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pluvialpoet · 1 year ago

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how to disappear

Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader

Requested: no

Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!

Word Count: 12,874

masterlist

Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.

Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?

Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.

Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.

Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…

Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot.

A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.

You should’ve known better.

As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.

Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway. While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.

“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”

“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.

“Things change.”

As if he needed the reminder…

Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.

“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”

“That’s not what you said the last time we-“

“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.”

He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.

“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory- but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”

Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.

Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.

“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“

“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly.

Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once.

“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined.

Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.

“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?”

“No, you’re not-“

“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.”

Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.

History repeating itself, just one more time.

“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.

“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“

“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.

It’s deeper than that, though.

Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.

“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?”

“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.

“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”

“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.

How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.

“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”

It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.

“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them.

Not the way they used to, anyway.

“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.

“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,”

Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.

The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.

Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.

Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.

The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.

Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.

With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.

Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.

This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.

“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.

The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.

You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after what he did.

“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.

For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.

“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”

You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.

What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.

Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.

You know what you have to do.

The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.

“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.

“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.

“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.

“Who are you to try to stop me?”

“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”

“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.

For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.

“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.

He knows you’re right.

While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.

When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.

Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.

It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.

For all of it.

Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.

He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.

“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”

Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.

He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.

It was foolish to believe any differently.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”

He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?

It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.

You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.

“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.

It’s exhilarating.

“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.

Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.

“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.

“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.

“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.

“Can I…”

“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”

He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.

His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-

“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.

You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-

He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…

He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.

He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.

“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.

“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.

“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.

“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”

“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.

“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”

It’s going to be impossible not to.

“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”

“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.

“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“

“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”

He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.

A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.

Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.

As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.

He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.

Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.

“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.

You don’t deserve him.

“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.

“No, Dick, I-“

“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”

It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.

Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.

The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.

When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.

Everything splinters.

When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.

Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.

Blue and black, forevermore.

There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.

Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.

a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading!

everyone who requested to be tagged: @js-favnanadoongi @kalulakunundrum @1lellykins @octodog17 @novelizt @nesta-houseofwindfantasy @corgiqween576 @whiteglovemanor @godcreatoreli @lassmich1 @consternat1on @deffnotnia @haloney @iananiko @noodlesketchbook @thescarletcryptid @obsessedwthdilfs @vanice-e @taintedmaroon @holybatflapexpert @whatismypurpos @heylookwhoitis @corpseflower6 @heavenlym0chi @lokiwannacry @boywondergrayson @tetzoro @oiztsy @naf3211

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Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!

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its-not-a-pen · 2 months ago

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eunuch rating system: part 2 electric boogaloo! part 1 based on the original post by @welcometothejianghu wherein i continue to rate REAL historical chinese eunuchs! this is a non-exhaustive list and there's honestly no metric to it. i just pick the guys i like.

Han Dynasty (yes, again. the Han was like 400 years long lol) Cao Teng was a pretty normal guy whose biggest claim to fame is his extremely infamous grandson, Cao Cao. Because of this, Cao Teng is the only enunch in chinese history to get a royal title; Emperor Gao of Wei, which was granted posthumerously through Cao Cao’s grandson Cao Rui.

Cao Teng was a good judge of character who promoted a bunch of famous people, one of whom was a guy who had even tried to impeach him previously. After 30 years of service, he retired, got married, and adopted a son.

i decided to put him on the list because the common perception of the eunuch is a "mutilated" man living a lonely, unfulfilled life. What is often left out is they are highly motivated people who excel at their jobs, exert a lot of influence, and are able to have families and leave a legacy.

the majority of eunuchs came from poor families, and serving at the palace gave them an opportunity to obtain wealth, status and an education they would otherwise never have access to. it does require an unimaginably painful sacrifice, but that shouldn't be the only thing that defines them.

Cao Teng's hard work benefited his entire clan and lifted them out of poverty. But there was a complex interplay between him being a venerable ancestor, and someone marked by the stigma of castration. I imagine there was something bittersweet here for Cao Teng, knowing that he had done so much for his family, but they would rather he didn't exist.

Cao Cao was able to become a prime minister because of the wealth, connections, and education earned by his grandfather. At the same time, he appeared to resent him. The source of his ancestory was a sore spot which was repeatedly brought up by his political enemies to discredit him, something he never commented directly on or attempted to defend.

ming dynasty

MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE FOR THE COOLEST PERSON IN THE MING DYNASTY!!!! actually scratch that, MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE FOR THE COOLEST PERSON IN CHINESE HISTORY, PERIOD.

Zheng He was born Ma He to muslims living in Yunan, which was ruled by Mongols at the time. He was captured by the Ming army between the age of 10-14, castrated, and given to the young Yongle Emperor as a servant. Incredibly enough, he was like "no hard feelings mate" and went on to work in EVERY SINGLE JOB. and kick absolute ass in ALL OF THEM. he started out as a soldier on the northern frontier (the toughest place to serve, that was where all the border conflicts were) and fought in several campaigns with the future emperor, distinguishing himself and earning the emperor's trust.

I originally had him drawn in a more stereotypically "heroic" pose, by all accounts he was a tough guy who "walked like a tiger", and while the main purpose of the Ming voyages were diplomatic, he didn't shy away from violence. (he fought PIRATES. like a fucking shonen protagonist). in the end i decided to go with a picture that showcases less celebrated but equally important leadership qualities like curiosity, patience and discipline. I also want to point out that he wasn't the only eunuch on the trip, around half of the commanding officers were also eunuchs. He wasn't an exception to the rule but rather the face of a largely ignored majority; complicated people who were making the most of a difficult job.

Notes: the giraffe he brought back didn't have a name (at least not on record), but the Ming thought it was a qilin (kinda like a chinese unicorn) and i thought that would be an adorable name for a giraffe.

Ming Dynasty

i feel like we've had too much nuance, so lets finish this list off with a properly corrupt and scheming enunch! Wei Zhongxian castrated himself at age 21 to escape his gambling debts, and it unleashed his potiential like Rock Lee removing his leg weights. once inside the palace, he started out as a minor kitchen hand but managed to hustle his way to being the right hand of the emperor, who was an indifferent ruler that prefered woodworking to running a country. for this reason, I decided to make him a ventriloquist dummy.

Wei Zhongxian then proceeded to go on an extravagant and over-compensating ego trip. actually, it was more like a 40-year-long, olympic worthy, ego-long jump. things came to a terrible end when he tried to stage a coup (it failed and he decided not to hang around the capital, and go hang on some rafters instead). by then, decades of corruption had weakened the Ming, the emperor's only son got exploded in horrible incident that also wiped out most of the Ming Dynasty munitions--and what's this? here comes the Qing Dynasty with a steel chair!!!! notes: I decided to make Wei Zhongxian's design a human version of my cat, because he is also an incredibly devious but rather low-wisdom individial.

#chinese history #ming dynasty #han dyansty #zheng he #wei zhongxian #cao teng #enunchs

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 7 months ago

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1968 [Chapter 5: Artemis, Goddess Of The Hunt]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.6k

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

“So you smoked grass in college,” Aegon says, pondering you with glazed eyes as he slurps his cherry-flavored Mr. Misty. You’re in Biloxi, Mississippi where Aemond is making speeches and meeting with locals to commemorate the first summer of the beaches being desegregated after a decade of peaceful protests and violent white supremacist backlash. Route 90 runs right along the sand dunes. If you walked out of this Dairy Queen, you could look south and see the Gulf of Mexico, placid dark ripples gleaming with moonshine. “And swore, and had a boyfriend, and presumably, what, did shots? Skipped class on occasion?”

“Yeah,” you admit, smiling sheepishly, remembering. You stretch out your fingers. “I chewed gum, I talked during mass. And I loved black nail polish. The nuns would beat my knuckles with rulers, I always had bruises. I wore these flowing skirts down to my ankles and knee-high boots. My hair was a mess, long and blowing around everywhere. My friends and I would do each other’s makeup, silver glitter and purple shadow, pencil on a ridiculous amount of eyeliner and then smudge it out. If you saw a photo you wouldn’t recognize me.”

Aegon takes a drag on his Lucky Strike cigarette, weightless smoke and the tired yellowish haze of florescent lights. Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth is playing from the Zenith radio on the counter by the cash register. “I’d recognize you.”

“I used to skip this one class all the time. The professor was a demon. I could do the math, but not the way he wanted me to. Right solution, wrong steps, I don’t know. I learned it differently in high school, and I couldn’t figure out the formula he wanted me to use. So he’d mark everything a zero even if my answer was correct. I couldn’t stand that bastard. Then the nuns kept catching me sunbathing on the quad when I was supposed to be in Matrices and Vector Spaces. I racked up so many demerits they were going to revoke my weekend pass, and then I wouldn’t be able to go into the city with my friends. So I stole the demerit book and burned it up on the stove in my dorm. Almost set the whole building on fire.”

Aegon is laughing. “You did not. Not you, not perfect ever-obedient Miss America!”

“I did. I really did.” You sip your own Mr. Misty, lemon-lime. Across the restaurant, Criston and Fosco are eating banana splits—dripping chocolate syrup and melted ice cream all over their table—and passionately debating who is going to end up in the World Series; Criston favors the Cardinals and the Orioles, Fosco says the Red Sox and the Cubs. The rest of the Targaryen family is back at the hotel watching news coverage of the Republican National Convention, something you can only stomach so much of, Otto’s cynical commentary, Aemond’s remaining eye fixed fiercely on the screen as he nips at an Old Fashioned. “I was wild back then.”

“And you gave it all up to be Aemond’s first lady.”

You think back to where it started: palm trees, salt water, alligators in drainage ditches. “My father grew up in a shack outside of Tallahassee. No electricity, no running water, he dropped out of school in eighth grade to help take care of his siblings when his mom died. They moved south to live with their aunt in Tampa, and my father wound up in Tarpon Springs working as a sea sponge diver.”

Aegon’s eyebrows rise, like he thinks you’re teasing him. “Sea sponges…?”

“I’m serious! It paid better than picking oranges or sweeping up in a factory. It’s dangerous. You have to wear this heavy rubber suit and walk around on the ocean floor, sometimes 50 feet or more below the surface.”

“What do people do with sea sponges?”

“Oh right, you would be unfamiliar. You’re supposed to clean yourself with them, like a loofah. Soap? Water? Ringing any bells?”

He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “You’re a very mean person. Aren’t you supposed to be setting an example for the merciful wives and daughters of this great nation?”

“Painters and potters buy sponges too. And some women use them as contraceptives. You can soak them in lemon juice and then shove them up there and it kills sperm.”

“I suddenly have great appreciation for the sea sponge industry. God bless the sea sponges.”

“So my father spent a few years diving, and he fell in love with a girl who worked at one of the shops he sold sponges to. That was my mother. They got married when he had absolutely nothing, and by their fifth anniversary he had his own fleet of boats, a gift shop, and a processing and shipping facility, all of which they owned jointly. They just opened the Spongeorama Sponge Factory this past April, a cute little tourist trap. But my point is that they were partners from the start. My father listens to my mother, and she works alongside him, and it was never like what I’ve seen from my friends’ parents: dad at the office 80 hours a week, mom at home strung out on Valium, just these…deeply separate, cold planets locked in orbit but never touching each other. I knew I didn’t want that. I wanted a husband who was building something I could be a part of. I wanted a man who respected me.”

Aegon watches you as he lights a fresh cigarette, not saying what you imagine he wants to: And how is that working out? He puffs on his Lucky Strike a few times and then offers it to you. You aren’t supposed to smoke, not even tobacco—it’s not ladylike, it’s masculine, it’s subversive—but you take it and hold it between your index and middle fingers, inhaling an ashy bitterness that blood learns to crave. The bracelets on your wrist jangle, thin silver chains that match the diamonds in your ears. Your dress is mint green, your hair in your signature Brigitte Bardot-inspired updo. Aegon is wearing a black t-shirt with The Who stamped across the front. When you pass the cigarette back to him, Aegon asks: “What music did you listen to? The Stones, The Animals?”

“Yeah. And Hendrix, The Kinks, Aretha Franklin…”

“Phil Ochs?”

“I love him. He’s got a song about Mississippi, you know.”

“Oh, I’m aware. It’s one of my favorites.”

“And I’m currently getting a little obsessed with Loretta Lynn. She’s so angry!”

“She’s sanctimonious, that’s what she is. Always bitching about men.”

“Six kids and an alcoholic husband will do that to someone.”

Aegon winces, and then you realize what you’ve said. Loretta Lynn sounds a lot like Mimi. He finishes his Mr. Misty and then fidgets restlessly with his white cardboard cup, spinning it around by the straw. You feel bad, though you shouldn’t. You wouldn’t have a month ago.

“Aegon,” you say gently, and he reluctantly looks up at you, sunburned cheeks, blonde hair shagging over his eyes. “Why do you ignore your children? They’re interesting, they’re fun. Violeta invited me to help her make cakes with her Easy-Bake Oven last week. And Cosmo…he’s so clever. But it’s like he doesn’t know who you are. He might actually think Fosco’s his dad.”

Aegon takes one last drag off his cigarette and discards the end of it in his Mr. Misty cup. Now he’s fiddling with it again, avoiding your gaze. “I don’t have much to offer them.”

“I think you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do,” you insist. “You can be kind of nice sometimes.”

He frowns, staring out the window. You know he can’t see anything but darkness and streetlights. “I should have been the one to go to Vietnam. If somebody had to get shot at so Aemond could be president, I was the right choice. No one would miss me. No one would mourn me. Daeron didn’t deserve that. But I was too old, so Otto and my father got him to enlist. Now he’s in the jungle and my mother has nightmares about Western Union telegrams. If I was the son over there, I think she’d sleep easier.”

I’m glad you’re still here, you think. Instead you say: “Your children need you.”

“No they don’t. Between me and Mimi, they’re better off as orphans. Helaena and Fosco can be their parents. Maybe they’ll have a fighting chance.”

The glass door opens, and a man walks into the Dairy Queen with his two sons scampering behind him, all with sandy flip flops and carrying fishing rods. The dad is at least six feet tall and brawny, and wearing a Wallace For President baseball cap. You and Aegon both notice it, then share an amused, disparaging glance. You mouth: Imbecile bigot. The man continues to the cash register and orders two chocolate shakes and a root beer float. At their own table, Criston is mopping up melted ice cream with napkins and telling Fosco to stop being such a pig.

“Me?!” Fosco says. “You are the pig, that spot there is your ice cream, do not blame your failings on poor Fosco. I have already let you drag me to this terrible state and never once complained about the fried food or the mosquitos. And that thing out there is not a real beach. The water is still and brown, brown!”

“For once in your life, pretend you have a work ethic and help me clean up the table.”

“You are being very anti-immigrant right now, do you know that?”

Aegon begins singing, ostensibly to himself. “Here’s to the state of Mississippi, for underneath her borders, the devil draws no lines.”

“Aegon, no,” you whisper, petrified. You know this song. You know where he’s going.

He’s beaming as he continues: “If you drag her muddy rivers, nameless bodies you will find.”

Now the man in the Wallace hat is looking at Aegon. His sons are happily gulping down their chocolate shakes. Criston and Fosco, still bickering, haven’t noticed yet.

“Oh, the fat trees of the forest have hid a thousand crimes.”

“Aegon, don’t,” you plead quietly. “He’ll murder you.”

“The calendar is lyin’ when it reads the present time.”

“Hey,” calls the man in the Wallace For President hat. “You got a problem, boy?”

Aegon drums his palms on the tabletop as he sings, loudly now: “Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of, Mississippi find yourself another country to be part of!”

In seconds, the man has crossed the room, grabbed Aegon by the collar of his t-shirt, yanked him out of his chair and struck him across the face: closed fist, lethal intent, the sick wet sound of bones on flesh. Aegon’s nose gushes, his lip splits open, but he isn’t flinching away, he isn’t afraid. He’s yowling like a rabid animal and clawing, kicking, swinging at the giant who’s ensnared him. You are screaming as you leap to your feet, your chair falling over and clattering on the floor behind you. The man’s sons are hooting joyously. “Git him, Paw!” one of them shouts.

“Criston?!” you shriek, but he and Fosco are already here, tugging at the man’s massive arms and beating on his back, trying to untangle him from Aegon.

“Stop!” Criston roars. “You don’t want to hurt him! He’s a Targaryen!”

“A Targaryen, huh?” the man says as he steps away, wiping the blood from his knuckles on his tattered white t-shirt, stained with fish guts. “All the better. I wish that bullet they put in Aemond woulda been just another inch to the left. Directly through the aorta.”

Aegon lunges at the man again, hissing, fists swinging. Fosco yanks him back.

“Are you gonna call someone or not?!” Criston snaps at the girl behind the cash register, but she only gives him a steely glare in return. This is Wallace country. There’s a reason why it took four years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to finally desegregate the beaches.

“We should go,” you tell Criston softly.

“Yes, we will leave now,” Fosco says, hauling Aegon towards the front door. Then, to the cashier: “Thank you for the ice cream, but it was not very good. If you are ever in Italy, try the gelato. You will learn so much.”

“I can’t wait ‘til November,” the man gloats, ominous, threatening. His sons are standing tall and proud beside him. “When Aemond loses, you can all cart your asses back to Europe. We don’t want you here. America ain’t for people like you.”

“It literally is,” you say, unable to stop yourself. “It’s on the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yeah, where do you think your ancestors came from?!” Aegon yells at the man. “Are you a Seminole, pal? I didn’t think so—!” Fosco and Criston lug him through the doorway before more punches can be thrown.

Outside—under stars and streetlights and a full moon—Aegon burst out laughing. This is when he feels alive; this is when the blood in his veins turns to wave and riptides. You didn’t think to grab napkins from the table, so you wipe the blood off his face with your bare hand, assessing the damage. He’ll be fine; swollen and sore, but fine.

“You’re insane, you know that?” you say. “You could have been killed.”

Aegon pats your cheek twice and grins, blood on his teeth. “The world would keep spinning, little Io.” Then he starts walking back towards the White House Hotel.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the four of you arrive at your suite, Aemond, Otto, Ludwika, and Alicent are still gathered around the television. The nannies have taken the children to bed. Helaena is reading The Bell Jar in an armchair in the corner of the room. Mimi is passed out on the couch, several empty glasses on the coffee table. ABC is showing a clip they recorded earlier today of Ludwika travelling with Aemond’s retinue after he made an impassioned speech condemning the lack of recognition of the evils of slavery at Beauvoir, the historic home of former Confederate president Jefferson Davis. The reporter is asking Ludwika what she thinks makes Aemond a better presidential candidate than Eugene McCarthy, as McCarthy shares many of the same policy positions and has an additional 15 years of political experience.

“This McCarthy is not a real man,” Ludwika responds, her face stony and mistrustful. “He reminds me of the communists back in my country. Did you know he met with Che Guevara in New York City a few years ago? Why would he do such a thing?”

Now, Otto turns to her in this hotel room. “I love you.”

Ludwika takes a sip of her martini. “I want another Gucci bag.”

“Yes, yes. Tomorrow, my dear.”

