#haunt chapter fifteen

[choices-binglebonkus]

Okay so I may be in the minority here…but I’m not a fan of characters dying and being definitively dead…then being resurrected. Death is a permanent and very final conclusion to a character and their arc, and having them brought back to life takes away from that impact.

ESPECIALLY when other dead characters don’t get resurrected.

[shallyouobeyme]

From the Outside

Part 1 (you're here) | Part 2 (Coming soon)

Platonic!Yandere Batfam x Neglected Batsib!reader (GN)

Summary: You were living your life as a stranger in the house you were supposed to call home, an outsider in a group of people who were supposed to be your family. So you do your best to keep yourself distracted from your situation and go on with your life. But just how long will you be able to keep on with that?

! Minors Do Not Interact !

Requested by @sol565

TW: Not much in this one, neglect (obviously), loss of relatives, car crash (mentioned), cancer (mentioned), swearing, coming up to Yandereness in the next chapters. I'll try to proofread and edit once I finish the whole thing.

Last night you dreamed of your family again. It was a pleasant dream, one that had you wishing to keep on dreaming even after you were woken up by your alarm. All of you were sitting at the dinner table, enjoying Alfred’s excellent cooking. The room was filled with happiness and joy, the kind of atmosphere that has you reminiscing about that day for ages. In your dream you felt so weightless, Damian was sitting opposite you as he listened to you talk about your day, an anecdote of you leading to laughter filling the room. Your mother ruffled your hair from where she was sitting beside you and as you smiled up to her you felt filled with love. Around the table, the Waynes were actively interested in the conversation and Bruce was asking you a question leading to a cheeky comment from your left side. You knew what was said, but you couldn’t understand the voice. Confused you looked to where your father should be sitting but only a distorted shadow figure looked back at you. 

It opened whatever would be most akin to a mouth and a blaring sound echoed out of it. Your eyes flew open as you slapped your bedside table to grab your phone. 7 A.M, time to get up. This dream had been haunting you for a few weeks now, the idyllic family dinner turning into an unpleasant reminder of your situation. At first, you had woken up in a cold sweat and slightly fearful from the end, but by now you had grown very accustomed to it. Just another part of your day to get through. 

You accepted to pay the mental price for the opportunity to see your mother again, if only during the nights. 

Another look at your phone to check the notifications and you got up and got dressed. Given the time you knew that you still had enough time to join your adopted siblings for breakfast, but even Alfred's amazing pancakes and french toast could to move you into the kitchen. Deciding to just nap something from your friends during lunch break at school, you grabbed your bag and jacket before quickly making your way through the manor. Like almost every morning you silently prayed that you wouldn’t come across anyone on your way to the front door. Eighty per cent of the time you were lucky, fifteen per cent you were just ignored and the other five per cent you found yourself stuck in painfully awkward small talk with the people who lived on the same floor as you. People who were supposed to be your closest friends and confidants. People who weren’t that. People who were more akin to strangers.

Today you were in luck as you managed to slip out of the giant house you hated to call home without having to talk to anyone. Getting onto your scooter, you made your way to the school, enjoying the air in your face through the helmet and the feeling of freedom that only came to you on rare occasions. 

The school was still fairly empty when you arrived - as was expected - so you had the honour of walking through the empty halls like you owned the place. A sentiment that some of your schoolmates even believed. You wanted to tell them that you had no need for your Guardians money, no interest in his family’s name or his family’s reputation. Bitter thoughts filled your mind, leaving a taste of anger, of disappointment, of anguish on your tongue. They weren’t helped by what you saw when you stopped in front of the trophy showcase. There were pictures of some of the best former student-athletes that had attended the school, and the most recognizable was a picture that was proudly displayed right on eyesight. It was at a sporting event that had happened some twenty to thirty years earlier, one that was still held bi-annually. The winners of different disciplines were smiling proudly into the camera, arms around each other. 

Taking the spotlight was a man that every proud Gothamite would recognize as a young Bruce Wayne on one side, a different boy who people tended to overlook based on his less noticeable features and the lack of fame he had, and in the middle of both of them stood Bruce’s former best friend. Your mother. Your late mother. 

She had been a beautiful, stunning, talented woman. Everyone who had ever known her told you that. You tried to take some solace in the fact that they told you how alike the two of you were, both in looks and in personality. It did nothing to quell the underlying pain though, the pain still boiling inside you, pain that over the years had turned into anger. You weren’t angry with your mother, of course, you knew that she had not chosen to fall sick, that she had not chosen to succumb to cancer. She had loved you with all her heart and only ever wanted you to be happy. This is why, when your grandparents died in a shooting shortly after her diagnosis, she put it in her will that after her passing you were to be taken care of by her lifelong friend Bruce Wayne. After all, he already had kids and he was rich, just like she and her parents had been - money and estates that now waited on you to turn 18 to take charge of - and he’d be surely able to give you the life and the love she always wanted you to have. 

Sadly, your mother had not known Bruce quite as well as she had believed she did. She had no idea that he spent his nights as the infamous Batman, or that the kids he adopted had been turned into fighting machines - sometimes even killers. She had no idea that he was not the amazing, loving and attentive father figure she had wanted you to have. Not even close. 

You suppose he had tried at one point. When you were a young child, grieving the loss of your entire family and everything that you had known, he had taken you in like one of his own and assured you that from then on he’d protect you. Back then you had believed him. After all, your mother had told you so many great things about him, why should she lie. And with elder brothers and sisters, a Butler who made sure you had your favourite foods whenever you felt sad and a man who tried his best to be the father you never had. They did lots of work to spend time with you and to pay attention to you which would ensure you wouldn’t notice their weird habits and absences. But of course that couldn’t work forever. After a few months, you found out about their best (and somehow at the same time worst) kept secret and as you walked through the Batcave by Bruce’s side everything changed. He didn’t directly offer to train you, but he did insinuate that it was an option, though you declined. You couldn’t see yourself hurting others. You wanted to help like your mom had helped, by volunteering, bettering the world peacefully. Bruce had assured you that that was a completely acceptable decision and that it wouldn’t change anything. But he had lied. Perhaps knowingly, perhaps not. Maybe some of both. 

Once you were aware of their second life, they didn’t put in the effort to pay enough attention to you to make you unaware of their secret. At first, they still spent time with you, but over time it seemed like you were blending into obscurity like a special bottle of champagne that was planned to be open on a special occasion only. Just that the bottle was usually remembered after the occasion had passed in annoyance. You weren’t. And as you phased out of their minds and into oblivion, you made peace with your place in the family. An outsider, a stranger inside their house, just waiting until the time had come for you to finally live your own life. 

Of course, you knew you could have it worse. You had enough money to fulfil every wish you had as long as it was material, always had something to wear, something to eat, and somewhere to sleep. The only thing you didn’t have was love. But especially in Gotham you knew that you got away rather luckily with that, so while you were deeply angry towards the people who had promised to treat you like family, to love you, you also tried to just get on with your life. 

It would have been easier if it wasn’t just so hard to look at your so-called siblings as if you didn’t resent them for the way they treated you, compared to one another. Somehow showing any interest in you or attempting to spend any time with you was a chore, but somehow Jason and Cass could have a little book club, Jason and Dick could go out for lunch at a cat-cafe, Steph, Cass and Tim could have Spa-days and all of them could have an occasional movie night together. It wasn’t explicitly stated that you weren’t welcome, but you had seen how they acted when you were with them compared to how they acted when you were hiding behind the door listening in. They seemed so much happier without you. As if your mere presence ruined the mood. So you started rejecting their invitations to join and it only took one of two attempts of them to stop asking completely. 

You might have been able to cope better with the obvious dismissal of your existence if it had been because you hadn’t been part of the family when they had forged their close bond, but somehow, even when Damian joined, acting like a complete asshole to everyone around him, they managed to include him and when he warmed up to them he joined their close group. 

So your newness surely could not have been that big of an issue right? Even Damian, completely new to the family and surely aggressive towards all of his pseudo siblings, seemed to know you were less than the others since he didn’t even bother to insult you, instead opting to ignore you. Completely. A glance spared, looking you up and down, and he had decided you were not worth it and his opinion seemingly still hadn’t changed. Sure by now you had talked with him a few times, but you could say the same about the fucking mayor of Gotham so you were sure that did not really count. 

Sometimes, you lay in your bed at night, wide awake, wondering just why you were worth so much less in their eyes. What you had done wrong. Two answers usually presented themselves before you. Either it was because you weren’t a vigilante, something that you might even have been willing to accept, or it was… you. Just you. And for some reason, that was the answer that seemed more plausible to you. Maybe you were just unpleasant to be around, not fitting enough for their family. Not interesting enough, not Wayne enough. 

And so you were cursed to live your life like a ghost in what is supposed to be your home. Going in and out every day, just waiting for the day to come when you could move into the penthouse your grandparents had bought you before they died, which would become your legal property in just a few years. You’d start anew. Maybe one day, after a long time and probably a lot of therapy, you’ll be able to start your own family. One that you’d promise not to fuck up like Bruce had. Until then though, you’d go on like always, spend as little time in that Manor as possible and try to distract yourself from your reality. 

You really did spend very little time at the manor. For one, no one in that house cared when you left or when you came back except maybe Alfred, but even he either knew that you could properly use the freedom or he was too busy to care. Probably a mix of both. And along with that, you had started a very active life outside of your family. You had a lot of friends, though you were not ready to call any of them close friends, always knowing about how many of them were after the publicity of your actual and current family name and the money and fame connected to it. But they were nice enough and they distracted you so you didn’t mind. Especially because you used said popularity to help the people in town. You managed to get a lot of your friends to volunteer alongside you in different homeless shelters, though a lot of them tended to post dozens of pictures which made you feel a bit icky about them trying to profit from helping others, but you knew you couldn’t complain because it did help the shelters. The shelters told you so themselves. 

Most of your ‘pocket money’ was donated and the rest of the time was spent doing different activities, be it arts, sports, parties or just wasting the day away. You did your best to cram as much into your day-to-day life as you could to keep you from thinking too much. To stop you from thinking too much about how messed up you were now, how you couldn’t even confide in any of your friends, how you didn’t even really manage to call them your friends, because you couldn’t allow yourself to let anyone close to you anymore, because you knew you weren’t worth it, because you knew you’d be disappointed and hurt again. 

These dark thoughts were kept inside, slowly eating at you like termites, while on the outside you kept on being the happy-go-lucky Gotham personality that people loved to follow. Though you didn’t post a lot on your own social media, your friends and people around you did, which the public loved for some reason. And so you kept up the act, because what else could you do? Let people know you’re hurting? So they could ridicule you for your rich people's problems? Or keep out of the public eye? And have to face the lonely darkness that was your life? No, you’d rather keep on pretending like you had been for years now. Even if it meant being a piece of entertainment for other people who could turn on you at any second. 

The day at school was mostly uneventful, only a short moment of passing by Damian ruined your mood as your classmates did their usual shtick of asking if that wasn’t your brother and you trying to shrug them off, after all, how do you explain that your brother treated you like air not worth breathing? So you changed the topic by announcing that you’d go help out at a local shelter after school and asked if anyone wanted to join. Some excused themselves but a few agreed, which led to a group of five of you coming into the shelter a few hours later after some mandatory selfies so keep your friends placated. There was a bit more traffic inside than usual - a few people definitely not in need of help - which was probably because one of your friends posted your plans on their socials. That was something that you had to begrudgingly accept. You couldn’t afford their anger, so you made a compromise with them that they could post stuff like that, but that they couldn’t post the exact location (which in your opinion was just common sense, but it seemed not a lot of people shared that).

Ignoring the people only there to see you or be near a Wayne, you focused on helping those who needed your help, though aware of the effect you could have on the shelter business, you helped out in the kitchen where people couldn’t see you. You didn’t mind, you liked cooking and you and the fellow kitchen staff had a sort of harmonized rhythm. It even helped you get lost in thoughts that didn’t make you wanna cry, so when you got interrupted in your flow, you almost jumped in shock. One of the organizers had tapped on your shoulder. 

“Y/N, there’s a man outside that wants to talk to you,” Marcus told you and nodded towards the door to the front.

“They still haven’t left? I’m really sorry Marc, if you think it’s better if I leave, then I will,” you sighed, annoyed by the turn of events. 

“No, it’s not a fan. At least I think, he’s- well, he claims to have something really important to talk to you about. He gave me this to show to you, said it’ll show you he’s serious,” Marcus shrugged and held a picture out to you. It was an old Polaroid of a young couple smiling into the camera. Your breath hitched. 

“Is he the guy in the picture?” you asked with a newly found seriousness.

“Yes, at least he looks like it. Is the woman-”

“Yeah, could we use the office? Only if you’re okay with it, of course.”

“Sure, no problem, go ahead, I’ll bring him to you in a minute.”

“Thank you,” you earnestly smiled at Marcus as you made your way to the door that led to the office. You were used to being nervous, but not quite as nervous as you were then. This could change a lot of things, everything if it was what you imagined it to be. You looked at the picture in your hand again before sitting down behind the desk and putting it down on the desk. There were steps behind the door coming closer, so you took a deep breath as you wiped your hands on your pant legs. The door opened and in came a man who looked just like the guy from the Polaroid. He seemed familiar, not just from that snapshot of the past, but something in his face rang a bell in your memories. You mustered him, trying to keep a stern exterior as you didn’t know if this was going to be what you thought it would be. 

Marcus gestured the man to sit down on the other side of the desk, before giving you an encouraging nod and closing the door as he left. 

“Hello,” you greeted the man, hands intertwined before you on the desk.

“Hello,” he responded alike and you could feel his curiosity burning through you. Had you misinterpreted this? Was this just another weird fan?

“This picture,” you looked at it again before sliding it towards him, “how do you know my mom?”

A/N: So, what do y'all think? Let me know in the comments or in my inbox ❤️ Also, I'd appreciate feedback on the title as well, not sure if I should change it or keep it.

[starryevermore]

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au

the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his. (AO3) (pinterest board)

series warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later 

TOTAL WORD COUNT (up to this point): 58,860

i DO NOT consent to my works being reposted, translated, or published on any third party site or app. if you see my work posted on any platform that is not my tumblr, my wattpad (starryevermore), or my ao3 (illiterate), it has been stolen and reposted without my permission.  

reblogs and feedback encouraged. 

my blog is strictly 18+. by clicking on the links or read more, you are agreeing that you are an adult. any minors found interacting with my blog will be blocked. 

chapter one

your parents are convinced that you will marry the king by the end of the social season. and so, too, it seems does coriolanus snow. 

chapter two

though you want nothing less than to marry coriolanus snow, he seems intent on finding you a reason to comply.

chapter three

coriolanus will make you fall in love with him one way or another. 

chapter four

you realize there is more to this than snow just wanting a bride.

chapter five

snow does not like the idea of others playing with his toy.

chapter six

now that he knows of sejanus’s interest in you, coriolanus can only think of how to keep you away from him. 

chapter seven

snow is pushing his luck with you, but you will not let his attempted slights go by. 

chapter eight

sejanus crosses a line.

chapter nine

he is in love.

chapter ten

coryo haunts your every moment.

chapter eleven

finally, coriolanus can call you his.

chapter twelve

you can’t believe that this is truly a good thing. 

chapter thirteen

coriolanus doesn’t understand why you've shut him out. 

chapter fourteen

you try to reconcile your feelings. (you fail.) 

chapter fifteen

you cannot seem to stay away. 

chapter sixteen

coriolanus gets to enjoy you.

chapter seventeen

finally, you enjoy your honeymoon. 

chapter eighteen

you say the words coriolanus is so desperate to hear. 

chapter nineteen

you and coriolanus return to the capitol. 

chapter twenty

the ton learns of how its king adores the queen.

chapter twenty-one

changes are coming.

chapter twenty-two

you and coriolanus adjust.

chapter twenty-three

you ask for something coriolanus is not willing to give. 

chapter twenty-four

coriolanus becomes obsessive.

chapter twenty-five

coriolanus’s obsession brings distance, and you are not sure you can handle such a thing. 

chapter twenty-six

you are not doing well without coriolanus, nor is he without you.

chapter twenty-seven

you reach your final straw.

[rafesapologist]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ↴

summary: it's been two years since your departure from the outer banks and rafe cameron has seemingly convinced himself that he can go on with his life as if you never happened, except now more than ever his addiction is at an all time high. whether he was snorting lines of cocaine at wild parties or drowning himself in alcohol to numb the pain, rafe couldn't escape the memories of you. despite his efforts to bury his feelings, your absence lingered like a shadow, haunting him at every turn. meanwhile, you've been navigating life outside the outer banks, trying to carve out a new path for yourself. but no matter how far you've traveled, the memories of rafe cameron still linger in your heart, leaving you with a sense of unfinished business. as you find yourself facing new challenges and opportunities, you can't help but wonder if fate will eventually bring you back to the place where it all began.

warnings: drug use, addiction, violence, angst, swearing, adult themes, dark content, smut, alcohol use, etc

↪ chapter one

↪ chapter two

↪ chapter three

↪ chapter four

↪ chapter five

↪ chapter six

↪ chapter seven

↪ chapter eight

↪ chapter nine

↪ chapter ten

↪ chapter eleven

↪ chapter twelve

↪ chapter thirteen

↪ chapter fourteen

↪ chapter fifteen

↪ chapter sixteen

↪ chapter seventeen

© rafesapologist 2024

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (ii)

Summary: Bucky doesn't even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet's amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky at his little shit supreme, obnoxious reader, mentions of hauntings and the things that come with (body harm, priests, etc). images all have alt texts.

A/N: if you're familiar with the format of BuzzFeed unsolved videos, the pictures in this chapter make more sense. anyway we're starting small to warm up but i assure u there's like actual paranormal shit from next chapter onward <3 thank u for the chaotic response to chapter 1 ily guys sm ! as usual, please send me things you'd like to see in the series! it always make me so happy

Previous part || Series masterlist

Bucky loves the compound. The sentiment carries a lot, considering he’s made it a non-negotiable part of his personal brand to hate everything. 

The lush landscape is quiet, spacious enough that he isn’t forced to run into anyone he’s actively avoiding, and has state-of-the art security that lets him sleep soundly, assured that no one will be able to get to his floor in an assassination attempt. 

All of his deep love and fond admiration disappears when it’s the crackass of dawn and his oakwood door receives the beat down of a lifetime. 

He snaps awake instantly, unsure of whether there was someone actually trying to kick the shit out of his door or it was just another nightmare that often blurred lines with reality. 

But after the third deafeningly loud knock confirms it, he scrambles for a pair of pants just so that he isn’t caught entirely vulnerable. 

The thrashing doesn’t cease, and by the time he makes his way to the door and yanks it open– 

There’s no one on the other side. 

Except a coffee cup on the ground and a note scribbled haphazardly on the side.

Shoot day. See you at the studio!

He stares wordlessly at the cup, unable to differentiate whether the feeling coursing through the very fibres of his being currently is pure blinding rage, or confusion that you apparently knew his coffee order. 

The studio is fucking empty. If Bucky wasn’t still reeling from the effects of being startled awake by a fake intrusion at 5am, he’d have been over the damn moon.

He does his part as a man of honour and righteousness– calls out a very quiet ‘Hello?’ and then doesn’t bother feeling guilt when his heart explodes in joy at the lack of response.  

He spins on his heel to march out, only to come to an abrupt stop when he almost runs into you. He didn’t even fucking hear you come in. 

“Oh, hey.” You look at him, hand on a bagel. “You actually showed.”

Bucky’s smile falters, and he returns to his default Grinchian state. 

“You made sure I fuckin’ did,” he grumbles. “How’d you get on my floor?”

“I have my ways.”

Bucky’s glare presses hard into you almost like a palpable entity. 

“I did a gig as an escape artist for a while. Paid super well,” you dismiss. 

He doesn’t blink once, trying to decipher whether you’re telling him the truth or not. 

You offer him a bite from your bagel in return, seemingly having moved on from the conversation already. 

“Where’s everyone else?” he asks, turning away from you.   

“Maya didn’t actually think you’d show up on time so she told everyone to come an hour later.” You speak through a mostly full mouth. “I figured you could use the company.” 

Bucky immediately feels defensive, as if that wasn’t exactly what he tried to do. 

He grumbled all through the morning when he saw fifteen text reminders sent to him through the night telling him he had to shoot a video that day. He grumbled when he couldn’t use traffic as an excuse to not show up because the studio is two streets away from the compound. He grumbled when the toaster actually works for once. Everything is right in the world. This was, of course, devastating to him. 

He finally shuts up when Sam gives him a piece of gum. Then he just glowers, but his jaw is otherwise occupied. 

“She set you on me this morning?” Bucky questions, tone on the verge of being ticked. 

You shake your head, swallowing before taking another bite. “No, that was social service.”

Bucky’s eye twitches. 

“I’ll come back in an hour,” he mumbles, arms crossed over his chest. 

You give him a look that lets him know you’re entirely unconvinced. “Will you?”

Well. No.

“I’m gonna look around the studio. You’re welcome to join,” you say instead, looking past him. “We’ll need to know where we’re working for the next few months.”

Few months? No no– few hours at max, if this were to go exactly his way. 

“Video’s not gonna do numbers,” he reminds you in a dull utterance.

“With an enthusiasm like that, it’s hard to see why you’re not universally beloved, Barnes,” you comment seriously, before clapping his shoulder. “Come on. You ever look at yourself in a mirror? You’re gonna be a star, baby.”

Bucky, in his current chosen avatar, looks less 'man of the world' and more 'reject of the jungle’. 

But the sentiment is appreciated.

The studio is moderately big. 

You find joy in messing around with set pieces of the other Avengers video series that were being shot there. Bucky finds joy in locating every possible escape route within a three foot vicinity. 

He’s admittedly surprised by learning how much actually goes into making a simple video. He just figured they’d stick a camera in his face and teleprompt him and get it over it. 

You chat animatedly about the use of gimbals and different camera gear, lighting setups and sound quality.

“You into this stuff?” He raises an eyebrow.

“No, I just did a stunt as a wedding videographer once,” you wave off, “It was great. You could always tell which couples were gonna get divorced within a year.”

Something unrecognisable flashes in his eyes. 

“Escape artist and wedding videographer,” he repeats.

You stop talking to look at him.

“Yes,” you say simply and go on to provide no further explanation. 

If the morning’s antics weren’t enough, now he’s convinced you’re fucking with him.

“Anyway, they’ll probably stick us in makeup before we go on camera because it–”  

“Makeup?”

“Well– yeah. For the video.” Your eyes dart toward him, sizing him up in a quick glance. “If you look any paler, you’d basically be translucent.”

Bucky can’t even debate it. His skin looks like it hasn't felt the gentle touch of a sunray in millennia.  

“Just say it’s part of the theme.”

You snort. “The first ghost I hunt cannot be one who sits beside me.” 

So Bucky gets his makeup done. 

By the time the studio fills in, he’s already drunk two cups of the shitty breakroom coffee and found fifteen innocuous things to fashion into weaponry if things were to go awry.

The large bright lights force him to keep wiping beads of sweat away from his forehead. Everything exists in a contrarian state of frenzy, and coordinated down to the second as if it were a damn rocket launch. He’s already had three staff members dart about him cross checking if he’s hydrated and if he’s signed the right forms. 

“Oh, you actually showed,” he hears for the second time from Maya, who doesn’t even make an attempt to hide the earnest surprise from her voice.

Bucky wants to scream.

“The team’s picked a really simple case since it’s the first video. You just need to read it out,” she explains breezily, switching from you to him, “and you need to react.” 

