#righteous jams

[darkarfs]

Look, FF9, I get that you're an homage to every previous Final Fantasy game, but come onnnnnn with this.

[magnus-and-the-dragon]

i CANNOT explain how deeply i love brother faulkner. he’s just my lil criminal guy.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 3: Mist and Bricks]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, dragons being weapons of mass destruction, King's Landing gets some visitors, Larys gets alarming news, Alicent gets an idea, Red gets a shock.

Word count: 7.2k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

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There is a chilly steel-grey mist on Blackwater Bay, and another in your skull, your thoughts slow and muddled, the past bleeding into the present. It’s weeks later, the longest you’ve ever been away from Aemond, and the pebbles on the shore needle your shins through your velvet gown the color of cinnabar as you kneel to claw seashells from the muck. Helaena is here with you, and while you haven’t told her your plans for your next mosaic, she somehow knows what color shells to drop into your basket: dark green like Vhagar’s scales, shimmering white like Aemond’s hair. Sometimes there are still creatures hunkered inside, and Helaena can never bring herself to pry them out. She passes the doomed crabs and snails to you for a swift exhumation that you deliver with your bare hands, and then you wash the vacated shells in the surf. Mother and a flock of maids are playing with Jaehaera and Maelor farther down the beach. You can’t go near them, or Maelor will start screaming.

Grandsire comes plodding down the stone steps carved into the cliffside, carrying a plate laden with lemon cakes and slices of fresh bread slathered with butter and blackberry jam. “Helaena, you must eat,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Helaena, please.” And his voice is gentle in a way it has never been with you. “My gods, why are you wrist-deep in wet sand?”

“We’re collecting shells.”

Grandsire gives you a familiar look: disapproval, frustration. The he turns back to Helaena. “I can’t watch you disappear. You must eat something, I’m not leaving until you do.”

“You like blackberry jam,” you encourage her. But she flinches away when Grandsire offers her the plate, and suddenly you understand, you feel the thought as if it is your own. “It’s the color,” you tell him. “The jam, it’s like…” Like blood, like gore. Like the night Jaehaerys died.

“Oh.” Grandsire is quiet for a moment, remembering. “The lemon cakes, then.”

Helaena reluctantly rinses her hands in the seawater, takes a single lemon cake from the plate, and sits on a nearby rock to nibble on it, gazing blankly out over the inlet. You attended Jaehaerys’ funeral procession in her stead—an act of mercy, of penance, while Helaena spent that day sobbing in the Dragonpit, clinging to Dreamfyre, a pale blue century-old monster with infinite patience. The people of King’s Landing saw the dead prince, his head crudely stitched back onto his tiny body, and howled for vengeance. They burned white-haired effigies of Rhaenyra and Daemon. They gave rare autumn flowers to you and Mother. It’s always strange when you leave the Red Keep to interact with the smallfolk. They call you by your real name, something your family seldom does; they seem to believe you are righteous and wise. Perhaps they even pity you: no husband, no children, no dragon.

Mother has left Jaehaera and Maelor with the maids and is venturing closer. “Are there any new letters?” From Criston or Aemond, or even Daeron in the Reach. The Hightower army has been delayed there, cutting through the treasonous soldiers of House Rowan and House Caswell, Tessarion burning them alive in their armor.

“Ravens,” Helaena says thoughtfully from her rock, and no one knows why.

Grandsire shakes his head. No letters today. Butterwell, Stokeworth, and Rosby have bent the knee; the defiant lords of the Crownlands are being put to death. By now the Green forces will be marching on House Staunton at Rook’s Rest. When Aemond does write, you are not mentioned. With each passing day you find yourself thinking: Has he forgotten me? Does he truly love me? Perhaps this is not so irrational a question. Aemond has never used the word love to describe what you are to each other.

Grandsire frowns at you. You gaze mournfully back. He snaps: “And what’s wrong with you?”

Mother’s reply is hushed and sympathetic. “She’s lonely, Father.”

“Lonely?! She still has us here. Don’t we matter? No, I suppose not, she prefers arrogant fools who imperil the realm with their self-obsession. Perhaps she’d like us more if we wore silver wigs and eyepatches.”

Mother is distressed. “Father, please.”

He waves an irritated hand at you. “I better not find out you’ve been keeping the cats away from your chambers again.” Grandsire had a hundred cats brought to the Red Keep to do the tasks the dead ratcatchers left unattended.

“They scare my babies,” you say.

“Your vermin, you mean. Revolting creatures. Flying pestilence.”

You rise from the sand and pick up your basket, now full of shells. Your head is beginning to ache. Maester Orwyle removed your stitches this morning, but the wound in your chest still pains you more or less constantly, a gnawing sensation like an animal chewing on your ribcage.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands. You don’t answer him as you ascend the stone staircase, the waves growling behind you and gulls squawking in the foggy air.