“What happened to you?” Aemond asks his brother, half-exasperated and half-concerned. Criston has fetched a washcloth from the bathroom for Aegon to hold against his bleeding lip and nose. Aemond is still wearing his blue suit from a long day of campaigning, but he’s taken out his eye and put on his eyepatch. His gaze flicks from Aegon’s face to the blood still coating your left hand. On the couch, Mimi’s bare foot twitches but she doesn’t wake up.

“There was a Wallace supporter at the Dairy Queen,” you say. “Aegon felt inspired to defend you.”

Aemond chuckles. “Did you win?” he asks Aegon.

“I would have if the guy wasn’t two of me.”

On the television screen, Richard Nixon is accepting his party’s nomination for president at the Republican National Convention in Miami, Florida.

“He’s a buffoon,” Otto sneers. “So awkward and undignified. Look at him sweating! Look at those ridiculous jowls! And he comes from nothing. His family is trash.”

“Americans love a rags to riches story,” you say. And then, somewhat randomly: “He loves his wife. He proposed to Pat on their very first date, and she said no. So he drove her to dates with other men for years until she finally reconsidered. He said it was love at first sight. He’s never had a mistress. And jowls or no jowls, his family adores him.”

Aegon turns to you, still clutching the washcloth against his face. “Really?”

You nod. “That’s the sort of thing the women talk about.”

There’s a knock at the door. You all look at each other, confounded; no one has ordered room service, no one is expecting any visitors, and the nannies have keys in the event of an emergency. Fosco is closest to the door, so he opens it. A man in uniform is standing there with a golden Western Union telegram in his hands. Alicent screams and collapses. Criston bolts to her.

“It’s okay,” you say. “He’s not dead. Whatever happened, Daeron’s not dead.”

Otto crinkles his brow at you. “How do you know?”

“Because if he was killed, there would be a priest here too.” They always send a priest when the boy is dead. Aegon glances at you, eyes wet and fearful.

“Ma’am,” the soldier—a major you see now, spotting the golden oak leaves—says to Alicent as he removes his cap. “I regret to inform you that your son Daeron was missing in action for several weeks, and we’ve just received confirmation that he’s being held as a prisoner of war in Hỏa Lò Prison.”

“He’s in the Hanoi Hilton?!” Otto exclaims. “Oh, fuck those people and their swamp, how did Kennedy ever think we had something to gain from getting tangled up in that mess?”

“But he’s alive?” Aemond says. “He’s unharmed?”

“Yes sir,” the captain replies. “It is our understanding that he is in good condition. The North Vietnamese are aware that he is a very valuable prisoner, like Admiral McCain’s son John. He’ll be used in negotiations. He is of far more use to them alive than dead.”

“So we can get Daeron back,” Aegon says. “I mean, we have to be able to, right? Aemond’s running for president, he’ll probably win in November, we have millions of dollars, we can spring one man out of some third-world jail, right?”

The captain continues: “Tomorrow when your family returns to New Jersey, the Joint Chiefs of Staff will be there to discuss next steps with you. I’m afraid I’m only authorized to give you the news as it was relayed to me.” He entrusts the telegram to Otto, who rapidly opens it and stares down at the mechanical typewriter words.

“I have to pray,” Alicent says suddenly. “Helaena, will you pray with me? There’s a Greek church down the road. Holy Trinity, I think it’s called.”

Obediently, Helaena joins her mother and follows her to the doorway. Criston leaves with them. Otto gives his new wife a harsh, meaningful stare. Ludwika, an ardent yet covert atheist, sighs irritably. “Wait. I want to pray too,” she says, and vanishes with them into the hall.

As the captain departs, Mimi sits up on the couch, blinking, groggy. “What? What happened?”

“Go with Alicent,” Otto tells her. “She’s headed downstairs.”

“What? Why…?”

“Just go!” he barks.

Mimi staggers to her feet and hobbles out of the hotel room, her sundress—patterned with forget-me-nots—billowing around her. The only people left are Otto, Aemond, Fosco, Aegon, and you. The fact that you are the sole woman permitted to remain here feels intentional.

After a moment, Otto speaks. “You know, John McCain has famously refused to be released from the Hanoi Hilton until all the men imprisoned before him have been freed. He doesn’t want special treatment. And that’s a very noble thing to do, don’t you think? It has endeared him and the McCains to the public.”

Aemond and Otto are looking at each other, communicating in a silent language not of letters or accents but colors: red ambition, green hunger, grey impassionate morality. Fosco is observing them uneasily. Aemond says at last: “Daeron wants to help this family.”

“You’re not going to try to get him out.” Aegon realizes.

Aemond turns to him, businesslike, vague distant sympathy. “It’s only until November.”

“No, you know people!” Aegon explodes. “You pick up the phone, you call in every favor, you get him out of there now! You have no idea if he has another three months, you don’t know what kind of shape he’s in! They could be dislocating his arms or chopping off his fingers right now, they could be starving him, they could be beating him, you can’t just leave him there!”

“It’s not your decision. It could have been, had you accepted your role as the eldest son. But you didn’t. So it’s my job to handle these things. You don’t get to hate me for making choices you were too cowardly too take responsibility for.”

“But Daeron could die,” Aegon says, his voice going brittle.

“Any of us could die. We’re in a very dangerous line of work. Greatness killed Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, Huey Long, Medgar Evers, John F. Kennedy, Malcolm X, Vernon Dahmer, Martin Luther King Jr., does that mean we should all give up the fight? Of course not. The work isn’t finished. We have to keep going.”

“Will you stop pretending this is about America?! This is about you wanting to be president, and everything you’ve ever done has been in pursuit of that trophy, and you keep shoving new people into the line of fire and it’s not right!”

“Aegon,” Otto says calmly. “It’s unlikely we’d be able to get him out before the election anyway. Negotiations take time. But if Aemond wins in November, he’ll be in a very advantageous position. The North Vietnamese aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t kill the brother of a U.S. president. They don’t want their vile little corner of the world flattened by nukes.”

“Still, it feels so wrong to leave a brother in peril,” Fosco says. “It is unnatural. Of course Aegon will be upset. We could at least see what a deal to get Daeron released would entail, maybe his arrival home would be a good headline—”

“And who the fuck asked you?” Otto demands, and Fosco goes quiet.

“Okay, then tell Mom,” Aegon says to Aemond. “Tell her you’re going to pretend Daeron made some self-sacrificial vow not to come home until all the other POWs can too. Tell her you’re going to let him get tortured for a few months before you take this seriously.”

Aemond replies cooly: “Why would you want to upset her? She can’t change it. You’ll only make her suffering worse.”

“What do you think?” Otto asks you, and you know that he isn’t seeking counsel. He’s summoning you like a dog to perform a trick, like an actor to recite a line. He’s waiting for you to say that it’s a smart strategy, because it is. He’s waiting for you to bend to Aemond’s will as your station requires you to, as moons are bound to their planets.

“I think it’s wrong,” you murmur; and Aemond is thunderstruck by your treason.

Without another word, you walk into the bathroom, turn on the sink, and gaze down at Aegon’s blood on your palm. For some reason, it’s very difficult to bring yourself to wash it away.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s mid-August now, the world painted in goldenrod yellow and sky blue. The Democratic National Convention is in two weeks. You and Aemond are posing on the beach at Asteria, surrounded by an adoring gaggle of journalists who are snapping photographs and jotting down quotes on their notepads. You’re sitting demurely on a sand dune, you’re building sandcastles with the children you borrowed from Aegon and Helaena, you’re flying kites, you’re gazing confidently into the sunlit horizon where a glorious new age is surely dawning.

“Mr. Targaryen, what is it that makes your partnership so successful?” a journalist asks as flashbulbs pulse like lightning. “What do you think is the most crucial characteristic to have in a wife?”

Aemond doesn’t need to consider this before he answers. He always has his compliment picked out. “Loyalty,” your husband says. “Not just to me or to the Targaryen family, but to our shared cause. This year has been indescribably difficult for me and my wife. I announced my candidacy, we embarked on a strenuous national campaign that we’re currently only halfway through, I barely survived a brutal assassination attempt in May, in July we lost our first child to hyaline membrane disease after he was born six weeks prematurely, and at the beginning of this month we learned that my youngest brother Daeron was taken by the North Vietnamese as a prisoner of war. To find the strength not just to get out of bed in the morning, not just to be there for me and this family in our personal lives, but to tirelessly traverse the country with me inspiring Americans to believe in a better future…it’s absolutely remarkable. I’m in awe of her. And when she is the first lady of the United States, she will continue to amaze us all with her unwavering faith and dedication.”

There are whistles and cheers and strobing flashbulbs. You smile—elegant, soft, practiced—as Aemond rests a hand firmly on your waist. You lean into him, feeling out-of-place, bewildered that you’ve ever slept with him, full of dull panic that soon you’ll have to again.

“How about you, Mrs. Targaryen?” another reporter asks. “Same question, essentially. What is the trait that you most admire in your husband?”

And in the cascading clicks of photographs being captured, your mind goes entirely blank. You can think of so many other people—Aegon, Ari, Alicent, Daeron, Fosco, Cosmo—but not Aemond. It’s like you’ve blocked him out somehow, like he’s a sketch you erased. But you can’t hesitate. You can’t let the uncertainty read on your face. You begin speaking without knowing where you’re going, something that is rare for you. “Aemond is the most tenacious person I’ve ever met. When he has a goal in mind, nothing can stop him.” You pause, and there are a few awkward chuckles from the journalists. You swiftly recover. “He never stops learning. He always knows the right thing to do or say. And what he wants more than anything is to serve the American people. Aemond won’t disappoint you. He’s not capable of it. He will do whatever it takes to make this country more prosperous, more peaceful, and more free.”

There are applause and gracious thank yous, but Aemond gives you a look—just for a second, just long enough that you can catch it—that warns you to get it together. Fifteen minutes later, he and the flock of reporters are headed to one of the guest houses to conduct a long-form interview. This will be the bulk of the article; you will appear in one or two photos, you will supply a few quotes. The rest of the story is Aemond. You are an accessory, like a belt or a bracelet. He’s the person who picks you out of a drawer each morning and wears you until you go out of fashion.

Released from your obligations, you return to the main house and disappear into your upstairs bathroom. You are there for fifteen minutes and emerge rattled, routed. You pace aimlessly around your bedroom for a while, then try again; still no luck. You go back outside and stare blankly at the ocean, wondering what you’re going to do. Down on the beach, Fosco is teaching the kids how to yo-yo. Ludwika is sunbathing in a bikini.

“What’s wrong with you?”

You whirl to see Aegon, popping a Valium into his mouth and washing it down with a splash of straight rum from a coffee mug. “Huh? Nothing. I’m great.”

“No, something’s wrong. You look lost. You look like me.”

You gaze out over the ocean again, chewing your lower lip.

Aegon snickers, fascinated, sensing a scandal. “What did you do?”

Your eyes drift to him. “You can’t make fun of me.”

“Okay. I won’t.”

There is a long, heavy lull before you answer. When you speak, it’s all in a rush, like you can’t unburden yourself of the words fast enough. “I put a tampon in and I can’t get it out.”

Aegon immediately breaks his promise and cackles. “You did what?!” Then he tries to be serious. “Wait. Sorry. Uh, really?”

You’re on the verge of tears. “I’ve been bleeding since I had the baby, and I hate using tampons, I almost never do, but Aemond wanted me to wear this dress for the photoshoot and it’s super gauzy and from certain angles I felt like I could see the pad bulge when I checked in the mirror, so I put a tampon in for the first time in probably a year. I’m not even supposed to be using them for another few weeks because my uterus isn’t healed all the way or whatever. And now I can’t get it out and it’s been in there for like six hours and I’m scared I’m going to get an infection and die in the most pointless, humiliating way imaginable.”

“Okay, calm down, calm down,” Aegon says. “There’s no string?”

“No, I’ve checked multiple times. It must be a defective one and they forgot to put a string in it at the factory and I didn’t notice, or the string somehow got tucked under it, I don’t know, but I can’t get it out, it’s like…the angle isn’t right. I can just barely feel it with my fingertips, but I can’t grab it. I’m going to have to go to the hospital to get it taken out, but I’m scared word will spread and journalists will show up to get photos when I leave and then everyone will be asking me why I was at the emergency room to begin with and I’m going to have to make up something and…and…” You can’t talk anymore. There are other reasons why you don’t want to go to the hospital. You haven’t stepped foot in one since Ari died; the thought makes you feel like you are looking down to see blood on your thighs all over again, like you’ll never have enough air in your lungs.

“Did you bleed through it? Because that should help it slide out easier.”

“I don’t know,” you moan miserably. “I mean, I guess I did, because there was blood when I checked a few minutes ago. I had to stuff my underwear with toilet paper.”

“Why didn’t you just tell Aemond you couldn’t wear this dress?”

You give him an impatient glance. “I’m tired of having the same conversation.” When do you think you’ll be done bleeding? When do you think it’ll be time to start trying again?

Aegon sighs. “Do you want me to get it out for you?”

“Please stop. I’m really panicking here.”

“I’m not joking.”

You stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I have fished many objects out of many orifices, you cannot shock me. I am unshockable.”

“I’d rather walk down to the sand right now and strangle myself with Fosco’s yo-yo.”

“Okay. So who are you gonna ask to drive you to the hospital?”

You hesitate.

“I’d offer to do it,” Aegon says, grinning, holding up his mug. “But I’m in no condition to drive.”

“But you are in the proper condition to extract a rogue tampon, huh?”

“Two minutes tops. That’s a guarantee. My personal best is fifteen seconds. And that was for a lost condom, much trickier to locate than a tampon.”

Perhaps paradoxically, the more you consider his offer, the more tempting it seems. No complicated trip and cover story? Over in just a few minutes? “If you ever tell anyone about this, I will never forgive you. I will hate you forever.”

Aegon taunts: “I thought you already hated me.”

You aren’t sure what you feel for him, but it’s certainly not hate. Not anymore. “Where would we do it?”

“In my office. And by that I mean my basement.”

“Your filthy, disease-ridden basement? On your shag carpet full of crabs?”

“You’re in luck,” he jokes. “My crab exterminator service just came by yesterday.”

You exhale in a low, despairing groan.

“Hey, would you rather do it on the dining room table? I’m game. Your choice.”

You watch the seagulls swooping in the afternoon air, the banners of sailboats on the glittering water. “Okay. The basement.”

You walk with Aegon to the house and—after ensuring that no one is around to notice—sneak with him down the creaking basement steps, the door locked behind you. Aegon is darting around; he sets a small trashcan by the carpet and tosses you two towels, then goes to wash his hands in his tiny bathroom, not nearly enough room for someone to stretch out across the linoleum floor.

You’re surveying the scene nervously. “I don’t want to get blood all over your stuff.”

“You’re the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that carpet. Lie down.”

You place one towel on the green shag carpet, then whisk off your panties, discard the bloody knot of toilet paper in the trashcan, and pull the skirt of your dress up around your waist so it’s out of the way. Then you sit down and drape the second towel over your thighs so you’re hidden from him, like you’re about to be examined by a doctor. Your heart is thumping, but you don’t exactly feel like you want to stop. It’s more exhilarating than fear, you think; it is forbidden, it is shameful, it is a microscopic betrayal of Aemond that he’ll never know about.

Aegon moseys out of the bathroom, flicking drops of water from his hands. He wears one of his usual counterculture uniforms: a frayed green army jacket with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, khaki shorts, tan moccasins. He kicks them off before he kneels on the shag carpet. He checks the clock on the wall. “2:07. I promised two minutes max. Let’s see how I do. Ready?”

You rest the back of your head on your linked hands, raise your knees, take a deep and unsteady breath. “Ready.”

But he can see that you’re shaking. “Hey,” Aegon says kindly, pressing his hand down on the towel so you’re covered. “Do you want me to go to the hospital with you? I’ll try to distract people. I’ll pretend I’m having a seizure or something.”

“No, I’m okay,” you insist. “I just want it out. I want this over with.”

“Got it.” And then he begins. He stares at the wall to his left, not looking at you, navigating by feel. You feel the pressure of two fingers, a stretching that is not entirely unpleasant. He’s warm and careful, strangely unobtrusive. Still, you suck in a breath and shift on the carpet. “Shh, shh, shh,” Aegon whispers, skimming his other hand up and down the inside of your thigh, and shiver like you’ve never felt before rolls backwards up the length of your spine. “Relax. You alright?”

“Fine. Totally fine.”

“Oh yeah, it’s definitely in there,” Aegon says. His brow is creased with comprehension. “No string…you’re right, it must either be tangled up somehow or it never had one to begin with. Maybe you accidentally inserted it upside down.”

“Now you insult my intelligence. As if I’m not embarrassed enough.”

“I should have put on a record to set the mood. What gets you going, Marvin Gaye? Elvis?”

“The seductive voice of Richard Milhous Nixon. Maybe you can get him on the phone.”

Aegon laughs hysterically. His fingertips push the tampon against your cervix and you yelp. “Sorry, sorry, my mistake,” Aegon says. There are beads of sweat on his forehead, on his temples; now his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m gonna try to wiggle it out…”

As he works, there are sensations you can’t quite explain: a very slow-building indistinct desire, a loosening, a readying, a drop in your belly when you think about the fact that he’s the one touching you. Then he happens to press in just the right spot and there is a sudden pang of real pleasure—craving, aching, a deep red flare of previously unfathomable temptation—and you instinctively reach for him. Your hand meets his forearm, and for the first time since he started Aegon looks at your face, alarmed, afraid that he’s hurt you again. But once your eyes meet you’re both trapped there, and you can’t pretend you’re not, his fingers still inside you, his pulse racing, a rivulet of sweat snaking down the side of his face, his eyes an opaque murky blue like water you’re desperate to claw your way into. You know what you want to tell him, but the words are impossible. Don’t stop. Come closer.

Aegon clears his throat, forces himself to look away, and at last dislodges the tampon. It appears dark and bloody in his grasp. “No string,” he confirms, holding it up and turning it so you can see. “Factory reject.”

“Just like you.”

He glances at the clock. “2:09. I delivered precisely what was promised.” He chucks the tampon into the trashcan and then grins as he helps pull you upright with his clean hand. “So do you like to cuddle afterwards, or…?”

You’re giggling, covering your flushed face. “Shut up.”

“Personally, I enjoy being ridden into the ground and then called a good boy.”

“Go away.” You nod to where he disposed of the tampon and say before stopping to think: “You’re not going to keep that under your ashtray too?”

Aegon freezes and blinks at you. He smiles slowly, cautiously. “No, I think that would be a little unorthodox, even for me.” He pitches you a clean washcloth from the bathroom closet. “That should get you upstairs.”

“Thanks.” You shove it between your legs and rise to your feet, smoothing the skirt of your dress. “I owe you something. I’m not sure what, but I’ll figure it out.”

“Hey,” Aegon says, and waits for you to turn to him. “Maybe I’m not that bad.”

“Maybe,” you agree thoughtfully.

Just before you hurry upstairs, you steal a glimpse of Aegon in the bathroom, the door kicked only half-closed. He has turned on the water, but he’s not using it yet. Aegon is staring down at the blood on his hand, half-dried scarlet impermanent ink.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hi, it’s me again. I’m in solitary confinement. There’s a guy in the cell next to mine; we talk to each other with a modified version of Morse code. Tap tap tap on the wall, he taps back, etcetera etcetera, you get the idea. You’re not going to believe this, but he says his name is John McCain. Well, actually, he told me his name is Jobm McCbin, but I think that’s because I translated the taps wrong. I might be in the Hanoi Hilton, but at least they have me in the VIP section! Hahaha.