You flash her a thumbs up. Bucky doesn’t move an inch. He’s convinced it’ll trigger another round of people meddling with his hair until it looks ‘sufficiently casual but not artificial’. 

 Maya hurriedly leaves after wishing you good luck, probably to fix the walking PR disaster that was Clint, who unceremoniously went live on his Instagram the night before after consuming something he procured from some guy in an alleyway, who described it as ‘carbonated milk’. Bucky watched it for a few seconds and immediately shut down the app when Clint offered to take one article of clothing off for every million people that tuned in.

“I asked for there to be as few people in the room as possible,” you whisper to him. 

“Still a lot,” he replies under his breath, watching them buzz around him, still brushing up his face and dabbing at his hairline with a napkin. 

Someone hands you a folder full of papers. “We lose any more and we’re filming this video ourselves.” 

“All ready!” The camera guy, Shane, announces. 

“Copy that,” you call back, before leaning forward in your chair, grinning. “Chill. I’m gonna do the talking. All you gotta do is say a few words and look pretty.” 

That sounds…doable. 

“Make it fast,” Bucky mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.

Whether he was talking about the video or his death is still up for debate. 

“Recording in three…two…one–”

The whole studio waits with bated breath, but Bucky stares right ahead. 

“When I said a ‘few words’, I did mean one or two, possibly more,” you talk through your smile.  

Bucky continues looking into the camera like it stole his ancestral property.

You exhale, soldiering on, lips still upturned. 

You look at Bucky, hopeful that he will at least answer a question. He doesn’t offer the same kindness, and now you understand why Maya reached out to you for this. 

So you do what needs to be done, as a person with a responsibility to all these fine and tired souls gathered here on a weekend.

You kick him under the table. 

The crew waits for Bucky to say more. He very pointedly doesn’t. 

At least one sound has been procured from him, which is more than what they can say for some other videos.

You continue, “Our story takes place in 1954, in the quaint, rural town of Ravenswood. Irene–”

Bucky scoffs. “You made that up.”

Would now be a good time for him to bring up your previous job experiences you  had dropped so casually or was this enough to let you know he was onto you? 

Your eyebrows pull together, scanning over the sentence. “I haven't even said anything yet.”

“A horror story. Taking place in Raven’s Woods,” Bucky emphasises. “Really.”

Bitch.

“First of all, it’s Ravenswood, not Raven’s Woods,” you shoot back. “And it exists.”

“Where?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t know– fuckin’ West Virginia?” You shuffle through the papers. “Does it matter? You wanna move there?”

Bucky doesn’t add anything further. 

You observe him for a moment before deciding to continue. 

“In the quiet town of Ravenswood,” you side eye him but he doesn’t look affected. “Irene Wendelin, a 35-year-old woman moved into a house on the outskirts to save up money. She lived alone, had no immediate relatives and worked as a secretary at the local press.”

Bucky continues chewing his gum. You’re not even sure he’s listening, but everyone got paid by the hour regardless of whether he did, so who gives a shit. 

“Within a few weeks of moving in, strange incidents started to take place. Irene’s friend Thelma, who also worked as a secretary at the press, recalled how Irene developed a persistent cough, was constantly fatigued, and had issues sleeping due to her skin itching. Thelma suggested solutions from ointments to medication, but not one remedy that she provided seemed to work. As time went by, Irene’s symptoms escalated into severe respiratory problems, leaving her breathless just from climbing up a flight of stairs. She even reportedly started having hallucinations of people crawling around in her house in the dark, but she was never able to catch them in their entirety.”

“How long did this take?” Bucky questions out of the blue, arms still crossed over his chest. 

“I think within a couple of weeks of moving in.” You try not to look too surprised. “Further, Thelma recalls Irene saying she heard strange sounds at night which kept her up. The only time the woman felt normal was when she left her house to stay with her cousins for a month.”

Bucky’s head snaps to you, eyes narrowing.  

“What?” you challenge.

“Nothin’,” he says instead. “Go on.”

You cast a look at the crew, who look just as confused as you, but you continue regardless. 

“Things escalated when one day, Irene showed up to work in complete disarray. Thelma says that upon a closer look, Irene had bite marks over her hands and legs. Thelma, a devout Christian, insisted on getting the place checked out by the church since all else had failed. Father Gabriel, a local priest, agreed to visit the house, but upon setting foot inside, claimed it was haunted by ‘forces of evil whose reality existed beyond mortal comprehension’. This was the last straw for Thelma, who had Irene move into her house until she found a new place to stay. Within a few weeks, Irene was back to normal, and the house is still considered one of the most haunted places in the country to this place, with no one allowed to enter.” 

Bucky looks at his arms, jaw tightening. 

Your eyebrow twitches.

You could see Maya shaking her head from across the room, entirely fucking defeated. 

You wait a few seconds but receive no response. Bucky’s gaze doesn’t shift from the table top. 

You start gathering the folder with the story in it, getting ready to read out your conclusion. 

You stare at him, but he doesn’t look up at you.

Collectively, every spine in the room straightens. 

“Asbestos?” you echo.

“Or mold. Could be either.” Bucky shrugs, chewing on the same stupid piece of gum that had lost its flavour hours ago. 

You look at him in bewilderment, partly because you weren’t expecting him to say anything at all, much less this. 

“Had an aunt once who thought she was possessed. Turns out her walls were full of mold.” 

You stare at him. “You’re lying.”

He finally turns to you, no traces of humour on his face. “She got remarried and moved out. Good as new.” 

“That doesn’t mean it’s asbestos.”

“Had the same symptoms an’ everything. Itchy skin, breathing problems, fatigue.” 

“Hallucinations?”

“Stress. Being poisoned twenty-four hours a day’ll do a number on anyone.”

“And the bite marks?” 

“You never had an itch so bad you just bit it?”

“On her legs?” you ask incredulously. “She bit her legs? Is that what you’re saying?”

Bucky shrugs. 

You look like you’re going to lose your mind. 

You clear your throat. “What about the priest?

Bucky snorts. “What ‘bout him?” 

“'Forces of evil whose reality existed beyond mortal comprehension’?” 

“Maybe it was her,” he fires back. “Maybe that's just how she was, how would you know?”

“You’re saying the forces of evil are just… her bad vibes?” you say it slowly, as if that would make it better. 

“Maybe.” Bucky’s shoulders rise and drop again. “My aunt was a real stick in the mud too. I coulda called her a force’a evil when she didn’t let me fire a bottle rocket into the tree.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. Bucky looks back innocently.

“You’re bullshitting.”

“About my aunt?” he scoffs. “I would never. Rest her soul. Made some damn good cranberry pie.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not asbestos.”

“Then why was she fine every time she moved out?”

“Because the house was haunted.”

“By mold.”

Maya clears her throat, pointing to her watch. 

You look back at her and clear your throat as well, shuffling around your papers. 

“Right. So that’s it for this episode.”

The camera guy yells “Cut!’ and you turn to look at Bucky.

But he’s already gone. 

The video goes up that weekend. 

It takes a considerable amount of time to edit, considering they had to bleep out  the steady stream of expletives that you didn’t even know Bucky was muttering under his breath, but got picked up by the mic anyway.

To Barnes (Work):

are you ready for your influencer era

He leaves you on seen. You think you’ll send him more memes of his stupid face.

To Barnes (Work):

influenza

Five hours since the video has gone up, and your phone starts buzzing more than usual. Nat’s already sent you a clearly AI generated article titled ‘Everything We Know About the Latest Avenger’, full of incorrect information and straight up lies. 

The first reviews are promising. Sort of. The newest generation of kids on Twitter are saying shit and using terms that are beyond you, but it looks good. You think.

And then somewhere close to midnight, your phone chimes with a text from a number you hadn’t yet saved. 

From unknown

Hey. Steve Rogers here. Great job on the video.

Your eyebrows shoot up, discarding your refreshing of the Subreddit that has popped up in your name. 

From unknown

Just letting you know though– he was lying.

From unknown

He doesn’t have an aunt. 

Motherfucker.

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

to keep up with updates for this fic and others, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications!

Next part

[jolalibrary]

15. raspberry truffle

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter fifteen of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.1k chapter warnings: smut. 18+. jo's mirror love resurfaces and armchairs are used as more than things sat behind desks. lots of mouth to mouth resus. smut. also there's smut. frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: I've had this image in my head for so long...

prev chapter | series masterlist

“Do you trust me?”

It's a simple question. One he’s asked you time and time before, but never with the current look in his eye he’s currently wearing.

Dressed in a tight grey tee and a pair of black sweats. Hatless, teased curls frame his face as you rest against your counter. The one you’ve seen for the first time in some days.

It strikes you that the only reason you're standing in your home, to begin with, is because of the email informing you that some of your new furniture had been dispatched.

His mouth had been sealed to your neck, fingers grasping at your waist as you read it out, distracted, attention not entirely focused on him until his hand snaked between your legs, in his sheets, in his bed—the one you’d now found to be far more comfortable than your own—as he whispered, I can build it for you.

And, he did. Had done.

Putting his tool on the side as he rejoins you. A nominal irk bubbling through you that the toolbox it lives in is one foot away, it vanishing when he steps closer, presses you further against it. Cool, firmness meets your spine as his body corners you.

He looms in a way that makes your heart double as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him. Deeply.

“Should I trust you, handsome?”

Snorting, his laugh fluttering over your lips. “I think you should.”

Lips pursing, narrowing your eyes teasingly, you feel his thumb sliding the fabric of your top up and down your hip bone.

“You are biased though.” His head lolls from side to side as he hums, fingers pinching at the bottom of your top. “Do you think I should because you built my chair?”

As soon as he slides his arm around your waist, your back arches. Chest desperate to be flush. Heart aching to be near to his.

“No. Because you love me.”

Sighing, nodding—all playful. A smirk just there, all beneath the surface. “Oh. That thing.”

Tracing his nose against yours, a smile trying to beam, but he mirrors how you hold back. “That thing.”

When he’s close like this, it’s almost criminal when you’re not kissing him. When you’ve not slanted your mouth against his soft lips, felt the roughness of the hair on his face against your palm, buried your fingers into his curls and pulled a little to earn that groan he does. The one, if it were a thing that could be possible, you’d love etched into your brain.

The thought of which makes you want to peel your clothes off.

Already so hungry for a thing you’ve been feasting at a buffet for the last number of days. Yet, still wanting, still needing.

“You really play a long game,” you say, more sweet. And his nose scrunches, frowning as you smirk. “Waiting this long, getting me to fall in love with you, and then killing me in my own office.”

“Oh yeah, I’m a mastermind.”

Laughing, you twirl a curl around your finger, finding the hair a little longer. “Okay,” you reply, sealing it to his lips, “I trust you—you get my blood on my new chair you’ve just built, I’m going to haunt you.”

“It’s not a punishment that you’d want to spend the rest of your days haunting me, Rainy.”

His hips dip, becoming aware of the effect you have on him too as his growing bulge rubs against your parted thighs. A moan escapes, body jolting at the welcome friction. The sound leaves so softly, barely loud enough to disrupt his mouth from being on yours.

But it does.

“Do you trust me?”

The four words repeated, answered hurriedly. No game, no tease.

His mouth comes close to your ear, a chaste kiss left along your hairline as his hand clutches your waist for stability, and you forget how to breathe.

“Close your eyes, baby.”

As you do, his fingers, clean and soft, all but sawdust stained, slide over your eyes—his chest to your back as he leads you down a familiar path that suddenly feels foreign. Trusting.

Your nose tunes in. Takes in the scent that is equivocally just him, one you’re thankful has begun seeping into your home as much as he has your heart. Hearing him whisper instructions, watch this, be careful, until you're body is shifted on its axis.

His fingers slide from your vision, allowing you to blink, see him, smiling at the sight of him.

“Fuck you’re handsome.”

Backing you up against the newly painted office wall, your arm hooks around his neck again, mouth ghosting over his as a hand hovers over your hip.

“Still trust me?”

Nodding, you feel his breath on your parted lips, before he slides his mouth over yours. Searing. Burning—all determined as his tongue slides past your teeth and his fingers slide up your neck, tracing your jaw. It makes you delirious. Dizzy. Thoughts nothing but lost to you until you glance past him and see it.

The built chair, in the nearly decorated office. The desk it should be behind is still a week out, but the chair, mirror and plants are all set up—the shelves adorned with bits you have for now.

“Hey?” he says, eyes snapping back to him.

Spotting the bubbling molten in his eyes, remembering how your body is aflame—

Then the next question comes. “Can I taste you, baby?”

Nodding, you whisper your answer into the air as he leads you, guides you all over again, moving you closer and more towards your new chair. Mouth latching itself to yours, palms on either side of your cheeks, before his hand steals the cushion, and throws it down.

“You look so beautiful, baby,” he whispers, trailing the words down your neck, along your collarbone.

It makes a gasp flutter from your lips, feeling your insides knot, likely dampening the fabric between your thighs, making nothing short of a mess—

“Gonna take these off, okay?”

Your tongue thickens in your head, swallowing a whimper at the feel of his thumbs hooking inside your shorts and slipping them down your thighs. The fabric skims, sliding, before they fall with a soft thud and he's guiding you to sit down in the armchair.

Taking a breath, you stare, captivated. Frankie sinking, kneeling before you on the cushion. “Part your legs for me.”

“Shit, Frankie.”

“Baby.”

Swallowing, you do. Then, it’s delicate, soft.

The gentlest of kisses up the inside of your thighs. Aware of the heat of his fingers pushing your knees further into the arms of the armchair, tuned into the way he exhales through his nose, cool air teasing over your already slick, cloth-covered pussy—the chair groaning when you buck your hips.

“Rainy.”

He grunts it. Low—warningly. It comes from a place in the back of his throat, grating and gravelly as he stares up at you. Nothing but brown dipped in more brown holding your gaze. Usually, it would make you smirk, but instead, you mumble an apology.

One that trails off; turns into a whine when he drags his tongue over the already-drenched fabric.

You’re not sure how it’s possible but you moan like you’ve been teased for hours. Sure that with a few more, you could be close—

“I want you to look in that mirror, and see how beautiful you look as I do this.”

“Frankie, I…”

His hand slides up, right between your still-covered breasts, before cupping your cheek, thumb under your jaw, eyes searching, sweeping and locating. “Look for me.”

Flicking your eyes to it, the ornate thing you’d not been sure you wanted until he’d slid his arms around your waist. Buried his face into your neck. Told you it was nice.

You’d agreed then, you most definitely did. Nodding, letting a little whispered okay escape as he nods. Staring, trying not to pick apart what you see in the reflection. The way your eyes look tired, skin not as bright as it normally would be. That is until he nips at your skin. Pulls your gaze from your own to the back of his head.

“Beautiful—”

“Frankie,” you sigh.

Hand coming over your face, heat blooming in your cheeks as you feel him kiss your inner knee. Thumb stroking at your skin, circling, before he taps. A silent request, a reminder: look at yourself.

You do.

“You are so beautiful, Rainy.” He dips his head—becoming aware of the finger sliding in the gusset of your plainest underwear, dragging the fabric, pulling it from your soaked core all the way to the side.

“I thought it when I first saw you.”

Air blowing across your core, before he places the most delicate, softest kiss against your swollen clit.

“Think it now, seeing you sat in your new chair, in your new office.”

You feel your chest heave, see it. Staring at the way the muscles strain in your neck from not moving, before he drags a long, slow stripe up from your aching hole to your nerves.

And he groans, low and dull. It vibrates against you before his tongue swipes again, hands pushing your inner thighs apart before he dives again. Sliding his tongue between your folds, licking, drawing.

He’s slow in his movements, measured. Delves as much of himself into you before wet, roaring heat swirls around and encases your clit as his growl sends flames up your spine.

That’s when he slides his fingers in. Curls them. Moves them in slow thrusts.

The whine of his name you let escape is sinful, practically unrecognisable. Your hips moving, unable to tear yourself away from staring at the way your mouth hangs open, panting, moaning, as you rock your hips, fuck yourself on his fingers, on his tongue, as you hope his other hand on your hip will leave a mark. Half moons or bruises, or even fucking both—

“Frankie, please.”

The angle of the mirror not only allows you to see the sight of him taking you apart, but how the act seemingly undoes him. How his shirt is stretched across his shoulder blades, how his muscles ripple under the thin fabric as you hold on to every thread as the pads of his fingers curl more into you. All come hither, beckoning the incoming wave you know is going to wash over the two of you.

And it turns you on.

“You like it, querida? Like watching yourself.”

“Like watching you.”

And you swear you feel him smirk as your hips lift, desperate for more, eyes speckled with spots as your nails grip the arm of the chair, the other lost and tangled in his curls.

It’s so good, so fucking good.

He’d make you confess, make you tell him everything—no matter the secret, you’re sure he could pull it from you like this. Have you spilling, as though he’s cracking you open, and even helping him translate the parts of you he’s yet to understand or know.

“So perfect squeezing around me, baby. Love how you taste—always taste so fucking good.”

Your back is off the chair, grinding into him, so close you can’t even think, can barely speak.

“Want you to come on my tongue, Rainy. Need you too.”

“Fuck.”

“That’s it. Let yourself feel good, baby. Use me, use—”

And you do.

Fuck. You do.

Your cry echoes and bangs around the walls before slamming into your ears. Legs shaking. Mind sludge as you come down from your high to his soothing touch, to his whispers, to his words that make you feel like you’re in heaven. Not just here, with his shoulders supporting your knees, but all the time.

It’s why you bring his mouth to yours. Messily, all disorientated from the high of him as you taste yourself on his mouth, on his tongue—the tang of what he’d done to you evidenced.

It makes you want, need.

You’re not sure how the two of you made it to the bedroom so cleanly.

His clothes are scattered, left in the hallway; a path that leads from one moment to the other. Your knees were likely bruised from how you dropped to them in the doorway, straddling the hallway and bedroom as you palmed him through his underwear, eyes wide, looking up.

“I love your cock, Frankie.” Hooking a finger in the band, dragging the fabric to his ankles, to the ground. “Like how heavy it feels on my tongue cock.”

Hand slowly wrapping around him, pumping once, twice.

“Fuc...”

His curse isn't able to form when your mouth wraps around him, taking him in your mouth. As much of him as you could. Hearing him groan, grunt—seeing his nostrils flare before his forehead presses into the crease of his elbow as he leans it against the door. His breath stammers, palm cupping the back of your head casually as he tenses, muscles straining, body stiff.

All you can think is you wish this image could be painted, commemorated; hung somewhere for your eyes to see everywhere, every day.

Because he's backlit by the afternoon, shadows cascade from the half-drawn curtains of your room, bicep flexing as you take him down your throat, loosening it as much as you can until the tip of your nose finds itself in his curls.

“So big, Frankie.”

He groans, at the same time as you taste salt, it pooling at the back of your throat. Your eyes flick up to see his jaw slackening, nostrils flaring when your tongue swirls around the tip, hollowing your cheeks, feeling him twitch in your mouth—

“Bed.”

It’s hissed, strangled, as he pulls himself from between your lips and spit trails over your lower lip and chin.

“Now?” you tease.

“Now.”

His hands, all capable and strong, haul you to your feet. Finding a home on your hips, directing and shifting you until you’re on familiar sheets, turned over, stomach flush to your mattress as he trails his mouth down your spine.

“Wanna fuck you.”

“Then fuck me.”

It’s different, the way your bodies come together. The way he swallows your hiss when he bottoms out, stretching around him, fingers clinging and clutching at him.

“Y’too good to me, Frankie.”

“Impossible,” he whispers.

Mouth sliding up over your neck, nose catching on your skin, his hand dips between your bodies—where you’re joined, where you’re full and stretched around him. It’s bliss. Perfection. One you endure so regularly but don’t become used to, each time as taken back by how good it feels to be seated fully inside you as his fingers tease your swollen nerves.

It’s with a smooth thrust do your fingers brush over his face, finding his cheek, mouth and nose, guiding with your eyes closed for his mouth to seal itself over yours. Hips moving, thrusting, meeting him each time as you grow slicker, making a mess of him and the sheets beneath you.

Mouth slotted over his, moaning passed his teeth, hands clutching his cheek, the back of his neck, fingers teasing his curls. “Fuck, Frankie. Fu—“

He grins, you feel it. His hand slides from your slick-covered clit to your hip, along your waist, travelling and travelling until his palm cups your breast—until his finger and thumb are pinching your hardened peak. All the time kissing you, open mouths, breathing one another as his pace quickens. As you feel the early signs of your thighs tremoring, seeking something to grip, to hold on tight—

“Love how you take me.”

You whine. Gasping.

And he’s smooth with it. The way he slides your hand from his cheek and down towards the bed. Hingeing you, making you go down onto all fours as he kisses down your neck, trails his tongue, leaving a searing wet line before he’s under your arm, snaking his mouth over as much skin as he can get.

“Baby—“

“I know,” he grunts, puncturing it with several thrusts. “Feels good, you always feel good.”

Your eyes clench shut, mouth falling open at the angle. At the way it makes your toes curl in nothing. Something tightening, something that makes the corners of your vision blot and darken. It close. Liquid heat forming, swirling in your stomach, in your need and you—

A whine rips from your throat. All stained in disappointment, in loss as he pulls out. Leaves you empty, desperate.

You almost hiss. Throwing your head over your shoulder as you glance back to see him breathing heavily, chest oiled with sweat, hand squeezing himself at the base, a lopsided grin spread into his cheek as his other hand slides over your side. Urging, silently requesting.

“Roll onto your back, Rainy.”

It centres you, roots you when his elbows come down on either side of you.

Warm, hot mouth sliding over your jaw, his hand gripping yours, holding you tight as he teases, slides the tip of his cock through your messy folds, taunting your swollen clit.

“I love you,” he groans, pushing himself in, completely to the hilt, all in one smooth movement.

You swear he's deeper. Always say so until he trails his hand up the side of your leg, lifting them, hooking them over his waist as you wrap them around his back, and dig your ankles into his lower spine.

“Feel so good.”

“You make me feel so good.”

Your chin tips up, feeling him press open-mouth kisses to your throat. Likely feeling the vibrations of your moans against his lips, his tongue.

“Yeah?”

Nodding, rustling your head against the dishevelled sheets as his breath fans over your collarbone, “Only you.”

His pace quickens, snaps his hips to yours, grunting, moaning—the sounds making you clench around him. Chasing your second orgasm, walls fluttering around him as your fingers tighten around his, as he grasps your hip and fucks into you. Spears into you.

“I love you too,” you moan.

“I’m close. So close. Want to feel you, baby. Can you come, baby, come for me—”

Fingers knotting tighter around his, vision spotting, it all pooling, all set to spread.

Then, it snaps, splinters.

You cry out. Body erupting.

Nothing but heat and fire surging through you as you are washed in it. Drowned it. Never wishing to be saved as you go under, as your hearing fades and your eyes blur. Only aware, distantly, of the way your skin tingles as it lights with a blaze.

But, you do catch his guttural groan. The way he stills, paused, as his eyes clench and your name is buried into your ear—feeling him collapse on you.

A weight you love.

His heart hammering against yours, breath strained, difficult as you clutch at him, pulling him closer if that is at all possible. Even if it's just for a moment, before steam fills your bathroom and soap suds slide down both of your skin.

Because it's a weight that makes you smile every time, every day. One you adore. One you never want to not know.

You say as much against his mouth as your lips sloppily meet his, smiling, grinning against his mouth.

I love you.