In your chambers, you leave the basket of seashells on the floor and call for wine. The maids fetch it and you drink straight from the pitcher, staring at the little wooden figurines on your dresser until they turn blurry. Among them is Vermithor. You recall what Aegon said when he gave it to you years ago, when you were so stung by the dragon’s rejection: You might not have the real Bronze Fury, but you can keep this one.

Your bats are beginning to scrabble out of their roost and vanish through the window. As the sun sets and the room spins, you crawl into bed and lie there in the darkness clutching pillows, your pulse thudding just above your left eye. You doze in and out of consciousness. Aemond told you to think of him when you are here, and you do whether you want to or not: Aemond spilling red wine down your bare chest and then licking you clean; you straddling his lap and stroking him as he reads myths aloud to you in gloomy alcoves of the library, dust motes wheeling in the air, grinning victoriously when you make him lose his focus; the five game pieces racing around the wooden board, Aegon’s green snake, Helaena’s yellow butterfly, Aemond’s blue wolf, your red bat, Daeron’s purple shadowcat before he was sent away to Oldtown and the rest of you never played again.

Then something hits you, not like a vision but like knuckles that could crack teeth, and you are besieged by what Aemond is seeing in the Crownlands. There is flesh, horribly and ruinously burned, sheets of it sloughing off as Aemond peels away scraps of charred fabric, and the smell of it—like blackened pork, oily and stomach-turning—is in your nostrils, and you can feel the calamitous heat rising off the man who must be dying. You can feel Aemond’s terror, disbelief, desperation; you can feel his tears on the right side of your face.

Dragonfire??

The dreamscape abruptly disappears like a candle blown out. Your head throbs, your eyes are squeezed shut as you whimper into your pillows. Your fingertips go instinctively to the scar on your chest.

Who was burned? Criston? Gwayne?

But now the dire portents are here in your room, and they are real: the ringing of bells, smoke, shrieking, scorched flesh.

You open your eyes, and your bats are soaring back inside through the open window; but they have been turned to comets. They are on fire, squealing as their fur is singed off and the fragile membranes of their wings melted from their bones, herding around their roost as they try in vain to seek shelter inside. The dark blue velvet cover has been engulfed in flames.

“No!” you scream, bolting off the bed.

Your door is thrown open and Mother rushes in, dragging Jaehaera behind her. Helaena waits in the doorway holding little Maelor in her arms. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he is already wailing. The horror is back. When will it end?

“We have to go!” Mother shouts, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your bats. You know you can’t save them, and yet you are compelled to. They are pieces of you, pieces of Aemond. They are burning to death in the house you built for them.

“What’s happening—?!” And then you hear the screeches of dragons, not Vhagar or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre or Tessarion. Through the window, you see an inferno bloom in the night sky. You get a firelit glimpse of a beast you do not recognize: dark, angular, very large and covered with jagged spines. People are screaming. Rooftops are ablaze.

A wild dragon? Claimed by who?

“We’ll go to the beach,” Mother says frantically. She’s thinking of the escape hatch in Aemond’s bedchamber, the only secret passageway in Maegor’s Holdfast. The king known as “the Cruel” wanted no spies or assassins in his walls. But one door was enough for Daemon’s executioners to kill Jaehaerys. “Helaena will try to get to Dreamfyre.”

But you won’t be able to fly away with the rest of them. Dreamfyre would sooner reduce you to ashes than let you touch her.

Mother knows this. She tells you, low and fierce, her coppery hair like glowing embers: “I won’t leave you. You and I will find another way out of King’s Landing.”

“You should escape on Dreamfyre if you have the chance.”

“Never,” she says. And then again: “Never.”

In the hallway, Grandsire has arrived, panicked and urging everyone towards Aemond’s bedchamber. He wheezes, breathless from his sprint through the castle: “I saw Syrax and Caraxes, and Vermax too I think, or maybe Moondancer, a small dragon…but who is the other one? It’s not Meleys. It’s a hideous creature, it looks deformed.”

“I don’t know,” Mother says. Hordes of yowling cats careen past your bare feet.

“Could Rhaenyra be finding new riders?” And Grandsire, a man who is afraid of very little, is petrified down to his bones by this.

I should have a dragon, you think, forlorn. I should be able to help fight this war. And instead I am worthless.

“I don’t know, Father,” Mother says again, and you follow her through the threshold and into Aemond’s abandoned bedchamber, illuminated only by the moonlight that streams in through the windows. You have not been in here since Jaehaerys died; the stone floor is still stained with his blood. Helaena begins sobbing, clutching Maelor closer to her chest. Downstairs, you can hear swords clanging and men groaning as they die.