Every few hours the guards show up to do a very impressive magic trick: they wave their batons like wands, I turn black and blue. Sometimes one of my teeth even disappears. Isn’t that something? Houdini would love it. There’s a rat that I’m making friends with. I give her nibbles of my stale bread, she gives me someone to talk to. She’s good company. I’ve named her Tessarion.

Allow me to make something absolutely fucking clear.

I would very much like to be rescued.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen #aegon targaryen ii #aegon ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon x y/n #aegon x you #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon targaryen x you

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autumnmobile12 · 9 months ago

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So we know that when Quirks first appeared, villains started making grabs for power, vigilantes appeared to stop them and restore the normal order, and some people went about forming their own dynasties with people who had similar powers.

Personally, I really want to hear more about the environmentalist vigilantes who ignored the immediate chaos and just took off to undo the harm humanity caused to nature.

People with ice Quirks who formed a coalition and rebuilt the arctic and antarctic circles.

A random person with a Quirk that allowed them to breathe in carbon gases and exhale oxygen, so they just took a couple hours out of their day peacefully reading books near a factory complex while advocating for cleaner emissions in the meantime.

The ones with plant-based Quirks stimulating plant growth in deforested areas.

Someone with an accumulation-type Quirk who could consume plastic and convert it to energy.

Other Quirk-users specifically targeting poachers

Electricity Quirk-users forming power companies of their own and stamping out the more harmful competition.

People who can talk to animals teaching animals hunted for sport (or harvested for medicinal remedies that don't work) how to avoid hunters and traps.

In the eyes of large corporations, some of these people were probably relegated to the status of villains and may have been targeted by the proto-Heroes as such, only to be met with the controversy of environmental advocates against environmentally destructive companies.

Fictional nations like Otheon and Klayd have sprung up in the My Hero world, so it stands to reason there are other new nations as well. Like if these early advocates carved out territories of their own and now areas like the Amazon or pockets of the savannah and taiga and other threatened ecosystems are currently independent oases thriving in the world.

All things considered, I feel like for all their societal problems, the My Hero world is a world that at least has its environmental stuff sorted out.

#my hero academia #quirks #environment #boku no hero academia #headcanons #bnha #mha

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neptuneiris · 1 year ago

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brooklyn baby (01/?)

i've got my eye on you

pairing: rockstar!aemond × fem!reader

summary: you go with your cousins to a concert of the band "Dragon Dynasty" in Brooklyn, although you are not a fan of the band, the guitarist catches your attention.

word count: 7.7k

series masterlist • next part

hello beautiful people, here I am again with a new fic! I'm so happy and very excited to start this, I hope you like it a lot, that you enjoy it and I'm looking forward to your support and your comments that I always love to answer:) seriously you guys are amazing!

I still don't know how many chapters this story will have but it won't be more than 10, so wait for them. thank you very much for reading loves, enjoy!

warnings: none yet.

He is so majestic.

It's the first thing you think when the band finally comes out on stage and the concert starts, causing the screams of a bunch of girls all around you all over the place, all of them joined by your cousins, Baela and Rhaena.

You don't even understand how the three of you managed to make it to the front, just Baela and Rhaena acted in survival mode and started dragging you all over the place, making their way through the crowd to get face to face with all the band members.

And now… you're sure that by the time this is all over, tomorrow the two of them won't have a voice because of all the screaming.

At first you thought it would just be another band that doesn't have a big audience and that even though it's a band you don't know, you'd still have a good time. Although it's not like it was an option not to come, your cousins literally forced you to.

However, you're surprised to see that the place is full and all the girls are going crazy, as well as your cousins already made sure to tell you all about the band, tell you what you need to know and show you their favorite songs all the way here.

Basically the band, Dragon Dynasty, just debuted at the end of last year and is already getting some pretty good recognition.

And not only for the music, but also for the appearance… peculiar, of all the members.

When Rhaena showed you pictures of all of them, either as a group or individually, you understood the obsession of both of them. They all have platinum hair and look as if they had stepped out of the very palace of the Greek Gods, all absolutely attractive and very sexy.

And now seeing them in person, just a few feet away from you, is very different from seeing them in their social media photos.

The lead singer, Aegon Targaryen, is the one who introduces all the band members and starts the concert. And every time he approaches the edge of the stage, the girls again scream, as they scream at every verse he sings.

Then Rhaena records and focuses more on the bass player, Luke, with his short platinum hair and sitting on one of the speakers, focused on his notes. While Baela, of course, focuses on the drummer named Jace, Luke's older brother.

You understand from the great information your cousins gave you about all of them that they are all brothers, except that Jace and Luke are cousins of the vocalist Aegon, the piano guy and the guy who plays the electric guitar, the last three being brothers.

You focus for a moment on the piano guy, who from Baela's information, he is the same age as Jace. He definitely has an incredible resemblance to his brothers and from time to time he smiles towards the crowd, or rather towards the girls, who of course scream and go completely crazy with those simple gestures.

But when you look at him… the guitarist… you immediately can't take your eyes off him.

When your cousins showed you the pictures of all of them, it was precisely him who caught your attention the most of all, Aemond Targaryen.

At first you thought that his pictures with that aesthetic on him were just for the band, as a way to draw attention, however, Rhaena explained to you that he doesn't really have a left eye.

In some photos he has a black patch on and in some others he doesn't, so instead there is a shiny ocean blue stone, like a sapphire, inside where his eye should be. And when Rhaena explained to you that this is how he really lives, it definitely caught your attention a lot more.

But not only for that, also for his style of clothes, whether they were black or black with white, as well as his expressions in the photos did not really show much.

In all of them he didn't look at the camera, he was always looking away with a serene and serious look at the same time, to show himself in the same way every time he looked at the camera with his guitar at all times and his platinum hair long and completely loose.

And now to see him in person… he still looks the same way, serious and completely focused on his guitar, except for his brothers and cousins who focus on the audience from time to time, but not him.

And just like that, you can't take your eyes off of him, as if he were an invisible attractive force, delighted by the way he focuses on playing his notes, his fingers moving across the strings and his bare arms showing you some tattoos on his pale skin.

Everything about him… it's just alluring, sexy, mysterious and at the same time… dangerous, as if it's not right to involve you somehow with him, but being so striking and exciting at the same time.

"They're great, huh?"

Baela shouts to you over the music, with a huge excited smile, as you nod, really unable to stop focusing on him.

"Yes, they are."

Actually the band is really good, regardless of the looks of the members, because what looks.

The songs are like a mix of Arctic Monkeys, The Neighbourhood, Cigarettes After Sex and some Lana del Rey type instrumentals, they also have more danceable songs in the style of The 1975, but all with cool guitar and drum instrumentals.

You really like them, the style of their music is to your liking, but again… you can't help but focus on him.

The concert lasts a little more than an hour, where during some little intermissions, you saw how he was lighting a cigarette and playing the guitar at the same time, so it was more and more impossible to take your eyes off him, listening how sometimes the girls were shouting his name and he was greeting them back with a simple nod of his head, that being enough to drive them crazy.

And by the time everything ends, the vocalist Aegon starts to say goodbye to all the members with an euphoria and an energy that he gave off all over the audience so that they would react in the same way.

"I want to hear loud cheers for our drummer, Jace!"

Baela screams like crazy next to you, leaving you completely stunned, as well as more girls around you, while the mentioned stands up from his seat and waves goodbye to all of them, smiling.

"To our pianist, my little brother, Daeron!"

More shouts, as he also waves goodbye with his hands and with a charming and flirtatious smile to all the girls, moving closer to the stage, that making many girls come closer to the edge, wanting to touch him, as he laughs and takes several of them by the hand.

"To our bassist, Luke!"

Rhaena is now the one who leaves you stunned from your left ear, as more girls shout, while the boy smiles and looks a little shy, looking very cute, waving goodbye to all of them with his hand, then lowering his gaze with his cheeks slightly blushing.

You see how Aemond next to him gives him a friendly tap on his shoulder, watching him with a small half smile and looking somewhat amused by his behavior, that catching your attention a lot, since you didn't see him smile much towards his audience.

"Now for our guitarist, Aemond!"

You clap, but don't shout, seeing how immediately the place is filled with screams and more applause, realizing that even though he's not very expressive and doesn't react much to the audience, still the girls are completely crazy about him.

And you don't blame them, it's obvious that's because of how incredibly handsome and sexy that man is.

However, even so he doesn't react much again to his applause, only waves goodbye with one of his hands, really watching everyone expressionless, reading on his lips as he says "thank you" and then turns around and picks up a bottle of water.

You bite your lips, still watching him, when finally Aegon gives the closing.

"And at last your server, ladies!" says the vocalist in a flirtatious manner, again the place exploding in cheers, "That's been all Brooklyn, thank you so much for having us. See you next time, we love you guys!"

He does get closer to the audience, instantly the guards react to take care of him, while he takes everyone's hands and also takes some bracelets or necklaces that the girls give him, while he smiles and blows kisses.

The rest of the members start to leave the stage, while Aegon continues to take all the screams and those little gifts, really getting along very well with the audience, to finally after a few moments, say goodbye and leave the stage.

"Did you like them?"

Rhaena asks you as the three of them stand, waiting for all the other girls to leave the not so big but not so small club.

"Yes, their songs are fine," you nod to her.

"Their songs or the guitarist rather?" Baela asks you with a mischievous look.

"Oh come on," you give her a look of few friends, still nerves giving you away.

"I knew it!" squeals Rhaena with a huge smile, "I knew you weren't more asking about him than the others for nothing."

"And I don't blame you," adds Baela, "With those tattoos who wouldn't be crazy about him?"

"But you like Jace and he doesn't have tattoos."

"Aemond is fine, like exaggeratedly fine," she clarifies, "But I feel like I wouldn't stand a chance with him, plus he's too serious and too closed off for my taste," she explains.

"But Y/N did like him," Rhaena says, folding her arms, watching you with a huge smile.

You roll your eyes, amused.

"I think the same as Baela, I feel like I wouldn't be able to get close to him, he looks very… serious and distant," you say finally, " Beside it's not like I'm going to get the chance, he's just a guy in a band that I liked, just like I like Harry and Zayn from One Direction or Alex Turner from Arctic Monkeys."

"Oh he's so hot," Rhaena says with a little giggle.

"Who of the three of them?" asks Baela.

"The three of them."

You nod, more than agreeing with her.

"Anyway…" says Balea, "Turning our focus back to this band, maybe you can get close to the sexy guitarist tonight."

"Hm?" you say instantly not understanding, looking at her confused.

Then from her bag Baela pulls out what appear to be three rectangular sheets of paper, but when you look closely, they are actually three tickets to who knows what.

"These are tickets to the band's after party," she says excitedly.

At first you don't finish processing anything, watching her like a fool, when Rhaena squeals more than happy and in disbelief, instantly grabbing you both by the arm to rush out of the club in the direction of the party, while you're still processing and asking Baela how she got those tickets.

"Savings," she tells you simply and without much explanation.

Leaving the club is a bit difficult because of all the other girls who are also trying to leave, when the three of you are already arriving at the corresponding small pub where the after party will be, which in fact is right behind the club where the band gave the concert, so getting there doesn't take any time at all.

Once outside the pub, there are other girls waiting to get in, all excited and impatient, some of them have their own band t-shirts and posters for the band to sign. And at the entrance there are two huge men, asking for tickets and complying with security protocol to let them in.

"Help me take a picture with Luke when it's my turn, please," Rhaena asks you.

"Sure."

"Me too," Baela says instantly, "With Jace."

"Okay," you tell her amused.

Then finally all three of you hand the tickets to the seemingly bodyguard, only to enter without any trouble as you go through security protocols as well.

Rhaena shakes you by the arm excitedly, trying to control herself, as the three of you walk into the place, where you instantly recognize those platinum hairs spread all over the pub, already receiving the fans.

The place is considerably spacious, it doesn't feel as suffocating as at the concert and there's definitely more room to move around despite the fact that more girls are constantly coming in to meet the guys.

The bar is free, there is light rock music playing in the background and there are more bodyguards watching out.

You see how all the fans line up and wait their turn with each respective member, being the first to recognize the vocalist, Aegon, who more than smiling signs T-shirts, posters, hats and even phone cases. Also the pianist, Daeron, who takes selfies and also signs.

But when Rhaena identifies Luke, she quickly squeals and prepares to go to him with her T-shirt ready to be signed by him in hand, as does Baela, focusing on Jace.

You walk Rhaena over first, promising Baela to keep an eye out for her for when it's her turn with Jace, then start lining up, trying to calm your cousin's nerves as you sense she'll throw up at any moment or be unable to speak coherently to the bassist.

Then when Rhaena gets distracted on her phone, setting up the camera for pictures, you instantly think of the guitarist and start looking for him.

However, the only ones you see are Aegon, Daeron, Luke and Jace, with no fifth long platinum hair. Confused, you go back over the whole place, really him nowhere to be seen, realizing that there are girls specifically with posters of him, also just like you looking for him, all of them confused and disappointed.

And you don't understand, isn't he supposed to be here too?

You find it strange that out of all of them, it is him especially who doesn't make any appearance, while all the other members do attend to their fans, apparently not worried about the absence of their guitarist or anyone else actually, just the fans.

Inevitably you also start to get disappointed, but you immediately focus on Rhaena, as her turn will be soon and she insists that you help her calm down, giving her encouragement and support.

When the time comes.

The boy, Luke, is actually very sweet, instantly giving his full attention to Rhaena, who acts just as shy as he is, looking excited as the two gently embrace, while he asks her name and introduces himself to her as well.

He signs her T-shirt, also her phone case, all while they both talk, to then move on to the selfie and finally the photo, while you watch with a small smile as the boy's cheeks blush and Rhaena is more than excited and nervous at the same time, hugging him and smiling for the photo.

"This is my cousin, by the way, Y/N," Rhaena shyly introduces you to him as they both separate.

"Oh, hi Y/N, I'm Luke," the boy says to you with a charming smile, not being able to cause you more tenderness, "Thanks for coming."

"Hi," you say smiling, "Nice to meet you, Luke."

You take advantage of the moment and also take a selfie with him and Rhaena, where the three of you come out all smiles, without his cheeks stop blushing, and then pass the next fan.

Rhaena can't stop smiling, again shaking your arm excitedly and on the verge of collapsing with happiness, as she quickly goes through the photos, announcing that she will upload them to her Instagram stories this instant.

You laugh and then she heads off to line up to meet Daeron now, while you now head to Baela.

Unlike with Rhaena and Luke, you can clearly identify your cousin's flirting methods and surprisingly Jace reacts completely to her, looking just as flirty as she does, talking in her ear and both of them very close to each other.

You take their picture and get excited for your cousin, seeing how both of them even after the picture talk to each other, still very close, with that clear interest in the body behavior of both of them, but more of him towards her.

And you don't blame him either, no doubt your cousins are very beautiful, you always tell them every day and they tell you too.

At the end Baela also introduces you with Jace, he also looking very nice and friendly like his little brother, just not as cute, but very sexy.

Then after finishing with Jace, Baela turns to Rhaena, getting her in line to meet Daeron where both of them will now help each other with the pictures, so you head to the bar, taking a seat on one of the stools, observing everything and taking the opportunity to order a free drink.

"Can I have a gin and tonic, please?" you ask the bar tender.

"Of course," the man says politely.

While he prepares your drink, you take the opportunity to check your social media, entertaining yourself for a moment and also looking at the time, realizing that it's almost midnight, so you'll probably be home by two in the morning.

You let out a long breath and at that moment the bar tender hands you the gin and tonic, you thank him and start drinking, relaxing and keeping your eye on your cousins.

When at that moment you remember him again, Aemond, so hopefully you look around the place again, looking for him, but you are surprised to see that there is still no sign of him, really confusing you.

The girls who were also looking for him before, line up to take pictures with Aegon, but like you, they also seem to be looking for him, without success.

It continues to seem weird to you and you feel really disappointed, just realizing in that instant how terribly disappointed you are, as if you've been a fan of his for months, when you've only just met him tonight, telling yourself what the hell is wrong with you.

So time passes, you watch as your cousins after meeting Daeron, head to Aegon, nothing really being quick as they take their time with each fan, until you finish your gin and tonic, not ordering anything else as you must be driving and stand at the bar, waiting.

It's until a few minutes later that you decide to go to the restroom, asking the bar tender where they are and he points you to a hallway at the back, instantly thanking him and heading that way.

You see how in the hallway there are four doors and you head to the two at the back, having the signs for the women's restroom and men's restroom, but when you try to open the door, it doesn't open, being occupied, realizing that it's only one restroom instead of several.

You let out a long breath, as this is common in small pubs, having to wait in the hallway, leaning against the wall for the girl inside to come out.

Again you distract yourself with your phone, holding back the urge to pee, trying not to get desperate, glancing from time to time through the hallway entrance at all the girls out there, being able to see your cousins from this distance, not long before it's their turn to meet Aegon.

You bite your lips and continue to wait, when as you are leaning between the wall and under the frame of one of the other doors that you have no idea where they go, it suddenly opens and you almost lose your balance, stabilizing yourself instantly and moving away, watching the person with some surprise and shame.

When the nerves and the surprise invade you completely, seeing that it is him, the guitarist.

He really looks at you without any expression on his face, while you place the appropriate distance between the two of you in this small hallway, still looking at him surprised and like an idiot, instantly telling yourself off to act normal, still watching him carefully.

And how could you not? The man is absolutely beautiful.

Compared to the concert, you have him face to face, his features being more than perfectly visible, admiring the shape of his lips and nose, as if it had been carefully carved, then nervously observing his intense blue eye and his sapphire eye, looking amazing and beautiful to you.

Then you quickly observe his various tattoos on both arms, recognizing a musical note, tree branches, birds, a moon and other figures you don't instantly identify, but you notice perfectly how he has a dragon on his shoulder.

Again you look him in the eye, getting instantly nervous because he is already watching you intensely, looking away from him because of the same nerves, having no idea how to really react since he doesn't move, neither do you and you feel unable to speak, feeling a lump in your throat.

He is simply too handsome and too sexy.

You think in the midst of all your nervousness, when the two of you are simply there, not far away but not too close either, suddenly feeling the hallway too small and feeling out of nowhere suffocated, not understanding what's wrong with you.

"Are there many people out there?"

He asks you suddenly, definitely not expecting that, as he stands still in the doorway, watching you, while you barely process the sound of his voice, watching him like an idiot for a moment.

React!

Your mind reprimands you, really not wanting to embarrass yourself with him, much less when he's just asked you something.

You clear your throat and control yourself, to look back towards the center of the pub, where there are indeed a lot of girls and there are many especially who want to see him. You bite your lips and return your nervous, attentive gaze to him, realizing that he hasn't even come out into the hallway, keeping himself hidden in that room.

"Yes," you finally say to him, trying to sound like a normal person, not letting your nerves completely get the better of you.