Love you too, Rainy.

an: this was almost titled the last smut. (because of the series coming to an end, not because of some unhappy ending)

NEXT CHAPTER ->

[anonymousewrites]

A Not-So-Disastrous Romance (Book 1) Chapter Fifteen

Kusuo Saiki x Reader

Chapter Fifteen: Festival Problems

Summary: As usual, things go wrong for Saiki. Luckily, he know has a companion to help him.

            “A haunted house, a café, bean bag toss, a haunted house, a café, a haunted house, a café—” Nendou listed off the different class events as he, Kaidou, Saiki, (Y/N), and Kuboyasu walked by them “—Whoa, there are all sorts of things!”

            “All sorts of haunted houses and cafes, you mean,” said Saiki.

            “At least everyone is having fun,” said (Y/N) positively.

            “Should we just pick one and enter?” suggested Kaidou.

            “Yare yare.” Haunted houses are a joke to me.

            “We could eat something,” said (Y/N), knowing Saiki would prefer that.

            “Restaurants with food made by high school students?” said Saiki dubiously.

            (Y/N) nodded to one sign and grinned. “That one has coffee jelly.”

            “Well, then, let’s go to the café,” said Saiki, instantly on board.

            “Oh, yeah, that haunted house café!” said Nendou excitedly, pointing at the wrong café.

            “No,” said Saiki.

            “They shouldn’t combine the two!” exclaimed Kaidou. “I don’t want to look at ghosts while drinking my coffee.”

            “That wasn’t scary at all,” scoffed a boy from a different school, standing next to his friend outside of one haunted house. “They said, ‘I’m gonna get you.’ How stupid.”

            “PK’s stuff is crap,” agreed his friend.

            “Who’re those guys?” wondered Nendou.

            “They’re from another school,” said (Y/N), frowning and watching them go into another haunted house.

            “I’m gonna check that one out,” said Kuboyasu. He smiled at the group, but it was tight-lipped and slightly menacing. “I get a kick out of scary stuff. I think this one’s gonna be scarier.”

            “For them,” murmured (Y/N).

            “They brought it onto themselves,” said Saiki. Karma wasn’t his problem.

            Sure enough, a few moments after Kuboyasu walked in, two screams went up from within the haunted house.

            “Whoa! They’re really screaming,” exclaimed Nendou. “Just how scary is that place?”

            “Well, then, shall we go in here, too?” suggested Kaidou, pulling aside the curtain.

            “I want coffee jelly,” said Saiki.

            “We’ll get it after,” said (Y/N) encouragingly, and Saiki couldn’t exactly say no to that, so he followed them into the haunted house.

            “It’s so dark that I can’t see anything,” exclaimed Kaidou, shaking slightly as they walked farther in.

            I can see everything clearly, even the guy waiting to ambush us.

            “Hey, get going,” said Kaidou, pushing Nendou forward nervously.

            “Hm? You’re the one who wanted to walk in first,” said Nendou.

            “I’ll lead,” said (Y/N), squaring their shoulders and walking forward.

            Instantly, someone grabbed their ankle, and (Y/N) jumped, yelping in surprise. (Now that was just an unfair tactic, who wouldn’t be shocked at that?) Poor Kaidou screamed at their reaction, got breathed on strangely, and saw the exit sign—all of which terrified him until eh was basically clinging to Nendou as they walked onward.

            “Come on, we’re going ahead,” said Nendou, unaffected.

            “I think I’ll enjoy this from back here with you, Kusuo,” said (Y/N), sighing.

            “You found this scary?” said Saiki.

            “If someone grabs your ankle in the dark, you jump,” said (Y/N) sagely.

            “Boo!” A boy jumped out at them, right in front of Nendou.

            “Hey,” said Nendou.

            The boy collapsed, unconscious due to the frightful sight of Nendou’s face.

            “Whoa, that was realistic,” said Nendou.

            “Because it was real,” said Saiki.

            “Even I’d faint if I suddenly saw that face of yours up close in the dark,” said Kaidou.

            “Uh-oh,” said (Y/N), kneeling and feeling the boy’s pulse. They gave a thumbs-up. “He’s alright.”

            “What are you going to do?!” cried Kaidou, staring at Nendou. “It’ll be ruined for the next customer—”

            “Ah, scary! It’s so dark!” said someone from behind them. Too late, the customers were coming.

            “Shoot! Let’s hide this guy first,” said Kaidou, trying to drag the boy’s body to the side.

            “I’ve never hidden a body before,” said (Y/N).

            “We are not doing that,” said Saiki.

            “Hey, look at these things.” Nendou laughed as he put on fake glasses that made it seem like his eyes were falling out.

            “Perfect! Put them on!” said Kaidou, grabbing bandages for himself and throwing fake blood over Saiki. (Y/N) grabbed a zombie mask. “Here they come,” said Kaidou. He crouched and leapt out. “Boo!”

            A face exactly like Nendou’s stared at him, and Kaidou collapsed in shock.

            “Oh, Mom,” said Nendou, greeting her while his friend lay unconscious on the ground.

            What a family resemblance, thought (Y/N).

l

            “One Nendou…Two Nendous…” murmured Kaidou deliriously on a bench.

            The group stood outside of the cafes and haunted house to talk properly instead of being in the dark (though the students had yet to take off their costumes). It turned out Nendou’s mother was there touring the PK Festival with Saiki’s parents, so they were there, too.

            “You should’ve told me if you were gonna come,” said Nendou.

            “I’m just stopping by because I’m on break,” said Mrs. Nendou.

            “We happened to run into Nendou’s mother and became friends!” said Mrs. Saiki cheerily.

            This is one friendship I wish you wouldn’t make.

            “Well, now that I’ve seen your class’s attraction, I’m going home,” said Mrs. Nendou matter-of-factly. “Good luck with your haunted house.”

            “Hm? We’re not doing a haunted house,” said Nendou.

            “Oh, yeah, we’re borrowing these,” said (Y/N), taking off their zombie mask and setting it to the side.

            “What, you aren’t?” said Mrs. Nendou.

            “Our class is displaying rocks we found in the schoolyard,” said Nendou.

            Saiki sighed. “I’ll go wash my face.” He didn’t need to walk around looking like an idiot.

            He headed into the bathroom and set his glasses to the side while he washed the fake blood from his face.

            Yare yare. This is why school events are such a pain. Lots of minor characters keep showing up and causing trouble for me. And I didn’t manage to go and get coffee jelly with (Y/N) yet, either. This all happened for nothing.

            He finished splashing his face with water and straightened, picking up his glasses. Except when he put them on, he found fake eyeballs instead of green-tinted glass.

            What the heck is this?

            “What do you think, pal? They look good on me, don’t they?” said Nendou, resting Saiki’s glasses in front of his own face.

            “Give those back to me, you idiot,” said Saiki, reaching out. His eyes widened, and he tried to cover his eyes. “Shoot!” He couldn’t help but exclaim out loud with his telepathy.

Too late. As Saiki looked up again, Nendou was already a stone statue, transformed by Saiki’s unfiltered gaze. The stone glasses fell and shattered on the floor. Saiki just stared. Not good.

            “Kusuo?” Outside of the restroom, (Y/N) called out in concern. “I heard you cry out, is everything alright?”

            They always become observant at the wrong moment.

            “Kusuo, I’m coming in!”

            Yare yare, not my dad, too.

            Sure enough, Mr. Saiki nearly kicked down the door, and (Y/N) slid in with them, unable to stay out since they were worried (and there was no one else around, so…).

            “Ah!” cried Mr. Saiki as he saw Nendou.

            Saiki had turned around to avoid eye-contact with anyone. The last thing he needed was more people getting turned to stone.

            “Hey, this is—” Mr. Saiki cut himself off and looked at (Y/N) worriedly.

            “Did you accidentally turn Nendou to stone?” said (Y/N), staring.

            “He took my glasses and looked me in my eyes. That’s his fault,” said Saiki.

            “Kusuo, you can’t just say that!” said Mr. Saiki.

            “They know.”

            “I know,” said (Y/N).

            “About his powers?” said Mr. Saiki, blinking in surprise. (Y/N) nodded. “Oh…alright then.”

            “Can we focus?” said Saiki, irritated. “Just give me your glasses.” Mr. Saiki’s glasses floated through the air and landed on Saiki’s face. Now he could look at people without turning people to stone. “Okay, that power is blocked.”

            “I like your eyes,” blurted out (Y/N) instinctively as they saw Saiki’s purple eyes properly. They had always been obscured by a green tint, but they could see the violet clearly now.

            Saiki short-circuited and froze at the compliment while Mr. Saiki babbled about not being able to see without his glasses.

            Turning pink, (Y/N) coughed. “So, uh, how do we turn him back?”

            Saiki tried to focus. “The effects last twenty-four hours.”

            “Uh-oh, his mom is waiting for him outside,” said (Y/N), frowning.

            “Oh, no, what are you going to do, Kusuo?” said Mr. Saiki, blindly patting Nendou’s shoulder.

            “You’re talking to Nendou. Don’t ever make that mistake again. It ticks me off,” said Saiki.

            “Can you teleport him back to your house?” suggested (Y/N). “Then we can at least make an excuse that Nendou left instead of anyone seeing them.”

            Saiki was reminded of one of the reasons he liked (Y/N): they were actually helpful.

            “Are you listening, Kusuo?” said Mr. Saiki, still patting Nendou’s shoulder.

            Crack

            (Y/N) and Saiki froze before turning. Nendou lay in stone pieces on the ground. (Y/N) covered their mouth in shock, and Mr. Saiki was stricken.

            “Kusuo…Look after your mother, okay?” He raised his phone. “Hello? Is this the police? I’ve killed someone.”

            Saiki grabbed his dad’s shoulder before his sobbing could actually be listened to. “Calm down.” (Y/N) took the phone and ended the call. “You don’t have to go the police. It’s fine.”

            “What?! Really?!” cried Mr. Saiki.

            Saiki picked up Nendou’s head.

            “That’s just a disturbing sight,” said (Y/N).

            “I can turn back time and restore it to how it was,” said Saiki, doing so and letting the statue of Nendou come together once more. (Y/N) breathed a sigh of relief.

            “Whoa!” exclaimed Mr. Saiki.

            “What was that noise?!” Mrs. Nendou banged on the door from outside.

            “Shoot, Nendou’s mother is gonna come in,” said Saiki. “Dad, go hold the door.”

            “Okay!” Mr. Saiki grabbed the door handle and gave a thumbs-up.

            Wham!

            “Ooooh.” (Y/N) winced as Mr. Saiki was thrown into the wall as Mrs. Nendou broke down the door.

            “What happened, you guys?!” cried Mrs. Nendou. She saw the statue. “Huh? What? What?! Riki?!”

            (Y/N) and Saiki exchanged a glance as she walked closer. Then, she patted Nendou’s shoulders.

            “This is amazing! So this is the rock display you guys were talking about!” she exclaimed. “This looks exactly like my son.”

            “Well, I guess this is natural,” said Saiki.

            “They’re definitely related,” said (Y/N).

            “Riki? Huh, where did Riki go?” wondered Mrs. Nendou.

            “Well…probably the restroom,” said Mr. Saiki.

            “We’re in the restroom,” said Saiki, amazed by his father’s terrible attempt at lying.

            “He headed out to check on some other classes. He volunteered to help them earlier in the week since some people are sick,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            “Oh, really? That’s so nice of him,” said Mrs. Nendou.

            Thank you, (Y/N), thought Saiki, thankful as always to have them around.

            “Well, I should help out, too, and give you all a hand,” said Mrs. Nendou.

            “What?”

            “Huh?”

            “You’re taking this to your classroom, right?” said Mrs. Nendou, gesturing to the statue of Nendou. “Now, let’s go!”

            No one could argue with her, and within a few minutes, Nendou was situated in Class 3’s display. People instantly crowded around it, amazed and surprised at the exact likeness.

            “H-Holy crap,” said one student.

            “Why Nendou?” exclaimed another.

            “How did they carve something like this?”

            “Things have gotten worse,” said Saiki as he, Mr. Saiki, and (Y/N) stood to the side. “It’s so obvious that high school students couldn’t make something like that.”

            “Maybe they won’t notice?” (Y/N) offered as much support as they could.

            “Oh, what is this?” The principal walked in. “Oh, my!” He stared at the statue, and (Y/N) and Saiki’s hearts dropped. This situation was quickly growing out of control. “This is an incredibly elaborate stone statue! Is it a gorilla?”

            “Very close, but not quite,” said Saiki.

            Poor Nendou, thought (Y/N).

            “I’m so moved…” The headmaster smiled. “The Best Class Attraction Award goes to Class 3!” he declared.

            (Y/N) and Saiki stared in dismayed shock as even more people crowded into the room to get a look at the winning class’s display and the Nendou statue. They really had lost any semblance of control of the situation.

            “It’s become the showpiece,” said Saiki, crossing his arms.

            “This isn’t good, Kusuo!” cried Mr. Saiki. “Can’t you teleport it out and steal it?!”

            “There’re too many people,” said (Y/N), frowning.

            “Or better yet, should we break it? You can restore it just like you did earlier!” said Mr. Saiki.

            “My power to turn back time can only be used once per day per target,” said Saiki.

            “What?” said Mr. Saiki, panicking. “But that means—”

            “Let’s make sure it doesn’t break again, then,” said (Y/N), concerned about Nendou getting hurt.

            “Whoa, I wonder how tough the stone is,” said one boy, pretending to hit the statue.

            “It’s really hard,” said another, pulling on Nendou’s ear.

            “Don’t touch!” cried Mr. Saiki, running up and pulling them off.

            “Huh? Whoa, what’s with this guy?!” cried the first boy.

            “A scary middle-aged man is shouting,” whispered a girl worriedly.

            “He’s suspicious!”

            “Someone, go get a teacher!”

            Saiki facepalmed, and (Y/N)’s eyes widened, but neither could exactly stop the teachers from dragging Mr. Saiki out. After all, they couldn’t just explain “oh, yeah, that is actually Nendou, Saiki turned him to stone, so please don’t hurt him.”

            “I guess I have no choice. I’ll make Nendou’s safety my top priority,” said Saiki.

            “He is your friend,” added (Y/N).

            “Don’t say that, I don’t have friends. Other than you,” said Saiki.

            (Y/N) just grinned. “Uh-huh.”

            “Take this, Baron Cola!” A young boy had climbed onto Nendou’s shoulders and was pretending to shoot him with a toy gun.

            “Get down, Yuuta,” said Saiki, stepping forward.

            Yuuta brightened upon seeing his neighbor (and, in his mind, favorite superhero). “Cyborg Cider-man No. 2! Look, look! I capture Baron Cola.”

            “No, that’s a gorilla, so get off,” said Saiki.

            (Y/N) didn’t ask what that all meant, but they reached up as Yuuta began to rock Nendou back and forth.

            “You can’t climb on exhibits,” said (Y/N) calmly, setting him down.

            “But it’s Baron Cola!” exclaimed Yuuta.

            “It’s not the real Baron Cola,” said (Y/N). They put their hands on their hips. “Do you understand?”

            Yuuta stared up at them, and Saiki nearly groaned as the image of a superhero in pink superimposed on (Y/N).

            Yare yare, not them too.

            “I understand, Cherry Blossom Lemonade!” cheered Yuuta.

            (Y/N) cocked their head and blinked at Saiki. “Who?”

            “A superhero from a show he likes,” said Saiki.

            “Are you two undercover, Cherry Blossom Lemonade, Cyborg Cider-man No. 2?! Is that why you’re being nice to Baron Cola? Are you on a date?” babbled Yuuta.

            Saiki froze, and (Y/N)’s cheeks warmed.

            “Yuuta, there you are,” said his mother, walking in. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. It’s time to go.”

            “Aww, but I just managed to find the bad guy,” said Yuuta.

            His mother chuckled. “I’m sure you did.” She took him by the hand and led him out.

            “You called her, didn’t you?” said (Y/N), looking at Saiki.

            “Yes,” said Saiki. He had called Yuuta’s mom with his telepathy, but although it had mostly been to keep Yuuta from hurting Nendou, it was also to avoid more of Yuuta’s questions. Him and (Y/N), on a date? Saiki had barely gotten over figuring out he had a crush on them. That was too much for him with so much else going on.

            “Well, the festival is almost over,” said (Y/N), glancing at the clock and trying to push aside Yuuta’s assumptions (and their blush). “I don’t think we’ll be able to taste our classmates’ coffee jelly, but I think we’ve earned a trip to Café Mami after this.”

            Okay, so maybe a date—which this wasn’t—with (Y/N) was something Saiki would get excited for.

l

            (Y/N) and Saiki both let out a content hum as they took a bite of their coffee jellies. They had successfully kept Nendou in one piece and teleported him to his bathroom at home so, come tomorrow, he’d transform back like nothing had happened.

            “I’m glad Nendou will be alright,” said (Y/N).

            “I’m glad we avoided more trouble,” said Saiki.

            (Y/N) nodded. “What about your glasses? Are you going to keep borrowing your dads’ or can you get yours fixed?”

            “I can get mine fixed,” said Saiki, but, unfortunately, that would mean dealing with a certain someone.

            “Are you going to go back to the green tint?” said (Y/N).

            Saiki nodded.

            “Too bad,” said (Y/N), smiling. “I like your eyes.”

            Saiki felt his heart stutter, and (Y/N) looked firmly down at their coffee jelly in order to not over-analyze his reaction in case they had just made a fool of themself. Still, they couldn’t help it. They did like his eyes. They liked everything about Saiki.

            For his part, Saiki found he liked the compliment. Appearances weren’t something he cared about or judged since, for the most part, he just saw people as bones or muscle, but hearing that (Y/N) liked something about him was nice. He wanted them to like him, too.

            But for now, (Y/N) and Saiki were content to sit across from each other in content silence with coffee jelly. Still, though, thoughts of how much nicer it would be if this was a date flitted through their mind.

Taglist:

@elaemae

@painstakingly-juno

@characterreaderwriter

@melovepurple

@sleep-7372

@w0mank1sser

@geminigengar

@noodleryworld

@leonardo-dabitchy

@janezee12751275

@xenop0p

@ex160-blog1

@futureittomainn

@boogiemansbitch

@dmitrytherat

@yuriisclumsy

@sixxze

@constellationguy

@k03ume

@sweatyinternettrash

@paastaboi

@unorthodox-gob

@girlswhopanic

@h-i-g-h-w-a-y-t-o-h-e-l-l-l

@drowningfishy

[ladykailitha]

Batshit Soulmates: in Medias Res

As promised, the soulmate AU you've all been waiting for. I don't have a set schedule for this. I'll post chapters as they come. That said, I do have a backlog of chapters to put out on the regular.

Summary: Steve's never met his soulmate. Even though everyone else in his life has. Most of them are even bonded. Literal teenagers got their soulmates before Steve. He tries not to take it personally. He tries really hard not to take it personally when he finds out it's Eddie Munson when he has a bottle at his throat. He tries even harder not to take personally when everything that could go wrong, does.

*throws chapter at you and runs*

***

“I just think we should wait,” Steve huffed for what felt like the millionth time. “Give our allies more time to get to Hawkins.”

“But the longer we wait,” Nancy growled back, “the likelihood of Vecna finding someone we don’t know to haunt and kill goes up.”

“Except we know who his next victim is!” Steve yelled back. “You! And excuse me for thinking that using you as bait would be better than a fifteen year old girl!”

“Steve!” Max hissed. “What the hell?!”

Steve looked down at his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked up at Nancy and dared her to tell him he was wrong.

But Nancy was stubborn. “The batteries on her Walkman are going to die sooner, rather than later. I know this whole thing sucks, but the longer we put it off the sooner Vecna could wipe out the whole town.”

Steve looked around the room for support and got none. He sighed. No one was on his side in this. But he could feel it. If they waited just five more minutes. But it was five minutes he wasn’t going to get.

He looked down at his feet again as Nancy started listing off who would go where. His head shot up when Dustin and Eddie were told to be the distraction.

“What?” he said. “No. Eddie is my soulmate.”

Robin put her hand his shoulder. “I know, but we can’t leave Dustin alone and you need to come with Nancy and me to kill Vecna.”

Steve’s face shuttered. So the choice was to go with the girls and protect them or go with Eddie and Dustin and protect them, leaving the girls to battle Vecna by themselves?

No.

No, no, no, no.

He had to protect everyone. Why couldn’t he protect everyone?

It was killing him.

“Just go!” Eddie said. “You know you’re going to be needed when it comes to killing this bastard. They’re going to need your strength.”

Steve let out a whine that had been caught in his throat. “You’re telling me to leave you...” He didn’t understand.

Eddie pressed his fingers into his eye. “It’s not because–it’s not what you think. Honest. This is just proper strategy and you know it. Dustin and I aren’t going to be doing anything but drawing the attention of the demobats away from you and the girls.”

Steve let out another noise of distress. He knew Eddie was right. He did. It just hurt that in the five days since meeting his soulmate, they had spent a total of less than a day together. And most of that was spent getting ready for this.

“All right,” he finally agreed.

Everyone let out a sigh of relief and that made Steve’s heart hurt. They weren’t counting on him to make the right decision. They weren’t counting on him to do the smart thing. Even Eddie had sighed in relief.

Steve shut down. Maybe his mother had been right. Maybe soulmates weren’t everything they cracked up to be. Maybe it was good he was find this out now, before he got too attached.

He gave his little speech and made them promise not to be heroes.

Eddie looked down at the ground and then back up at Steve’s retreating back. He closed his eyes and opened them slowly.

“Hey, Steve?” he called out.

Steve turned around, trying to keep the hope out of his eyes.

“Make him pay.”

Steve nodded and turned back around, his heart shattering in his chest. He was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Hoping for a declaration of love. Hoping that Eddie felt something for him. But despite Eddie’s reassurances that he no longer thought that Steve was douchebag, he still couldn’t get over the fact that he had been fated to be his soulmate.

He felt the ice creep up his chest to nestle around his heart. All his life he hoped that his soulmate would be the one that’d love him unconditionally when no one else could. But he guessed that was only for children’s fairy tales.

Steve had barely taken two steps when he heard the sound of running feet and then he was being spun around. He was suddenly face to face with Eddie and he couldn’t breathe. Eddie gently took his face in his hands and kissed him on the lips.

Steve had melted. That is the only explanation for how gooey his insides had become. Eddie pulled back.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he panted. “Be safe. Come back to me, okay, Stevie?”

Steve rested his head against Eddie’s. “You, too. I can’t lose you now. Please.”

“Okay, baby,” Eddie whispered. “Okay.”

Steve watched as his soulmate ran back to Dustin, his heart just as heavy, but now whole.

Robin tapped his shoulder. “Come on, Steve. Vecna needs to die so you can be together without having to always look over your shoulder.”

He closed his eyes and nodded. Nancy took his hand and gave it a squeeze. He let her lead him away from the best boy he had ever known to kill the person who was responsible for all the turmoil in their lives.

*

Shit.

Eddie looked up at the rope ladder in dismay. All around him he could hear the sounds of the demobats clawing their way through the vents. If he climbed the rope, they would break through the gate and Dustin would be a sitting duck.

They would both die.

“Get Steve on the walkie-talkie!” Eddie yelled. “Tell him the bats are about to break through this gate and I’m leading them away from you.”

“Eddie!” Dustin yelled. “Don’t!”

Eddie took a deep breath and cut the rope ladder.

“No!” Dustin yelled.

“Get Steve!” Eddie yelled over his shoulder as he strapped his makeshift spear and shield to back. He zipped up his jacket, knowing full well that armor was no good if it didn’t cover the bits that needed protecting. He took the bandanna off his hair and tied around his face.