You hurry to the hidden door and ram it with your shoulder, but as the passageway opens, you see red-orange torchlight approaching through the blackness like fire boiling up in the throat of a dragon. Rhaenyra’s soldiers are already here. You try to close the door, but now knights in armor are forcing their way inside the room. And Grandsire, who has never liked you, pulls you away from the breach and puts himself between you and the intruders.

“The hallway, back to the hallway!” he booms, giving you a shove, and that is the only place left to go. You, Mother, Jaehaera, Helaena, Maelor, and Grandsire flee from Aemond’s bloodstained bedchamber. But your captors have climbed the Grand Staircase—the place where you once waited for Aemond to return from Storm’s End, so convinced that he would not fail you—and now they are here.

Under the torches carried by her guards, Rhaenyra alternates between firelight and shadows. Daemon marches beside her, his face severe, his sword Dark Sister drawn. Mother pushes you, Jaehaera, and Helaena, still carrying Maelor, against the cold stone wall. Grandsire stands in front of Mother. Jace is walking behind Rhaenyra and Daemon, you notice, dressed in red and black, his cloak billowing behind him. The last time you saw Jace, you were smirking when Aemond shoved him off his feet at the last dinner King Viserys ever attended. Now you are trembling with thunderstruck terror.

Rhaenyra is supposed to be bedbound on Dragonstone. Daemon is supposed to be in the Riverlands.

Daemon points at you with the tip of his blade. “You should have that one executed,” he says to Rhaenyra. “Isn’t she Aemond’s whore?”

“They were never married,” Mother tells him, her dark eyes huge and reflecting the torchlight, her arm thrown in front of you.

“I didn’t say wife, I said whore.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warns, and she studies you, Helaena, Grandsire, Mother. Her blue eyes are sharp like fractured glass, edges that glide effortlessly through arteries and veins; there is a queenlike composure in her face, but beneath that wrath, wrath, wrath. After a moment, she says to her guards: “Take the adults to the dungeons.”

Mother and Helaena are shouting and protesting, trying to stop the guards that rip Jaehaera and Maelor out of their grasps. Grandsire is attempting to negotiate. Rhaenyra and Daemon ignore them, continuing on down the hallway, taking possession of the rage-red castle where they first fell into their peculiar, destructive breed of love.

As he passes by, Jace glowers at you and you glare back, and when he reaches for the hilt of his sword you bare your teeth at him; but before Jace can draw his blade—to threaten you, to frighten you, to spill your blood the way Aemond spilled Luke’s—the guards have dragged you away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your head is very bad now. The pain is almost impossible to think through; you are sick with it, retching into a wooden bucket until there is nothing left to expel. If Aemond was here, he would be holding you, murmuring to you in High Valyrian, pressing a cloth soaked with cold water to your forehead. But Mother is here instead, and she is doing the best she can.

It’s the next day, cold grey light tumbling in through cracks in the walls. You are imprisoned on the second level of the dungeons, reserved for highborn captives; you and Mother are in one cell, Helaena and Grandsire in another on the other side of the aisle. Helaena has been weeping constantly, worrying for her children. Grandsire and Mother try to console her as you lie pitifully on the floor, wishing the pain would knock you unconscious. You need Orwyle and his milk of the poppy. The guards have brought bread and water, but nothing else.

There is a creaking sound from several cells away, and then a slow shuffling accompanied by the tapping of a cane. Mother keeps one hand on your shoulder as she cranes her neck to see her visitor. Grandsire and Helaena move to the front of their cell, their fingers gripping the rusted iron bars.

Larys Strong appears, his hands resting on the handle his cane. Unlike Maegor’s Holdfast—the residence of the royal family—the other buildings of the Red Keep are rife with secret passageways, a latticework of corridors that one unfamiliar with their paths could get lost in forever. Surely Daemon and his confederates are in the process of searching them, but it is a task that could take a week.

“Lord Larys,” Mother says, relieved. “They have not found you.”

“Not yet, Your Grace,” he replies docilely. “Though I’m sure it will not take much longer.”

“Can you retrieve some milk of the poppy?” For you, she means.

“I will try.” Then he stalls, as if he does not wish to share what he has heard through his clandestine chain of whispers. “Something has happened at Rook’s Rest.”

Mother’s brow furrows. “Where?”

“The seat of House Staunton,” you tell her from where you lie on the floor, remembering it from the maps in Aemond’s bedchamber. He would tell you things, show you things, sometimes kindly, sometimes tauntingly, sometimes as he undressed you. He would quiz you and if you got an answer wrong, he would put your clothes back on.

“In the Crownlands?” Mother says to Larys, alarmed. “Is Aegon alright?”

