans in, easing you inside him inch by inch.

"fuck," he whines into your neck, arms tightening around your shoulders as he draws himself up until the tip. he sinks back down with a long, feathery moan, and your grip on his waist becomes bruising as he settles flush with your hips. "f-fuck, s'big, so big...!"

he swallows you up greedily, aching fangs poking his lower lip, and he giggles through panting breaths as he directs your hands to his ass.

perfectly round and smooth. you squeeze indulgently as he bounces on your lap, and the way his ass moulds around the shape of your fingers makes you throb. even like this, vulnerable and split in half by your cock, he holds such power over you; the long drag of your cock against his soft wet walls beats you down into a primal hunger, burning and all-consuming until it feels something like rage.

his slick heat, gulping you down as if he'll die otherwise – he very well might – drives your hips up to meet his. he gasps and moans out something grateful, head thrown back as your cock strikes his prostate. his heaving chest and half-lidded eyes, makeup smudged with how many times he's pushed his blond hair back, turn that angry hunger into arousal so thick you feel your heartbeat in your cock.

"more," he cries. "mmh – f-fills me up so well, you’re so fucking good to me..."

your hips snap up and he dissolves into moans, trembling as you help him match your punishing pace. he keens into your throat, plump lips ravenous and reverent, and you chuckle roughly, cock driving viciously deep into him. "don't worry, peaches. after this, you could bleed me fuckin' dry and i'd be the one thanking you."

he has little time to do anything else except toss you a grin, white fangs flashing under the warm light of the living room lamp, before his leaking cock begins to ache hotly and the growing heat bubbles in the pit of his stomach. hunger overrides any manners he's learnt over the years.

you groan as he clenches around you, tight heat tugging and squeezing your length like a vice. he's gorgeous above you, lithe and glowing, and he knows how lovely he is, wearing a tiny smirk that tells you in a sweet whisper that he's playing with you, tracing the dips and curves of your neck when he can just as easily snap it with a twitch of his fingers.

every cell of his body thrums with insurmountable power and both of you know that he's always in charge, even when he lets you move his slender body around as much to your heart's content. he likes to play, always has, but with this bright blood-rushing romance, he can't help but wonder if this is what he's been pretending to have all this time.

"'m close, so close," he whines, "don't stop!"

"i'd never think of it, jimin." the way you say his name like a prayer rather than a curse has him reeling, raw want blazing along his nerves, and you bury your cock deep inside him with an incorrigibly innocent clink of your belt: "i'm yours."

his fangs sink into your neck and he cries out in bliss as thick coppery richness floods his mouth.

he moans, whimpering softly with a near-delirium as your cock pumps hotly into him, his thoughts condensed into an animalistic want-and-get as your fingers dig almost painfully into his hip. his cum paints your bare stomach, shimmering lightly with a thin layer of sweat, and you stroke him in time with your thrusts. he gulps you down and the sting of his teeth and the warmth of his lips tug at the fringes of your instincts, whirling between fight and fuck. your head buzzes pleasantly as if you've had one drink over tipsy, his soft skin and vanilla shampoo lulling you to comfort, and you slow only once he pulls away from your neck, sated at last.

his tongue drags down your jugular, lapping up the warm blood that pulses out with every beat of your heart. he hums in lazy pleasure as the two holes close up. it's a perk of having narrower fangs – he can control the flow with far better accuracy, and less waste. he always hates wasting meals.

soon, those pinpricks will heal, unscarred. jimin admires his own handiwork with a smile and finally lifts his hips, sighing in loose, shaky satisfaction as he closes the distance between your lips. you smooth your hand over the small of his back, swirling indolent patterns into his skin, and the white daze of pleasure eventually fades from the corners of your vision.