God he hated this place.

He grabbed one of the bikes and hopped on. He just needed to give Steve, Nancy and Robin enough time to kill Vecna so that Dustin was safe.

That’s all he needed. Just two minutes.

Behind him he could hear the screech of the bats turn from the trailer to chase him. After all even a moving target out in the open is better than a sitting target in a tin can.

Eddie wasn’t sure how long he could outrun them. He wasn’t exactly in peak physical condition but he had to try.

It took him a bit to realize that subconsciously he hadn’t been running from Dustin, but to Steve. And just how fucked up was that. Which of course was when the front tire hit a small hole in the ground and he went tumbling, rolling in the dirt. His shield and spear prevented him from getting up and he thought for sure that this was the end.

But suddenly he was being righted and yanked to his feet.

“Eddie!” Steve called over the screeching of the bats.

“Steve!” Eddie called back. “Are the girls okay?”

Steve nodded. “I left Robin with the Malatov cocktails and Nancy with her shot gun. They’re kicking his ass.”

Eddie pursed his lips and nodded back. “Dustin is safe. Or as safe as I can make that kid.”

Steve closed his eyes. “He said you told him the bats were breaking in though the vents.”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t want them to get to him or out into Hawkins, lynch mob aside, so I lead them away.”

Steve gave him a hug. “Well then, let’s keep their attention on us, shall we?”

“Bring it on!” Eddie yelled, pulling off his shield and spear.

Steve stood at his back, ax in one hand, nail bat in the other. He twirled them both, warming up his wrists as he stared up the sky that was now thick with bats.

And even though they had only fought together once before, they moved as one, anticipating each other’s movements and covering each other’s backs.

Steve hit a bat so hard its guts rained down upon them, spraying them with black goo. Eddie in turn protected them with his shield putting it in front of him as the bats slammed into it full force.

He could feel his feet sliding back, but Steve was there and he leaned backward, putting all his weight against Eddie to brace him up.

Eddie had been on the verge of giving up, tears streaming down his face as he fought against impossible odds. But Steve was there. And he remembered that every impossible thing he had ever thought in his life had be come possible in this one man. And he was damned if he wasn’t going to survive this too.

“I love you,” Steve whispered.

Eddie closed his eyes and whispered back. “I love you, too, Stevie.”

The bats soon realized that they couldn’t get through Eddie and turned, swirling in the sky and Eddie could feel it before it happened. They were going to attack Steve.

He pushed Steve to the ground and lifted his shield above their heads. “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” Steve replied.

And then all the bats dived at once.

***

Yeah...don't expect a quick resolution to that. Just know, I'm a sucker for happy endings. ;)

Prologue Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Epilogue

Tag List: @spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @artiststarme @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gregre369 @pyrohonk ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence @i-must-potato @danili666 @carlyv @rozzieroos @wonderland-girl143-blog @justforthedead89 @emly03 @bookworm0690 @itsall-taken @vecnuthy @bookbinderbitch @redfreckledwolf @littlewildflowerkitten @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @scheodingers-muppet @mira-jadeamethyst @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @genderless-spoon @anne-bennett-cosplayer @irregular-child

[kaelie-quill]

Writeblr Intro

This feels super awkward to do but I'm putting myself out there for better or worse, so! I go by Kaelie on here, I am 22, Queer, and go by she/her pronouns. I've been on writeblr on and off since I was maybe fifteen but haven't touched it in four years. I am now 22 and for most of those four years I have been plagued by my current WIP, currently called Project Genesis. I've only just recently forced myself to really sit and try to get it out of my head.

I'm kind of ashamed to admit that the only book I ever finished was a warrior cats fan fiction I wrote when I was twelve (It was like forty chapters, I wrote it by hand in a notebook and I let someone take it home and read it one time and it haunts me) Everything since then has either been abandoned and never even made it out of the planning stage.

For the last four years I've been super stressed and in a super bad mental state and had no time to truly sit and try to write anything and if I did I thought it was absolute trash and it kinda made me hate writing. I even stopped reading despite being obsessed with books from the moment I could read, but in the last year and a half I have rediscovered my love for reading and now I want to try writing again.

Project Genesis is meant to be a multi-book high fantasy series with horror elements (maybe, I've not read many horror books and have little experience writing it. Any tips on writing horror, or good horror books to read would be much appreciated) It's got alternating POVs, basically everybody is queer, lots of religious imagery (maybe only if you squint, but I swear sometimes I feel like I'm just ripping off the Bible)

Despite existing for almost for almost four years its hard to describe what it's actually about? The first book at least is a dual POV about one character denying and running from their destiny to avoid becoming a sacrificial lamb, and another character trying to carve out a destiny for himself when he's not meant to have one (not in a 'he's supposed to be dead' way but in a 'you're life isn't supposed to have any affect on the world' kinda way)

It is currently in early planning stages, I'm working on a zero draft and outline before really hunkering down to try a first draft. I don't know how this is gonna go as far as like updates? I'm really just kinda using this as motivation, like if I talk about and say I'm doing it I can keep myself accountable and not just drift away from this like so many others. I expect it to all be horrible but so long as it's something I can go back and make it better. Thanks for reading! 👋🏻

[daenerysaizie]

𐔌 . ⋮ REALM’S DELIGHT .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Mk1 x Targ!reader

A/N:

Dear gentle readers,

I pray thee forgive my long silence, for a month hath passed since I last shared my humble words. Life’s cares did hinder my pen, though my thoughts oft turned to thee. Now, by God’s grace, I return with renewed spirit and fresh ink. I humbly ask thy pardon and hope the stories to come shall be worthy of thy patience.

Thine in earnest,

Author

@kchavez666 💋

Chapter 3 — a typical day?

Time had passed so quickly; a month had already gone by. While others showed significant improvement, you progressed at your own pace, which you didn’t mind as long as you kept improving. You demonstrated great potential in archery.

Apart from the intensive training and the constant challenges you endured, the Wu Shi Academy brought a certain tranquility to your mind. The recurring dream that had haunted you throughout your life was replaced with a forgotten memory. While the memory brought a sense of nostalgia and sadness, it was much preferable to the nightmarish dream of your mad father's death.

Viserys called out to you, “Sister,” capturing your attention. You were no more than five at the time, while he was already a young man, around the age of fifteen years old and strong in both mind and body. You recalled him as being built and skilled in swordsmanship, with a fondness for storytelling. He was particularly captivated by the tales of the conquerors and their dragons, he also shared with you bitterly that these creatures had vanished more than a century ago. The dream depicted your room in Dragonstone, wooden toys that mimicked horses and dragons scattered across the floor. "Aegon the Conqueror brought fire and blood to Westeros," Viserys began, gesturing towards the brown leather-bound book adorned with the three-headed dragon sigil. "but afterward he gave them peace, prosperity, and justice. It was not Aegon alone who united the Seven Kingdoms. He had the support of his sisters, Visenya and Rhaenys." He continued turning the pages of the book as he spoke of the conquerors and their conquests. Then, Viserys turned to you “Sister, in hard times like these, you and I bear the hope for the future.”

The dream ended there.

It was the dead of the night when you woke up. You wiped away the tears on your damp cheeks with the sleeves of your nightgown, thinking about your brother. Time had erased his face and voice from your memory, but somehow, seeing his face and hearing his voice again made you miss him terribly, and you couldn’t help but wonder – Was he alive? Where was he? You were also taken aback to realize that you remembered this distant memory so vividly.

“Viserys…” you murmured, as if testing his name on your lips. When was the last time you called out to him? You recalled his promise to bring you home once the nightmare has ended. But when was that?

And for the first time in forever, you wanted to call out to your brother, embrace him, and feel the safety of his arms again. You couldn’t help but to shed more tears.

Knowing that sleep was far from you for the time being, you decided that a cup of tea might help soothe your nerves and mind. Quietly, you made your way through the temple house to the shared kitchen, hoping to find some solace in the warm, comforting brew of fresh tea.

The kitchen was softly illuminated by a single candle, and in the quiet space, Kenshi Takahashi sat alone at the table, lost in his thoughts. His face was etched with a deep frown. You couldn't help but tease him gently to not startle him, "If you continue frowning like that, you'll end up with permanent wrinkles." Kenshi looked up at you, surprised, and raised an eyebrow. "Why aren't you asleep?" he asked, his usual patience and temper uncharacteristically strained.

"I couldn't sleep," you explained, "and I thought a cup of tea might help calm my mind. Would you like to join me?" Kenshi's frown softened, and he nodded, his initial crankiness fading. "Sure, I guess I could," he responded with less irritation than before. You smiled as you walked over to the stove, preparing the tea.

The process of making tea was quiet. Surprisingly, the silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it was slightly awkward. Kenshi discreetly watched you from behind as you swiftly prepared fresh tea for both yourself and him. He pondered silently to himself, wondering when was the last time he had experienced such kind companionship and comfort from another person.

You carefully placed the porcelain cups and teapot on a tray and carried it to the table, gracefully serving tea to Kenshi before taking your seat across from him. He mumbled a soft "thank you" as you sat down.

"How is it?" you asked curiously, watching for his reaction as he took a sip. Kenshi raised both eyebrows briefly before looking up at you. "It's good," he replied, his gaze returning on the cup. You couldn’t help but feel a sense of triumph, mentally giving yourself a pat on the back for making a good cup of tea.

A moment of silence passed between the two of you as you sipped your tea together. Wanting to break the quiet and ensure you weren't overstepping any boundaries, you asked gently, "Is it alright if I ask why you aren't asleep?" Kenshi looked at you for a brief moment before replying, "I had a dream that I was still in the yakuza." The grimace on his face betrayed the pain that the dream had caused him.

You send him an apologetic look, “Don’t worry, I know that too well.” You pause, “Not being in the yakuza! I meant the dream part,” You fumbled, fixing your wording quickly and think your words carefully to not put the man before you in further bad mood. “Dreams can be cruel.” you acknowledged, your own experience with nightmares reflected in your understanding expression.

A hint of amusement flickered across Kenshi's face at your slip-up before it was replaced with neutral look. "I'm guessing you had a bad dream too?" he inquired. You nodded in affirmation, responding, "It wasn't bad, just... sad. It was better than the usual dream I have, I guess." He simply hummed in acknowledgment, not prodding further on the matter.

The silence settled between the two of you once more. You observed his reaction, noticing how he idly swirled the tea in his cup with a distant look in his eyes. Out of the blue, he confessed dryly, "I hate the gods for making me as they did."

You paused, surprised by his unexpected words, and replied sincerely, "I do not. You are an honorable man with a good heart." A soft smile graced your lips as you added, "And that's a rare thing." Kenshi looked up at you and offered a small smile. It was not noticeable but you could tell it was there.

And what you said was true. Kenshi Takahashi was an honorable man. He was poised, sharp tongued yet respectful. You hoped he had taken your words sincerely.

That night, you both found solace in each other’s presence, even though no more words were exchanged.

—

You didn’t regret staying up so late with Kenshi; it had brought the two of you closer than you expected. However, you dreaded the consequences of getting so little sleep. You looked like you’d fought a raccoon in your sleep, with your hair slightly disheveled from not having the energy to properly braid it. Kenshi, on the other hand, didn’t seem nearly as fatigued. He still looked composed and proper. When he saw you, he chuckled at your appearance and offered to make you an omelette for breakfast. You gratefully accepted, though both of you received raised eyebrows from the other three.

The day progressed like any other at the Wu Shi Academy—rigorous training and your archery lessons. But today was ‘sparring day’, and your opponent was none other than the so-called “best” Hollywood star, Johnny Cage. To your frustration, his flashy, unorthodox fighting style was new to you. He even utilized his sunglasses into the fight—impressive, considering they didn’t break.

To your further dismay, you ended up pinned beneath him. Johnny smirked, enjoying the moment. “Giving up already?” he teased. You huffed in response, an idea sparking in your mind. A playful smile touched your lips as you looked up at him. “Not yet,” you said in a teasing tone.

“Are you sure about that?” Johnny taunted, clearly relishing your determination. He noticed your subtle attempt to distract him, his smirk widening. He was enjoying the way you tried to match his confidence, but unfortunately for him, it worked. He was too focused on how matched his ‘freak’, and his grip loosened just enough. Seeing your chance, you swiftly flipped him over, reversing the position.

“Yield?” you asked with a grin, pulling a hairpin from your bun and letting your silver hair cascade down as you pointed the pin at his neck.

To his surprise, you had him pinned. He chuckled, a mixture of defeat and admiration on his face. “You sneaky little… I yield,” he said, meeting your gaze from beneath you. You helped him to his feet, and the two of you bowed to each other in mutual respect.

Johnny could have won if he hadn’t fallen for your trick, and though he felt a little embarrassed, he accepted his defeat.

“Marvelous victory!” Raiden exclaimed your name, clapping his hands along with Kung Lao and Kenshi. Kung Lao gave you a thumbs up, and Kenshi smirked at Johnny’s defeat, clearly enjoying it more than you enjoyed your victory. You smiled and gave them a playful curtsy.

“Kenshi, how about you and me?” Kung Lao gestured toward the training ground. Kenshi nodded, and the two headed off to spar where you and Johnny had just been.

“You vixen,” Johnny muttered beside you, folding his arms. Raiden, standing on your other side, smiled and suppressed a laugh. “I’d say she won fair and square, Johnny. You let your guard down,” Raiden said, placing a supportive hand on your shoulder.

You turned to Johnny, mimicking his pose. “How am I a vixen?” you teased, barely managing to keep a straight face.

Johnny laughed sarcastically. “You know exactly what you did.” His focus shifted to the next sparring match, while Raiden looked confused at Johnny’s remark. Clearly, no one else had noticed your little tactic.

—

You didn’t mind the peaceful domesticity of the moment, standing next to Kung Lao and Raiden in the kitchen. Kung Lao kneaded dough for baozi while Raiden prepared the fillings, and you focused on making side dishes using Madam Bo’s recipes. The three of you chatted and laughed together, enjoying the simple routine. Living together meant sharing responsibilities, taking turns cooking and doing chores. Tonight, you three were on kitchen duty, while Johnny and Kenshi handled the laundry. Johnny had been complaining about how tight his hands felt from using so much soap.

“Hey,” Kung Lao called your name, grabbing your attention. “You never told us your little secret. Maybe now’s the right time?” He dusted off the excess flour from his hands.

“Yeah, but it’s fine if you’re not ready yet,” Raiden added, pausing in his work to give you a reassuring look. Kung Lao rested his arm on Raiden’s shoulder, and the two of them watched you expectantly.

You had been putting off this conversation for a month now with, “I’ll explain when the time is right.” By now, they knew about realms, magic, and creatures, so your story wouldn’t sound too far-fetched. Maybe it *was* the right time. After all, you trusted them with your whole heart.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come at first. Sensing your hesitation, the two men continued their work, giving you time to gather your thoughts.

“I’m… Stormborn of House Targaryen,” you finally said, revealing your full name to them for the first time.

Kung Lao set the dough aside to let it rest and sat down across from you. “Stormborn? House Targaryen?” he asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. You smiled and nodded.

“I’m from a continent called Westeros, a place here on Earth,” you explained. Raiden, looking puzzled, asked, “I’ve never heard of a continent called Westeros.”

“It’s hidden, barricaded by some kind of magic,” you said. “I’m not sure what exactly, but it separates Westeros from the rest of the world.”

“Why?” Kung Lao asked, resting his head on his arms.

“I don’t know… I was very young when I left Westeros, so my knowledge is limited.” You shrugged.

“Why did you leave?” Raiden asked, his voice soft but curious.

“Because it was dangerous.” A hint of sadness crept into your voice as you looked down at the side dish you were preparing. A small silence followed before you continued. “My father… he wasn’t a good man. He was paranoid and erratic, and because of his behavior, many turned against him.” This was assumption based on your dream now. Was it right for you to speak of your father like this? You did not want to believe your dreams but something told you that it was real.

You remembered how guarded Dragonstone had been, how there were always guards, servants, and food testers watching over you and your brother, Viserys. Once, on your birthday, your father had ordered all your gifts burned, convinced they were cursed or poisoned. Gosh, how much had you forgotten?

“Was he an influential man?” Kung Lao asked bluntly.

“He was the King of the Seven Kingdoms,” you replied, looking up at him. “So, yes, he was influential.”

Both men froze. “You’re a princess?” they exclaimed in unison.

You cleared your throat and nodded. Kung Lao gaped at you, while Raiden bowed with a respectful, “Your Grace.”

You panicked at his formality. “Wait, no! Don’t! I’m no longer a princess. I’m just an ordinary woman now. Please, you’re my closest friends—keep treating me the same as before,” you pleaded, gently pushing Raiden back up.

Kung Lao still looked stunned. “Wait, wait, wait! So we’ve been friends with royalty from a secret land, and you never thought to tell us?”

“I didn’t want to keep secrets from you,” you explained, “but I was strongly advised not to share my background. It could have put me—and all of you—in danger. I didn’t want that.”

Raiden nodded, understanding your reasoning, though both he and Kung Lao still had questions. They shared a glance, silently agreeing to take turns asking what they could.

“Did people there have the same hair and eye color as you?” Kung Lao jumped in, still processing.

You chuckled. “No, only my family and those with Valyrian blood had these traits.”

“Do you have siblings?” Raiden asked next.

A small smile crossed your face as you nodded. “Two brothers—Rhaegar and Viserys. Though, I don’t know what became of them…” A pang of sadness tugged at your heart.

In truth, you barely knew Rhaegar compared to Viserys. You had only met him twice, as his duties as heir to the Iron Throne kept him in King’s Landing. Viserys often boasted about him, and you remembered one thing clearly now—Rhaegar had a beautiful singing voice. Nonetheless, you still loved him.

Sensing your sadness, Kung Lao and Raiden decided to steer the conversation away from your family. The questions turned into silent awe as you continued explaining your background. As you recounted what you could, you began to recall forgotten memories, fragments of your past that time had nearly erased. Though it did make sense for you to forget. After all, you were no more than five. Of course, you didn’t tell everything as it would be too much at the moment.

Maybe, you did remember and knew more than you thought.

By the time dinner was served, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders, as though finally sharing your story had brought you some peace.

[animasolaoriginal]

I n f a t u a t e d ♦️EIGHT

CHAPTER ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE SIX◾SEVEN EIGHT NINE◾️TEN ELEVEN◾TWELVE◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN

In the rare moments where her thoughts aren't hazy, when she isn't fucked out of her mind, she contemplates her situation, questions it, but whatever vile thing he does to her next, she can't help but realize something: she wants it, wants him, wants to please him, badly. And so, she slowly starts to embrace her new role...

ruthless nightclub owner ❌ innocent young woman with a crush

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content. Age gap. Size difference. Dom/sub dynamic. Praise kink. Oral sex/deepthroating. Cunnilingus. Overstimulation. (For more tags, check it on AO3!) // WORDS: 6.6k

SEVEN 🟥 EIGHT 🟥 NINE

She should hate him.

Fight him, do anything to not let him get away with all those vile things he's doing to her. In the moment she is usually too overwhelmed to do anything but take it, and afterwards she's too relieved it's over, but there are a few clear moments in that undisclosed time between whatever he plans to do to her next, clear enough moments to gather her thoughts, build them up into that burning bundle of hatred and defiance and the will to get away.

It happens when he carries her limp body to the bathroom, when she squeezes her eyes shut and ignores (tries to ignore) his tight grip, the warm hard chest she's pressed against, the way he holds her, protective almost – yeah, ignoring him is very difficult – and so the moment of wanting to hurt him back slips from her too quickly. But it was there, a tiny instant of thinking through the haze inside her head, those few questions that keep haunting her like little bees buzzing inside her skull.

Why are you allowing this? Why are you still here? Why haven't you even tried to get away, run from this place, from his grasp? Why do you lean into him? Why can't you stop thinking about him? Why? Oh for fuck's sake... why?

And the answers usually come whenever he is nice to her afterwards, caresses her soiled skin, wipes away her tears, holds her close and safe in his strong arms. It's the same thought that rolled through her mind whenever she's seen him in the club, when his eyes accidentally met hers through the crowd. That heat that burnt up then, now soars through her like wildfire, erasing any doubts and fears.

Because she likes him.

In a very twisted, definitely unhealthy sort of way. She likes him, wants him, his attention, his caresses, wants to stare at him, be with him, have him do all these things to her (well, the jury is still out on that part, her innocent mind had not been capable of imagining just what he may do to her). And even after all the pain she's endured and is still feeling, she can't keep these needs down, the wants he told her not to have. But strangely enough they align with his wants, or so she thinks.

So he wants to fuck her on the couch and shove his cock down her throat when he comes, sure, she'll take it, because she wants it too, right? He must know that, he wouldn't be doing it otherwise, right? Right?

It's all a mess inside her head, what she wants, what he wants, how those things compare and blend into each other, how his wants become hers, melting together, and the haze grows, and the hatred fades.

In the end she is that small pliant thing in the shower, legs trembling when he pulls her underwear down, when his fingers brush over her heated skin, when she watches him undress, her eyes moving over shifting muscles and tight skin, the dips and bumps of a strong body, so much taller than her, intimidating and enticing at the same time.

And when he moves her under the spray raining down on them, big hands on her small shoulders, she looks up, closes her eyes when the warm water hits her face, head leaning against his chest as he reaches around her and grabs the bar of soap from the little shelf, lathers it between his hands, arms caging her in, before he moves the suds over her skin.

It's these intimate moments that root her to this place of pain and humiliation, of being his (toy) to use whenever he wants. It's warm and comforting, a soft caress after the rough handling, a balance she needs more than air.

His hands move over her chest, soaping her up, cleaning her, calloused palms rubbing over sensitive skin, fingers teasing and brushing, and she feels how much he's holding back, how his cock twitches, pressed into the dip of her lower back with how close and tall he stands behind her, and she savors these moments of his restraint, where he treats her right no matter how bad he wants to do other things to her.

He continues his lathering gently, big hands running down her arms, lifting them, turning them, testing her limits when he dips his fingers into her armpits, but she's too far gone in her mind to be ticklish, focusing on the good things, the warm touches, inhales the steamy air, forces her head to be empty. When his fingers slip between her legs, she lets out a little gasp, then feels his head next to hers as he leans over, cheek pressed against cheek, rough skin rubbing against soft.

One arm wraps around her middle, holding her, while his other hand moves down her mound, fingers gliding through her slit, fingertips teasing her entrance, but then he pushes against her thighs, nudges them apart, and the soap is back to move down her shaking limbs. He even crouches down behind her, holds her hip, moves his hand down to her ankles, rubs his fingers through her toes.

She holds onto his shoulders when he lifts her feet, one after the other, cradles them in his hands, and this time she flinches when he scrapes his nails over the sole of her foot. His soft exhale of a laugh makes her blush, and when he stands up again, he grabs her chin and lifts her head up, staring down at her before capturing her mouth for a soft kiss that turns into a wilder dance of tongues, her body turned around, pulled against his, one big hand fisting her hair, the other grabbing her rear.

Her arms snake around his body, holding onto hard muscles and slick skin as she leans up on her toes to kiss him back properly. These sweet moments... usually end rather abruptly when he changes his mind all of a sudden. This time he pulls her head back, fingers tight around her hair, eyes dark as he stares down at her. She blinks against the water running into her eyes, breathing harder, not sure what to expect, but in the end he lets go of her and pushes the soap into her hands before he turns around and presents his backside to her.