He lets out a long breath, then averts his gaze from yours and you watch as he carefully peeks out of the doorframe, this catching your attention, as he inspects everything and honestly looks a little irritated, which you don't understand why.

And at that moment you don't know if you should, considering he still wants to keep himself hidden, but also Baela's voice tells you: bitch, take advantage and talk to him, you literally have him right in front of you!

Yes, that's something she would tell you if she saw you now.

"You're not a fan of being among so many people?"

You ask him softly, overcoming your nerves, but again you feel your heart leap in your chest as he looks at you again.

"Not much," he answers you.

And at that moment, you only admire more of his handsome features he offers you as you stand face to face with his profile, actually making you very nervous. And his answer actually makes sense to you.

He on stage is very calm and quiet, so now having to be among all the fans, it really doesn't seem to be his strongest suit.

"Still a lot of girls are looking forward to seeing you," you tell him softly, "They all look very excited."

You see how he frowns a bit, not saying anything back to you, which alerts you a bit since you really don't want to ruin this opportunity by talking to him, even though it seems you already have, but… what did you say wrong?

He continues to look at you like that, so intensely, when then you see perfectly how he looks you up and down, definitely making you more nervous than before, and then you see how he puts his hands in his front pockets and leans on the door frame casually.

The image couldn't have infarcted you more, as he does everything in a calculated manner, movements so simple that they already completely steal your breath away, only for him to tilt his head and continue watching you with that intensity, but now also curious.

"And you don't?"

He asks you with that soft but so manly voice that makes you part your lips, completely weakening your legs, watching him for a moment without understanding while he watches you expectantly, but still with that sexy demeanor.

"You weren't expecting to see me?"

Oh my God.

You think, unable to answer him, your voice right now not working, much less when he continues with his burning gaze in your direction, now having no idea how to behave.

However, you know you must be behaving like a fool in his eye, so you force yourself to answer him but truthfully.

"Actually," you start to say, trying to control your nerves, "I'm waiting for the person in the restroom to come out," you point your gaze to the door, to again watch him.

Then he too watches the restroom door for a moment, to again focus on you, watching perfectly as he presses his lips together in a soft, thin line and then you see what appears to be a small, barely visible grin appear.

And even though you didn't see him smile much during the concert, nor does he do it in his band's promotional photos, now that you see him do it and only meters away from you, the man couldn't look more beautiful to you.

"Hm," is all he says, turning back to watching you like that, his gaze completely attentive and burning, all his attention on you.

Holy shit.

That's all you can think, watching him without taking your eyes off him, just as he does with you, again feeling the space suddenly very small and the air hot.

When suddenly, you see perfectly well how he opens his mouth to say something, taking a step forward, calling your full attention, but at the moment he does that, a girl at the beginning of the hallway shouts his name at the sight of him.

And that's when chaos breaks out.

The girl quickly heads towards him, excited, instantly being followed by a bunch of other girls, all holding caps and t-shirts for him to sign, wasting no time and completely breaking the spell between the two of you.

You watch Aemond again and he's already watching you, but instantly he starts giving attention to all the girls, being surrounded by all of them, to which you can't help but feel disappointed because the moment is over, since... you don't know what the fuck was going on a few seconds ago with him but you were enjoying it.

When at that moment the door to the women's restroom finally opens, a girl coming out of it but now being difficult to get back to the center of the pub because of Aemond and all his girls obstructing the way.

You head for the restroom, suddenly feeling that same attentive and burning gaze on your back again for a few seconds as you close the door behind you. You take all the time in the world, trying to calm your heart rate and trying to stop feeling your hot skin, processing what happened out there with him, really taking a considerable amount of time.

You realize you need Baela's advice, thinking about texting her right now and getting her to give you techniques so you don't get nervous, but you doubt she'll text back if she's still getting to know the rest of the members of the band.

However, you don't know if you should ask Aemond for a picture or not, not being very sure about it, but you know that if you don't ask him for a picture or an autograph, you will regret it tomorrow.

You let out a sigh, looking at yourself in the mirror and telling yourself that you have to control, that you shouldn't act like a fool and that you should behave as normal as possible, not letting your nerves get the better of you.

In the end you don't text anyone, you gather your courage and finally come out of the restroom.

The first thing you see is how Aemond is still there, only now with few girls, in fact finishing signing an autograph for them, to which you watch him carefully and attentively, again having no idea whether to go back to the center of the pub to find your cousins and get their advice before going back to him or ask for his autograph here, taking advantage of it.

But you don't even have anything he can sign for you, except your phone case.

However, the time to think and decide is over when the girls take a picture with him and then start to walk away, all of them looking at him with that excited gaze and of complete desire, while Aemond looks at them one last time and... he watches you again.

And there you have your nerves again, but you don't let them get the better of you, lowering your gaze for a moment, thinking quickly about what to say to him, feeling again that tension between the two of you now that you are alone again in this small hallway.

And at this, Aemond decides to act fast, considering the after party isn't over yet.

"Do you want me to sign something for you?"

He asks you while directing all his attention towards you, with those fucking movements he makes that aren't that big of a deal but completely steal your breath, standing completely still and watching him carefully.

Talk, act, react!

Your fed up and annoyed mind tells you, also Baela's voice if she saw you at this moment, so that's what you do, however, again you respond with the truth and with shame.

"Yes, I'd love to," you look at him nervous, "But I don't really have anything for you to sign."

"You bought tickets to our after party and you didn't bring anything the band can sign for you?"

Oh God.

You think on the verge of collapsing in embarrassment, as he again looks at you between slightly confused and curious.

"Well, I didn't know my cousin had bought tickets to meet you. It was actually her and my other cousin who brought me to the concert," you explain, trying not to show how really nervous you are, as he tilts his head in your direction.

"So you're not a fan," he assumes and you're so embarrassed that he's right.

"But... you were still amazing tonight," you tell him instantly, being terribly honest, "I liked your music and will definitely listen to it often."

He nods slowly in your direction, apparently now understanding you, watching you even with that curiosity and again that small, barely visible grin appearing on his lips, watching him run you from head to toe, not being able to make you any more nervous than you already are.

"Hm," he says in nod, "That explains why you didn't jump on me the second I opened the door."

You let out a nervous little laugh, looking away from him for a second.

"Disappointed?" you ask him a bit amused.

"Just a little."

You smile softly in his direction, not showing your teeth, as he continues to make you nervous and make you feel as if the space between you is very short and the air is hot as he continues to watch you like that, as if inspecting you and as if he wants to see right through you.

However, you know that the moment can be broken at any moment if more girls come looking for him, so you don't get your hopes up too high. When suddenly he averts his gaze and points you to the door through which he left a few moments ago.

"It's our break room," he tells you, "There are new t-shirts and posters in there, if you want I can sign one of them and give it to you."

Oh my...

You feel the excitement run through you, definitely not expecting that, starting to feel your heart rate accelerate, but you instantly get yourself under control and tell yourself that no way are you going to pass up the opportunity.

"Well, if it's no problem," you nod to him.

He starts backing away, as he heads for the door.

"Come."

And you don't hesitate to follow him.

He opens the door for you, watching you intently and again with that intensity, to which you again feel like your heart will probably jump out of your chest, from excitement and also from nerves, to finally enter the room.

You don't even know why but a shiver runs through your whole body, bristling your skin, as he closes the door behind you and walks past you, his arm gently brushing yours, feeling for an instant his burning skin.

He heads towards a table, while you watch him attentively and take a look at the room, not big but not small either, seeing how there are numerous backpacks, sound equipment, tables, chairs, a couch and also a table with snacks and bottles of water.

There are also the guitar cases, identifying his guitar on the couch, where he was probably sitting playing before, hiding from everyone out there. The noise here is less, you hear more the background music than voices, actually this space being very calm.

"What do you prefer?"

You suddenly hear him say to you, instantly causing you to stop surveying the room and focus on him, who is already watching you intently, pointing out the caps, t-shirts or posters on the table.

"Or do you want all three?" he observes you with that grin.

Focus, Y/N. You can do it.

You tell yourself, not wanting him to affect you any more than he's already affecting you or you'll ruin this moment by letting yourself get carried away by nerves, which is just what you don't want.

So you try not to focus too much on his mannerisms when he's talking to you.

"The shirt is fine," you point out to him.

You're not a big fan of the caps and posters you like but on this occasion... you're going more for the T-shirt.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

You choose the T-shirt in your size while he picks up a pen, then you hand it to him and he starts writing.

"What's your name?"

"Y/N."

"Y/N," he repeats slowly as he writes it down.

This sends a wave of excitement and nerves throughout your body because of the way he has said it, concentrating on his writing, while you watch him intently, still finding the shape of his face and also his hair majestic, looking more majestic having him right in front of you.

You really don't understand what's wrong with him but God... he's really beautiful.

"So you're not a fan hm?"

He says to you as he finishes signing and hands you the shirt, instantly placing a nervous little smile, taking it.

"Actually no. My cousins brought me, they were both very excited and needed someone to drive."

At this he again looks interested and turns around to lean against the edge of the table casually, crossing his arms, watching you, while you stand next to him and almost have to lift your whole head up to him so you can look him in the eye as you talk.

"You don't live in Brooklyn?"

You shake your head.

"Manhattan."

He frowns slightly.

"Manhattan?"

He repeats and you nod, watching him curiously for a moment as you watch him think in silence for a few seconds, then again watching you curious and confused at the same time.

"And why your cousins didn't buy tickets for the concert we're giving there next Friday?"

"Oh," you go blank for a moment, but react instantly, remembering, "Well, they did want to buy tickets, but they had credit card problems and by the time they fixed it, all the tickets were sold out and they bought the Brooklyn ones," you explain.

He doesn't say anything else to you for a few seconds, watching you intently, as he has been watching you all along, so intently that you feel your legs go weak, to which you nervously avert your gaze from him and look at the T-shirt in your hands, seeing his autograph.

And all you can think about is how crazy Baela and Rhaena will go when you tell them this.

"Pick something for your cousins," he says suddenly, making you look at him again, "I'll sign it too."

"Oh, sure, thanks."

You tell him with a nervous little smile to start choosing, beginning to believe that you'll never really stop feeling nervous in his presence, much less if you're both alone in this room.

For Rhaena you choose a poster for her, as she's a big fan of having lots of them of her favorite artists and sticking them all over her room, while for Baela you also choose a t-shirt.

You notice how Aemond walks away for a moment as you look for Baela's size, then return and begin to sign that for your cousins as well, again watching or rather subtly admiring his face of concentration as he begins to write.

"Here," he gives you everything, finishing.

"Thank you very much,"

You tell him sincerely, as he straightens up completely again, setting the pen down on the table and leaning back against the edge of it.

"You're welcome," he nods in your direction.

You look away, having no idea how to say goodbye to him, you don't even want the moment to end even though his gaze on you makes you feel so nervous, but for obvious reasons, your cousins must already be looking for you and you know he must be out here to attend to more of his fans.

"Hum... then I'll see you... out there, I guess," you smile at him, starting to walk away, "This was very kind of you."

"Wait."

He says to you suddenly, stopping your step, standing in front of him, as you watch him take a few more steps towards you, completely alerting you, but seeing him take a hand to the back of his pants, watching as he takes something from his pocket, confusing you but completely getting your attention.

Then his eye watches you back, his gaze so intense and so penetrating, as you watch him with your lips parted, this suddenly closeness suffocating you too much, not helping anything that the two of you are here alone.

However, he places his hand between the two of you, handing you something and when you look at it, confusion overtakes you further, seeing that they are tickets to his concert as they have the words 'Dragon Dynasty" printed in large letters on them.

"These are tickets for the concert in Manhattan, next Friday," he says softly, still hand them to you.

And even after explaining, you still don't finish processing anything, as he continues waiting for you to take them, while you continue to stand still and watch him like an idiot, slowly beginning to understand.

"B-but...

"Take them, Y/N," he says again, softly, watching you expectantly.

Take them? Just like that? For free?

You immediately deny, staring at him in confusion.

"No, but... I-I...wait, you...

"It's fine," she assures you, interrupting you.

"But you can't do this or can you?" you ask him totally bewildered and surprised, not believing it.

"Of course I can, in fact I'm doing it now," he tells you as if it's the most normal thing in the world.

But you continue to watch him confused, not understanding why he is doing this with you especially, again feeling the nerves invade you and the hot air hit you mercilessly, not being able to think straight.

"W-what? But...

"What is it?" he asks taking a step closer to you, stopping your heart for a second, "Don't you want to see me again?"

My God...

No. You can't do it anymore. It's right there when you lose it completely.

The way he has asked you, watching you completely attentively and with that barely visible grin, his body starting to invade your personal space, slowly leaning towards you, the space between you both ceasing to exist and all of him embracing you completely.

That delicious manly cologne hits your nostrils, also the slight smell of cigarette, everything about him being so alluring, so sexy, so mysterious and dangerous somehow.

And he does it all in such a calculating way... he doesn't even do it all that fast, he does it all slow, just the way he wants to catch you, while you slowly start to let yourself be carried away by him as well.

With your heart beating too fast, you look at the tickets in his hand and slowly raise your eyes to look at him, when he is already looking at you and just like that.

Don't you want to see me again?

His question repeats in your mind, at that moment no longer taking anything else into account. Because he is clearly flirting with you, and why do you not do the same?

"Do you want to see me again?"

You ask him in your soft, low voice, to which he only leans a little closer to you, that grin returning.

"Isn't it obvious?"

He tells you in the same way, his voice soft, low and completely calculating, his answer surprising and thrilling you, watching perfectly as he watches between your eyes and your lips, his eye completely full of desire, while you do the same.

You wonder what it will feel like to kiss him, how he will reciprocate, if soft or hard and if you will also feel his hands on your body, caressing you.

The atmosphere feels tense somehow, as you both start to invade each other's personal space, at the same time as your hand takes the tickets, all hot air and suddenly feeling that need to touch him, to kiss him, to feel him closer to you.

However, just as the small distance between the two of you starts to disappear, with all his delicious scent and his whole alluring body enveloping you completely, just at that damn moment the door suddenly opens.

You jump all the way back, scared and surprised, as the two of you stare at the door and Aegon is the responsible for the interruption.

"Dude, why are you still here? Cole's going to kill you if you don't come out this instant, you know? It's crazy out there, there's girls crying, they want to see you and you-oh....

He stops talking suddenly, barely in that instant realizing your presence as well even though you're standing next to Aemond, feeling embarrassment run through all your body, as he realizes what was probably going on here when he watches you both with his lips parted, so you lower your gaze in shame and bite your lips.

"My bad, sorry," he says and then slowly places a mischievous smile, now watching you and Aemond continuously, "I interrupted something, didn't I?"

You listen as Aemond clears his throat, no longer feeling the closeness of his body against yours, while you feel the embarrassment more.

"No," he tells him in a more serious voice and nothing compared to how he was speaking to you before.

"Oh," Aegon says again and you pluck up the courage to finally get out of here.

"Thank you," you say to Aemond without even looking at him, hurrying out of the room.

With all the things he signed in your hands and also the tickets, you don't even look at Aegon when you pass by his side, feeling so embarrassed and starting to feel your cheeks very hot, not bearing to be in his presences anymore.

And you don't even look back, you just run away, not being able to believe that you were about to make out with him, the sexy guitarist, Aemond.

You immediately look around like crazy for your cousins, seeing that Baela is taking a picture of Rhaena with Jace, so you quickly head towards them, acting normal, waiting for them to finish and by the time they do, you hand them the t-shirt and the poster.

"Where were you?" asks Baela confused.

"In the restroom and I got this for you," you say without much detail, the memory of Aemond's beautiful face near you still so fresh.

"Why are you so red?" asks you now Rhaena confused.

"I drank a gin and tonic," you lie, acting totally unconcerned with Aemond's lips about to touch yours still present .

"Did you talk to the sexy guitarist?" asks you Baela excited.

"Yes," you say acting unconcerned.

"And?"

"Nothing," you say with a shrug and she looks at you disappointed.

If only she knew.

But nothing ends there. Both of them now want a picture with Aemond even though they already have each his autograph, so you decide to wait again at the bar and they follow you, waiting for him to show up, you for anything in the world wanting to be near him again with your cousins around.

When then Aemond finally comes out of that hallway, appearing in the center of the pub with Aegon by his side, instantly you and him exchanging glances without even expecting it at all. And even with the embarrassment, you quickly avert your gaze from him, as the both begin to be surrounded by more girls, among them your cousins.

You're not sure exactly how much time passes, until finally Baela and Rhaena are satisfied and the three of you leave the pub, with half an hour left before the after party is over, but it's too late now and you have to drive.

However, before the three of you get in the car, you pull out the tickets that Aemond gave you for free and extend them to them.

"These are tickets for the concert in Manhattan, Aemond gave them to me," you say and then head for the driver's seat door, unlocking the doors.

And then all you hear as you start to leave your cousins behind are their screams.

During the whole ride, neither of them leave you alone, wanting to know exactly in detail what happened with the guitarist, Baela more than anything else feeling offended that you lied to her when she asked you if anything happened with him.

But when you tell them about everything and also about how the two of them almost kissed, she doesn't feel upset anymore and screams excitedly together with Rhaena, both surprised and unable to believe it, also unable to believe about the free tickets.

Luckily the questions don't last for the whole ride, so you also have time to think about him, Aemond, everything that happened with him and pretty much everything about him not leaving your thoughts alone as you drive from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x oc #aemond x reader #hotd aemond

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thepromptfoundry · 26 days ago

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Calling all history nerds, period piece connoisseurs, and fans of time-travel plots! Decades December is coming up here at The Prompt Foundry!

This list is being posted a little earlier than usual because historical work can take some time. The list has some reference points for you to jump off from. Show off your special interest in a particular era or event, or start a wiki walk from the the Wikipedia page for each decade to learn something new!

Have fun exploring resources like @thetimelinesofslang, the Fashion History Timelines from NYSU's Fashion Institute of Technology, or the fashion plates and historical photos from blogs like @omgthatdress or @historical-fashion-polls!

If you use this list, please tag me here @thepromptfoundry, I’d love to see your writing and art!

Feel free to combine different days' prompts with each other, or combine them with other events! Use your OCs, your favorite characters from media, your own experiences, whatever tickles your fancy.

Respond to as many prompts as you want or as interest you, don’t worry about missing or skipping any. Remember, this is supposed to be fun!

If you have any questions or musings, check our FAQ, and if you don't find your answer, shoot me an ask.