"you okay?" he whispers, resting his hand over your heart as he swipes cherry-red blood from his lower lip, curved upwards into a loose grin. “by the by... you’re forgiven. wholly.”

it takes a moment for your mouth to catch up to your head. "good. yeah. yeah, i'm alright. more than alright." you pull yourself straighter and wince at the dull throb in your neck, piercing all the way to your spine. you brush over it gingerly. "you didn't hold back at all."

he has the decency to look guilty, though he places his thumb between his lips and licks off the blood with a gaze too innocent to be genuine. "i'm sorry. you just taste so good – i couldn't help myself." he smiles softly and presses his lips to yours, slow and gentle. "i'll grab you something sweet once i’ve... recuperated. how about some ice-cream?"

you grab his hips and pull him back into you before he can leave. he falls backwards into your lap and giggles as your lips ghost over his shoulder.

"i've got my dessert right here, peaches," you murmur against his skin, and he lets out a soft hum. "and i'll be taking my second helping."

#top male reader #x male reader #bts x male reader #bottom bts #jimin x male reader #kpop x male reader #bts x reader #jimin x reader #kpop x reader #bts smut #jimin smut

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lullabyes22-blog · 8 months

Text

Snippet - Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - The Siege

Silco remembers the war between Zaun and Piltover...

tw: violence, bloodshed, mentions of rape, aftermath of war, PTSD

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

“The Siege,” Jinx whispers.

The Siege.

That's what they call the partition—belowground and above. An incursion of monsters, but as with everything else, the definition of monster differed depending on which side of the river one's blood flowed. In Zaun, it meant the Enforcers. To Topside, it meant the entire Undercity populace. The war was a warped mirror; the inevitable endpoint of decades of resentment and repression.

Silco remembers the losses suffered, and the dead left behind. Their neon city a pitch-black hellhole. The crack of gunfire and high-pitched wails. The humid air beating down on them like a superheated fist; every breath dragged as if through bloodstained cloth.

The Last Drop was blown sky-high. With it, so many of Vander's hopes, and the heart of his lie. A principally foolish and persistently shortsighted lie: peace between the cities.

Peace was never in Zaun's stars.

The only bright point shone through the dark. The embers of Piltover burning.

The final night was spent in a game of deuces with the Enforcers. Zaun's last stand: a desperate gamble against the odds. Their enemy was equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry. They outnumbered the Fissurefolk ten-to-one. Their ranks were lethal and their bullets endless.

Their mistake was hubris. Topsiders had never fought for their own freedom. Why would they? They had it already, in full measure. But the Fissurefolk? They'd never known the comfort of choice. When you've got nothing left to lose, everything's a chip to bet. Every breath is a fight to the death.

Five hundred Enforcers descended into the Undercity. Only twenty-three returned home.

Silco had devised a strategy off-the-cuff. No time to weigh the pros and cons, or schedule a war-council with the chem-barons. Most had fled to their strongholds. The rest were too busy pillaging. It fell on Silco to act, and he had done it on his own terms. He'd chosen those with the most to lose from Piltover's reign. Ballbusters and bruisers; mercenaries and miscreants; chem-fiends and chemists. A motely crew, each with their own agenda. But none who could be bribed with coin or cowed by bullets.

They loved the city too fiercely. Loved it with a rage that ran so deep the only answer was freedom.

Or death.

When the Enforcers stormed, they were ready.

"Don't meet them head-on," Silco ordered. "Lure them down.”

Down—where centuries of gallows fodder had hid from the law. Down—where every backstreet had bred sinners and spawned killers. Down—where every crevice was a chokepoint and every corridor a death-trap.

Down—where life was a war waged by inches.

Silco knew the terrain like the black hollow of his heart. In boyhood, he'd negotiated every cobblestone with intimate ease. As a man, he and Vander had made the back-alleys their own, long before they'd claimed the Lanes. The festering warrens deepened into a sinuous complexity that presaged threats at every turn.

The Enforcers had the firepower, but no experience. They'd been taught to take prisoners. They'd never learned to chase shadows.

"Give 'em a taste of home," Silco said, and led the way.

Into the slithering dark, he and the crew descended. Sentries were stationed along the canals; shadowrunners between the bridges. Jinx stayed by his side. The others scattered through the alleys. The Enforcers were stubborn—but their strength was not without limits. A fortnight of hard-hitting combat was wearing them down. The disorienting labyrinths left them vulnerable to paranoia. The fumes from the chemical sludge became a miasma.

By midnight, they'd gone from towering titans to terrified mice.