She smiles as she huffs a sigh of relief, then quickly follows the request and lathers his back, rubs the soap between his shoulder blades, down into the slight dip of his spine, to his lower back, around his sides, vehemently ignoring the tight cheeks of his butt. His hands move around to grab hers, and she's forced to pay attention to them after all, but she focuses on the job at hand, quickly rubbing her hands over his warm skin, follows the curves and edges of his body down his strong legs.

As she's crouching behind him, he slowly turns around, and she looks up, eyes immediately jumping to his throbbing erection mere inches away from her face. She swallows hard, and he tilts his head as he watches her. She moves her soapy hands back up the front of his legs, feels the slight shift of his thigh muscles, then hesitates when she reaches his groin. Eyes flicking up to his, she slowly stands up again and brings her hands closer, her heart beating faster.

As soon as her small hands wrap around his length, he puts his own on top of hers, guiding her movements. She bites her lip and looks down, absorbing the way he handles his cock, wanting to learn, wanting to please him more, better...

Those thoughts come and go as well, of putting her own desires to the side and focusing on him and his pleasure. He already takes what he wants, but she's sure she can make him even prouder of her if she puts in the extra effort to do everything the way he likes it best. And it's not (necessarily) to get praised by him, strangely enough, because that would be her own want, it's just to see him satisfied, to see the tension in his body deflating, to see him smile, make him happy.

It may also be the balled-up fear in the pit of her stomach, the fear of making him angry, displeasing him, disappointing him. He's been rough with her before, but that time he's punished her by fucking his cum back into her ass after she's cleaned out the last load, has only been a hint, a little preview of his anger, she knows it. There's so much more darkness within him, more strength, more power, more violence. And she never wants to experience it. It will break her, mentally and physically, she's absolutely sure.

Eventually he guides her hands away from his hard cock, up his chest, over toned muscles, lathering the soap everywhere she's missed before. She watches him, feeling warm and content – which, of course, only lasts so long as he suddenly turns her around, one hand on her lower back as he bends her forwards a little. She stiffens, breathing harder, swallowing her fear.

His other hand moves along the curve of her rear, dips between her cheeks, fingers closing around the base of the plug. He tugs at it, gently, playing with her tense muscles, warms them up, before he pulls it out, and her relief is mixed with shame as she feels thick globs of cum dripping down her legs, washing away in the drain.

She braces herself on the tiled wall as he starts rubbing his hands over her backside, then grabs the shower head and cleans her off, and she flinches when the harder jet of water hits her tense muscles, but he refrains from cleaning her properly.

When he puts the shower head back, he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her against him, positions them under the rain shower and lets the soft spray rinse the soap off their bodies. She closes her eyes and relaxes, feels his hands on her, warm and comforting. A strange little moment of peace...

And she should have seen it coming. The sudden change in the atmosphere.

His hand is on her shoulder, turning her around, then pushing her down on her knees in front of him, the spray of the water hitting her back as she blinks up at him. Inhaling deeply, she tries to ignore the sting in her knees, the soreness of her whole body slowly creeping back into the forefront of her mind. But she doesn't wallow in her sorrow, there's no use anyway, she can't fight him, no matter how hard she wishes to in moments like these.

He leans over her to turn the water off, and a sudden cold breeze makes her shiver. When he straightens up again, he looks down at her, and she shivers for a completely different reason. Her eyes rake over his naked body (so tall and intimidating), those shifting muscles when he puts his hands on his hips, the tight skin of his chest, strong arms and legs with veins snaking under his skin, the handsome face, the dark, hungry eyes, wet hair pushed back, water drops gathering on his shoulders, running down in thin rivulets.

She shifts on her knees, moves closer, eyes on his straining cock, standing proud against his lower stomach. Between admiring his restraint and being grateful for it, she licks her lips, raises her hands, but then stops, hovering inches away from grabbing him, her eyes moving back up to him.

He hasn't given her any command, not really. He just pushed her to her knees.

She blinks a few stray water drops out of her eyes. “C-can I –” she starts, quiet, her voice still raw from his earlier demands.

He tilts his head, a smirk on his lips. “Yes? Use your words, baby,” he says, his voice deep, vibrating through the tiled room, sinking into her mind, igniting something hot settling in the pit of her stomach.

“Can I...” she tries again, inhaling deeply. “Can I... s-suck your... your cock?” she asks, voice shaking badly, feeling nervous. As if he would deny her this.

“Can you?”

He's mocking her. Prolonging the humiliation she feels for even asking such a thing. But she remains on her knees, looking up, practically begging him to do this – and there's not a single thought in her mind that finds this very disturbing. It feels natural. He's hard, she's here to take care of that, isn't she? That's her purpose after all.

“May I?” she rephrases, biting her lip, her hands gingerly reaching out to touch his strong thighs. “May I please suck your cock?” The words leave her without revision, they just tumble out of her mouth, while she looks deep into his eyes, focused on him, feeling his skin beneath her palms, and that hot thing in her stomach growls in some sort of need.

He extends a hand and puts it on her head, caresses her wet hair. “Yes, you may,” he says and smiles softly down at her, though there is a glint in his eyes, a hint of the darkness. He keeps his hand on her head, heavy but also strangely comforting, as she shifts on her knees, sits up more, one hand gingerly closing around his hard length before she bends it carefully towards her to bring the tip to her lips.

It's strange to be this gentle with the very thing that brought her so much pain, that stretched and bruised her, punished and deflowered her, choked and soiled her, that, despite everything, felt so good inside her... She closes her eyes and swallows, her lips brushing against his warm skin. His scent, overpowered by the smell of soap, fills her nostrils, his presence fills her head.

He's done so many things to her, with his cock, his hands, his mind, and none of it matters as she kneels in front of him, on her sore knees, fingers closing tighter around his base, as she opens her mouth and closes her lips around his tip, tongue flicking lazily around the spongy flesh, his taste hits her with a force that makes her dizzy.

She wants this. She's asked for it. This is all on her.

His hand moves through her wet hair, gathers it between his fingers, twists it, holds it tighter as she starts moving her head back and forth, hollowing her cheeks, sucking on him hard and with a passion that surprises herself. He's grounding himself by gripping her hair, but he doesn't guide her head.

She feels his muscles shifting under the hand she braced on his thigh, he's holding back, his breaths becoming slightly rougher when she starts twisting her hand around his length, in tandem to the bobbing of her head, moving his tight skin over his hardened core, up and down, while she pushes his tip deeper into her mouth, not too deep, but inch by inch she dares to taste more of him.

Her head feels empty, her sole focus lies on pleasuring him, on feeling and hearing his noises, those little grunts and groans that mix with the loud slurping sounds she creates as she moves faster, strains her lips around him tighter, sucks harder, strokes him firmer. He was already hard when she started, now he's throbbing, basically vibrating with how the blood pumps through the bulging veins that rub along her tongue.

She breathes loudly through her nose, completely lost in the task, her mouth filled with spit and precum, and she doesn't even care what a mess she's become as it starts dripping down her chin and onto her chest. She licks around him, sucks, scrapes her tongue along the underside, pushes him deeper, dares to let him hit the back of her throat, but it's an instinct that she pulls back before she triggers her gag reflex.

A louder groan echoes through the tiled room, and the grip of his hand around her hair tightens, but he still doesn't do anything else, he just stands there, tall and strong, only the slightest of shivers in his legs, and lets her do her thing, gives her time to explore him, find her own pace.

Her eyes flutter open when she leans back a little, his tip heavy and swollen on her tongue, and looks up at him. His gaze is dark, his face a stoic mask, jaw clenched, but he watches her closely. She takes a deep breath, her heart thundering inside her chest, her knees shaking, but something like determination fills her stomach, hot and expanding, and while he looks at her, she opens her mouth a little wider and leans closer, looking up from under her lashes, more of his cock sliding into her mouth, tip hitting the back of her throat, and she braces herself, clenches up, then relaxes, and feels him sliding deeper.

As soon as he does, she squeezes her eyes shut, feels them watering, her hand digging into his thigh, but she keeps going, forces herself onward, him deeper, despite the overwhelming urge to gag or breathe or do anything but let him deeper into her throat. Her body shudders, she can't fight the uncontrollable twitch as she does gag after all, but she still holds him there, his cock in her throat, her chin brushing against his balls, nose almost pressed against his tight skin, those curly hairs tickling in her nostrils, while tears stream down her cheeks and her head feels both full and empty at the same time, her lungs burn, her whole being battles the sensation that shouldn't be.

His cock deep down her throat.

It's him that pulls her back and off him, and she gasps deeply, splutters and coughs, head lowered, spit dripping from her mouth as she takes hectic gulps of air. But there is something in her that makes her look back up, her hands moving towards his cock, grabbing it, wanting to continue. His hand finds her chin.

“Take it easy,” he says quietly, voice strained, but somewhat soft.

She swallows hard, nods, focuses back on closing her lips around his tip and sucking him deeper. Her hands twist and turn his skin as she resumes the bobbing of her head, and she feels him throbbing under her palms, more precum leaking onto her tongue and down her throat. His breaths are rougher, his hand back in her hair, his muscles shifting. She keeps going.

He pulls her back again when she feels him twitching, and it's an instinct, a normal thing, that she leans back a little, hands falling onto her lap, and opens her mouth wide with her tongue out flat, looking up at him, waiting for him to come on her face. He grips his cock hard, his big hand pumping it with expertise, his tip resting between her lips. His eyes are almost black, his face so tense, his nostrils flaring.

As soon as the first spurt hits her tongue, she closes her lips around his tip and sucks, her small hand curling around his, and he groans, strokes himself as he shoots load after load into her mouth, filling her cheeks until they're bulging, but she doesn't dare to swallow yet, keeps it hot and heavy on her tongue. He finishes with a grunt, tilting his head back, his throat working, the tension of his body falling from him with a deep shiver.

Pulling his cock from between her tight lips, he looks down at her, and she looks back, slowly opening her mouth, showing him what he gave her. He licks his lips and nods. “Swallow,” he says hoarsely, and she does, big gulps, savoring his taste, until it is all gone, which she shows him with a strange feeling of pride settling inside her. He watches her darkly, still gripping his cock, before he brings it back to her face. “Clean,” he whispers, and she's already on it the moment his tip brushes against her lips.

She sucks the last drops out of his slit, flicks her tongue around him, laps at his softening length, her head still empty, her only focus on him. Finishing her ministrations the way she has started them, with a kiss to his tip, she then leans away, reluctantly letting go of his cock, watching it bobbing gently before it settles in that semi-hard, semi-flaccid state against his thigh.

His hand is on her head, fingers digging into her hair, a gentle gesture. “Good girl,” he says quietly, his thumb finding her bottom lip. “That was really good...”

She smiles up at him, a sudden warmth spreading within her, and it's not his cum settling in her stomach, mixing with the other loads he's given her before. It's a strange kind of satisfaction, knowing that she's pleased him properly. He hooks his hand under her elbow and helps her to her feet, she feels shaky, grabs his arm for support, leans into him. He lets her and guides her out of the shower.

Slowly she comes back to her senses as the colder air of the bathroom crawls up her naked legs. Wiping at her mouth, she takes deep breaths, fighting the shaking of her hands, the trembling of her legs. He hands her a towel, and she starts drying off, her eyes staying on him as he does the same. It's one of those weird domestic moments, coming out of the shower together, cleaning up, his tall frame next to her smaller one in front of the vanity, their shapes blurred behind the fogged-up mirror.

His hand is on her shoulder, brushing her hair away. She turns to him, inhaling deeply, tilting her head as his fingers trace up along her pulse, over the marks he left, that little throbbing sensation right beneath her skin. It sends shivers down her spine when he touches them, and it makes her heart beat faster when he leans down to place his lips on them. She stiffens, breaths quickening, her arms by her sides while his hands move over her body with confidence, from her nape down to her lower back, from her thigh up to her breasts.

He kisses and explores her, so gentle she is simply surprised by the gesture, overwhelmed by how good it feels, how soft he can be despite being so strong and tall and intimidating. And she feels small, weak, insignificant, just a body standing in the middle of the bathroom, his bathroom, unsure what to do. He takes what he wants, and she's not allowed to have wants, but her own burn deep within her stomach, and lower, between her legs, under his hands, under his mouth, in the wake of his kisses and touches.

A little sigh escapes her, a quiver through her body, and her hand twitches. He's nibbling on her earlobe, teeth teasing, warm tongue licking along her skin, his hands on her waist, slowly pulling her towards him, into him, and she moves her hand and touches his stomach, fingertips scraping over hard muscles, moving over tight skin, around his side, up his back. She's held onto him before, but this feels more intimate, raw, a need she wants to scratch even though she isn't supposed to.

He presses his lips to her collarbone, and her hand is in his hair, digging through it, feeling the wet soft thickness of it, the warm skin, hard scalp, and the shiver that runs through him at the touch. She inhales deeply, takes in the steam in the air, the warmth of him. Her head is spinning. He leans up, her hand slips from his hair, falls to her side, their eyes meet.

She blinks, biting her lip. His eyes are almost black with how his pupils are dilated, that darkness burns inside them, a hunger for more. His tongue moves between his teeth as he exhales loudly through his nose. Without breaking eye contact, he leans down and hooks his hands behind her knees, grabs her thighs and hoists her up easily. Her hands find his shoulders, shifting muscles under her palms as he wraps her legs around his waist, hands under her rear now.

Her fingers slip around his neck, teasing at the hair in his nape, moving higher. She can't help herself, he feels too nice. He watches her, the corner of his lips curling up slightly. She keeps chewing on her lips, they feel raw and swollen, but she doesn't care, her entire focus is still on him, how he holds her against his hard body, strong hands supporting her so effortlessly.

There is nothing dominating about the situation, nothing to be afraid of, no pain to expect, he's just holding her, watching her, immobile, while she fights the urge to dig her fingers into his hair – until she just does it, follows her own want and touches his hair, massages his scalp. The involuntary shiver that shakes his big body makes her smile, a soft little twitch of her lips as she lets her eyes wander over his handsome face.

He stares at her, takes a deep breath, and suddenly he's walking out of the bathroom, and before she can even comprehend what's happening, he puts her down on the bed, he doesn't throw her, or dumps her there unceremoniously, he gently places her down before he crawls over her, braced on his hands and knees, caging her in, and looks down at her. She's shivering, anticipation crashing through her.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers hoarsely, clenching his jaw.

She bites her lip. “I... I don't want anything...” she replies quietly, remembering his rules.

He shakes his head. “But you do, I know it. You can tell me.” His voice is that low thrum in the air, deep and demanding, vibrating through her very bones.

“I...” She inhales deeply. “I want to... touch you...”

His eyebrows rise up. “Baby, you just touched me, you had my cock in your throat, your hands on me.” He tilts his head. “Where else do you want to touch me?”

“Everywhere,” slips out of her without much thought, a simple need falling over her lips. He huffs a laugh. “May I?” she whispers, and even though the lines on his forehead deepen, he nods.

Her hands move quick, almost on their own. First they brush against his chest, then up his neck to cup his face. She feels him clenching his jaw under her touch, his eyes intense but curious at the same time. Her fingers trace along the hard edges of his jaw, up to his cheekbones and over his eyebrows, to his temples, trailing his hairline. An innocent exploration that makes her cheeks burn up the more she touches him, the longer he watches her without doing or saying anything.

For him to allow this, feels almost strange, it's too intimate, too gentle, too much the opposite of what he has done to her. He's this big man leaning over her, a dark shadow taking up her entire vision, he's all she sees, and her small hands move over his face as if she's trying to tame the angry beast. Soft touches, fingertips tapping against skin, easing along creases, brushing over his nose, trailing around his lips.

"My turn?" There's a little tilt to his voice, almost like a question, but it's not. He doesn't ask, he takes what he wants. And still he waits for her to lower her hands.

She does, a little hesitantly, but he's patient for once. Her hands slip between his arms braced next to her shoulders, fingertips brushing against his knees, as she looks up at him with her chest rising and falling faster. He leans down, his body still mostly only hovering over her, that warm big entity, a weight she knows and wants, but he keeps his distance, arching his back as he brings his face closer to hers.

His breath ghosts her tingling lips, mingling with hers. She feels lightheaded, the anticipation gripping her almost a little too painfully. And when he brushes his lips against hers, a soft, gentle touch, she lets out the air she's been holding in a low little mewl. She feels him smiling against her mouth before he deepens the touch, lets his tongue glide over her bottom lip, then over her upper lip, then finally between them, slipping into her mouth as if he belongs there.

She lets him in, meets him with a needy push of her own tongue, and he sucks on it softly, a warm and wet sensation, a flutter in her stomach that turns into something bigger, hotter, burning its way lower until the throbbing makes her hips buck beneath him. The kiss is slow, still hungry and demanding. He captures her mouth as if he wants to devour her, and she moves against him in the same way, quickly mirroring the motions.

Her own wants flare up, melting with his, becoming one. Just kissing him, tasting him, his tongue and lips and mouth and his entire being pressed to her own, it feels like a dream, a strange little escape after everything that happened between them, that he made her do, that he forced on her. This, for once, feels right, and she wants it.

And as if he seems to feel how much she's enjoying herself, he leans back and breaks the kiss. Her eyes flutter open, a pout on her swollen lips, wet and warm with the ghost of his kisses. He smirks at her, winking at her, before he moves his head down again, pressing chaste kisses to her chin, her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. She exhales loudly, melting into the soft bed, closing her eyes as she lets him explore her once more.

He settles between her breasts before he shifts on top of her, sliding back, braced on his elbows, body still hovering over her, but closer, warmer. His hands tease at her sides, long fingers brushing against her small mounds. She stifles a gasp when she feels him closing his warm mouth around one of her peaks, his tongue flicking against her nipple, licking around it, and she can't help it, she arches her chest into his touch.

One of his big hands comes to lie heavy on the other breast, kneading, groping gently, palm pressing down hard enough she feels a little sting. Her eyes flutter open, and she watches him breathlessly, her own hands clawing at the sheets. His gaze wanders up, dark and intimidating as she meets it, hard despite the soft movements of his lips against her flesh, making her shiver deeply. He gives her bud a little suck, and she lets out a quiet moan, which encourages him to do it again, and again, until she squirms beneath him, breathing harder.

He lets go of her breast with a wet pop, leaving the nipple hard and aching, before he switches it up and focuses on the other, his mouth once again closing around the peak, giving it the same ministrations. His hand cups the wet one, palm pressing into it, rubbing over her bud, up and down, before he slides his fingers over her and teases it between them. She gasps again, and downright squeals quietly and jerks against him when he pinches the sensitive nipple between his fingertips.

A deep rumble vibrates through her chest when he laughs against her breast, continuing to lick and suck and nibble on her with a hunger that's on the verge of being cute if it wouldn't feel a little painful. But somehow she's leaning into it. After all, pain has become a part of whatever he does to her, it's always there, and somehow, she needs it to be there now to counteract all the cotton in her head that makes her dizzy.

She's breathing heavier once he's done with her tender tits, the flesh reddened and wet, peaks hard and swollen, so sensitive a simple puff of air makes her flinch. He teases her a little more, blowing against her skin, before he finally moves on, shifting on top of her again, bringing his lips to her fluttering stomach, planting soft little kisses on it until he licks broad strokes over her abdomen, lapping at her, tasting the sweat that's sure to linger there. She feels hot all over, almost exhausted, and she hasn't moved an inch since he put her down on the bed.

His hands move along her sides, and he leans up, watching her, slowly nudging her legs apart as he settles between them, that big shadow kneeling at the foot of the bed, looking down at her with dark eyes, ready to devour her even more. She sits up slightly, leaning on her elbows, licking her lips as she watches him with her chest heaving. He doesn't push her back down, he only hooks his arms around her legs and brings his face down, his hot breath fanning over her sensitive skin, cooling when it hits the slick that's been gathering between her thighs.

Despite everything that's happened, how intently he's explored her body thus far, she feels highly embarrassed when he starts bringing his lips to her aching core, a strange thing between shame and self-consciousness, when he starts kissing her lower lips like he's kissed her mouth before, his tongue skimming along her slit, licking up and down, dipping between her folds, lapping up the wetness seeping from her.

She slumps down onto her back again and hides her face behind her hands, issuing noises ranging from quiet mewls to mortified whines, when he starts to suck her skin between his lips, really going down on her eagerly clenching cunt. He teases his tongue against her entrance, pokes at it, pressing a little deeper, but when she bucks her hips into his face, he retreats, and she sighs.

His amused huff of a laugh is a deep vibration against her center, a warm breeze hitting her clit, and seconds later, his tongue circles the sensitive bundle of nerves, flicks it, prods it, before he closes his lips around it and sucks hard.

She cries out, her thighs twitching in his hold, body arching off the bed a little. He tightens his arms around her legs, pushes her down, his breaths hard and rough as he resumes his assault on her nub. Not to squirm against him is impossible at this point, and she writhes, fights the sensations, gasping and moaning and wailing, her voice raw and hoarse.

Her stomach tenses, hands falling from her face to grip the sheets, and when she feels his teeth teasing her overstimulated clit, she jerks her hips up and screams shrilly as she feels the tension exploding inside her body. Squeezing her eyes shut, inhaling sharply, a deep intense gasp that only lets air in and not out, she floats, there's no other word for it, her head is full of a quickly expanding nothingness, there's no worry, no pain, just a blissful void.

He grounds her by continuing his ministrations, keeping his mouth leeched on to her wet cunt, lapping up whatever seeps out of her. He's grunting against her, loud breaths through his nose, his tongue that hot eager muscle that keeps her afloat, keeps her sensitive, keeps her wailing and whining as it dips into her hole, pressing deeper, doing things she had no idea a tongue could do.

She's completely out of it, held in that state of floating right above the edge, pulled back only to be pushed over it again, and again, and again, until all she can do is shiver and shudder, a boneless mess writhing on the sheets, slick from sweat, his saliva and her own juices. Head empty.

Oh head so deliciously empty...

Time must have passed, she isn't sure. Her eyes flutter open, and she's still this pliant body on the bed, immobile, but no longer held down, alone to be exact. Sitting up slowly, her limbs barely functioning, she looks around, before she flinches when she hears his footsteps to her right. He walks out of the closet, wearing running shoes and a tight shirt and formfitting but still loose sweatpants, in the middle of zipping up a matching hoodie.

He approaches the bed, this intimidating shadow looming over her, watching her. She licks her lips, blinking slowly when he sits down on the edge and extends a hand towards her, gently caressing her cheek.

“I'm going for a run,” he tells her quietly, eyes boring into hers. “Be a good girl and rest now, okay?”

Something hot swirls through her stomach, and she nods. “Yes, sir,” she whispers barely audible, watching him smile as he leans in to press his lips to her forehead.

“Don't explore, I'll know if you do,” he adds when he leans back, standing up, his voice low and dark, causing her to shiver. “If you get bored, you know what I keep in that drawer.” She frowns as he tilts his head towards the nightstand, before she blushes deeply and nods, looking away.

He moves his fingers over her leg as he walks around the bed. She rolls onto her side and watches him. He gives her a wink and leaves the bedroom. There's a quiet clicking sound, and she knows he's locked her in. And somehow it's that noise that wakes her up fully. Her heart starts thundering inside her chest as panic settles in.

Locked up. Taken. Forced to do things she never fully agreed to.

Why it hits her now after she's just experienced the best orgasms of her life, she has no idea. Must be that clarity that comes afterwards. It is one of these clear moments as she sits up slowly, grabbing at her chest, mindlessly pulling the covers around her while she stares ahead blankly.