Plain text list below the cut:

1) 0010s Xin dynasty in China, Caesar Augustus in Rome

2) 1900s Edwardian era, Russo-Japanese War, release of the first feature film The Great Train Robbery

3) 300s Teotihuacan flourishing in present-day Mexico, writing of the Kama Sutra

4) 1910s World War 1, the Russian Revolution

5) 1440s Late Middle Ages/Early Renaissance in Europe, the hangul writing system is introduced in Korea

6) 1920s Prohibition in the US, rise of fascism in Europe, earliest sync-sound movies

7) 0070s Roman Epire, destruction of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, eruption of Mt. Vesuvius and destruction of Pompeii

8) 1930s The Great Depression, the Declaration of the Independence of India, art deco, color film

9) 1090s The First Crusade, the Liao, Xia, and Song dynasties in various parts of China

10) 1810s The Napoleonic Wars, the Regency era in England

11) 1940s World War 2, post-war rebuilding

12) 1000s BC The Iron Age, King David of the Israelites, development of the Phoenician alphabet

13) 1950s Baby Boom, Red Scare, the Korean War, rock'n'roll, zippers and television both become commonplace

14) 1340s The Black Death in Europe, decline of the Mongol Empire

15) 1590s Late Elizabethan Era in Europe, William Shakespeare, Imjin War between Japan and Korea

16) 1960s Moon landing, hippies, mod fashion, Chinese Cultural Revolution, Stonewall, Star Trek, the Civil Rights movement

17) 1770s The American Revolution, founding of the real Illuminati

18) 1860s American Civil War era, late Edo period in Japan

19) 1970s The Sexual Revolution, disco, the first video games, end of the Vietnam War

20) 2200s Whatever the future holds!

21) 1980s End of the Cold War and fall of the Berlin Wall, beginnings of the World Wide Web, the First Intifada in Gaza

22) 1660s Part of the Golden Age of Piracy, the English Restoration

23) 1990s Internet access becomes widespread, grunge, the Gulf War, the Troubles in Ireland, height of the AIDS crisis, Princess Dianna, first Pokemon games

24) 1230s University of Cambridge founded in England, beginnings of the Mali Empire in Africa, rein of Emperor Shijo in Japan

25) 2000s The “War On Terror”, rise of Big Tech, Y2K fashion, emo culture, cell phones become commonplace

26) 1880s Gilded Age, the first skyscrapers, electrification of cities, first household electrical appliances like fans and irons

27) 1640s Qing dynasty begins in China, the First English Civil War

28) 2010s Hipster culture, height of video streaming, YA lit boom

29) 500s Liang and Northern Wei dynasties in China, Heptarchy period in England, height of prosperity of the Mayan Empire

30) 2020s Present day!

31) 3130s Whatever the future holds!

#the prompt foundry #Decades December 2024 #history #historical fashion #historical fiction #prompt list #drawing prompt #writing prompt #art prompt #writing challenge #writing inspiration #drawing challenge #drawing inspiration #art challenge #art inspiration #speculative fiction #time travel #period piece

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rjzimmerman · 7 months ago

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Excerpt from this Op-Ed from the New York Times:

At first glance, Xi Jinping seems to have lost the plot.

China’s president appears to be smothering the entrepreneurial dynamism that allowed his country to crawl out of poverty and become the factory of the world. He has brushed aside Deng Xiaoping’s maxim “To get rich is glorious” in favor of centralized planning and Communist-sounding slogans like “ecological civilization” and “new, quality productive forces,” which have prompted predictions of the end of China’s economic miracle.

But Mr. Xi is, in fact, making a decades-long bet that China can dominate the global transition to green energy, with his one-party state acting as the driving force in a way that free markets cannot or will not. His ultimate goal is not just to address one of humanity’s most urgent problems — climate change — but also to position China as the global savior in the process.

It has already begun. In recent years, the transition away from fossil fuels has become Mr. Xi’s mantra and the common thread in China’s industrial policies. It’s yielding results: China is now the world’s leading manufacturer of climate-friendly technologies, such as solar panels, batteries and electric vehicles. Last year the energy transition was China’s single biggest driver of overall investment and economic growth, making it the first large economy to achieve that.

This raises an important question for the United States and all of humanity: Is Mr. Xi right? Is a state-directed system like China’s better positioned to solve a generational crisis like climate change, or is a decentralized market approach — i.e., the American way — the answer?

How this plays out could have serious implications for American power and influence.

Look at what happened in the early 20th century, when fascism posed a global threat. America entered the fight late, but with its industrial power — the arsenal of democracy — it emerged on top. Whoever unlocks the door inherits the kingdom, and the United States set about building a new architecture of trade and international relations. The era of American dominance began.

Climate change is, similarly, a global problem, one that threatens our species and the world’s biodiversity. Where do Brazil, Pakistan, Indonesia and other large developing nations that are already grappling with the effects of climate change find their solutions? It will be in technologies that offer an affordable path to decarbonization, and so far, it’s China that is providing most of the solar panels, electric cars and more. China’s exports, increasingly led by green technology, are booming, and much of the growth involves exports to developing countries.

From the American neoliberal economic viewpoint, a state-led push like this might seem illegitimate or even unfair. The state, with its subsidies and political directives, is making decisions that are better left to the markets, the thinking goes.

But China’s leaders have their own calculations, which prioritize stability decades from now over shareholder returns today. Chinese history is littered with dynasties that fell because of famines, floods or failures to adapt to new realities. The Chinese Communist Party’s centrally planned system values constant struggle for its own sake, and today’s struggle is against climate change. China received a frightening reminder of this in 2022, when vast areas of the country baked for weeks under a record heat wave that dried up rivers, withered crops and was blamed for several heatstroke deaths.

#China #climate change #renewable energy

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farity · 9 months ago

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Devil in the Details

"Oh. My. Motherfucking. God."

You turned at your friend Floris's whispered exclamation.

It took you but a second to figure out what she was so excited about.

Aemond Targaryen, the black sheep of the Targaryen dynasty, the reclusive billionaire who looked down at everyone vying for his attention, the man you'd been in lust with since you'd met him five years ago, had actually made an appearance at the glittering charity gala hosted by his mother.

"I need to get his skin care routine," Floris said, biting on her lower lip as she scrutinized Aemond from head to toe. "I'd love to climb that tree tonight."

Good luck with that, you thought to yourself.

You'd been in the same Uni class as his sister Helaena and met Aemond when you'd gone over to work on a joint project. He'd been quiet and almost shy, and you had been instantly smitten.

And had not been able to date anyone in the five years since because all you thought about was Aemond Targaryen.

Not that he gave you a second thought, as far as you knew.

"What the fuck is he wearing?" Floris continued, and, tired of pining after the man, you looked at her and snapped, "why don't you go find out?" before walking away to get your drink refilled.

* * * * *

"We are so very thankful for your family's contribution - the children will benefit greatly," Alicent smiled at you, leaning in to air-kiss you as you said your goodbyes.

You got your coat from the girl at the front, and were about to call for your car when you felt a hand grab your arm.

"Leaving already?"

Your heart began pounding as you recognized Aemond's voice, and taking a breath to steady yourself, you turned to face him.

By the Seven, he looked amazing. He'd shaved off his hair a few months ago when Aegon had done the same after having one too many drinks. Alicent had screamed at her oldest son and out of brotherly solidarity, Aemond had grabbed the electric shaver and started running it along his scalp right in front of his mother.

His eyes bore into yours, the prosthetic eye he had so perfect that you couldn't tell which eye was the real one. Every time you thought about it, you wanted to wallop his cousin, the little shit who had taken Aemond's eye during a childhood fight.

"I've seen enough people to last me a few months," you said, looking at what was, indeed, damn perfect skin, as Floris had mentioned. And was that eyeliner? Because his eyes had never been bluer than they were at that moment.

"Tell me about it," he said, still holding on to your arm, "I was going to grab a drink at the quiet bar next door, if you're game."

There was something vulnerable in his expression and you found yourself nodding and taking the arm he offered. "What in the world are these?" you asked.

He looked down at the latex gloves. "Mother's been berating me for not making an appearance at these things," he shrugged, "so here I am. Maybe she should have specified a dress code."

* * * * *

"You know, there's a name for what you're doing," you said, taking a sip of your drink.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Malicious compliance."

He smiled and nodded. "Yeah, that would be me." He looked back up at you, eyes sparkling, "if she'd wanted me to wear a tux, she should have said so."

"Would you have, though?" you prodded, "I have a feeling you would have figured some way to twist that dress code around. You were always the clever one."

"Not so clever if I never got you to go out with me."

You stared at him for a few seconds. "Aemond, you never asked."

"I'm asking now."

He placed a few bills on the table and placed his hand palm up on the table.

You narrowed your eyes at him, making him laugh, and then placed your hands on his, and let him lead you out the door.

* * * * *

"How is Helaena liking Naath?"

"She loves it there. She has to get her shot every six months but she doesn't care, as long as she can keep studying the butterflies."

"And Aegon?"

"He stopped drinking after he shaved off his head, said it didn't suit his perfectly shaped skull."

You laughed, remembering Aegon's rather oversized ego, and then stole a glance at Aemond. "What about you? How have you been?"

He shrugged, "the company is doing well, family's good," he looked at you, "and I'm on a wonderful date."

You raised your eyebrows, "oh it's a date, is it?"

You could have sworn he blushed, but he lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the back. "It very much is, but I do have a problem." He looked at you very seriously. "I need to lose these damn gloves."

* * * * *

It took about twenty minutes of careful tugging and maneuvering but finally, Aemond was free of the gloves and while you got two coffees to keep you going, he headed to the bathroom to wash his arms.

Back on the street, he grabbed your hand in his as he sipped at his coffee. "This is much better."

"So where on earth does one get this sort of getup to shock Alicent Hightower?"

He smiled. "My friend is a stylist and he hooked me up. His girlfriend is a makeup artist and she put all this stuff on my face and hair."

"You look amazing," you said sincerely, "your eyes look super blue."

"I could feel mom's blood pressure spiking as she noticed the eyeliner and highlighter," he laughed. "It was worth it."

"I bet she'll say extra prayers for you tonight."

Nodding, he took another sip of his coffee. "Not enough prayers in the world," he mused. You stopped to drink some of your own coffee and he pulled you closer. "And I really want to kiss you."

You looked up at him, your heart beating faster, and then he placed his coffee cup down, and took your face in his hands. He brushed his nose against yours, not rushing you, and then his lips touched yours. He kept the kiss light and gentle, his fingertips threading through your hair as you sighed against him.

He murmured your name as he wrapped an arm around you. You didn't want this to end, this magical night, and then he spoke again.

"Come home with me."

* * * * *

"You feel so damn good," Aemond whispered in the lift, his hands on your hips as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

The car stopped and the doors opened, and you stepped into his loft, his hands roaming over your ass as you kicked off your shoes and let him pull you up against him.

"I want you so fucking much," you said against his mouth. He led you to his bedroom and you sat down on the edge of the bed as he pulled his shirt off over his head. "Come here, Aemond," you smiled.

He walked up to you, slowly, and you reached up to undo the fastenings on his leather trousers, keeping your eyes on him. Your hand lightly went over where he was already hard as a rock, and he hissed.

You drew down the zipper ever so slowly, biting down on your lower lip.

"I am going to make you pay for this," he gritted out.

"For what?" you asked innocently, starting to tug down the waistband. When you finally freed him, your eyes darting between his cock and his eyes, you licked your lips and took him in your mouth.

"Fuck."

"Hmmmm," you moaned around him, relaxing your throat so you could take him deeper. You could hear Aemond's breathing stuttering as you slowly pulled your lips all the way to the very tip of him and then took him back down your throat, hollowing out your cheeks.

"Fuck," he repeated, "I, uh, I can't-"

You felt him suddenly pull you off him and push you back on the bed.

"This is going to end too quickly if you keep doing that, angel."

"Angel?"

"Look at you," he said, indicating your white shimmery gown. "An angel about to be debauched."

You let one strap of the dress fall off your shoulder. "What does that make you, then?"

He lunged for you, hands on the bed on either side of you, and the smile on his face made you shiver.

"Me? I'm already destined for hell, love."

He took your lips, not slowly or gently this time, but desperately, his mouth all consuming on yours as he demanded entrance with his tongue and you willingly gave it. He was tugging down your dress as he kissed you, long fingers deftly maneuvering the yards of fabric until he had bared your breasts and then he pulled back, looking down at you.

You pushed the rest of the dress down until it fell on the floor, then laid back down and extended your arms to him. "Come here, Aemond," you said for the second time that night.

He shoved down the trousers, kicked them aside and spread your legs open before he kissed you again. He was so warm, his skin ablaze against yours, and you pulled him down to you, unable to get enough of him.

He began to kiss your neck, long fingers teasing your nipple, and then his mouth was on your breast and you moaned, the sharp sting of pleasure making you arch against him. He reached down lower, between your thighs, and you gasped.

"Tell me what you like," he murmured against your lips.

"Oh," you breathed as he settled on a steady rhythm, drawing tiny circles on the knot of nerves, "you're doing fine," you managed.

"Fine is not what I'm aiming for," he said, and slipped two fingers inside you and you cried out, your hips beginning to rock against him. "I want you to come for me," he added, curling his fingertips inside you.

"Aemond," you whispered, one hand on his shoulder, the other grabbing at his hair. "I- I'm-" you pressed your face to his neck a moment before the orgasm barreled through you, your cry muffled against his skin.

You felt him kneeing your legs apart and then he was pushing inside you. As ready as you were for him, he was big, and you bit down on your lower lip, still recovering and still wanting more.

"You can take me," he murmured soothingly as he kissed your temple. "Next time you come, I want to feel it around my cock," he said, and you whimpered as he rocked his hips to fill you completely.

He pulled back slowly, eyes on you, making sure you were okay, and then snapped his hips. You let your head fall back, and felt his teeth on your jaw, raking gently. "So good," he whispered, "I've wanted you for so long," he said as he settled on long, slow strokes. "So fucking long."

"Aemond," you closed your eyes, the feeling of him moving inside you beginning to send you back into that delicious spiral.

He reached between you, fingertips finding you and you moaned. "I can feel you," he said, "you-"

You cried out as you came, and felt him grab your hips to steady himself as he reached his own orgasm.

* * * * *

As reserved and aloof as you had always thought him to be, he hadn't stopped kissing and caressing you in the aftermath of your lovemaking. The man was full of surprises.

"Stay with me," he murmured against your cheek. "Tonight."

"How can I go when you've got me completely caged in," you teased, looking down at the arms he had wrapped around you and the way his legs were tangled with yours.

"Damn, I was trying to be stealthy," he smirked back. "We'll get breakfast, maybe I'll let you lure me back to bed again."

You rolled your eyes at him. "Rewriting history, are we? I remember trying to leave and someone grabbing my arm."

His eyes became serious on yours. "If I could rewrite history, I would have grabbed you a lot sooner." He leaned in to place a gentle kiss on your lips. "But I mean to make up for it."

You smiled against him, and let him pull you closer, thinking you were only too happy to let him make it up to you for a long, long time.

#hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond fanfiction #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd smut #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x you

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thirtysomethingloser92 · 2 months ago

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Chapter 3. You Showed Me Colours You Know I Can't See With Anyone Else.

Prequel to The Last Great American Dynasty.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Swearing, 18+.

Summary: In the shadowy underworld of New Orleans, where power is currency and loyalty is a fragile thread, you find yourself entangled with Remy LeBeau, a charismatic and dangerous mob boss. What begins as a chance encounter soon evolves into a complex, intense relationship that neither of you saw coming. Taglist: @cannibalcoyote

The club beneath the bar wasn’t the kind of place you found by accident. It was hidden deep in the building’s underbelly, far removed from the more polished scene upstairs. To get there, you had to know where you were going—there were no signs, no obvious entrances, just a series of unmarked doors and shadowy hallways that seemed to twist and turn with a kind of deliberate confusion. It was as if the building itself was trying to keep the club a secret.

The journey down felt like a descent into another realm. You’d wind your way through back corridors, past storage rooms stacked with crates of liquor and supplies, the air growing cooler and more still the deeper you went. The lights along the hallway dimmed, casting long shadows that flickered against the narrow walls. Then there were the stairs—two flights of them, narrow and steep, their steps worn from years of use, the kind of stairs that made you feel like you were heading someplace forbidden, someplace you weren’t entirely sure you were supposed to be.

The bar above was already sunken below street level, but the club? The club was buried deeper still—subterranean. As you descended, the air grew colder and damp, the walls closing in, and the hum of life from the world above faded away. All that was left was the growing thrum of the music below, a bass-heavy pulse that throbbed through the walls like a heartbeat. It was faint at first, a distant vibration that seemed to come from the earth itself, but with each step downward, it grew louder, more insistent, until it was all you could hear.

And then you reached the door.

Pushing through the heavy, unmarked entrance, you were met with a rush of sensation—a wall of sound, light, and heat all at once. The club opened up before you, cavernous and alive, a world unto itself. It was like stepping into a hidden city where the rules of the world above no longer applied.

The room was vast, yet somehow intimate, the ceiling low enough to feel oppressive but crisscrossed with massive iron beams that gave the space a raw, industrial edge. Neon lights flickered and danced across the walls, bathing everything in electric shades of violet, crimson, and cobalt blue. The lights pulsed in time with the music, casting shifting shadows that played tricks on your eyes, making the space feel as if it were constantly moving, breathing.

The air was thick with the smell of sweat, perfume, and something more primal—something heavy and intoxicating, like the scent of expensive whiskey and the faint burn of smoke. The ceiling, low and crisscrossed with metal beams, added to the sense of being enclosed, like you were in a bunker or a vault, sealed off from the rest of the world. It felt dangerous, exhilarating.

The crowd was a living, writhing thing, a sea of bodies moving in rhythm with the music. They pressed together, fluid and chaotic, lost in the throb of the bass and the flashing lights that turned everything into a blur of color and motion. People danced in a way that wasn’t quite dancing—more like they were surrendering themselves to the music, letting it take control. It was wild, frenetic, and completely uninhibited. There was no pretense here, no performance—just pure, unfiltered energy. This was a place where you could lose yourself, where the rules of the outside world didn’t apply. Here, names didn’t matter, and neither did the time.

The music was relentless, a deep, throbbing beat that worked its way into your bones, vibrating through your chest and making your heart beat in time with it. The DJ was hidden in the shadows, barely visible behind a fortress of equipment, but their presence was felt in every pulse of sound that reverberated through the room. The bass was so deep, it was like the walls themselves were breathing, the whole room thrumming with an almost primal energy.

The bar at the far end of the room gleamed under the neon lights, its surface dark wood polished to a high shine, a stark contrast to the raw industrial feel of the rest of the space. Behind it, shelves lined with bottles of top-shelf liquor glowed gold, the amber liquid catching the light and shimmering like treasure in a vault. The bartenders moved with precision, pouring drinks with practiced ease, their expressions unreadable beneath the flashing lights. Every drink was an act of indulgence, each cocktail a small luxury in a place that felt like it was on the edge of ruin.

Plush velvet couches were scattered along the walls in small, intimate alcoves, offering a place to retreat from the chaos of the dance floor. The contrast was jarring—the softness of the velvet against the hard, industrial edges of the club, the sense of privacy these spaces offered in a room that otherwise felt so exposed. Here, deals were made, secrets were whispered, and connections formed that would never see the light of day.

But even in these alcoves, the energy of the room was impossible to escape. You could feel it in the air—the tension, the heat, the way the music seemed to crawl under your skin and take over, making everything else fade away. The club had a way of stripping away the outside world, pulling you deeper into its orbit until nothing else mattered. Time blurred, and the boundaries between people, between reality and whatever this place was, seemed to disintegrate.

There was a kind of freedom in it. A dangerous, seductive freedom.