Jinx took the initiative. With the crew's help, she rigged the drain valves with bombs. She didn't have the resources for a big blast; not after the destruction of Piltover's cityscape. She'd had to get creative. With canisters of compressed gas, she'd flooded the streets with pressurized sewage. It was a fatal, fast-moving tide; the Enforcers were left with no choice but to retreat into Zaun's guts or face a no-man's land of filth.

Straight into Jinx's trap.

One Enforcer's footstep triggered the pressure plate. A gas of hallucinogenic potency spewed out. It had each man turning on the other in a frenzy of gunfire and screams.

Sevika and crew took aim, ready to take the rest out at close range.

Silco stopped them.

"Let them bleed out," he said. "Save our ammo."

A second squad of Enforcers rolled in. They charged headlong into a Jinx's playground of razor snares and spring-loaded incendiaries. The explosions lit up the streets. The shrapnel sliced open their ranks. They fell shrieking to the gods for mercy.

Mercy was a foreign language belowground.

"Steel yourselves," Silco ordered the crew. "Their reinforcements will be prepared."

The prediction was dead-on.

In the hours after midnight, the two cities reeled. The Enforcers were dazed and drained. But they knew their mission, and followed it doggedly. When the third wave came, they were equipped with body-armor and respirators. They took shelter behind reinforced barricades, and penetrated the dark with night-vision goggles.

In the ruins of Factorywood, they cornered Silco's squad.

It wasn't a melee—but a massacre. The Fissurefolk knew the territory, but the Enforcers were locked and loaded. With a barrage of gunblasts, they sent Silco's men toppling. While the survivors regrouped, they began a relentless advance. The whistling scream of bullets and the liquid pop of blood vessels became a symphony. The streets ran black with gore.

Silco had to make a snap decision. Retreat or engage?

In his ear, Vander's voice:

"Kill me, if you must. But spare the Lanes."

At the forefront, the battle raged. At the sidelines, the corpses piled up. At his crux, the choice was simple.

Silco thought: You died for our cause, brother.

I'll fight for it.

Sevika's hand fell on his shoulder. She urged, "They're closing in. We need to fall back."

"No."

"Sir—"

Silco's mismatched eyes scoured the flaming skyline. He spied the Old Hungry, the first spot Vander had ever showed him. He saw its smoking turrets and pockmarked walls. He saw the gutted factories and charred canals. He saw the smoldering husks of abandoned homes. He saw the wreckage of his people's lives, and felt the ache of their loss.

He stared at the blackened vistas of his savaged city, and knew: Vander had always meant to protect it.

To the last breath.

So did he.

"No," he repeated, and met Sevika's shocked stare. "No retreat. We box them in the sewers. Then we go all in. We fight with everything we have."

"Silco—"

"We end this, Sevika," he said, and his voice didn't come from inside his chest. It webbed up from someplace deeper still, down below the cracked foundations of his psyche. It was a place of endless hunger, unyielding rage; an impregnable nucleus of self. "No more games. No one—nothing—is coming for Zaun again. We take the fight to the bastards, and we burn them out."

Sevika's expression shifted from shock to steel.

He would never forget the look. It burned through him; bit deep into his gut. It was the look of a soldier saluting her flag; a Valkyrie summoning her chariot; a priestess kneeling to her god. It was the look that said: I will follow you to hell, and make it a home fit for us both.

A vow as binding as blood.

There was a salvo of intensifying gunfire. Shrapnel spangled off the cobblestones. There were screams and the choking stench of gunsmoke. Silco dared a look over Sevika's shoulder. He saw two of their number dead—the twins, Zoked and SzSza—their faces the same pallor as the soot hazing the foul air.

Sevika's hand squeezed his shoulder, then fell away.

She said: "I'll hold the line."

"Hold it tight. No quarter—"

"—No mercy." She smiled, a slash of teeth. "You've got ten minutes, sir."

"I've got a lifetime." A heartbeat, his eyes on hers. "Go."

Sevika went.

The troops fell in behind her, the whole company a solid wedge. She led them out. The Enforcers took one look and opened fire, their bullets blitzing. It didn't matter. The Fissurefolk held formation. Sevika's orders rang strong and cold. They'd trained under her, and would lay their lives at her feet.