Is this her life now? Or will he let her go once he's done? Will he ever be done? She's his to use whenever he wants, he's made that perfectly clear, so why would he let her go anytime soon? It's her role, her purpose, to... be used, to serve him, to be this body full of holes he can fill up however he wants.

And yet there is something else. She's more to him than that, isn't she? Would he bother eating her out otherwise? Giving her these amazing releases? Unless he's gaining something from it too, which he probably does, though. He's a selfish man, so much she knows by now. But he's let her rest, even though he was definitely hard when he gave her that extra attention (her body still shivers just remembering it all), yet instead of releasing the tension with her, inside her, he's going running?

She must mean more to him. And maybe him locking her up, is a sign of protectiveness, keeping her safe and sound, giving her the simple task to rest and relax (and possibly play with herself if she gets bored which she knows she won't, the thought alone makes her shudder in the worst way). It's almost a gift after all the things he made her do. To do nothing.

Inhaling deeply, she cuddles into the covers, closing her eyes. Rest does sound pretty good right about now.

SEVEN 🟥 EIGHT 🟥 NINE

End notes: This might have been the softest chapter yet, or maybe the first where she's finally fully embraced her new role as his little plaything? Whatever it was, it was fun to write, a nice change to all the unprediactable stuff he's usually up to. (But don't worry, he won't tone it down any time soon...)

Thank you for reading! Next chapter on Monday!

TAG LIST: @qmsvpx @cyan1decandy @bimbos-are-angels @voiceactivated @reader-1290

AO3 / / / MASTERLIST

CHAPTER / / / ONE◾TWO◾THREE◾FOUR◾FIVE

SIX◾SEVEN◾EIGHT◾NINE◾TEN

ELEVEN TWELVE ◾️THIRTEEN◾FOURTEEN◾FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN◾SEVENTEEN

[mysteria157]

Fic Masterlist

Pairing: Black Fem Reader x Hitman Toji Fushiguro

Genre: Hitman AU, Romance, Thriller (sort of? I'm not James Patterson...)

CW: Profanity, Alcohol Use, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Smut, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Oral Sex, Unprotected Sex, Breeding Kink, Creampie, Medical Emergencies, Betrayal, Family and Childhood Trauma, Violence (He's a hitman so...), I'll have more detailed CWs with each chapter, MINORS DNI

Summary:

“I’m only going to say this one more time, Toji. I don’t do situationships. I don’t do friends with benefits or the occasional hookup. You want more? I want you to try. Earn me.”

His hands are so bloody, that if you ever knew the source, you wouldn’t want someone like him to try. He shouldn't be here, taking up so much of your time, asking for more. But he's selfish.

-or; Toji, a notorious hitman, moves to America for more money and a better life for his son. He didnt expect to sleep with you, let alone want more. When his dangerous life catches up to him, he takes on one final lucrative hit, but realizes this target has unseen connections hitting closer to home. Now he must navigate a perilous job while desperately keeping his criminal double life hidden from you.

Authors Notes: Hello! After rewriting the plot, I'm finally comfortable enough to share this story. It's a continueation from Maneater, so while it is not necessary, reading Maneater as a prologue will definitely help set the tone for the story! This is my first attempt at writing something a little more heavy, so go easy on me.

As always: likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated. Happy reading!

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, reupload or modify my work to other accounts and platforms. please ask before translating any of my works! If you find any of my work posted on other platforms besides ao3 and tumblr and it is NOT myself, please let me know.

| Twitter | Ao3| JJK Masterlist

Dividers: @royallaesthetics @eloquentmoon

Header: made by myself with art from Pinterest

Chapters

Prologue: Maneater (One Shot) *Posted!*: A glimpse of how you and Toji meet for the first time. ~Plot that explores a little of reader's background and smut.~

Chapter One (Posted!): Despite the uncertainty of something new in your life, you say yes when Toji asks you out.

Chapter Two (Posted) Toji is cold and calculated with his hits, and beneath that hard exterior is a man with a dark past.

Chapter Three (Posted): Haunting dreams and a raging cold, you find solace in Toji's challenging and yet comforting presence.

Chapter Four (Coming soon): A day with Toji. A day of disappointments. A night of sweet relief.

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

[misty-slays-blog]

So as promised, here's the translation of the interview Morfydd did with Knack in August. I am by no means a translator but I did my best. It's not too long. Some rather interesting bits about how she views Galadriel (also the author of the interview gets Haladriel lol). If you want to read the entire interview in Dutch, it's here (I archived it since you need an account to read it on the Knack site, this way you can read it in its entirety): https://archive.ph/HekvQ

Morfydd Clark keeps getting calls for freaky roles (like for a Galadriel who flirts with Sauron)

During the second season of Rings of Power, the young elf Galadriel will be haunted by the ghosts of her past. Much to the delight of Morfydd Clark, who previously made name for herself as a possessed nurse in Saint Maud. “I love looking for those extreme roles.”

“I would have to board a plane to go home and I can't do that, I thought.”

When Morfydd Clark arrived in New-Zealand five years ago, she had no idea what awaited her. The production for The Rings of Power was notoriously secretive. She knew she'd auditioned for a prequel to The Lord of the Rings. But that she would be playing Galadriel, was new information. Clark had been introduced to the franchise as a child, during a family outing to The Hobbit: A Musical in London. Throughout the following years, she collected illustration books about The Shire and the Peter Jackson movies in her bedroom in Wales. “Unknowingly, I've been preparing for a role in the Lord of the Rings universe for fifteen years”, she tells us through Zoom.

But no book could have prepared Clark for the massive scale on which The Rings of Power operates. It isn't the kind of production with casual fans who are willing to swallow everything. And on top of that: the production value was through the roof. Costing a total of 465 million dollars, the series is the most expensive one ever made. One didn't have to look hard to see where this impressive budget went. From the underground dwarven kingdom Khazad-dûm to the eye-catching splendor of Númenor: even those finding the prequel rather lacking – the series has some flaws – has to admit that the cinematography is breathtakingly spectacular, paling other fantasy franchises in the process.

On top of that, there was the fact that Cate Blanchett's adaptation of Galadriel in the original trilogy has turned into movie heritage. “It helped that I play Galadriel during an entirely different moment of her life, long before she became the Lady of Lothlórien. I delved into the history of the elves, who were pretty wild actually. Did you know that they used to throw each other off of buildings all the time? I wanted my version of Galadriel to be strikingly different from the Galadriel she would eventually become.”

Clark's version of Galadriel is a young, brave warrior who indeed barely resembles Blanchett's ethereal elf. The consequences of a rather unfortunate romantic experience might change that (spoiler: the hunk Galadriel flirted with the entire first season? He happened to be Sauron. Even elves can miss red flags). “She realizes now that she, too, might have darkness within her. Her sense of self is in shambles. We all experience this feeling sometimes, but not everyone revives the evilest being in all of Middle-Earth in the process.” The second season is all about the consequences of this error of judgment. “Sauron haunts her the entire time. She finds herself stuck in her own horror movie.”

Clark describes this new and spooky chapter of her life as 'coming home.' Before her career took her to Middle-Earth, she was well on her way to becoming a Welsh Mia Goth. She played in BBC adaptations of Dracula and His Dark Materials, and in 2019 she was promoted to indie darling thanks to Saint Maud, a psychological horror movie made by Rose Glass (who continued her streak with Love Lies Bleeding) in which she played the titular character. “My parents keep asking me why I am always cast in those terrifying roles. But I think it's wonderful. I love looking for those extreme roles. Although, it is kind of strange to always receive calls for freaky parts. Is that the kind of vibes I have?”

Her freaky vibes are definitely lucrative. Among future roles are a Hamlet adaptation and a slasher, earlier this year she acted alongside Matt Smith in Starve Acre, a British indie horror movie. “That was a lucky coincidence. Matt Smith just finished his takes for House of the Dragon, he has given me so much good advice”, Clark says. It was the first time being back to a small set “where the entire crew fits into one room.” “I don't think the sets for Rings of Power will ever feel like the norm.” Because while every series goes for as much CGI as possible these days, with Rings of Power, the crew aims to build as many of the sets as possible. “Wandering around in such a magical world still feels like winning the lottery each day.”

Despite her success, Clark's acting career started quite accidental. When she was diagnosed with ADHD at the age of seven, a directionless school career followed. She quit when she was sixteen. According to British GQ, her teachers called her 'hollol di gwilydd', meaning 'completely shameless'. It wasn't until she began acting, that she found some sense of peace. And when playing in paranormal and magical fiction, she discovered a world in which she can be herself. “Fantasy like Lord of the Rings reverses the status quo of how we think the world should be. I wanted Galadriel to be free of the things that were imposed on me when I was younger. She isn't apologetic. She never doubts whether or not she said the right thing. And that might be the best part about playing her: Galadriel is shameless.”

[jinx-xxed]

Beautiful Thing Caged

Chapter 2; You’re wrong but you’re right

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; We made it to part 2 guys let’s go!! Next chapter will be more fun I hope T_T definitely struggled a bit with this one

⇦ Part 1

Part 3 ⇨

Summary; You dive headfirst into trying to learn more about this beast-man you’ve been assigned to. You didn’t expect for things to run so deep.

Content; Werewolf AU, modern AU, werewolf Kylo Ren, human reader, scientist reader, soulmates, lots of research and sciencey things, blood testing, Kylo acts like a smartass, reader’s over him already

[Each chapter will have specific content warnings.]

Wc; 4.1k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

Your head slips from where it’d been resting on a closed fist. You barely catch yourself in time before you slam face first into the table beneath you. You’d been dozing off again, something you find yourself doing more and more as sleep escapes you night after night. You straighten your posture, groaning as you stretch your limbs out to try and wake them back up. Your laptop sits open and on in front of you, fifteen tabs open at the top—each one more incomprehensible than the last. Wolf-man hybrids, wolf shifter, wolf man, man wolf, what do I do when a weird guy is locked up against his will by a secret government agency??, wolf man illegal topic, guy with wolf ears and tail… That last one gave you some less than desirable results that you’d rather forget.

When you aren’t at the Agency, you find yourself in the town’s local library. It’s a rather large building for the size of your town, which you’re grateful for, so it’s been very easy for you to seclude yourself in your research in the past two weeks. It’s the same every day; the receptionist greets you as you walk in, you beeline for the back of the first floor, and you take the first empty table you see. Then you grab whatever books might be helpful and scatter them all around yourself and your laptop, which you’ve done now.

You grab a new handful every time, seeing if anything can help you at all. So far you’ve come up empty. You started with the basics, reading books about wolves and their behavior just to refresh and learn more about them, then a simple human biology textbook, then you tried myths and legends and folklore books, flipping through them and studying any diagrams you were provided with. You saw more than a few that were under the umbrella of beast-men, things that stood on two legs and were covered in grisly fur and muscle. When you compared those images to the man that’s been occupying your head, they just didn’t match. He’s more man than beast, a fact that’s been haunting you.

You wish he would talk to you. You’d spent the last two weeks sitting in that white observation room, watching him and what he does in silence that was only broken by the clicking of your keyboard and occasionally talking to yourself. Hell, you still didn’t even know if he actually could speak or not. He didn’t give you much of a chance to figure it out, and you didn’t have a partner or anybody to bounce ideas off of. Hux had threatened you enough about telling anyone else about your studies.

You sigh harshly and dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, making yourself see stars. Focus. You lean in a little more against the table, bringing your laptop closer so you can type something in. Your research had led you to a small, online forum consisting of people that seemed to be looking into the same things you are—real life human-beast hybrids, not just the myths. When you’d discovered it a day ago, it’d seemed like your saving grace. The people in it didn’t seem very active anymore, but you’d sent a message, a hopeful shot in the dark. You’re delighted to see a notification in your inbox from the forum. You honestly hadn’t expected a response, your hopes having been dashed so many times you didn’t dare get them up again.

Your original message had been simple, just an introduction under a fake name and a vague question about if anybody knew something about wolf-man beasts. Somebody by the user of JHunter12 responded.

You: Hello, I’m new here! I’ve been working on a research project for school and got stumped. I was wondering if you guys could help? It’s about wolf-man hybrids, like a man having actual wolf ears and a tail and all that. I just can’t seem to find very much on them.

JHunter12: Yeah I know plenty about them. The term you’re looking for is lycanthrope. People don’t talk about them much anymore after they went basically extinct.

Your heart leaps into your throat at this new information. You suddenly feel wide awake. That simple message gave you more information than you’d gotten in the past two weeks of your research. You open a sixteenth tab and copy the term the user had said and sure enough, a whole page popped up. You couldn’t help yourself from grinning, looking at the wolf hybrids you saw on your screen. None of them exactly matched your subject, but this is by far the closest you’ve gotten. Scrolling down, you see a couple articles from years ago about the mutation, or what they call a “disease”. You switch tabs back to the forum, your mind stuck on the last word they’d said.

You: Extinct?

You’re shocked at how quickly they respond.

JHunter12: Yup. Happened like 100 years ago or something. Lycans used to live with normal people no problem until governments decided it actually was a problem once they started mixing too much and a bunch of hybrid babies were popping up. People started going on man hunts like crazy and the government just let it happen, sometimes ordered it themselves. Took their numbers down to basically zero. Wolf populations struggled cuz of it too, everybody thought every normal wolf was a Lycan even though there’s obvious differences. It was a massacre. Awful stuff.

JHunter12: The government tries to cover it up by making it really hard to search for and not letting anybody talk about it. Only reason I ever found out is cuz my great grandpa was one of those hunters. He killed multiple of them. Now I spend most of my time researching them and finding out whatever I can. I’m glad someone else is also interested.

You sit there staring at your screen for a minute, rereading the messages a good few times. You had no idea that there’d been an extinction campaign against the very thing that sat about a forty-five minute drive away in an underground cell. It made you feel sick. It also explained why you’d struggled so much to find any information until now. Even working at a government agency, you knew nothing about this. You wonder if any of your superiors knew, or if they were in the dark like you were. It’s all very strange.

You: Wow I did not expect that at all. Thank you so much for all of your insight, you have no idea how much this has helped me.

Jhunter12: Of course. If you have any more questions, feel free to ask.

You shut your laptop quickly, irrationally fearful that you’ve learned a lot of things you shouldn’t have and you don’t want anyone else seeing. You look out the window near you, the sun having begun to set. The library will be closing soon, which means it’s time for you to pack up. You quickly put away all the books you had scattered about, shove everything into your backpack, and make your way out with a muttered goodbye to the receptionist.

Walking out of that library, even though you have so much new information to research, you can feel that sleep is finally going to come easily to you tonight.

» ☆ «

You researched as much as you could when you’d gotten home, fascinated by how much you were finding now compared to the barren wasteland you had before. The person on the forum had been correct, there was almost nothing you could find about the eradication of lycanthropes; the few articles you did manage to dig up were buried deep within Google’s results, clearly not wanting to be found easily. None of them were very specific, but when they were put together, they created a fuller picture. When you put in the right keywords and followed enough secondary links, you even managed to find a few small studies from years and years ago.

Lycans lived like any other person, they had the same diets, human habits, same intelligence, they just had a genetic mutation. Nobody seems to be sure where it originated from or what exactly caused it—there’s plenty of religious theories—but blood samples showed a mixture of wolf and human intricately tied together. Autopsies revealed other strange mutations within the body that allowed them to shift between a human form and a quadrupedal wolf form. When in the wolf form, they were unable to talk but could still convey communication through retained human intelligence. It was all so interesting.

Reading through stories of the Lycan Massacre on the other hand, was devastating. There was so much hatred thrown at these people who had no say in how they were born, who had families and whole lives ahead of them. Hunted down and killed just because of misunderstandings and misplaced fear—farmers thinking Lycans killed their livestock, townspeople seeing things in the woods, general irrationality and hysteria. All of the Lycans were taken out and it’s assumed that any who managed to escape live out their days in total secrecy or as wild animals. If they’re discovered, well… you have proof of what happens to them.

Walking in to work the next day, you have a bit of a spring in your step. You finally managed to sleep, and you have a document that’s about twelve pages long and full of your research sitting on your laptop. You feel like you’re finally getting somewhere, like you’ll finally have something worthwhile to submit to Hux instead of hourly play by plays of how many times your subject moved his legs.

You walk down the halls, you give a courtesy nod to whoever you pass, you get into the elevator. You go down, down, down, all the way to the twentieth floor where you walk through more sterile, white hallways. There’s been a few additions to this floor, a few new experiments. They aren’t your concern though, you don’t have clearance to look at them, just like no one else has clearance to look at yours. Speaking of which, your badge gives you that lovely beep and then you’re through the door.

The beast-man immediately snaps to attention once you enter. It’s the same routine every day, where you’ll come in and he’ll study you, those undeniably pretty brown eyes always finding yours and communicating something you can’t quite understand. It always feels like there’s something on the edge of your mind when you look at him, but you can’t get a hold of it despite your efforts.

His chains rattle as he moves from where he’d been lying on his cot, which has now been upgraded to a bigger size thanks to your persistence. You went to Hux and asked him to put in a request for more enrichment and comforts within your subject’s cell on the basis that “it would improve research results”. A lie at the time, but you have noticed he seems more engaged and at ease with the extra blankets, pillows, and padding on the floor. You also met with the nutritionist so that he isn’t just eating raw meat day after day.

You notice his held tilt as you walk in. He sees the change in your demeanor, wonders what it could be for. His tail twitches behind him. “Good morning.” You say out of habit, even though you know he won’t say anything back. You often end up talking to yourself when you’re with him, filling the empty space with whatever’s on your mind just to get it out. He seems to listen rather intently and oddly enough, your voice also seems to calm him. It encourages you to keep going.

You set a few of your things on the ground. “I’ll be back in an hour or two. I have a few tests to run.” He watches you intensely as you head towards a door to your right, his body leaning forward to follow you. You shiver as goosebumps rise along your skin.

There’s blood samples waiting for you in the lab. They’d been taken in the dead of the morning and were prepped for processing, one of your coworkers on this project having let you know via email. They also let you know that those samples were not easy to get and required more than a few rounds of sedatives. Apparently, your subject had been able to smell the sedatives in his food and refused to eat so they had to do it the hard way. You can only imagine how much of a struggle that must’ve been.

You sigh and pull out one of the rolling chairs, using it to wheel around the lab room to get everything ready. Turning on the microscope, preparing the blood vials and testing strips, the glass slides, your notes. You start with a blood smear, the smear just a little wonky because you’ve never been able to get it perfect. You shake it to dry it—your least favorite part—and then slip it under the microscope. You take a minute to adjust it correctly, to get the image to come clearly through the lens. When you finally get it, you see all the little red blood cells come into focus. You move the slide around with the knobs of the microscope, inspecting carefully. You scribble things down on a notepad you have next to you that you’ll put in to your laptop later. Everything seems perfectly normal; no malformed cells, regular cell counts, and just all around healthy blood. That’s good to see.

Now to test something you’re far more curious about. You prepare all the reagents and machinery you’ll need for obtaining a DNA sample through blood, and then get to work on separating it from the rest of the blood sample. With the high tech of the First Order Agency, it’s able to cut down the wait time on a DNA blood test significantly from a few days to only a little over an hour. While working, you think about how much easier this would’ve been if you could’ve just gotten a swab of the inside of his mouth. Having seen those fangs though, you were not keen on trying to get one.

You wait for the final step of the testing to be finished, deciding to put in all your notes in the meantime. Hux will probably groan as soon as he sees your long, long document in his inbox. Once the test is done, you eagerly roll your chair over and start transferring the results. They come to you in the forms of graphs and charts, detailing the intricacies of his DNA and general ancestry that you aren’t really concerned about—he does have a good amount of German in him though. You’re more interested in what makes up his DNA and sure enough, you find it. On the second page, there’s a sector for anomalies noted within the coding. The one that takes up the most space is labeled under the Canis lupus family, making up about 51%. The other 49% is Homo sapien, as expected. So those studies online were correct, the DNA of Lycans is an almost perfect mix of wolf and human.

“Fascinating,” you mutter to yourself, feeling like you’re on cloud nine with all the new information you’ve been able to gather just in the last twenty-four hours. You’re finally getting somewhere.

You transfer the charts to your laptop and attach them to your document before beginning to clean up. You put in what needs to go in the autoclave, you toss the glass slides, and you make sure to sterilize everything. Before you leave the lab, you can’t help but hesitate. Your eyes slide to your right, where there’s another door. You know that door will lead to a hallway that’ll bring you to his cell. Bring you inside. The thought lasts for about a second before you dismiss it as you being insane.

The beast-man perks up again as you finally enter back into the observation room. You settle yourself in your usual spot on the floor, a comfortable distance away from him. “Sorry that took a little longer than expected. I was just testing your blood. Everything looked great.” You tell him. He doesn’t seem all that bothered either way. It amuses you.

You study him for a while, just like you always do. You watch how he moves, how he looks at you, how he inspects his dinner so carefully—definitely paranoid after the other workers tried to put sedatives in there. You’re glad to see his meal is a mixture of both raw and cooked meats, along with vegetables and fruits. You’d written to the nutritionalists to tell them what kind of meat he didn’t like based on your studies as well, so they no longer included those. He seems much more eager to eat with the new variety and it makes you happy.

He settles again afterwards, lounging around and staring at you. You work on your observation logs, inputting information, organizing it… it’s all a very familiar pattern. One you’ve grown accustomed to throughout the entirety of your-

“Kylo.”

You jolt, nearly jumping out of your own skin. Your head shoots up, brows deeply furrowed in confusion. Who…? You look towards the beast-man, whose intense eyes meet yours not a second later. Surely not?

But you watch as he speaks with a voice deep and rich. “My name is Kylo. Kylo Ren.”

You stand up so abruptly that your laptop falls to the ground with a clank and you stumble over your feet. “You can talk?!”

He squints at you. “Yes, of course I can. Are you stupid?”

You’re excitement deflates a little, an annoyed frown settling on your mouth. So his first words he says to you are mean, great. You push past that. “Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” You think about how much you’ve talked to yourself around him while he understood every word and just chose not to speak. You feel embarrassment sizzle under your skin.

He sniffs. “I didn’t like you.”

“If you’re just going to be rude then feel free to go back to not speaking.” You say through gritted teeth.

“I feel that you can’t get on me for being rude when I’m the one locked in a cell.” He points out, shifting his body to sit facing you with his legs crossed. “I only speak now because it seems you’re trustworthy. I believe you don’t want to do this either.”

You falter at his words, at the way he’s able to see through you so easily. It’s like all those hours he’s spent staring at you was really just him reading you, gathering information of his own. You try to make some excuse. “Well I… it’s just a job.”

He hums. “I can see that you care too much, though. It eats through you. That’s why I decided to trust you.”

You don’t know what to think of his analysis, of him basically taking your thoughts from your head and laying them out before you. You sigh through your nose and sit back down on the ground. “Okay… well… would I be able to ask you some questions, Kylo?”

He seems delighted by you saying his name, his ears perking atop his head and his tail giving the smallest twitch. His head tilts to the left. “Go ahead. I’ll answer what I want to.”

“I figured.” You mutter. You pull your laptop back to you, opening a voice note to record. You press start. “Alright… let’s start with the basics. How old are you?”

“I think 29.”

You cock a brow at that but continue on. “What are you?”

“You’ve done enough research to know that.”

You sigh again, heavier this time. “Please just answer.”

“A werewolf.”

That’s a new term you haven’t really heard before. You saw it once or twice while researching; it seems to be a modern word to describe what Kylo is. Older reports preferred to use the more common, scientific term of Lycan. “Okay, and where are you from?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

You lift your head, confusion on your face. “What?”