Here, in the depths of the underground, you could be anyone. Or no one at all. You remember the night everything truly changed between you and Remy LeBeau—the moment when the line you’d been walking for weeks finally shifted, and you understood exactly where you slid into his complex, enigmatic life. It wasn’t a grand gesture or an explosive confrontation; no, it was something quieter, something subtle but undeniable, like the way the tide changes direction without anyone noticing until it’s too late.

It had been weeks since you’d last really spoken to him. Weeks of tense silences, of stolen glances across the bar. You weren’t sure what was worse—feeling like he was purposefully avoiding you, or the gnawing suspicion that maybe you’d done something to deserve it. Either way, it was hard to shake the feeling that you were being punished for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on, and that uncertainty gnawed at you in the quiet moments when the bar was empty, or when you caught sight of him from across the room.

And of course, you still saw him. Every Wednesday and Friday, like clockwork, Remy was there. Wednesdays, he’d show up with the brunette—a woman who sometimes had a laptop open in front of her, typing away in a focused silence, other times just sitting quietly across from him as they shared a meal. They looked comfortable together, like they had an understanding that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. There was something almost intimate about the way they interacted that made your chest tighten, though you couldn’t quite figure out why. She wasn’t flashy, wasn’t trying to draw attention, but there was a quiet importance in her presence that you couldn’t ignore.

Fridays were different. Fridays, he showed up with his crew. The VIP area upstairs would be cordoned off, laughter and the hum of low conversation drifting down to the main bar. There was always a low, rowdy energy that followed wherever Remy and his group went. A magnetism that demanded attention, even from the far corners of the room. People would glance up at them, curious, drawn to the easy confidence that bled from their table, the way they seemed to own the space without even trying.

And every now and then, James would catch your eye with a grin, sending you on some small errand—usually something pointless, like delivering a fresh bottle to Kate or running a message up to the VIP section. “You take it,” you’d huff, catching on to the game, but no matter how many times you protested, you always ended up climbing those stairs. Always ended up delivering whatever it was they needed.

And each time, without fail, you felt his eyes on you. Remy’s gaze was like a physical presence, following your every move with a quiet intensity that was impossible to ignore. It was like he was studying you, reading every step, every gesture, every word you exchanged with the black-haired woman or Kate. You could almost feel the weight of his attention, heavy and deliberate, and it left you feeling both exposed and strangely aware of yourself in ways you didn’t want to admit.

Kate, of course, didn’t miss a beat. She always greeted you with that mischievous smile, her eyes twinkling with humor that felt just a little too knowing. “Getting your steps in today?” she’d quip, her voice light but laced with something that made you feel like she knew exactly what was going on, even if you didn’t.

“At this rate, my ass better look amazing by summer,” you’d reply, rolling your eyes and nodding toward the stairs you’d already climbed a dozen times that night. But underneath the banter, there was always that unspoken tension, that sense of something simmering just beneath the surface, something neither of you had the words for yet.

And then there were Saturdays.

Saturdays were for the club—Remy’s domain. The rules changed on Saturdays. The bar upstairs was one thing, but the club? That was something else entirely. It was a place where business could be done in the shadows, where deals were struck under the cover of strobe lights and pounding bass, where no one really knew what was happening because the music was too loud and the lights too disorienting.

On some Saturdays, Remy would show up with a beautiful woman on his arm, making it clear she was his for the night. He’d walk in with that casual swagger, the woman clinging to him, her eyes bright with the promise of a wild night. Other times, he’d arrive with his crew, accompanied by a red-haired woman who was as striking as she was dangerous. You could tell she was a force of nature—enigmatic, sharp, and always composed in a way that made you feel like she knew something you didn’t. Together, they’d settle into the plush couches in the VIP area, bottles of the most expensive liquor in the club lining the table, and you’d find yourself watching them from behind the bar, even when you didn’t mean to.

You had a love-hate relationship with the club. On one hand, you thrived on the energy—the music that pulsed through your veins, the rhythm that had you dancing behind the bar as you mixed drinks, the way you could lose yourself in the beat even as you worked. You loved working with Carol, the older blonde woman who had taken you under her wing when you first started. Carol had taught you everything you knew, from how to handle a rowdy customer to how to make the perfect cocktail, and over the years, she’d become like a sister to you.

But the patrons were... another story. They were rowdier, more demanding, and far more likely to get handsy after a few too many drinks. You’d learned to handle them, of course; you had to, working in a place like this. But some nights, like tonight, the crowd was just a little too much. The air felt thick with something you couldn’t quite name, and the staff were worn down, moving slower than usual, weighed down by the constant demands.

Through it all, though, Remy was always watching. You could feel it, even when you couldn’t see him. He never intervened directly—he knew you could handle yourself—but there was a quiet, unspoken understanding between the two of you. He never let things get too out of hand. His eyes would track the room, making sure the chaos didn’t cross a line. It was comforting, in a way, knowing he was there, but it was also maddening. You didn’t need his protection, and yet, there was a part of you that found it hard to shake the feeling of being watched, of being... taken care of in ways you didn’t ask for.

The first strange thing that night happened in the bathroom. The moment when everything began to stretch, like an elastic band pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.

You had ducked into the bathroom for a quick break, promising yourself it’d only take a minute. But once inside, the noise of the club muffled behind the heavy door, you found yourself staring into the mirror. You took a deep breath, letting the tension ease from your shoulders, and began to fix your hair. A few strands had fallen out of place during the rush of the night, and you tried to recreate the style you’d left the house with. It was a small, quiet moment—a chance to catch your breath before heading back into the chaos.

The door creaked open behind you, and when you glanced up in the mirror, you saw her—the red-haired woman who had arrived with Remy earlier in the night. She stepped inside with the same effortless grace she always seemed to carry, her presence filling the small space instantly. For a brief moment, the two of you locked eyes in the mirror, and then she offered you a soft, knowing smile.

You nodded in acknowledgment, pressing the soap dispenser a few times, trying to act as though the sudden intrusion of your solitude didn’t rattle you. But it did. She had a way of unsettling people, and in the quiet of the bathroom, away from the flashing lights and thumping bass, her presence seemed even more intense.

“You looked like you needed a minute,” she said, her voice low and smooth, not quite a whisper but just loud enough to carry in the silence.

You blinked, caught off guard by the casual intimacy of the statement. You weren’t sure what to say, so you just shrugged, offering a half-smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Long night,” you replied, your voice sounding smaller than you intended as you rinsed your hands under the cold water.

Jean leaned against the counter, her gaze lingering on you for a beat too long before she turned toward the mirror, inspecting her own reflection with the kind of detached interest that only someone like her could pull off.

Jean’s eyes lingered on you longer than you expected, her gaze sharp and curious, but not in an unkind way. There was something about the way she looked at you, as though she already knew more than she was letting on. Still, you offered her a polite smile, masking the discomfort stirring inside you. You weren’t used to being scrutinized like this, especially not by someone like her—someone who radiated a kind of effortless poise that made you feel both intrigued and defensive at the same time

“I’m Jean, by the way,” she said casually, as if you didn’t already know. She reached into her purse and pulled out a sleek tube of lipstick, applying it with a practiced precision that made the simple act seem like a performance. Then, without missing a beat, she held the tube out to you, her eyes gleaming with a quiet challenge.

You shook your head, offering a small smile in return. “No, thanks,” you said, your voice steady but polite. You weren’t sure what game she was playing, but you weren’t interested in becoming an unwilling participant. Jean just smiled to herself, tucking the lipstick back into her purse with a graceful, almost dismissive motion. The way she moved was calculated, like everything she did had a purpose—even this seemingly casual encounter.

"So, busy night, huh?" she asked, leaning back against the counter, her posture relaxed but her eyes still on you. She was studying you, you realized, and that realization sent a flicker of unease through you. You could feel her sizing you up, and you couldn’t help but wonder why. What did she see when she looked at you? What was she trying to figure out?

You rolled down a few sheets of paper towel, drying your hands with more focus than necessary, using the small task to ground yourself. “Yeah,” you replied, your tone noncommittal, not wanting to reveal too much. “You could say that.”

Jean nodded, but the silence that followed wasn’t an empty one. It was thick, heavy, as if there was something unspoken hanging between the two of you. Her gaze hadn’t softened; if anything, it had deepened, like she was peeling back layers without your permission. It was unnerving, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a casual bathroom conversation.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, trying to read her, trying to figure out why she’d suddenly decided to engage with you. She had never spoken to you before, and now, here she was, leaning against the sink as if she had all the time in the world. You couldn’t help but wonder if this was some kind of test, like she was probing for something specific, some reaction. But what?

“You seem... distracted,” she said, her voice softer now, almost thoughtful. Her words made your stomach flip, but you kept your expression neutral, refusing to give anything away.

“I’m fine,” you replied a bit too quickly, the words coming out sharper than you intended. You immediately regretted it, but Jean didn’t seem fazed. If anything, her smile widened, just a fraction, as if she could see right through your attempt to brush her off.

“I get it,” she murmured after a beat, her voice lower, more intimate now. There was something in the way she said it, something that made your pulse quicken. She wasn’t just making small talk anymore; there was a weight to her words, a knowingness that unsettled you.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly feeling dry. “Get what?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the tension in your voice betrayed you.

Jean met your gaze, her eyes unflinching. “I get what it’s like to be... watched,” she said simply, her words hanging in the air between you. It was an innocent enough statement, but there was an edge to it, a deeper meaning that made your chest tighten. She wasn’t just talking about the club, or the way patrons sometimes eyed the staff. No, she was talking about something more personal—something that had to do with him.

Your heart raced a little faster. You didn’t want to acknowledge it, didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that her words had hit their mark, but you couldn’t help the way your body reacted. You could feel your pulse in your throat, a subtle thrum that echoed the tension threading between you and Jean in that tiny bathroom.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes still locked on yours, reading every flicker of emotion that crossed your face. “Remy,” she said, as if the name alone was enough to explain everything. And maybe it was. “He watches you... a lot.”

The air seemed to thicken around you, and you felt your stomach drop at the sound of his name on her lips. You weren’t sure if she was trying to unsettle you, or if she was genuinely offering some kind of insight, but either way, her words left you feeling exposed, like she had peeled back a layer of your carefully constructed armor.

“What are you getting at?” you asked, your voice quieter now, tinged with frustration, but also something else—something you weren’t quite ready to admit. You didn’t like the way this conversation was making you feel. You didn’t like the way it was forcing you to confront things you’d been trying to ignore for weeks.

Jean’s smile softened, but it didn’t lose that knowing edge. “I’m just saying... he’s not as hard to read as he thinks he is,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. She leaned in just a little closer, her eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite name. “When Remy watches someone like that, it’s not out of boredom. It’s because he’s paying attention.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. A part of you wanted to brush her off, to laugh it away and pretend like this conversation wasn’t affecting you. But you couldn’t. The truth of her words settled in your chest like a weight, heavy and undeniable. You had felt his eyes on you for weeks, always watching, always present, even when he wasn’t close. And now, here was Jean, confirming what you had been trying to push aside—what you had been too afraid to admit to yourself.

“And that bothers you?” you asked, half-expecting her to confirm the jealousy you thought must be lurking beneath her cool exterior.

But Jean surprised you. She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Bother me? No, not really.” She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied you again. “But it might bother you.”

Your pulse quickened, and suddenly, you felt like the ground beneath you had shifted, like Jean had just opened a door you weren’t ready to step through. “Why would it bother me?” you asked, though the answer was already sitting heavy in your chest.

Jean’s smile turned almost sympathetic, and for a brief moment, you saw something softer in her eyes. “Because you’re not just some girl behind the bar to him. And I think you know that.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You wanted to argue, to deny it, to say that you were just doing your job, that whatever attention Remy gave you was meaningless. But you couldn’t. Because deep down, you knew Jean was right.

You had felt it for weeks—the way his gaze always found you, the way he watched you with that quiet intensity that made your skin prickle and your heart race. You had tried to dismiss it, tried to tell yourself it didn’t mean anything, but now, standing in this tiny bathroom with Jean staring right through you, the truth was impossible to ignore.

You weren’t just another face in the crowd to Remy LeBeau, and that realization sent a jolt of fear and excitement through you in equal measure.

Jean pushed herself off the counter, straightening her posture as she adjusted the strap of her purse. “Just... be careful,” she said, her voice softer now, almost a warning. “With Remy, things get complicated fast.”

And with that, she turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving you alone with your thoughts, the air still heavy with the weight of everything she had just said.

You stared at your reflection in the mirror, your heart pounding in your chest, and for the first time, you couldn’t hide from the truth anymore.

Something had changed. And there was no going back. From your spot behind the bar, you had a perfect view of the VIP area. It was a vantage point you rarely paid much attention to—usually too busy mixing drinks or handling a rowdy crowd—but tonight, you found yourself watching. Watching them.

Jean moved with that same quiet confidence you’d witnessed in the bathroom, her drink held delicately in one hand as she reentered the secluded section. She slid effortlessly back into the scene, her presence commanding attention without asking for it. The dim lighting of the VIP area cast a soft glow over her red hair, making her look almost ethereal as she approached Remy.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you watched her place a hand on his shoulder, leaning in close to murmur something in his ear. It was an intimate gesture, the kind that sent an unexpected ripple of something—jealousy? anxiety?—through you. You couldn’t hear what she said, but you could see the way her hand lingered, her fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of his jacket. It was subtle enough not to draw too much attention, but there was a familiarity in the motion that made your stomach twist.

Remy didn’t react much. His face remained impassive, his expression unreadable as he listened to whatever Jean was saying. But then, in the middle of it, something happened that caused your breath to catch in your throat.

His eyes flickered up to meet yours.

It was so quick, so subtle, you almost didn’t believe it had happened. But it did. In that split second, his gaze found yours across the room, cutting through the smoke and the low lighting like a thread pulling you into his orbit. He didn’t give anything away—no smile, no smirk, no hint of what might be going through his head. Just a look. A brief glance. But it was enough to send a jolt through you, like you had been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

Your heart skipped a beat, though you couldn’t say why. It wasn’t like he hadn’t looked at you before—Remy was always watching, always tracking your movements with that quiet intensity—but tonight felt different. Tonight, there was something in the air, something unspoken hanging between the three of you. Jean’s words from the bathroom echoed in your mind, the weight of them pressing down on you now more than ever.

“He watches you... a lot.”

You tore your eyes away, focusing on the task at hand—pouring drinks, handling orders, acting like everything was normal. But it wasn’t. You could feel it. The air felt heavier, the weight of their attention lingering on you even when you weren’t looking. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight, like the ground beneath you had subtly shifted, and you were the last one to notice.

You tried to push the thoughts aside, tried to tell yourself that it didn’t matter. You didn’t have time to get wrapped up in whatever was going on between Remy and Jean. You had a job to do. And yet, no matter how hard you tried to focus on the drinks in front of you, your mind kept drifting back to that brief exchange.

Did Jean see something you hadn’t? Did Remy?

Your hands moved on autopilot as you mixed another order, but your mind was elsewhere—trapped in the space between Jean’s knowing gaze and Remy’s watchful glance. You couldn’t help but wonder what Jean had said to him, what had passed between them in that quiet moment. Was she telling him about your conversation in the bathroom? Was she warning him? Or maybe she wasn’t talking about you at all. Maybe this was all in your head, a product of too many long nights working in this place, too much time spent wondering what, exactly, was simmering beneath the surface of Remy’s attention.

But deep down, you knew better.

Something had changed tonight. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. You could feel it in the way your skin prickled whenever you caught sight of Remy’s figure in your peripheral vision. You could feel it in the way Jean’s words kept replaying in your mind, over and over, like a warning you couldn’t quite decipher.

You set the drink on the counter with a little too much force, the glass clinking loudly against the wood. Carol shot you a glance from the other end of the bar, her brow furrowing in concern. “You okay?” she asked, her voice cutting through the haze of your thoughts.

You forced a smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah, just... long night,” you muttered, wiping down the counter with a rag as if that could somehow scrub away the unease bubbling inside you.

Carol didn’t press further, but you could feel her eyes on you for a moment longer before she turned back to her own set of customers.

You glanced back up at the VIP section, half-expecting to see Remy still watching you, but he wasn’t. Jean was sitting beside him, her posture relaxed, her hand no longer on his shoulder. They were talking now, but whatever conversation they were having seemed far removed from you. Remy’s attention was back on his crew, his body language easy, casual, as if nothing had changed at all.

But you had changed. Something in you had shifted, and now you were acutely aware of the weight of his gaze, even when it wasn’t on you. You could feel it, lingering in the back of your mind, a constant hum of awareness that refused to be ignored.

You busied yourself with another round of drinks, trying to shake off the strange mix of emotions swirling inside you. But the truth was, you couldn’t stop thinking about that glance. That brief, fleeting moment when your eyes met his across the room.

Because in that moment, you realized something you had been trying to ignore for weeks.

You weren’t just another face in the crowd to Remy LeBeau.

And now, you weren’t sure what to do with that realization. <><><><> The thin thread of the night finally snapped at 1:51 AM.

You knew this because you had glanced at your watch, mentally counting down the hours until your shift ended at 3 AM. It was a ritual at this point—checking the time, calculating how much longer you had to endure the chaos of the club. The energy had been simmering all night, stretched taut like a rubber band, and you could feel it was close to breaking. But you hadn’t expected this.

It didn’t take much, if you were being honest. You’d seen worse over the years—much worse. You’d heard more vulgar words, dealt with more aggressive patrons, and usually, you handled it without a second thought. But tonight, something felt different. The tension was thicker, the air charged with an undercurrent you couldn’t quite place. And then there was him.

The man at the center of it all had been pushing buttons from the moment he stepped through the door. Handsy. Mouthy. You knew the type all too well—arrogant, cocky, the kind of guy who believed the world revolved around him. But what stood out, what made your stomach twist just a little tighter, was the way he seemed to be performing. He wasn’t just harassing you for the sake of it. No, he wanted an audience. He wanted to be seen, wanted to be noticed—by you, by the crowd, but most of all, by Remy LeBeau.

And notice, Remy did.

It started off small—a few offhand comments that you and Carol had brushed off. Carol, with her blonde mohawk and sharp brown eyes, had been working the other end of the bar, serving drinks while keeping a wary eye on the man. Every time he got a little too loud, a little too suggestive, she’d shoot him a glare and say, “Okay, that’s enough.” But her warnings fell on deaf ears. He kept pushing, kept drinking, kept testing the limits of what he could get away with.

By the time he turned his attention to you, several hours and several drinks later, his inhibitions had melted away, leaving only the worst parts of him on display. You felt his eyes on you, that leering gaze that made your skin crawl. You’d been through this a hundred times before, and you’d learned how to handle it. Abigail had a strict rule: When you work the club, you don’t leave behind the bar unless absolutely necessary. Part of it was logistics—there was always a demand for drinks—but it was also for your safety. If anything kicked off, you had radios, and security was always nearby. It was a system that worked. Usually.

But tonight, the man didn’t care about rules. He didn’t care about the bar or the space between you. He wanted a reaction, and when you told him he’d had enough to drink, that he was cut off, you saw the shift in his eyes. The thin veneer of control he’d been holding onto dissolved in an instant, and suddenly, his hand shot out, grabbing the front of your shirt in a tight fist.