Silco saw the brief radiance of Sevika's mechanical arm firing up. The blade jutted like a lance. Charging, she cut an arc of whizzing metal through the bodies. The noise of gunfire gave way to a riot of screams. More Enforcers pressed in. Their shields were a bristling wall, but Sevika kept coming. Her body was a juggernaut, a battering ram, a dragon's claw. She tore the barricade in half, sending the Enforcers reeling. They opened up a lethal crossfire, but she didn’t stop. Her prosthetic arm was a meat-shredder. Every swipe opened up a torso or a throat.

Every blow was a testament.

To Zaun.

To Nandi.

To him.

Silco understood. She was ready to die for the cause—and be done with it. There was no one else left to command; he was the last line of defense. Him and whoever was left of the holdout. The street was a riven map of bodies. So many dead, their number beyond counting.

Silco counted the survivors: twenty-three.

Twenty-three against an Enforcer's squad of fifty.

Eighteen more would die before the dawn. But not before they wiped their enemies out of existence.

Silco shouted: "Down-low!"

It was the signal.

Six of the survivors closed ranks in the narrow streets, holding off the assault as best they could. The rest followed Silco through the tar-slick warrens. A volley of bullets ricocheted off the stone walls; a flare went whizzing overhead. The fetid murk of the Sumps had never smelled so sweet.

"Fuck!" Lock shouted.

A distant explosion swelled across the rooftops. In the shower of flaming wreckage, Silco turned to glimpse Sevika. Her left was arm was a mangled twist. She'd caught the tail-end of a rocket-launcher blast. A starburst of blood hit the wall. She staggered in a daze; her mouth shaping unsayable words.

Then she vanished. A ripple of smoke spread like a shockwave.

"Fuck," Lock said again, more raggedly.

Silco wanted like blazes to turn back. But that wasn't his and Sevika’s bargain. She'd bought him ten minutes, not a lifetime. The deal was to go all in. They were out of options.

There was no turning back now. No running.

Silco let the image of Sevika burn itself into his retinas. His pulse didn't race. His breath didn't quicken. There was only a blackness of rage, spiking into a knife of pure white-hot focus that scalded his hairline down to his nerve endings.

He made a vow, then and there.

He would not fall. Not while he had blood left to shed and lives left to save.

Not while he had Jinx.

They crashed through the gritty underbrush and into Zaun's sewers. The muck sucked at their boots. The atmosphere reeked of decay. The city's bowels were a subterranean labyrinth of wormholes and dead ends. A haven of nocturnal low-lives; a last resort against Piltover's rule.

The ultimate death-trap

Silco kept a breakneck pace, navigating the complex with unerring instinct. It had been nearly a decade since he'd set foot in these corridors. But his memory spat out the layout, and his body knew the way. The tunnel branched, forked, doubled back. His crew kept in formation, their boots like a drumroll behind him. They cleared each intersection with brute efficiency. No matter how fast the Enforcers chased them, Silco knew they couldn't keep up.

Not without losing a man—or three.

The tunnels narrowed into a chokepoint of interlocking grates. Silco's hand slid across the slime-slicked wall until he reached a rusted panel. The concealed hatch yielded with a shriek. He thrust his torso through a gap and found his way down a rusted ladder. His feet hit a submerged floor. Within moments, the rest of the crew were gathered in a low-ceilinged chamber.

It was a storage depot. The air stank of purifying chemicals. Steel barrels lined the walls; rubber drums piled up in the center. Silco kicked one open. Dust spurted, and with it the bite of gun-oil. Inside was a cache of weapons. They were the same design used by the Enforcers: top-of-the-line, and packed with a payload. Enough to level a city, or lay waste to a battalion.

The crew's shock was audible. "Holy shit!"— "You gotta be kidding me!"— "Where'd all this come from?"

"A last resort," Silco said succinctly, and lifted the lid off another barrel. There was a stash of grenades. His smile spread like blood in the darkness. "We'll bury them alive."