“I don’t know where I’m from.” Kylo says. “I was taken from my home as a child, because of what I am. The man that took me wanted me for my strength and potential to bring him money.” You can see how his eyes glisten with pain from the memory. Perhaps that’s what all his scars are from.

“Who is he?” You ask.

“It doesn’t matter. I killed him.” He says it so bluntly, as if there’s nothing to it. Like he didn’t just admit to a heinous crime that would no doubt get him killed in no time. “Although, he did exactly what you all do. He studied me, ran his tests. Kept me in a cage.”

You shrink under the accusatory tone even though you know none of this is your fault. You clear your throat. “What happened after you… killed him?”

“I had nowhere to go. I stayed as a wolf, it was easier. It’s been years.” He says, right ear twitching against his hair. You catch on to his words, on to anything he gives you that’ll improve your research. So he can turn into a wolf… that must’ve been what that first report you got of him had been based on. “I wanted to go back home, but that man affected my memory. He took me halfway across the continent. But it’s coming back now, I can feel it. I know where I need to go.”

“You do? Could you explain that?” You ask, a little too eager.

“It’s not something to explain.” He snaps. “It’s just… something leading me in the right direction. I was close before I got caught here.” He’s angry about that, you can see it in the way his brows furrow and his fists clench. You understand him, if you’d been within reach of your goal after years of work and then it got ruined, you’d be pissed.

Then he looks to you. “That’s why I need your help.”

“Wh- me?” You splutter. “How would I help you?”

“You’re smarter than that.” Kylo taunts. He’s right, you know exactly what he means, but you don’t like it. “Get me out of here. Help me get home. You know you don’t want to see me in here.”

“Quit assuming you know me. I’m here to do a job, that’s all this is. I can’t give up my entire livelihood just to break you out.” You say roughly.

He leans towards you, big black tail swishing against the floor behind him. “But you feel it, don’t you? Something deeper.”

For a moment, you don’t know what he means. But then something inside you seems to click, and you recall that first day you saw him. When you’d met his eyes, and you’d felt that tug. A tug that came from some higher plane, a thing you had no control over. It made you feel right when you were near him but then felt wrong when you weren’t, like when you’d gone home and a new type of loneliness you’d never experienced before had consumed you. You’d chalked it up to just stress from the new assignment, and that’s exactly what you’ll do now. You have no idea what it could mean and despite your job, you don’t have an interest in finding out. Kylo smirks at you knowingly and you realize you haven’t dealt with someone this aggravating for a while.

You press stop on the voice note. “I think that’s about it for today.” You shove all your things in your bag, being less than gentle. You stand as the lights begin to dim for the evening, turning towards the door.

“Wait.”

You stop, even though it’s probably against your best interest. You twist your head to look back at Kylo.

“Don’t send them that recording.” He says. He doesn’t explain himself, he feels like he doesn’t have to. He knows you’ll understand. You hate that he’s right. You hesitate for a second, debating on whether to give him a response. You can’t promise you’ll do anything—this project would benefit heavily from it being known that he can speak and communicate but… it’ll probably only bring him harm. You want to slam your head into something. If you knew this damn assignment would cause so many conflicting ideas and emotions, you wouldn’t have accepted it. You rip open the door without saying a word to him.

When you get home that night, in the dimness of your living room with only the light of your laptop, you delete the voice note.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

Tags (comment if you’d like to be tagged next time!); @bullet-clubs-bitch @hazydespair

⇦ Part 1

Part 3 ⇨

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 5: The Haunted House]

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

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Adventures With Aegon, Targ family dysfunction, bodily injury, no Willis this time yay!!! 🥳

Word Count: 7.3k.

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

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

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Every house is haunted, not just by phantoms of the past but by the ghosts of what could have been. They live in shadows, in doorways, in the periphery of your vision; you walk through them like smoke or mist. Their blood—pooled and pulseless—is a cold spot in a sweltering room, their fingerprints are the woodgrain swirls of floorboards. If you listen closely, you can hear them at night in the chorus of the cicadas and the owls and the wet westbound wind. They whisper questions you’ve never been able to answer: Have I made the right choices? Have I done the best I could? Is love a myth or does it only exist for other people? Am I a prisoner of the past or the future or myself? Why have I never been chosen?

In the bathtub, you stare at the pale blue walls veined with cracks like the legs of a spider. On the tree swing in the front yard—here long before you moved in, inherited from the effort and care of another family’s hands—you skim your bare feet over emerald blades of grass and watch the lightning bugs appear at dusk. In Cadi’s room, you play the Nintendo when she asks and try to forget who gave it to her; and when she asks about Aemond, you say he’s busy with work, because how else can you explain his absence to a child? In the kitchen, you break eggs into glass bowls of vanilla, sugar, flour, butter, baking powder, but you keep getting pieces of shell in the mix, something that almost never happens anymore. You snap, grab an egg, pitch it against the refrigerator where it explodes into calcium carbonate shrapnel and sterile yellow gore.

Amir looks up, startled. Behind his rectangular tortoiseshell glasses, his eyes dart between you and the viscera that stains the refrigerator door. At last he says softly, seriously: “What is it you liked so much about him?” Implicit in this statement are others: You’ve never liked a man this much. You’ll never see Aemond again.

You study your palms, tools of creation, tools that destroy. “I spend every second of my life consumed by responsibilities. The house, the car, the bakery, the bills, Cadi, Willis, myself, even you. There’s no one to tell me what the right thing to do is. There’s no one who can carry the weight for me. I can’t show it when I’m tired or frustrated or scared. And so to have someone who—even for an hour, even for fifteen minutes—could take care of me, and make all the decisions, and convince me to trust him…it’s the closest I ever get to being at peace.”

Amir gives you a sad, vanishingly small smile. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me too.” And you wet a dishcloth so you can begin to clean up your mess.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Thursday, and you’re coming home after delivering cakes for a birthday party down in Thibodaux. Your car radio is blaring Message In A Bottle by The Police. When you roll into the gravel driveway, the red Audi Quattro is waiting for you: parked right beside the house, like he belongs here, like he owns it. You throw open the door of your Chevy Celebrity and rage up the sloping, groaning steps of the front porch.

The first thing that hits you is the cold. There is an ambient humming, a chill that raises goosebumps on your bare arms. When you rush to the kitchen, you find an air conditioning unit in one of the windows, a metal box that turns the Fall-Down House into a tundra. They’re sitting at the hastily-cleared counter: Aemond leafing through the ledger book containing the financial records for the bakery, Amir beside him sipping a glass of sweet tea. Aemond glances up at you and then back down at the pale green pages, the lines of his face intense, focused. Amir greets you with a nervous titter, hiding behind his sweet tea. Ice jangles in the glass.

“What the fuck is that?”

“Our new air conditioner!” Amir says, overjoyed. “The customers are going to love it. No more waiting around in a stifling kitchen. You know how miserable it gets in here during the summer. We won’t be able to get rid of them! They’ll be purchasing cupcakes by the dozen just to have an excuse to get out of the heat!”

Aemond is still scrutinizing the ledger. “Why aren’t you buying in bulk?” he asks Amir. “The shelf life on things like sugar and flour has got to be six months at least.”

“We don’t have the liquid capital. We can’t spend cash if we don’t have cash.”

“And all these business expenses—mixers, coolers, pans, blenders, knives, the gas you burn when you make deliveries, the water you use to wash dishes—those are all tax write-offs, right?”

Amir hesitates. Aemond is aghast, his eyebrows shooting up into the blonde hair that shags over his forehead. The strands are damp with sweat and curling at the edges; he’s been working hard. He’s the one who heaved the air conditioner up onto the window ledge. His Marlboro jacket is draped over the back of his barstool. He’s wearing jeans, a black MTV t-shirt, and his Adidas sneakers.

“Please tell me you haven’t been paying income tax on money you aren’t actually keeping.”

“I didn’t know what we were allowed to write off, I was petrified to make a mistake! I don’t want to end up in Rikers!”

“They don’t put people in Rikers for tax evasion. You’d only go to minimum security.”

Amir rolls his eyes. “Well now you’ve convinced me.”

You are betrayed, furious. “You’re showing him the book?”

“He’s very bossy,” Amir says, slurping his sweet tea. “As you know.”

Aemond asks you, making notes on a legal pad he’s commandeered: “Do you have an IRA?”

“A what?”

“An IRA,” Aemond repeats slowly, emphasizing every syllable. “An individual retirement account.”

Should I? Could I? What the hell is that? “Um. I don’t think so.”

Aemond sighs, exasperated. He jots down another bullet point on his legal pad. “You need one.”

“I need you to get out of my house.”

“Shh!” Amir pleads. “He bought us an air conditioner!”

“Do you know how much that’s going to cost us in electricity? The bill is going to go through the roof. We’re not going to be able to afford this. And he doesn’t care, because he hasn’t even thought of it. Drop an oil rig into a lake and solve the unemployment crisis. Throw an air conditioner in a window and buy someone’s loyalty. He doesn’t understand us. He doesn’t care about us. He’s not capable of it.”

“I’ll pay for the electricity,” Aemond says. Now he’s looking at you.

“Get out,” you demand.

He seems—perplexingly—to be genuinely wounded. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Get out!”

Aemond stands, walks to you, backs you up until your shoulder blades hit the refrigerator. The metal door is cluttered with Cadi’s drawings, secured there with multicolored alphabet magnets: dinosaurs eating people, Rambo, astronauts rocketing to the moon, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Aemond is so close you can smell the cigarette smoke and cologne and sweat on him, see the smudges of ink on his fingers. His right eye travels all over you, defiant and hungry. His left eye—and you only notice when there’s no space left between you—is an impassive, glassy, not-quite-identical blue that never moves. It’s an imposter, and a very good one; but it’s not him. You think, unable to say it: What happened to your face? Who hurt you? Instead you strike out to shove Aemond away with both hands.

“Get out of my house—!”

“You want to get rough with me? Will that make you feel better?” he murmurs darkly, ignoring your palms when they collide with his chest, his collarbones, his jaw. Your flesh can’t hurt him, it can only graze his skin like stray bullets. “You want to hit me? Go ahead. I’ve had worse. I promise you I have.”

“I hate you!”

But you haven’t said the right word, and you both know it. He grabs your wrists, holds them still, whispers low and menacing into your ear as you struggle to rip your hands out of his grasp. “I dreamed about you all night. Tying you down, stretching you open. I want that. I think you do too.”

“I don’t want it,” you hiss; but already you’re imagining him on top of you, inside you, in control of you, and to resist that is like trying to fight the instinct to seek water, sleep, sunlight.

“Then tell me to stop.”

You glare up at Aemond, raging, burning. His gaze locks with yours and stays there. You are suddenly aware of the heat of his fingers linked around your wrists, of the pressure of his hips against yours as he pins you to the refrigerator. You can’t say it. I don’t want him to stop touching me. I don’t want him to leave and never come back.

Again, Aemond dares you: “Tell me to stop.”

From the kitchen counter, Amir is gawking at you both, his eyes huge, stunned, painfully uncomfortable. Nonetheless, he doesn’t look away. “I’m not leaving,” he informs Aemond. Just in case you’re weak enough to agree to something you’ll regret later; just in case you need a friend.

The spell breaks, the curse lifts. Aemond releases you and takes several steps back. He breathes deeply, running his fingers through his damp hair, composing himself. “You’re a good person,” he says to Amir.

“Thanks. I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment.”

Aemond turns back to you. Now he’s penitent, measured. Already, a part of you misses the weight of his bones on yours. But that’s not why Aemond is here. “Let me talk. Let me explain.”

No, you almost say. I’m not interested. I don’t want you anymore. There’s nothing you can tell me that will make me feel at peace with you again.

Instead, after long moments colored by waning sunlight and the whirring of the new air conditioner in the window: “Okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re on the tree swing, gripping the ropes and swaying slightly back and forth as you push off with your bare feet, rocking from your heels to your toes and then back again. Aemond lights a cigarette and takes a drag as he sits cross-legged on the grass in front of you. Amir keeps peeking out from between the blinds of the living room windows. Aemond glances around the yard, and you realize he’s searching for the alligator. His Marlboro jacket is folded neatly on the ground next to him.

“The gator’s not here right now, Aemond. She’s probably over in the trees. She’s not going to hurt you.”

He nods, but he doesn’t seem convinced. He fidgets restlessly with his cigarette.

All that money, all that power, all that ecological ruin, and he’s petrified of a five-foot gator that’s probably never eaten anything bigger than a pelican. It’s ridiculous. You smile weakly. “I think you have a phobia.”

He gestures to his scar, to his ruined left eye. “I’m afraid one will sneak up on me and I won’t be able to see it.”

He’s never spoken like this to you before, acknowledging his limitations, his impairment. He’s trying to be honest. He really is. “Where’s Christabel?”

“Back in the U.K.”

“When are you getting married?”

He shrugs, uninterested. “A few months from now, I guess. July. August. It doesn’t matter. I’m not really involved in the planning.”

“You’re a cheater,” you say. It comes out less accusatory than mournful. Why did you have to disappoint me? Why did you have to ruin this?

Aemond is dismissive. He puffs on his cigarette. “Everyone cheats.”

“No they don’t.”

“Everyone from my world cheats,” Aemond amends. “You marry for money or status or land or whatever, to prove you can snag someone who should be above you, to make your parents proud of you, to make sure your children have the right last name and titles. Then when the novelty fades—and it does, it always does—you find passion elsewhere.”

“That’s barbaric.”

“That’s aristocratic. Poor people get divorced two or three times. They have public brawls and call the cops on each other. We just have a different solution to life’s inevitabilities. My mother cheats with Criston, Daemon and Rhaenyra cheated with each other, I cheat with you, Aegon cheats with…I couldn’t even list them. A lot of people.”

Aegon. So that’s the debaucherous brother’s name. “Not all fancy rich people cheat. Prince Charles doesn’t cheat.”

Aemond bursts out laughing. “Of course he does! He’s been fucking Camilla Parker Bowles since like 1970!”

Your stomach sinks. Poor Diana. “I thought they were just friends now.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s what the tabloids say.” He inhales smoke—cancerous, lethal—and then exhales it in a grey gale like fog. “I think they stopped for a few years after he got married. But presently they spend as much time as they possibly can rendezvousing at all their friends’ country estates. Charles and Diana are miserable, but they’ll never split up. She’s entertaining herself with a cavalry officer named James Hewitt. Who looks suspiciously like Prince Harry, by the way.”

“And who does your father fuck on the side? Nancy Reagan?”

“He prefers the memory of a dead woman to my living mother. I’d say that counts as infidelity.”

The photograph Aegon showed me on the Targaryens’ refrigerator. Rhaenyra’s mother. And what else had been on that refrigerator? Pictures of the rest of the family? Old sketches and report cards? Souvenirs? A calendar with upcoming birthdays circled or starred? No. There was nothing. You consider Aemond with a disorienting blend of pity and barbed, venomous frustration. “I’m sorry Viserys has never been a good father to you. But that’s not an excuse to ruin other people’s lives.”

“Look, what you did…” Aemond begins with sizable effort. He puts the end of his cigarette out on the sole of one of his Adidas sneakers. “To walk away from something you believe isn’t right when everyone else is telling you to stay…that’s not easy. And maybe for you it didn’t feel so insurmountable because you’ve had to learn how to survive painful things on your own before. But all I’ve ever done was break my own bones so my father would notice me. I don’t mean that as a metaphor. I’ve fractured my ribs, my hands, my skull. And it’s still not enough. Love isn’t given in my family. I have to earn it. It’s all I know.”

“You could learn something new.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I won’t. That’s not a language I speak.”

Exactly how bad of a father was Viserys Targaryen? “Aemond, what happened to your face?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

You study him. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be my Camilla,” Aemond says.

“No. No way.” But you’re amazed by how badly you want to say yes. One word and he’ll touch me again? One word and I can have him back the way we were before? It doesn’t seem possible to resist that. It’s not something that should be expected of any mortal.

“I want to be around you. I want you to keep making me feel the way you do, because it’s…it’s…it’s not something I get from anyone else. And I want to make your life better. I have the ability to do that.”

“Because you’re an oil tycoon.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees. “I was born to be one, and so I am. But even if I wasn’t—if I refused, if I died—it’s not like the trillion-dollar industry would just disappear. There’s Jade Dragon, sure, but there’s also ExxonMobil, Shell, British Petroleum, Chevron, Valero, Marathon, a hundred others. Someone would be drilling on Lake Verret regardless. But the person in charge might be less scrupulous than I am. I’m doing the best I can here.”

“Were you in Ketchikan when the spill happened there?”

“No. I’ve never been to Alaska. That was someone else’s project. It was a fuckup, it was Jade Dragon’s fault. But my father is the one fighting it in court. I have no control over that.”

Someone else’s project…

“Come to my house tonight,” he says.

“No, Aemond.”

“Then come over on Saturday.” And you think: He remembered which days Cadi is usually with Willis.

“I don’t want to be your mistress.” I want to be more than that, oh God, I want so much more. You think of Christabel touching him and wrenching nausea cuts through you like a blade. You imagine Aemond’s hands taking off her clothes—zippers, buttons, ribbons, belts—and you feel like there’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to stop it from happening.

“We’re from two very different words,” Aemond says calmly, sensibly. “And it’s going to be impossible for us to understand each other unless we make an effort to learn about where we’ve come from. You’ve invited me into your home, your business, your family, and I’m very grateful for that. Now I need to do the same. And I think if you see more of my life, you’ll realize why I make the decisions I do and what it would mean for us to be together. Because in my experience, husbands and wives aren’t soulmates like they are in books or movies. It’s someone else who you actually…” He breaks off, then continues once he’s decided on the phrasing. “Spend most of your time with.”

Part of you knows that this arrangement would be hopelessly inadequate; you would feel like you were settling for less than you want, you would feel unchosen. But the louder part of you is clinging to it like a life raft. I want him to touch me again. I want him to make me forget about everything else. “I’ll think about it. Visiting the house, I mean.”

“Please do,” Aemond says. “How was Cadi’s weekend fishing?”

He really does listen to you; he remembers things. Even things you mention once and then never again. “She loved it. Willis knows more about the bayou than I’ll ever know about baking. They caught three catfish, four breams, and a bass, and then they made them into fish sticks. Thank God she has one parent who can cook. Even if Willis thinks Hungry Jack mashed potatoes are a vegetable. You know what he puts in the pot instead of milk? Coffee creamer. Cups of it.”

Aemond doesn’t seem pleased to be reminded of Willis’ existence. He says, rather mechanically: “I’m really glad Cadi enjoyed herself.” He grabs his Marlboro jacket, rises to his feet, scans the yard for the alligator. She’s made an appearance at last: she’s sunbathing about ten yards away, nowhere near close enough to be a nuisance. Still, Aemond frowns. Then he clears his face and looks back to you one last time as he strides towards his Audi Quattro. “And Cupcake?”

You peer up at him, shielding your eyes from the late-afternoon sun. “Yeah?”

“When you come to the house…” He grins. Not if. When. “Bring your swimsuit.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You cut the engine and survey the grand entranceway of the house that the Targaryens call The Last Desire, words in Greek that you couldn’t pronounce. The blue merle Great Dane—Vhagar, you recall, yet another bizarre foreign name—is lurking between the towering white columns of the wraparound porch. “Fantastic,” you mutter, stepping out of the car. It’s Saturday, 2 p.m., hot and muggy and cicadas screeching in the southern live oaks. Green anoles dart across the cobblestones and freshly-painted white wood of the porch. Whooping cranes, haughty and fragile, ogle you with reptilian yellow eyes.

You pause when you reach the bottom step of the porch. The Great Dane growls at you, her lips curling up to show long fanglike teeth. You’re carrying two bakery boxes stacked on top of each other: one contains a dozen blueberry pie cupcakes, the second filled with fresh Cap’n Crunch Treats. You glance around for someone to assist you with the hostile dog situation. You have no interest in attempting to shove her away like Alicent did on the day of the engagement party.

Blessedly, the head butler materializes in the doorway and beckons you inside. When Vhagar snarls as you approach, the butler pulls a small plastic water gun from the pocket of his black dress pants. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience,” he tells you, and then squirts the dog several times. Vhagar reluctantly lopes away. “Please allow me to escort you to the pool. Mr. Targaryen instructed us to be on the lookout for you.” Then he breezes into the house without checking to make sure you’re following him.

You trot after the butler through the white-and-gold foyer, the deep red living room, and then out into the garden. There is a long row of neon green lounge chairs on the side of the pool opposite of the water slide. Three of the chairs are occupied. Helaena is stretched across one wearing a frilly one-piece, floral with ladybugs; her chameleon is perched on the top of the adjustable backrest. Alicent is in the chair beside her, dressed in a turquoise blue coverup that matches the pool water and reading The Silence of the Lambs. They both wave nonchalantly, seemingly unsurprised by your presence. And then there’s Aegon. He’s smoking a joint as a black boombox beside him plays The Cure’s Why Can’t I Be You? You place both bakery boxes on a table shielded from the sun by a large green umbrella.

“What’s in there?” Aegon asks. He’s wearing pink plastic sunglasses, a radiant fuchsia sunburn, and a Speedo patterned with pineapples. His ferret is curled up in his lap and napping.

“Blueberry pie cupcakes and Cap’n Crunch Treats.”

“Yes! Pass me one of each.”

“Don’t be rude, Aegon,” Alicent says dully, turning a page of her book. “She’s not a servant.”

“She’s a literal baker. I’m asking for baked goods.”

“Dear, I’ve been singing your praises to every single person I cross paths with in this jungle of a town,” Alicent tells you, ignoring him. “Have you noticed yet?”

You hand Aegon his treats; he marvels at the miniature blueberry pie placed atop the cupcake frosting before scarfing it down. “I think we’ve had more customers than usual this week, now that you mention it. Thank you so much! Amir and I are more grateful than we could ever express.”

“Oh, it’s the least I could do, love,” Alicent says. Criston appears with a strawberry daiquiri and gives it to her, complete with a swirl of whipped cream and a little pink toothpick umbrella pierced through a wedge of lime. Criston wears a pair of roomy Hawaiian board shorts and his single gold earring. Alicent takes a sip. “Heavenly! I am completely revived.”

“Helaena, would you like one?” Criston asks.

“Yes please.”

“And one for Aemond’s friend too, please,” Alicent says. Criston nods and hurries off again. Nobody asks if Aegon wants a strawberry daiquiri. He gnaws moodily at his cupcake and then when it’s gone moves on to the Cap’n Crunch Treat. Helaena’s chameleon snatches a dragonfly out of the air with its tongue. Alicent shudders.

Aemond’s friend? Friend?? You sit down on the lounge chair next to Aegon, still wearing your pale pink coverup. He tells you: “Aemond should be back soon. He got a phone call and had to swing by the rigs after lunch but he didn’t think it would take long.” Then Aegon smiles toothily, and you notice he has residual white powder around the corners of his lips and just inside his nostrils. “It’s good to meet you properly this time, now that I’m aware of all your talents.”

“You know about Aemond’s…uh…preferences?”

“Oh yeah, and I knew he had a girl. He always has to have a girl. I just didn’t know it was you. He doesn’t usually bring them around the family.”

You steal a glimpse of Alicent and Helaena. If they’re listening in, they’re doing an excellent job of not acting like they are.

“I think we should address this,” Aegon says.

You are stymied. “Address what?”

“It would never work, me and you.”

“I hadn’t even thought of it.”