The force of it yanked you forward, your body slamming against the counter as he tried to drag you over the bar. The shock of it hit you first—how could this have escalated so quickly? You weren’t afraid, not yet, but your adrenaline spiked as you tried to pull back, your hands scrambling for purchase on the slick surface of the bar. Your eyes darted toward the security on the floor, hoping someone saw what was happening, but the crowd was thick, and the noise of the club swallowed your silent plea for help.

But before you could even call out, Remy was there.

It was like he had materialized out of the shadows, moving faster than you’d ever seen him move before. One moment, the man had his hands on you, his grip painfully tight, and the next, he was being ripped away, spun around so fast that his head snapped back in shock. Every muscle in your body tensed as Remy’s hand shot out, catching the man by the collar and slamming him against the bar with a force that made the glasses rattle.

And then, in one smooth, terrifying motion, Remy pressed the barrel of a gun inside the man’s mouth.

The cold metal glinted under the dim lights of the club, and the entire room seemed to freeze. The music still throbbed in the background, but it was as if the dancers, the patrons, the staff—all of them—had forgotten how to move, how to breathe. The pure, unfiltered rage on Remy’s face was something you had never seen before, and the sight of it sent a jolt of fear through your chest. For a split second, you thought he might actually pull the trigger.

The man who had grabbed you—so arrogant and full of bravado just moments ago—was trembling now, his eyes wide as the cold steel pressed harder against his lips. He had wanted Remy’s attention, and now he had it.

All of it.

Remy’s voice was low, almost a growl, as he spoke. “Ya ever touch her again, and I’ll end y’.” His finger hovered over the trigger, the click of the safety flicking off loud enough to cut through the music. The threat wasn’t just words—it was a promise, and everyone in the room knew it.

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath catching in your throat. You wanted to say something, to stop this from spiraling further out of control, but you couldn’t move. You were frozen, trapped in the intensity of the moment, your mind racing to process what was happening.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jean. She moved quickly but gracefully, her red hair catching the light as she crossed the room. She didn’t speak at first, just placed a gentle hand on Remy’s arm, her fingers brushing the gun with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place in the chaos of the moment. Her expression was calm, but her eyes—those eyes that always seemed to know more than anyone else—spoke volumes. It was a silent plea: Not like this. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not in front of her.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if Remy would listen. The tension between him and Jean was palpable, the fury still radiating off him in waves. His grip on the gun never wavered, his body coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. You could feel the weight of his anger, the way it filled the room, suffocating everything in its path.

But after what felt like an eternity, Remy flicked the safety back on, the sound almost as loud as a gunshot in the stillness of the club. He lowered the gun, slipping it back into the waistband of his pants with slow, deliberate movements, his eyes never leaving the man in front of him.

When he finally let go, the man crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath as if he had been holding it the entire time. Remy took a step back, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, and you realized then that this wasn’t just about the man who had grabbed you. This was about everyone in the room. This was a message, loud and clear.

Remy LeBeau was reminding them all who he was—and who you were.

You were under his protection. Not just that, but in some unspoken way, you were his. His to protect, his to defend. And anyone who disrespected that, who crossed that line, would be dealt with swiftly and without mercy.

The weight of it settled over you as you watched Remy, your pulse still racing, your mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened. He wasn’t just a man who controlled the underground world of New Orleans; he was a man who commanded respect, who held power in his hands like it was second nature. And tonight, he had made it clear that you were part of that world now. Whether you wanted to be or not.

You caught his eye then, the heat of his gaze locking onto yours from across the bar. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something dark and possessive that made your stomach twist. For a moment, you just stood there, the noise of the club slowly returning around you, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears.

Jean lingered beside him, her hand still resting lightly on his arm, her presence grounding him in a way that both comforted and unnerved you. She gave you a small nod, a silent acknowledgment of what had just transpired, and you found yourself nodding back, though you weren’t sure what you were agreeing to.

And as the crowd slowly began to move again, the music picking up where it had left off, you realized with a sinking feeling that nothing would be the same after this.

You weren’t just another face in the crowd anymore.

You were something more. Something dangerous.

And as you stood there, your hands trembling slightly as you reached for a glass, you couldn’t help but wonder what that meant for you—what that meant for the future.

Because now, you weren’t just working in Remy LeBeau’s world.

You were part of it. <><><><<><><><><> From where he sat in the VIP section, Remy had a perfect view of you behind the bar. It wasn’t something he had planned or even consciously acknowledged; it had just become a habit—a quiet, unspoken one that he hadn’t let himself fully unpack. His eyes kept drifting back to you throughout the night, watching the way you moved, the way you handled the chaos of the club with a quiet efficiency that never failed to impress him. There was something about the way you navigated the room, how you blended into the pulse of the place yet stood out to him in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

The night had been relatively calm, at least by his standards. Business as usual. Drinks flowed, deals were whispered over tables, and the music throbbed like a heartbeat through the dim, smoky air. But even in the haze of the club, Remy could sense when something was off—when the subtle rhythm of the night began to shift.

And tonight, he felt it happen the moment that man walked through the door.

Remy had clocked him from the start, a loud, obnoxious guest who had already downed more drinks than half the room combined. He wasn’t the first or the last of his kind to come through the club, but there was something about him that rubbed Remy the wrong way from the very beginning. The man’s energy was chaotic, unfocused, like he was looking for trouble, daring the night to push back against him. Remy didn’t like him. Didn’t like the way he moved, the way he talked, the way his eyes lingered just a little too long on you.

Remy’s gaze narrowed as he watched the guy lean over the bar, his posture aggressive, his voice just loud enough to cut through the music. You were behind the bar, trying to keep things moving smoothly, but Remy noticed the subtle shift in your expression—the way your smile tightened around the edges, the way your shoulders stiffened ever so slightly. No one else would have noticed, but Remy did. He was always watching, always paying attention when it came to you, though he wasn’t sure why.

Or maybe he was.

The man was getting louder. His gestures became wilder, his movements more erratic with each drink. His words were slurred, but the intent behind them was unmistakable. Remy couldn’t hear every word from where he sat, but he didn’t need to. He knew the type all too well—handsy, cocky, convinced the world owed him something. The kind of guy who thought he could say or do whatever he wanted because no one had ever taught him otherwise.

Carol, working the other end of the bar, had already shot the man a warning or two, her sharp eyes narrowing in irritation. But he wasn’t paying attention to her anymore. His focus had shifted entirely to you, and that’s when Remy felt the first stirrings of anger coil in his gut.

He leaned back in his seat, fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table as he watched the scene unfold. Jean, sitting next to him, said something—something inconsequential that barely registered in his mind. His attention was locked on the bar, on you, and on the man who was clearly getting too comfortable, too bold. Jean, always observant, noticed the shift in Remy’s demeanor, the silent tension in his body that told her something was bothering him. She followed his gaze, her eyes landing on you and the man who had caught Remy’s attention.

Remy’s eyes darkened as the man leaned in closer, his body language crossing a line that should never have been crossed. You were doing what you always did—keeping things professional, trying to diffuse the situation without making a scene. But Remy could see the tension building, could feel it in the air like the crackle of a coming storm. His jaw clenched as he watched the man’s hand graze too close to yours as you slid him his drink. He saw the way your smile faltered for just a moment before you caught yourself, how you stepped back to create more space between the two of you.

But space wasn’t enough. Not for this guy.

And then it happened.

The man’s hand shot out, grabbing the front of your shirt before you had time to react. It was sudden, violent, and Remy felt something cold and vicious flare inside him. Your body jerked forward, slamming against the counter as the man tried to drag you over the bar, his grip on your shirt tightening with a force that made Remy’s blood boil. The shock on your face was instant—your eyes wide, your mouth slightly open as you struggled to pull back, your hands pushing against the bar in a desperate attempt to steady yourself.

In that moment, something in Remy snapped.

He was on his feet before he even realized he was moving, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he shoved it back. The club was still loud, the music pounding in the background, but in Remy’s mind, everything had gone silent. His focus had narrowed to one singular point—the man who dared lay his hands on you.

Remy’s movements were swift, fluid, like a predator stalking its prey. His pulse thrummed with barely contained fury as he reached into the back of his waistband, pulling out the gun he always kept hidden there. People instinctively parted to make way for him, sensing the danger radiating off him in waves. His expression was calm—too calm, the kind of calm that preceded a storm—but there was a cold, lethal fury in his eyes that made anyone who caught a glimpse of him take a step back.

He wasn’t thinking about the crowd anymore. Wasn’t thinking about the consequences. He could feel the knot in his stomach, a blind rage that he hadn’t felt in a long time. But underneath that rage, there was something else, something more dangerous. Something that had to do with you.

He had always protected his own, always made sure the people under his roof were safe. But this was different. This was personal. The thought of anyone laying a hand on you—of this man thinking he could do what he wanted without facing the consequences—made something dark and possessive rise up inside him, something he didn’t want to name.

He reached the bar in seconds, and before the man even had time to register what was happening, Remy’s hand shot out, gripping his arm with a force that would undoubtedly leave a bruise. The man’s grip on your shirt loosened as Remy yanked him back, spinning him around so quickly that his head snapped back in shock.

The club seemed to hold its breath as Remy shoved the man against the bar, his forearm pressed hard against the guy’s chest, pinning him in place. And then, in one smooth, terrifying motion, Remy pressed the barrel of his gun inside the man’s mouth.

The cold metal glinted under the dim lights of the club, and the entire room seemed to freeze. The music still throbbed in the background, but it was distant now, muffled by the weight of the moment. The rage that had been simmering beneath Remy’s calm exterior finally boiled over, but it wasn’t wild or uncontrolled. It was cold. Precise.

Remy’s grip on the man tightened, his knuckles white with the effort it took to restrain himself from pulling the trigger. He could feel the man shaking beneath his hold, could hear the muffled sounds of panic as the cold steel pressed harder against his lips.

He felt the rush of power, the satisfaction of knowing that he could end this man’s life in an instant. But more than that, he felt the burning need to make sure the man knew who he had messed with. That this wasn’t just about some random bartender. This was about you.

The man had wanted attention after all.

Remy’s voice was low, barely more than a growl as he leaned in closer, his dark eyes locked onto the man’s trembling face. “Ya ever touch her again, and I’ll bury y’.” His finger hovered over the trigger, the click of the safety being turned off loud enough to echo through the silence. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

He felt the weight of his own emotions swirling inside him—rage, protectiveness, something much deeper and darker that he didn’t want to name. He hadn’t let himself admit how much he cared, how much he watched you, how much you’d quietly slipped under his skin. But seeing you in danger, seeing someone touch you like that—it had torn something open inside him that he couldn’t ignore anymore.

The man nodded frantically, tears welling in his eyes as he choked around the barrel of the gun. Remy held him there for a moment longer, his eyes flicking up to you, just for a second. And in that second, you saw the storm raging behind his calm façade. You saw the way his gaze softened slightly when it landed on you, even as his grip on the man remained unyielding.

He was doing this for you.

Jean stepped forward beside him, her presence a quiet anchor in the chaos. She didn’t say anything, just placed a gentle hand on Remy’s arm, her touch pulling him back from the brink. Her eyes met his in silent understanding, a reminder of where they were, of the eyes on them. Not here. Not like this.

Slowly, with a control that spoke volumes about the fury still simmering beneath his skin, Remy flicked the safety back on and lowered the gun. He didn’t look at the man again as he stepped back, his gaze fixed on you, making sure you were okay.

And in that moment, you realized something that left your heart pounding in your chest.

This wasn’t just about protection. It wasn’t just about the club.

This was about you. And Remy LeBeau wasn’t going to let anyone touch what was his.

Not now.

Not ever. <><><><><><><><><>><><>

As the night slowly resumed around you, the music picking back up, the patrons cautiously returning to their drinks and conversations, you continued your work, though everything felt different now. Your hands moved on autopilot, pouring drinks, taking orders, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. The scene that had unfolded moments ago kept replaying in your head—the way Remy had stormed across the club, the fury in his eyes, the cold precision with which he had handled the situation.

And the way he had looked at you afterward.

That look left a mark, something unspoken but deeply felt, and you couldn’t shake it. It wasn’t just that he had protected you—it was the way he had done it. Remy wasn’t just any man stepping in to diffuse a situation. No, he had made it personal. The intensity in his gaze, the possessiveness, the raw, quiet anger—it had all been directed at the man who had touched you, but in some twisted way, it had also been for you. It wasn’t just about keeping the peace. He didn’t care what anyone else thought, how it looked, or even the consequences.

He cared about you.

And that realization had left a knot in your stomach, one you couldn’t untangle. You’d always known Remy was dangerous, always felt the weight of his power in the club, but this was different. Tonight, he had crossed an invisible line, drawing you with him into something deeper, something heavier.

You were part of his world now, whether you liked it or not.

As the moments ticked by, you couldn’t shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again. Every time you caught a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye, that knot tightened a little more. You tried to focus on your work, tried to push the thoughts away, but they clung to you, wrapping around your mind like vines you couldn’t cut loose.

Carol noticed. Of course, she did. She had an eye for this kind of thing, sharp and intuitive. She sidled over to you as you were wiping down the bar, her presence a quiet comfort in the midst of your internal chaos.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low, barely audible over the music. “You should go home.”

You blinked, looking up at her in surprise. “What?”

“You’ve had enough for one night.” Her tone was firm but kind, and you could see the concern in her sharp brown eyes. “I can handle the rest with Clint. We’re almost done anyway.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the words faltered. Carol wasn’t asking. She was telling you. And in truth, you wanted to leave. You needed to. Your hands were still trembling, your heart still racing with the echo of everything that had happened.

“You sure?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d meant for it to be.

She gave you a tight smile, her mohawk catching the dim light as she nodded. “Trust me. We’ve got it. Go clear your head.”

You didn’t need any more convincing. With a nod of thanks, you untied your apron and slipped it off, hanging it behind the bar. Clint, who had been watching from the other side, gave you a small wave, his usual grin tempered by the weight of the night’s events.

As you stepped out from behind the bar, you felt the weight of the club fall away from you, but the knot in your chest remained. The noise, the lights, the people—it all seemed distant, like you were walking through a fog. You moved toward the exit, your steps slower than usual, as if your body was still processing what had happened.

When you finally pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the night, the cool air hit your face like a slap of reality. It was startling at first, the sudden contrast between the warmth of the club and the crisp bite of the night air. You inhaled deeply, the cold filling your lungs, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like you could breathe again.

But that feeling didn’t last.

The sounds of the city buzzed around you—distant car horns, the low hum of conversations, the occasional whoosh of a passing car—but you barely registered any of it. Your back was pressed against the hard, rough wall of the club, the gritty texture grounding you in the moment when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.

You needed to breathe. You needed time. You needed everything you didn’t have right now.

Your mind was still reeling from the confrontation inside, from the way Remy had looked at you, the way he had spoken, the way he had handled that man like it was nothing. You’d known Remy was capable of violence—everyone in the club knew that—but seeing it up close, seeing it for you, was different.

And it terrified you.

But it wasn’t just fear twisting inside you. That was the worst part. Beneath the fear, beneath the shock, there was something else. Something deeper. Something you weren’t ready to face.

Slowly, you crouched down, sliding along the wall until you were sitting on the cold ground, your back pressed against the rough brick. You rested your head against the wall, closing your eyes for a moment as you tried to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. Each breath felt deliberate, controlled, as you fought to keep yourself grounded, to push back the confusion that threatened to overwhelm you.

You wanted to go home. You wanted to be far away from here, from the noise, from the confusion, from the weight of everything that had just shifted in your world.

But most of all, you wanted to escape him—the intensity of his gaze, the way he had looked at you like you were more than just another bartender, like you were his. That thought alone made your heart race in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Because as much as you wanted to run, as much as you wanted to pretend that nothing had changed, you knew deep down that something had. That look in Remy’s eyes, the way he had stepped in without hesitation, the way he had protected you—it had stirred something inside you, something you weren’t ready to admit.

You couldn’t deny it anymore.

You’d always felt something for Remy LeBeau. It was impossible not to. He was magnetic, dangerous, and every time his eyes found yours, there was a spark, a pull. You’d ignored it for as long as you could, kept things professional, kept your distance. But tonight… tonight had changed everything.

He had crossed a line. And maybe, just maybe, so had you.

The city hummed around you, but all you could hear was the echo of his voice in your mind, the low growl of his threat, the way his eyes had softened when they landed on you. Your heart pounded in your chest, not from fear, but from something else—something you weren’t ready to name.

But as you sat there, the cold seeping into your skin, you couldn’t escape the truth anymore.

Nothing would ever be the same again. The door to the club swung open behind you with a soft creak, and the approaching footsteps echoed lightly against the pavement. You didn’t turn around—you didn’t need to. That steady, familiar presence was unmistakable, grounding you before you even saw him.

Steve Rogers.

He crouched beside you, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. The warmth of his touch cut through the coldness that had settled deep inside you, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t alone in this mess. Steve had always been like that—solid, dependable, always knowing when to step in without needing to say much.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low, filled with concern.

You nodded, even though the motion felt more automatic than truthful. The storm of emotions swirling inside you was too tangled to unravel right then, but you offered what you could. “Yeah,” you whispered, the word barely making it past your lips. “Just... needed a breather.”

Steve’s brow furrowed, his gaze flicking back toward the club, as if the memory of what had happened inside still hung heavily in the air between you. You could see him trying to process it—trying to make sense of Remy’s actions, of the chaos that had just unfolded. His instincts were to protect you, but even Steve couldn’t quite wrap his head around what had just happened.

“What’s goin' on between you and LeBeau?” he asked, his voice carefully measured. There was no accusation in it, just a genuine curiosity. “For him to do that… it’s gotta be something.”

You exhaled heavily, shaking your head. What was going on between you and Remy? You didn’t know. There was no explanation for the way he affected you, no logical reason for the strange, magnetic pull you felt every time he was near.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice raw with confusion. “We’ve had, like, three actual conversations. That’s it. But…” You trailed off, searching for the words to describe the indescribable. The way Remy’s presence seemed to shift the air around you, the way he saw something in you that no one else did. But nothing you could say would make sense—not to Steve, not even to yourself. So you just shrugged, feeling more lost than ever. “I don’t know,” you repeated, quieter this time.

Steve’s eyes searched yours, his concern deepening. He wasn’t just asking out of curiosity; he was worried. Steve had always been protective of you, always looking out for you like a brother, and the fact that someone like Remy LeBeau had inserted himself into your life—it clearly didn’t sit well with him.

Before Steve could say anything else, though, the sound of footsteps approaching made both of you tense. Another presence stepped into view, and in an instant, the air around you thickened with something unspoken.

Steve straightened up, his body tensing as he rose to his full height. You looked up slowly, your heart skipping a beat when you saw who was standing there.

Remy LeBeau.

He stood casually, leaning against the wall with the easy confidence that always seemed to follow him, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigarette. The familiar flick of his lighter broke the silence, followed by the crackle of burning tobacco. He took a long drag, his eyes fixed on you, before exhaling a slow plume of smoke into the night air.

Steve was the first to break the silence, his voice calm but edged with tension. “You shouldn’t have brought a gun in there,” he said, his gaze steady, locked on Remy. “You should be kicked out for it.”