He snapped orders and the crew leapt. The explosives were prepped and primed. The trap was laid. They set up along the tunnel’s mouth. Dustin took point. Lock and Ran guarded the rear. The rest were to act as a cordon along the walls.

And Jinx—

She was to his left, just like always. Fishbones was slung across her back; Puff-Puff was holstered at her thigh. A belt of grenades encircled her hips. Her arm cradled Pow-Pow with a casual alignment of weight, like a child in the crook of her elbow.

His child—a wisp of a creature—with enough firepower to destroy a nation.

Yet the worst wreckage was her eyes.

"Jinx."

Silco beckoned, his voice soft as a slit throat.

Soundless, she came. Her eyes held a fritzed-out blankness. She was Jinx times ten—and yet she was almost gone, all the animation drained out of her. The past days had pushed her psyche past the boundary of human endurance. There was a vacuum inside her now: the space Silco ought to have filled with love—and hadn't.

He'd failed.

Failed as a father. Failed as a leader. Failed as a man.

He was a black-hearted monster who'd built an empire on blood and drugs. He'd cast away Vander for a knife to the gut; he'd forsaken Nandi's goodness for a last-ditch gamble. He'd sent his precious girl off to die without a thought; now he wasn't certain he could summon her back to life. In one night, he'd managed to ruin himself, and his city, and the one person he would kill for.

The universe, in its cruelty, had sent Jinx to save him.

Silco cradled Jinx's face in both hands. The brokenness of her eyes pierced him to the bone.

"Jinx," he said, "You've done well. You've done so well tonight."

Jinx stared. Her irises glowed like sickly phosphorescence.

"You've kept us alive," he said, more urgently. "Now you must hold on."

A quiver of breath. "Hold..."

Silco fought down the tide of self-loathing and forced himself to keep speaking. "Hold on to yourself, Jinx. Stay with us. The fight isn't done."

Jinx stared blindishly.

"Please, Jinx. We need you."

The words throbbed: hollow, desperate, true.

Jinx stayed silent.

"I need you!” Silco barked, a brutal whiplash of command. "Now, Jinx. Hold on to yourself—as I hold on to you. I will keep you alive, even if I have to burn their whole damn city for it."

The silence stretched on.

Then—

Jinx shivered.

The fizzle in her eyes faded. She pressed the heels of her palms to the swollen lids and rubbed. When her lashes lifted, the brightness was all the brighter. It was like a magic trick. In a trice, she was there: his wild child, his weapon; his wonder. She focused on him with such intensity, it felt as though his skull might fracture under the impact.

Her lips shaped secret syllables. Silco could barely hear them over the choking silence.

"Say again, child?"

"Show them," Jinx breathed.

"What?"

Her eyes gleamed.

"We'll show ‘em," she said. "We'll show 'em all."

Silco nodded. His palms skated up the sides of Jinx's neck, a tender strangulation. Leaning in, he kissed her forehead. Then he let go.

"All in," he said.

"All in," Jinx repeated, and he knew she understood.

At their backs, the thud of boots.

"Bossman!" Ran hissed. "They're coming! They're fucking coming!"

No time for delay. The surviving Enforcers were forty-two strong, and no fools. They'd follow Silco's straight into the depths, until they could call it a victory. They were tenacious, tireless, but they had no idea who they were facing.

Silco was counting on it.

He ordered, "Bite the bullet."

In their network's parlance: Go hard. Go fast. Go out with a bang.

Tonight, there was no better motto.

The Enforcers' footsteps thudded. Closer. Closer. Silco gave the signal, and the crew went on the offensive. A canister of colorless gas spewed across the floor. In the gloom, a flash-bang. The smoky air was interrupted with sparks. Silco and the crew kept their heads down, their aim high. They wore goggles and had sealed their mouths with respirators. It was enough to keep their vision safe and their lungs unclogged.

The Enforcers were not so fortunate. They tore off their helmets, eyes throbbing from the flashbang—and began to choke. The gas was from the mines: a caustic chemical that burned their throats. They stumbled into the dark, and met their deaths at the business ends of his crew's barrels. They emptied clip after clip, the recoil jolting their arms, their hearts like hammers in their chests.

The tunnel morphed from a war-zone to a blood-red hell.