“Sure you haven’t,” Aegon says. He flourishes a hand melodramatically. “You need a dom. I am, lamentably, an irredeemable sub. I’m a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

“Okay, Aegon.”

“I just needed to break the tension.”

“I think you’re imagining that.”

There are footsteps, the slapping of flip flops against the cobblestones, and then someone who looks like a younger, more cheerful, more sober Aegon arrives at the pool. He is dressed in royal blue swim trunks that stop at his mid-thigh; his wavy blond hair is down to his shoulders. Like his family members, he also does not seem at all surprised to see you. “Hi,” he says, shaking your hand. “I’m Daeron. I didn’t get to introduce myself at the engagement party. I’m sorry about that. I was entangled in a very competitive tennis match on the courts out back for most of the day.”

Alicent asks: “Daeron, love, would you like a strawberry daiquiri when Criston reappears?”

“Yeah, Mum, that would be great.” He parks himself on the available chair beside her and begins asking about her book. As they chat, a blue macaw flaps through the garden and uses its long, leathery talons to claim the backrest of Daeron’s lounge chair.

“It’s so sweet of you to take an interest in my reading, Daeron,” Alicent gushes. “None of my other children ever do…”

Aegon groans loudly. Everyone ignores him. Criston arrives with two strawberry daiquiris, one for you and one for Helaena. You take a sip through a plastic straw with several loops in it: icy cold and jarringly sweet.

“And one for Daeron too please, Criston,” Alicent requests. “Did you hear that he just got another article published? It’s about evaluating rock wettability.” Her tone suggests that she has no idea what this means; nonetheless, she is ardently enthusiastic.

“That kid is going places,” Criston says admiringly.

Aegon counters: “That kid’s had phone sex with Michelle Pfeiffer.”

You laugh, thinking that it’s a joke. Daeron just gives you a sheepish smile. Oh, you think. Not a joke.

Criston hustles back inside the house. An old man passes Criston as he strolls out to the pool. He looks around blearily, like he’s hungover or has just woken up from a nap or both. His bloodshot eyes skate over you without much interest. He squints at the pool floats that bob in the rippling, crystalline water, sparkly rings and an assortment of foam noodles and a giant cartoonish alligator.

“How was Kiribati?” Aegon says.

“Much better than here. This goddamn humidity!”

“I can’t believe you missed the engagement party, Father,” Alicent says glumly.

“Oh no, how could I! I’ll never have any way of knowing what transpired!” He plops down onto a chair near the end of the row. His bare feet are gnarled, his toenails long and yellowed. “Let me guess. Cake was served, champagne was toasted, people bragged about their stupid hobbies and their ugly children, that girl scuttled about with her perpetually-startled eyes and asinine comments. Do you remember when she tried to give me her condolences when she learned your mother passed away years ago? Why would I want some moonstruck idiot’s condolences? She didn’t know your mother. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Christabel is very young,” Alicent offers gently.

“She’s very something, that’s for sure. Very useless. Very irritating. This family would be in a much better state if Viserys wasn’t the one making all the decisions. His judgment has declined precipitously.” He casts a poisonous glare at Aegon. Aegon pretends not to notice.

“I like Christabel,” Helaena says. Her chameleon gobbles up a butterfly that ventures too close.

“Yes, I’m sure you do.” The old man’s voice is kinder now. “You see the best in everyone. But dear Helaena, we are in for a lifetime of insipid simpers and vapid conversations.”

“A lifetime?” Aegon says. “So not much longer for you, Grandfather. What a comfort.”

The old man glowers at Aegon. “We should have left you in Alaska to have your throat slit by those animals.” And you hear Aemond’s words reverberating in your skull: I’ve never been to Alaska. That was someone else’s project.

Aegon is rolling himself a fresh joint, accidentally spilling sprinkles of weed on his slumbering ferret. He snorts. “I don’t care what Alaskans think of me.”

Daeron says: “Aegon, you poisoned 1,000 square miles of the ocean.”

“The fucking ocean,” Aegon mutters. “What do we even need the ocean for?”

“Vacations,” Otto says.

Helaena adds: “Sushi.”

Daeron is distressed. “Actually, the ocean is super important.”

“Why are we talking about the ocean?” Aemond asks as he strolls through the garden and pauses by the edge of the pool to dip a foot in to test the temperature. He’s wearing black swim trunks and nothing else, just his skin, just his scar and his glass left eye. He sees you, smiles, goes to the bakery boxes and lifts out a cupcake. He sits down on the edge of your lounge chair as he licks off the wave-blue frosting. No one makes any comment, and no one brings up Aegon’s role in the Ketchikan oil spill again.

Criston returns once more with a strawberry daiquiri for Daeron. “Well, I’ve just about killed the blender, so hopefully we don’t need any more—”

“But Criston!” Alicent cries. “What about Aemond and my father? Perhaps they are in need of refreshments.”

Criston sighs. Crestfallen, he looks at Aemond. “Do you want a strawberry daiquiri?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just have a few sips of hers.”

Aegon says: “Can I get a pina colada?”

Criston turns towards the old man. “Otto? Daiquiri?”

“No, but if you could immediately teleport me back to the South Pacific, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Pina colada??” Aegon says again.

“Okay, Aegon,” Criston snaps. “Calm down. Let me figure out if we have any more coconut cream.” Alicent’s part-time bodyguard and personal assistant, part-time babysitter, part-time affair partner vanishes into the house yet again.

Aegon lurches to his feet. “No one listens to me,” he tells you morosely. “You see that? No one remembers. That’s how you know they don’t care.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Alicent tells Aegon, not looking up from her book.

“Wait, someone is missing…” Otto muses, stroking his beard.

Aegon staggers to the edge of the pool, drags over a sparkly turquoise inflatable ring, and flops onto it. He paddles himself out towards the center of the pool. His ferret bounds after him, leaps into the water, and swims until it reaches Aegon, wriggling through the blue like a golden-furred snake. “Hey Sunfyre, you wanted to come too?” Aegon lifts the soaked ferret from the water and places it on his chest, soft and sunburned. “My bad. I assumed you’d prefer dry land.”

Otto—cantankerous and grating—looks around, baffled. “Wait, where’s Viserys?”

“He’s inspecting some of the rigs out in the Gulf of Mexico,” Aemond says as he finishes the cupcake and takes a slurp of your daiquiri. “He won’t be back until the end of the week.”

“Thank God,” Aegon exclaims from the middle of the pool.

Alicent changes the subject. “How long have you been baking, dear?” she asks you.

“Forever, basically. But I started getting serious about making it a business when my daughter was really young, about nine years ago. Now Amir and I sell hundreds of items a week, sometimes thousands.”

Daeron is nodding along, but he appears a little confused. He has gotten himself a Cap’n Crunch Treat and is feeding pieces of it to his blue macaw. “And you do that because…you want to?”

“Well I have to pay rent.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“And I could have been a checkout girl at the Doller General, or worked seasonally harvesting soybeans or sugarcane, or begged my ex-husband to get me a job in the Assumption Parish Sheriff’s Office…but I wanted to do something that didn’t make me miserable. And something that was really mine, that I chose.” Aemond is watching you thoughtfully. The other Targaryens are a tad interested but far more perplexed. They can’t understand work the way you do. They can’t understand money as something that must be counted.

“Brilliant!” Alicent declares at last. “Well, maybe one day we’ll have you making six cakes for Helaena’s engagement party, who knows!”

“It would be my absolute pleasure. Do you have a potential husband hanging around, Helaena?”

She giggles, covering her blushing face with both hands. Her chameleon creeps down to cling to her shoulder, as if to make sure she’s alright. Its conical eyes flit in random directions, an unmitigated freak of nature. You should have more compassion for it.

Aemond grins. “Helaena is responsible for no less than three broken engagements. She can’t commit.”

“And she’s only into guys who look like Aegon,” Daeron adds.

“No!” Helaena objects. “That is such a lie, that’s not true!”

“Evander?” Daeron says.

Helaena pauses to think. “Okay, yes, he looked kind of like Aegon.”

“He did, didn’t he?” Alicent frets, nibbling at the fingernail of her pinky.

“Dimitri?” Aemond says.

“Oh no,” Helaena moans; but she’s laughing too. “Oh no.”

“Sebastian?” Aegon says, and now they’re all howling.

Otto shakes his head. “Freud would definitely have some thoughts about this.”

“Bloody hell,” Helaena whimpers, swiping tears from her face. Her chameleon nudges her jaw with its shimmering, blue-green muzzle. “I totally only date guys who look like Aegon.”

Aegon shrugs from where he’s floating in the pool with Sunfyre. “Good taste, I’d say. Fuck them all, homegirl.”

“Aegon!” Alicent shouts, scandalized.

Criston dashes out of the house and to the edge of the pool, clutching a pina colada that is swiftly melting. “You better paddle yourself over here, kid. I don’t offer in-water delivery.”

“You’d do it for my mother.”

“Probably. But you’re not her.”

Aegon groans as he splashes around without making much progress. “Okay, okay, give me a second…”

Aemond turns to you. “How do you like the house? I realized I never got the chance to ask last weekend.”

“I like all the stained glass, and I like that every room is a different color. The living room is red, the dining room is yellow, the kitchen is teal, Aegon’s bedroom is black—”

“Wait, how do you know?” Aemond is alarmed.

You chuckle. “No, no, not like that. I was lost and looking for a bathroom.”

“Didn’t do anything,” Aegon announces from his pool float. “Didn’t do it, didn’t try it, didn’t even think about it. Well…maybe I thought about it. But I definitely did not do anything.”

“Okay.” Aemond exhales, relived. “Close call.”

“What color is your room?”

He’s not going to waste the opportunity to extend an invitation. “Let me show you.”

On the same floor as Aegon’s punk rock bedroom and the lilac bathroom, you trail Aemond to the end of the hallway. At last he opens a door to reveal a room that is a deep, vivid blue like sapphires. The bookshelves that touch the ceiling are filled not with texts on engineering or the energy industry but histories of people whose names you don’t recognize. He has a massive wooden canopy bed swathed in dark blue velvet patterned with circling koi fish made of stars. He has a writing desk, a wardrobe full of suits, a television with an extensive VHS collection. The stained glass windows are a whirlpool of cerulean, navy, aquamarine, indigo, steel, azure. When you peer through the glass, you can see the gleaming currents of Lake Verret and the twisted dead ends of the bayou that forms at its edges, treacherous and untamed.

And when you start to feel that if Aemond tried to grab you, undress you, tie knots around your wrists you wouldn’t stop him, you tell him that you want to go back outside to the pool; and Aemond listens, and he doesn’t try to touch you even once.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Monday, two days later, and Aemond calls to ask if he can bring you and Cadi dinner. He shows up with all the trappings of what he insists is real Italian food, doubtlessly prepared by his family’s private chefs: focaccia, caprese salad, ossobuco, risotto, Bolognese, panna cotta. He forgets the red wine, so you drink sweet tea instead, the three of you crowded around the kitchen counter, ceaselessly passing dishes back and forth while the little pink Panasonic boombox plays You Spin Me Round by Dead Or Alive.

“Hey Mom?” Cadi says as she chomps on a hunk of focaccia.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you ever cook dinners like this?”

There’s a tiny little gut punch, something you’re used to swallowing down even if it bruises you to the heart, to the bones. She doesn’t know any better. You can’t cry, you can’t get mad. You shrug, dispassionate. Aemond glances over at you, abruptly tense but not saying anything. “Well honey, it’s probably because my job can be really busy sometimes, and I spend most of the day in the kitchen, so when dinner time comes around the last thing I want to do is cook. But we always have food to eat, right?”

“Yeah. Like Amir’s leftovers or frozen pizza or something. But all my friends’ moms cook nice dinners most nights. Can’t you do that? When I go to Michelle or Erica’s house for dinner their moms make barbeque ribs, gumbo, seafood boils, etouffee, tasso ham, homemade macaroni and cheese, like real dinners. I want us to have that too. What if my friends want to eat dinner here sometime? I can’t bring them over and then just throw some Swanson’s meals at them.”

Aemond has put his fork down on his plate and is clasping his hands together, trying to figure out what to say. But he shouldn’t say anything. It’s not his place.

You tell Cadi, as calmly as you can: “Different families have different kinds of dinners, and that’s okay. I bet your friends’ moms don’t have cakes and cookies around all the time, but you always have tons of dessert options. Our situation looks different than theirs, but there’s nothing wrong with either one.”

“But desserts aren’t even good for kids. Dinner is way more important. You can’t say I get cakes instead of dinner, too much cake will give me diseases or something.”

“Okay, Cadi. That’s enough. Let’s talk about this later.”

“I’m just saying it seems totally unfair that my friends get real dinners and I almost never do.”

Michelle and Erica’s moms don’t work. They have husbands to support them. So they can spend all day babying a fucking tasso ham, but I don’t have that luxury. And I don’t want to be chained to a man. I don’t want to trade having a say in how my life turns out for being able to slave away over dinner for four or five hours. “I regret to inform you that I’m not like Michelle and Erica’s moms.”

“I wish you were,” Cadi murmurs, entirely unaware of what she’s done. You bite your lower lip so you don’t snap at her, or try to explain, or break down sobbing. You taste blood, hot sharp copper that blooms like wildflowers.

Aemond stands up. His barstool squeals against the sloping wooden floor. “Hey, can I talk to you outside for a minute?” he asks Cadi.

“Aemond, what…?” you begin, but he’s already headed for the front door.

Cadi blinks up at him, horrified. “Why?”

“You’re not in trouble or anything. I just want to show you something. Come on. It’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” Cadi says doubtfully, looking at you. You give her your best reassuring smile, and she slides off her barstool and follows after Aemond. The front door opens and shuts. You don’t hear shouting, you don’t hear much of anything except the air conditioner and the boombox and the mourning doves, the long-eared owl, the cicadas, the bayou, the universe. You go to one of the living room windows and part the blinds to peek outside.

What you see is strange. Cadi is sitting on the swing, and Aemond is kneeling in front of her so they’re just about at the same eye level. You can see half of Aemond’s face; Cadi is blocking the rest. He’s explaining something to her with patient yet insistent gestures of his hands. Cadi says something, and Aemond nods and replies. He points to his scar, his glass eye, and says something else. Cadi asks a question, and Aemond hesitates. Then he acquiesces and moves closer to where she is perched on the tree swing. He reaches up towards the scarred side of his face, but you can’t see his eye. When he lowers his palm, there’s a small piece of curved, oval-shaped glass that glints in the dying sunlight.

“Cool!” you can hear Cadi exclaim, muffled through the windows that are now closed on account of the new air conditioning unit. She says something else, and Aemond agrees. You watch her hand extending towards his face, towards the injury he has revealed to her for reasons you can’t comprehend. You rush to other windows, trying to get a better view, but there’s no way for you to get a clear line of sight. Before you know it, your hear their footsteps drumming up the porch steps. The front door opens just as you’re scrambling back onto your barstool.

“Everything alright?” you say, more nervously than you intend to.

“Yup,” Cadi replies. She climbs into her seat and resumes wolfing down focaccia and Bolognese.

You look over at Aemond, bewildered. His glass eye is back in its socket. He appears composed, but you notice the fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, at his temples, at the nape of his neck. He gives you a casual little smirk and then returns to his barstool. He picks up his full glass of sweet tea and drains it in three massive gulps.

“Hey Mom,” Cadi says, and your throat is suddenly full of embers.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Tonight is really fun,” she says. She twirls her fork in the pappardelle pasta of the Bolognese, splattering red sauce over her cheeks. “This is great. I want to do this more often.”

And the embers in your throat cool, vanish, are replaced by something vast and free.

“You really do need a new house,” Aemond says as he helps you clean up after dinner; Cadi has already abandoned you both for her Nintendo. “There are new constructions a little further down Route 401, between here and Lake Verret. Three bedrooms, two baths. Not a castle or anything, just the right size for you and Cadi. We can go look at them sometime.”

“I don’t need a whole new house. There are midcentury homes all over the place down here. They’re small, and they might need fixing up, but they’re a lot cheaper.” Then you add, because it sounds less pathetic: “And maybe it’s nice to have a house with some history, some character.”

“Old can be charming and quaint, sure. But brand new is better.”

“Why’s that?”

He smiles. “No ghosts.”

[sirianasims]

Chapter 43.7

The scent of spices still lingers in the air, mingling with the warm, dry breeze drifting in through the open terrace doors. The table in front of me is a landscape of wine glasses and the plates that once held Dave’s mouth-watering lemongrass chicken.

I fold my napkin and leave it by my bowl, which has been scraped so thoroughly clean that it looks like I licked it. Had I been alone, I probably would have.

“That was delicious, Dave. Best I’ve had outside Tomarang.”

Dave beams with pride. “The secret is in the red curry paste, I think I finally found the perfect mix. I hope you left room for dessert though, I’ve got more coming.”

“Now you’re just spoiling me. What’s the occasion?”

“It’s the end of an era. I think dessert is justified.”

I nod solemnly. I recorded my last lines as Llama Man two days ago. Lee dropped by the studio with champagne to commemorate the occasion and I ended up with a hangover that still haunts me.

The fact that the show is over feels weird to think about. I’ve had many roles, but most of them were pretty minor and, most of all, temporary. They were just something I did for a little while, but I’ve been Llama Man for fifteen years and now, jarringly, I’m not.

Sierra interrupts my wallowing. “So, have you thought about what you’re going to do now?”

I shrug. “I don’t know yet. I still get a few gigs here and there for other voiceovers, but nothing steady.”

“What about finally going back to acting? On camera, I mean? It’s the perfect time, the show finale is going to get you some buzz, and my agent would love a chance to work with you, you know that.”

“Sierra, honey, it’s only been a couple of days, maybe it’s a bit soon to worry about what’s coming next?”

Sierra chews on her lip, clearly eager to keep going, but she doesn’t. She always says that Dave is her rock, the calm counterbalance to her temper. Some of my previous girlfriends didn’t like my closeness with Sierra, assumed that we used to date or at the very least slept together, but we never did. We would probably have strangled each other.

Julia was refreshing like that too, she never interrogated me about Sierra or seemed to feel threatened, she just took our friendship at face value.

Or maybe she simply didn’t care enough about you to get jealous.

Sierra gives me a sideways glance. “Fine, we can discuss it later, but how are you doing, really? I mean, the show ending is a big change on its own, but after everything with Julia…”

“I told you, Sierra, I’m fine. I knew the show was ending, it was announced last year. And Julia and I have been done for months, it was sad but I’m over it.”

“Are you, though? It’s just, you haven’t really been yourself since you broke up with her and-”

Dave rubs his forehead. “Honey, please, we talked about this. Let the man breathe.”

It has no effect. Even Dave isn’t enough to stop Sierra after three glasses of Soft Shadow Avornalino.

“I’m just trying to understand, though. You were happy, she seemed happy too, and the next thing I hear is that you dumped her? I don’t get it.”

“Sierra, can we not talk about this, please? I don’t want to go over it again, it’s complicated.”

“Again? You never went over it the first time! And you seemed to be doing so well, this is the longest I’ve seen any of your relationships last, so what went wrong?”

“Ten months isn’t that long, and since when do you care so much about Julia anyway? You were the one who was sceptical about her from the start!”

“I care about you, Paul! I was only sceptical because I was worried about whether she was, you know, right for you. I love you, you know I do, but you can be kind of a lot to deal with sometimes!”

A weary sigh from Dave finally makes Sierra pause.

“Sorry, Paul, that was uncalled for. I just wish you’d get a bit more, well, serious about your life, your career, everything.”

I don’t respond.

Dave clears his throat. “Honey, why don’t you and Paul go for some fresh air while I clean up in here and get dessert ready? The garden is really coming along.”

She looks at him gratefully. There’s a unspoken understanding between them that makes me feel strangely sad. I wonder if it’s something you develop when you’ve been together for as long as they have, or if the trick is to marry someone exactly because they can tell what you need without speaking. Maybe it’s a bit of both. I certainly wouldn’t know. Like Sierra just reminded me, I’ve never been with someone long enough to find out.

I catch myself staring at them and quickly look away. I’m not really superstitious, but all Tartosans grow up learning about malocchio, the evil eye, it’s habitual. My grandmother always said that you’re not supposed to look at someone with envy in your heart, or you might curse them, even if you don’t mean to.

Maybe I’m cursed. If anything invites envy and jealousy, it’s fame. Maybe that’s why I keep fucking things up, why I’m never satisfied. It would almost be a relief to be cursed. At least then it wouldn’t be my own damn fault.

Dave starts clearing the table, and both Sierra and I get up as well. She looks at me apologetically, but I walk outside without waiting for her, into the neatly kept garden.

It’s the height of summer, and the chorus of cicadas fills the air, a rhythmic, comforting hum that blends seamlessly with the faint sounds of water trickling from a small fountain. It’s hard to believe we’re in the desert, the entire neighbourhood is like a carefully crafted oasis, each house more exquisite than the last, all lush gardens and towering palm trees.

I sigh, looking up at the dusky sky. Behind me, the sound of gravel crunching under Sierra’s feet mixes with the soft clinking of dishes coming from inside the kitchen.

“I’m sorry, Paul. Dave did tell me not to bring it up.”

“I was planning to propose to her, you know. How’s that for getting serious?”

“What?”

“Yes! Bought the ring and everything. But luckily I came to my senses before I utterly embarrassed myself.”

For the first time in all the years I’ve known her, Sierra is speechless. She simply stares at me, wide-eyed, and I realise that I must look deranged, my face contorted by grief and fury and shame, my chest heaving.

I feel a burning sensation in my nose and her face softens. She pulls me into a hug and I let her do it, like so many times before.

“For fuck’s sake, Paul.”

I hold back, not wanting to crush her under my weight, but she pulls me closer, insistently, until I relax and lean on her.

“I’m such an idiot.”

Sierra says nothing, she just rubs my back in gentle circles and I feel my anger slowly dissipate. She finally lets me go and cups my face with her hand.

“Paul, look at me. Do you regret leaving her?”

Desperately.

“No.”

The word leaves my mouth automatically. I’ve thought about Julia every single day, but each time my finger hovers over her name in my phone, I get overwhelmed by a feeling of dread I can’t quite put into words.

Admit it, you’re just afraid that she’d reject you the way you rejected her.

“Sierra, am I just meant to be alone? Is there something wrong with me?”

She snorts. “Nope, you’re perfect, that’s your whole problem. You could have anyone, you just can’t make up your mind.”

“She’s the only one I ever wanted like this.”

She shrugs. “You have a strange way of showing it, then. But if you really don’t regret it, I guess it must have been the right call.”

There’s doubt in her voice, like she knows I’m lying.

“It’s for the better, Sierra. She doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life yet, she needs time to figure it out.”

“Maybe she could have figured it out with you.”

I hadn’t even thought of that, but I reject the idea immediately, it’s too painful. “No. It was never going to last.”

“So you keep saying. You make it sound like you expected it to fail from the start.”

“So did you.”

“True. Sorry about that.” She leans against my shoulder.

“Careful the paps don’t see you like this, we wouldn’t want the rumours to start again.”

She chuckles. “I think they gave up on us when I married Dave.”

“They could try a new angle. I’m single again, what will I do next? I might try to add some drama to the most boring, sorry, I mean stable marriage in Del Sol Valley.”

She laughs and punches me in the shoulder, surprisingly hard.

“Watch it, Romeo. I may only be a cop on screen, but I’ve learned a lot about hiding evidence.”

I put my arm around her and for a moment we just exist, listening to the cicadas until Dave calls us back in for dessert.

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