Remy didn’t flinch. His expression remained cool, unreadable, as he took another drag of his cigarette. His dark eyes flicked briefly to Steve, and when he spoke, his voice was low, smooth, that thick Cajun drawl rolling off his tongue like molasses.

“Then kick me out,” Remy said, his tone laced with an almost lazy defiance. “Ain’t stoppin’ you, mon ami.”

The tension between Steve and Remy was palpable, a thick, invisible cord stretched taut between them, threatening to snap. It was in the way Steve’s broad shoulders squared, his jaw clenched tightly with the effort of holding back words he wanted to say but chose not to. And it was in the way Remy stood, deceptively casual, his posture loose, but his eyes—those dangerous, dark eyes—were locked onto Steve’s with an intensity that spoke volumes.

There was a quiet kind of violence in the air between them, not the kind that exploded into fists or fury, but the kind that simmered just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to boil over. You could feel it pressing in on all sides, filling the space until it seemed almost unbearable, the weight of it settling deep in your chest.

Steve’s restraint was admirable, but you could see the conflict churning behind his eyes. His sense of duty, his unwavering belief in doing what was right, was at war with the growing frustration he felt toward Remy. To Steve, rules were not just guidelines—they were the foundations on which he built his entire life. And Remy? He was everything Steve wasn’t: unpredictable, wild, a man who didn’t give a damn about rules or boundaries if they got in the way of what he wanted.

But beneath that frustration, there was something else—a deeper concern. Steve wasn’t just angry because Remy had broken the rules by pulling a gun in the club. He was worried about you. Worried about what Remy’s presence in your life meant, about the kind of danger and chaos that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Steve had always been the protector, the one who kept you safe, and now it was clear that he wasn’t sure if he could protect you from this—from Remy, from the feelings you were starting to develop, from whatever this strange, magnetic force between you and Remy was turning into.

Remy, on the other hand, was a man who lived by his own rules. He didn’t play by anyone else’s game, and he certainly wasn’t about to start just because Steve Rogers told him to. There was a defiance in the way he stood, in the way he held Steve’s gaze without blinking, as if to say, You don’t scare me. You’re not in control here. But there was more to it than that. Beneath the surface, beneath the cocky arrogance and smooth indifference, Remy knew exactly what was at stake. He wasn’t oblivious to the way you and Steve were connected, to the unspoken bond between you two. And for all his bravado, he respected it, even if he would never admit it out loud.

The silence between them stretched on, thick and heavy, until it was almost suffocating. You could feel your own breath catch in your throat, your heart pounding harder with each passing second. Part of you wanted to step in, to say something, to diffuse the tension before it spiraled out of control. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. This wasn’t just about you. This was about them—about the unspoken battle between two men who, in their own ways, cared about you more than they would ever be able to say.

Steve’s hand twitched at his side, his fingers curling into a fist for just a moment before he forced them to relax. It was a small gesture, but you saw it, and you knew what it meant. He was holding himself back, forcing himself to stay calm when every instinct inside him was telling him to step in, to do something. But Steve was nothing if not disciplined, and he knew that this wasn’t a battle he could win with force. Not tonight.

Remy’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk, just enough to needle at Steve without outright provoking him. It wasn’t a challenge exactly, but it was close enough. He took one last drag of his cigarette, exhaling slowly, the smoke curling into the night air like a ghostly reminder of the tension still lingering between them. His eyes never left Steve’s, and for a brief moment, something passed between them—something that felt almost like an understanding.

It was subtle, barely noticeable, but you saw the way Steve’s posture shifted. The rigid tension in his shoulders softened, just a fraction, and his stance became less defensive. He wasn’t letting go of his frustration, not entirely, but he was stepping back. He knew this wasn’t a fight he could have right now. Not with you in the middle of it. Not when there were bigger things at play.

For his part, Remy seemed to sense the shift, and the intensity in his gaze eased, just slightly. The smirk faded, replaced by something quieter, something that almost resembled respect. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. The challenge was still there, but it had softened into something less volatile. The two of them had reached an unspoken agreement, a temporary ceasefire. They both knew they weren’t done, that this tension would come back, but not tonight.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, the tightness in your chest easing as the tension between them finally began to recede. Steve’s eyes showed what he needed to say to Remy but couldn’t. Keep her safe.

“I’ll see you later,” Steve said quietly, his voice softening as he spoke to you, not Remy. The words were laden with meaning, with the weight of everything that had just transpired, and with everything that still needed to be said. But he didn’t press. He was giving you the space to make your own choices, even if every fiber of his being wanted to protect you.

You nodded, feeling the gravity of the moment settle over you. You knew what his unspoken words meant. He was leaving you with Remy, and that meant more than either of them would ever admit out loud. Steve trusted you, even if he didn’t trust Remy. And that trust… it was everything.

With one last look at Remy, Steve turned and walked away, his footsteps steady and sure as the club door closed behind him with a soft click. The night felt suddenly quieter, colder, without the weight of his presence, but there was also a strange sense of relief. The storm had passed, for now.

Remy watched him go, his expression unreadable, though you could sense the tension still lingering in his frame. As the smoke from his cigarette dissipated into the night air, he finally turned his attention fully to you, his eyes softening in a way that belied the sharpness he had shown only moments before.

“Didn’t mean t’cause trouble for you, chère,” he said, his voice low, the Cajun lilt softer now, almost apologetic. “But I ain’t gonna stand by when someone’s messin’ wit’ you.”

You exhaled slowly, your heart still racing from the quiet intensity of the standoff. “I know,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. And you did. You knew that as wild and unpredictable as Remy was, he had acted out of something deeper—something that had nothing to do with rules or consequences and everything to do with you.

The silence between you and Remy felt suffocating, thick with tension, charged not just with the weight of what had happened—but with everything that was still unsaid. The night air was cool against your skin, but all the heat of what had transpired inside the club still clung to you, making it hard to breathe. You stood up slowly, brushing off your legs more out of habit than necessity, trying to collect yourself, trying to focus on anything but the confusing storm of emotions swirling inside you.

When you turned to face him, Remy stood there, casually leaning against the wall, his hands in his pockets. But beneath his easy posture, you could see the coiled tension in his frame, the way his eyes followed your every movement with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. He had always been like that—watching you with a sharpness that made you feel like he could see right through you, see all the things you tried to hide.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, your voice quiet but firm, though it trembled ever so slightly. You weren’t sure if it was from the lingering adrenaline or something else entirely. “What happened in there… it didn’t have to go that far.”

Remy’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw something in them that wasn’t anger or defiance. Beneath the layers of cool confidence and the cocky smirk that usually adorned his face, there was something softer, something almost vulnerable. It was rare to catch him like this, his guard down, his emotions barely concealed behind that mask he wore so well. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke billow out before speaking.

“He put his hands on you,” Remy said simply, his voice low and even, as if that explained everything. “That’s all I needed to know.”

You shook your head, frustration bubbling up inside you like a wave you couldn’t hold back. “Yeah, but pulling a gun? In the middle of the club? That’s not…” You trailed off, searching for words that could express the storm of emotions you were feeling. “That’s not how you handle things, Remy!”

His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. For a brief moment, you thought he might snap back, lash out with a sharp retort like he so often did when he felt cornered. But instead, he sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to carry with it more weight than just the events of the evening. His shoulders dropped, just slightly, his posture softening in a way that caught you off guard.

“Maybe not,” he admitted quietly, his voice almost a whisper now. “But I don’t handle people touchin’ you well. I don’t handle people hurtin’ you well.”

There it was again—that intensity, that possessiveness that sent your heart racing and made your head spin. You didn’t belong to him. Not really. But the way he had acted tonight, the way he had stormed into that club and made it clear to everyone that you were his to protect—it was undeniable. It was written in every action, in every word. And that terrified you.

You swallowed thickly, trying to regain some semblance of control, some sense of yourself that wasn’t tangled up in the complicated mess that was Remy LeBeau. “I can take care of myself,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended, as if by saying it aloud, you could make it true.

Remy’s eyes softened at your words, but his gaze didn’t waver. He took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, his voice dropping to that low, almost dangerous tone that always seemed to reach deep into your chest and twist something inside you. “I know ya can, chère,” he said gently. “But tha’ don’t mean ya have t’.”

His words hung in the air between you, and you found yourself at a loss. How could you argue with that? How could you argue with someone who had just put everything on the line for you, someone who had stepped into chaos without a second thought because the idea of you being hurt was something he simply couldn’t allow?

The silence between you stretched on, heavy and full of all the things neither of you were saying. You wanted to be angry. You should be angry. But the truth was, you weren’t. Not really. Because despite everything—despite the recklessness, the chaos, and the fact that Remy had just complicated your life in ways you hadn’t even begun to process—you couldn’t deny the way your heart responded to him. Something had changed tonight, something that couldn’t be undone, and the weight of that realization pressed down on you like a tidal wave.

Remy took one last drag of his cigarette, the orange ember glowing brightly for a moment before he flicked it to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot with a deliberate motion. His eyes never left yours, dark and intense, but there was something different now. The sharp edges were softened, replaced with something that made your heart ache in a way that scared you more than anything that had happened tonight.

“Let me take y’ home,” he said quietly, his voice so soft you might have missed it if you weren’t standing so close. There was no demand in his tone, no arrogance or bravado. Just a simple offer, laced with a sincerity that made your chest tighten.

You stood there for a moment, frozen, the weight of everything pressing in on you. You could feel the conflict warring inside you—the part of you that wanted to push him away, to tell him you didn’t need him, that you could handle your life just fine on your own. But then there was the other part, the part that couldn’t deny the comfort you felt in his presence, the safety you had come to associate with him, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

Your throat felt tight, and when you finally nodded, it was almost imperceptible, a small movement that spoke volumes. Because the truth was, despite everything, despite the chaos and the confusion, you wanted to go home. And more than that, you wanted him to take you there.

Remy’s eyes softened even further as he saw your silent agreement. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t need to. The small, almost imperceptible smile that tugged at the corner of his lips was enough to convey the relief he felt. He reached out then, his hand brushing lightly against your arm—just a soft, fleeting touch, but it sent a jolt of warmth through you that you couldn’t ignore.

He gestured toward the street, where his car was parked, and you followed him silently, your heart still racing, your mind still spinning. The walk was short, but every step felt heavy with the weight of what had just happened—what had been set into motion between you.

When you reached his car, Remy opened the passenger door for you, a simple gesture, but one that felt intimate in a way that made your chest ache. You slid into the seat, the smell of leather and cigarette smoke filling your senses as he closed the door behind you. Remy climbed in beside you, the door shutting with a quiet thud that seemed to echo in the stillness of the night. The familiar scent of leather and tobacco filled the small space of the car, wrapping around you like a reminder of him—of all the things he was, all the things he never said out loud. He didn’t start the car right away. Instead, he just sat there, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly you could see the tension in the way his knuckles turned white against the black leather.

The silence between you was thick, but not uncomfortable. It was more like the calm before a storm, the moment when everything hangs in the balance and you’re not sure if you should brace yourself or let yourself breathe. You could feel the tension radiating off him, a tangible thing that seemed to fill the car, pressing in on you from all sides. His jaw was clenched, the muscles ticking beneath his skin as if he were holding back something he couldn’t quite put into words.

He had been reckless tonight—more reckless than usual—even for him. And it wasn’t just the gun he’d pulled, or the way he’d stared down Steve without flinching, without backing down. It was something more than that, something deeper. You could feel it in the way he looked at you now, like there was a storm raging inside him that he was barely holding back. Something had shifted between the two of you, and whatever it was, it scared him as much as it scared you.

He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, his heart doing a slow, painful roll in his chest. You were sitting there, quiet, waiting. Maybe waiting for him to say something, or maybe just waiting for him to start the damn car. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Because if he started the car, if he took you home, it would mean the night was over, and he wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

Remy had never been a man who thought much about the future. He lived in the moment, took what he wanted when he wanted it, and never let himself get too attached. Attachments were dangerous. They made you vulnerable. And vulnerability was something he couldn’t afford. Not in his line of work. Not with his past. But with you… Damn it, with you, it was different.

He hadn’t planned for this. He hadn’t planned for the way you’d slip into his life, a little bit at a time, until you were everywhere. In his thoughts. In his dreams. In the way his heart seemed to kick up a little faster whenever you walked into a room. He hadn’t planned for how much it would matter to him when you smiled at him, or how much it would tear him apart when you looked at him the way you were lookin’ at him now—like you were tryin’ to figure him out, tryin’ to understand why he was so damn complicated.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, his hands tightened on the steering wheel, the leather creakin’ under his grip. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t just walk away. Not now. Not after tonight. He had made that clear the second he’d seen that guy put his hands on you in the club. The second he felt that flash of possessiveness burn through him like wildfire.

He’d seen red. He hadn’t thought. He’d just acted. Because no one—absolutely no one—was gonna touch you like that. Not while he was breathing.

But it wasn’t just about protecting you. It wasn’t just about making sure you were safe. It was more than that, and he knew it. Hell, he’d known it for a while now, even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it. You weren’t just some girl he was looking after. You weren’t just some fling, some distraction to pass the time.

You were something else. Something more. Something that scared the shit out of him.

Finally, Remy turned the key in the ignition, the car rumbling to life beneath you. He glanced over at you one last time, his eyes dark and serious, like he was trying to tell you something without speaking. And maybe he was. Maybe you didn’t need words to understand what was happening between the two of you.

As he pulled away from the curb, the city lights flickering through the windows, he couldn’t help but feel like something had shifted. Something fragile, something he wasn’t sure he could hold onto—wasn’t sure he deserved to hold onto—but he was damn sure gonna try.

Because for the first time in a long time, Remy LeBeau had something worth fightin’ for. <><><><><><><> When Remy finally pulled up in front of your building, the soft hum of the engine faded into silence, leaving only the quiet of the night and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat. The car came to a stop, but neither of you moved. The street outside was still, the occasional flicker of a streetlamp the only sign of life. Inside the car, the air felt thick, heavy with everything that had happened and everything that had yet to be said.

You stole a glance at him from the corner of your eye. His hands still rested on the steering wheel, though his grip had loosened. For a moment, you thought he might say something—something that would break the tension, the uncertainty that hung between you like a fragile thread. But Remy remained silent, his gaze fixed ahead, his face unreadable in the dim light of the dashboard.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice softer than usual but firm in its resolve. “I’ll walk ya’ up,” he said, the Cajun lilt in his words gentle, almost hesitant.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak. Part of you wanted to tell him no—that you didn’t need him hovering, that you could make it up to your apartment just fine on your own. You’d done it countless times before. You were independent. You were strong. But tonight, after everything that had happened—the fight, the gun, the raw intensity in Remy’s eyes when he had stepped between you and danger—well, tonight was different. There was a part of you, a part you weren’t quite ready to acknowledge, that wanted him there. That needed him there.

Without another word, the two of you stepped out of the car, the night air cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the car. The quiet of the street seemed to mirror the silence between you as Remy fell into step beside you, his presence solid and reassuring, like an anchor in a world that suddenly felt too unsteady. The narrow staircase that led to your apartment loomed ahead, but it felt longer than usual, each step charged with an unspoken tension.

He didn’t say a word, but you could feel him beside you—his quiet strength, the subtle protectiveness in the way he moved. It was like he was always aware of you, always making sure you were okay, even if he didn’t say it out loud. His hand hovered near your back, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. The air between you buzzed with something electric, something neither of you seemed ready to confront.

When you finally reached your door, you paused, fumbling with your keys. Your fingers felt clumsy, as if the weight of the night had finally caught up with you. The lock clicked open, but you hesitated, turning to face him, searching for the right words. But they didn’t come. Your mind raced, your heart pounded, but your mouth remained silent.

For a long moment, you just stared up at him. There was something in his eyes as he looked back at you—something deep and complicated, like he was wrestling with feelings he didn’t quite know how to express. You had seen Remy in all kinds of situations—cocky, charming, dangerous—but this was different. There was a vulnerability there, hidden beneath the surface, something he tried to mask with that same hard-edged exterior he always wore.

Finally, you managed to speak, though your voice was barely above a whisper. “Thank you,” you said, the words simple but heavy with meaning.

Remy’s expression softened, the hard lines of his face easing just for a moment. His eyes, usually so full of playful mischief, now held something else—something quieter, more raw. He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you, and in that silence, you could feel the weight of everything that had gone unsaid between the two of you. The tension that had been simmering for so long, now bubbling just beneath the surface.

He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible movement, as if he understood what you were really saying. And maybe he did. Maybe he understood better than you gave him credit for. His hand brushed against your arm lightly, his touch warm and fleeting, like he was allowing himself that one last moment of contact before pulling away.

For a second, you thought he might say something more—something that would explain what was happening between you, something that would put words to the emotions swirling inside his chest. But instead, he simply nodded again, his lips pressed into a thin line. He turned, his hand already on the railing, ready to descend the stairs and disappear into the night.

But as his foot hovered over the first step, something inside you twisted, a sharp, aching pull that you couldn’t ignore. You weren’t ready for him to go. Not like this. Not with so much left open, unresolved. The thought of him walking away, of the night ending with him just… leaving, stirred something deep within you—a fear, a longing, an ache that felt too big to name.

Before you could think better of it, your voice broke through the stillness, stopping him in his tracks. “Remy,” you called, your heart hammering in your chest, your voice quieter than you intended but still louder than anything you’d said all night. “What… what happens now?”

He froze, his back still turned to you, his body caught in that space between staying and leaving. The streetlamp above cast his silhouette in shadow, and you could see the way his hand clenched briefly at his side, as if he were wrestling with something inside himself. The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, the distance between you suddenly feeling like miles rather than inches.

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned to face you again. His eyes—those red-on-black eyes that had always been so hard to read—were darker than usual, shadowed with something deep, something conflicted. The playful charm that usually danced behind his gaze was gone, replaced by something heavier, more serious.

“Wha’ happens now?” he repeated, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraping against stone. The question lingered in the air, thick with the weight of everything neither of you were saying. He let it hang there for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure how to answer, as if he was testing the words, feeling them out before he spoke again.

Finally, he took a slow breath, his eyes never leaving yours. “I don’ know, chère,” he said, his voice quieter now, more measured. “I don’ know what happens next.”

There was a vulnerability in his words, an admission that he didn’t have all the answers, that maybe he was just as lost in all of this as you were. It wasn’t like Remy to admit uncertainty, to let anyone see the cracks in his armor. But here, in the quiet of the night, with just the two of you standing on that doorstep, he didn’t try to hide it.

“I’ll see ya’ ‘round,” he finally added, his tone carefully neutral, the words almost too casual for what they carried. But there was something in the way he said it that made you feel like it wasn’t just a throwaway line. It was a promise, but one laced with uncertainty, with the tension of things left unresolved.

He took a step back, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer, as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. And then, without another word, he turned and started down the stairs, his figure slowly disappearing into the shadows of the street below.

You stood there, frozen, your heart still pounding in your chest as you watched him go. And even though he had promised he’d see you again, the sight of him walking away left you with an ache—a deep, hollow longing that settled in your chest, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t ready to let him go.

Not yet.

Not like this.

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