The survivors were disoriented but determined. Blindly, they charged. The crew's reflexes reverted to close-quarters combat. Blades whipped out, and the Enforcers were taken by the throat and the gut. The fight devolved into a brawl, the sound of metal and meat a ghastly concerto.

An Enforcer swung the barrel of his rifle. Its butt nailed Dustin in the gut. He went down, gasping. The Enforcer aimed his firearm. Then his head exploded. His corpse slumped. Behind him stood Jinx, the muzzle of her gun smoking.

A shriek came from the left. Ran went down, a knife stuck in the arm. The Enforcer drew a pistol. Silco was quicker. His palm gripped the bone handle of Vander's bowie knife like a lover's throat. Soundlessly, he crept up behind the Enforcer. The blade went in like a kiss, deep into the man's jugular.

The Enforcer gurgled; his pistol dropped. Silco's boot slammed into his back. The Enforcer toppled. Silco followed, and the knife went in, and out, and in. The man thrashed, his last words a plea. Silco twisted the blade. He didn't bother with the mercy of a quick reply.

In the background, the Enforcer's comrade charged, and died screaming. A scythelike swipe of metal took his legs off, and sent him spinning like a child's doll. Sevika rose out of the haze. Her prosthetic arm was a fritzing exoskeleton—but her blade was intact. Her hair was charred against her skull and her silhouette bloodsplattered.

She didn't look human anymore. She was the dragon in the flesh: a thing made of rage and fire and steel.

A third Enforcer lunged at her blind-spot. Silco pivoted, and whipped out his boot knife. He threw it. It spun in a whirling blur, then buried itself hilt-deep in the man's left eye-socket. He slumped.

Sevika's eyes caught his. A nod was traded between them; a debt owed and paid.

Then their attention went to the carnage.

To the hunt.

The Enforcers were down to sixteen. Silco's own crew were reduced to the same number. They'd done their job: a suicide mission turned triumph. Now it was a matter of finishing the fight.

Silco gave the final order: "To the Bridge!"

It was the home-stretch. It was also the greatest risk. They'd never had time to run drills, and Silco had never wanted to test their mettle in a live-fire scenario. But their survival depended on it. If more Enforcers charged belowground, the fight was over. Their city was lost. Their freedom, forfeit.

They could not stay in the Sumps any longer. They had to go above.

"Jinx," Silco shouted. "It's time!"

Jinx nodded. Fishbones was slung over her shoulder. Her eyes were a smoldering pink, and her mouth was set. She was a small, vicious thing, armed and ready.

And she was his.

Together, they sprinted. Up through the subterranean tunnels. Up through the stinking dark. Up towards the light.

The battle was not done. But it would be, soon. They had the upper hand. They had the Hex-gem. And they had the element of surprise. Piltover hadn't anticipated the Trencher's’ zeal. Now they would learn the full truth: that a cornered beast will bite and bite hard.

Silco would do the biting. He'd sink his teeth in, and twist, and tear until he tasted blood.

And he would savor every drop.

At his side, Jinx was a bright streak. Her eyes shone. She was the broken girl he'd plucked from the streets: the comet who'd saved his life.

Now she'd save their city.

At Bridgeside, there was an oncoming wave. A troop of Enforcers. They were the vanguard, and Silco's crew would have to fight tooth and nail.

So they did.

In the heart of the firestorm, Silco took the helm. Sevika was his right hand. They were two beasts of war, their teeth bared and their claws out. Every inch was suffering; every breath was a challenge. There were bullets and blades, screams and smoke. Silco's mind was caught in a mesh of razor-wire. His hands were a blur, the knife an extension of his arm, the pistol an extra digit. He didn't know how many Enforcers he killed. Only that they'd fallen, and kept falling.

His crew fell too. He saw Thieram's head blown off his shoulders. He saw Cath, slumped over in a pool of entrails. He saw Ran dragged into an alleyway by three Enforcers. He heard the shred of cloth and the crack of bones. Ran's screams rang out, a high-pitched wail of violation.

The others fell to the sludge in the aftermath, their eyes staring blindly.

And Jinx—Jinx was a blur. Pow-Pow and Puff-Puff were her wings. Fishbones was her trumpet. She cut a path through the swarm, a gloriole of destruction.

In the final surge, the Enforcers were taken apart. Silco and Sevika became the butchers. Jinx was the killing-blow. With a scream that resonated to the rooftops, she unleashed her arsenal. Fishbones's rocket sailed. The Bridge exploded, a chain reaction that rippled down its length. The night was ablaze; a perfect blue inferno.

She painted Piltover with magic and doused it with blood.

She saved them all.

She saved them, but victory came at a steep cost. War is like that. It sinks inside you, under your skin, into your lungs, rooting itself in the mind and soul. You must surrender something of yourself as a matter of brute survival—or perish. In the aftermath, there was no jubilation. Only the sun rising on a city laid waste, and a long march down the path to progress.

His squad were reduced to five. Each one was in rough shape. Sevika had gone into shock from the blowback on her left arm, bronze skin turning ashen, her dark eyes glazed beyond the sphere of pain. Ran huddled under the blanket, bare-skinned and slicked to the elbows with blood, features distorted with agony. Dustin lay pin-cushioned with morphine syrettes, a twitchy pup yelping for rescue. Lock stayed standing, but he resembled something badly-chewed: ragged with wounds and missing whole layers of himself.

Jinx, meanwhile, crouched in the shadows. She'd kept pushing bullets into Pow-Pow's chamber, then emptying them out. Over and over, with no real sense of purpose, as if they were memories she was trying to jam inside and then blast out for good. Her eyes were huge, pupils ringed in luminous pink. Tears streaked her cheeks like war-paint.

Silco stood in their midst, a crooked silhouette plastered with blood. His fingers clenched and unclenched on Vander's knife. Everything will be fine, he could have said with a slickster's ease. A lie, but the dogs of war were fed by lies. The machines of progress were fueled by them.

He could have lied, out of necessity, or cruelty, or mercy.

He hadn't.

Words failed to take the night down to scale. It was too big, too bloody. It was freedom, and the past, and the future.

It was Zaun.

By dawn, they'd picked their way to a safehouse in Entresol. Bodies everywhere on the street. Slabs of spoiling meat. The ones still groaning, he'd ordered dragged to the temporary shelters. The rest, they'd left where they lay. The time for cremation wouldn't be for weeks yet. By then, most corpses would be unrecognizable.

Inside, Singed was waiting with medical supplies. Together, they'd tended to the wounded who trickled slowly in, patching up bullet holes and setting broken limbs. In the end, few survived perfectly unscathed. Some lapsed into comas that they never awoke from. Others died in a rictus of anguished screams. The lucky ones went silently, slipping into death's embrace with a sigh.

It was near sunset by the time Silco slept. By then, the light in the safehouse was an eerie twilit green, just enough to make out the bodies of his crew rolled in threadbare sleeping bags: Lock an unmoving mass, Dustin sprawled on onto his back in a jittery sprawl of limbs, an arm flung out, knuckles nearly touching Ran’s hair, peeking in tufts from the fabric, the rest of their body enfolded. Silco found himself in the corner, apart from the others but close enough that if someone went into Shimmer convulsions, he'd be at hand to stabilize them.

Across from him, Sevika lay sprawled on her side, eyes shut. Her good hand lay stretched out, in the weak halo of the candle. Silco had stared at it. For a moment he'd wanted to take her hand in his, all rough and bruised. Nothing else. Just take her hand. The war had reminded him that there were facets to his life that he couldn't keep by the wayside forever.

Desires that had nothing to do with Zaun.

He hadn't touched her. The candleflame was flickering, and they couldn't waste it. He'd licked a fingertip and pinched it out. And in the dark, he'd rolled, fitting his chin to the hard curve of Jinx's skull. His child lay nestled close. Dead to the world; her scent salty from weeping. Tears still seeped from under her sleeping eyelids.

He wanted to sleep too. But the safehouse was full of specters. Vander. Nandi. Lika. Benzo. His knife lay close at hand, the blade clean. He'd stared at it, and vowed that Topside would never be forgiven.

The night never forgotten.

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