Larys takes a moment to decide how to proceed. “The castle was captured without much difficulty, but a maester there must have gotten a raven out, because Dragonstone received word of the attack and was summoned to defend Rook’s Rest and retake it from the Greens. It is located very close to Dragonstone, and thus cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

Larys pauses and looks at his audience. Grandsire asks: “So who answered the message?”

“It seems that Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jacaerys were already preparing for an invasion of King’s Landing and were elsewhere,” Larys says. “The other dragon, the large brown one, is called Sheepstealer and is ridden by a peasant girl that Daemon found. There are rumors that he has grown somewhat…attached to her.”

Mother grimaces, tugging on the seven-pointed star necklace she never takes off. “He’s a beast.”

“The girl is a Targaryen bastard?” Grandsire says, confounded. “Whose? She’s not a child of Viserys, surely. Where the hell did she come from?”

Larys is apologetic. “I could not tell you, my lord. If I discover anything else concerning her origins, I shall share what I learn. She is known as Nettles.”

“Nettles?” Grandsire snorts.

Larys continues: “When the raven reached Dragonstone, Baela received the letter. It appears she was told that Sunfyre was the only dragon guarding Rook’s Rest at the time, and that Vhagar was away feeding. She must have thought she could best the king, or at least chase him away from the castle.”

“An understandable error,” Grandsire says, and you scowl at him between fruitless retches into your bucket. The thrumming in your skull is like blows from a hammer, rhythmic and disorienting. Your face is hot with fever; it radiates off of you in waves. Mother rubs your back—although somewhat cautiously, as if she is afraid that barbs might split through your skin to prick her—and offers you sips of water.

“Baela left Dragonstone, likely without permission. Rhaenys followed her on Meleys, but Moondancer was faster.”

“Meleys?” Mother says, startled. “Meleys was there too?”

Larys nods solemnly. “Aegon and Sunfyre attacked Moondancer and broke her neck high in the air. Baela perished when her dragon fell to the earth.”

“Daemon’s daughter,” Mother exhales, wondering what the retribution will be. “Jace’s betrothed.”

“And one of Rhaenys’ only two trueborn grandchildren,” Larys says. “When she arrived at Rook’s Rest and saw Moondancer’s carcass smoldering just outside the castle walls, she pursued the king before he could retreat. And Sunfyre…he was no match for a dragon as large as Meleys.”

“Aegon, he’s…?” Mother cannot bring herself to speak the words aloud. Tears gleam in her eyes. “Is he…is there no hope…?”

The ruined flesh, charred and raw, you remember from your horrifying glimpse into Aemond’s mind. It wasn’t Criston or Gwayne. It was Aegon.

“He was burned,” you whisper, and Mother stares at you.

“Aemond returned on Vhagar, and they slayed Rhaenys and her mount. But not before the king and his dragon were engulfed in Meleys’ flames.”

“He’s dead?” Grandsire says, emotion you’ve never heard before in his voice.

No, you think. Not yet.

“Aegon and Sunfyre are both gravely wounded,” Larys replies. “It is uncertain whether either will survive. The Blacks received the news just before their assault on King’s Landing.”

“Where is Aegon now?” Mother says.

“I’m not sure, Your Grace. He was still at Rook’s Rest last I heard, but they might move the king elsewhere to keep him hidden. I would imagine Aemond and Sir Criston Cole are requisitioning maesters from nearby houses to treat him.”

“Burns,” Mother sobs. “He must be suffering terribly, the pain…the disfigurement…”

Grandsire drums his fingers on the bars of his cell, his rings clinking against the rusted steel. His expression is remote, somber, resigned. “So we have two dragons capable of combat, one of which is young and small and pinned down by battles in the Reach, the other is on the far side of the Crownlands and trapped there while Aemond tries to keep our king alive. And Rhaenyra is here in the capital with Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer, larger than any of her others, and her faction seeks vengeance for not one but three royal deaths.”

In reply, Larys Strong only bows his head. Mother swipes tears from her cheeks and tucks your hair behind your ears as strands escape your braid.

“Well,” Grandsire sighs. “I believe we might be losing this war.”

There is the distant noise of a door’s hinges creaking, and Larys hobbles out of sight, retreating to the secret passageway he previously emerged from. A minute passes, and then footsteps echo down the corridor. Daemon strides into view, swinging Dark Sister in his right hand, and you are suddenly reminded so much of Aemond’s mannerisms that the absence of him guts you all over again, vital parts of you excavated like the organs of a slaughtered animal. Daemon is accompanied by several guards and a group of noblemen who you assume are members of Rhaenyra’s council. You recognize among them a tall man with short grey hair, Lord Bartimos Celtigar.

Daemon says: “Princess Helaena, the queen has taken your tiny, traitorous children to ward. Perhaps one day you will see them again. Perhaps not.” She gazes out from her cell vacantly, her face bloodless with shock and fear. Then Daemon turns to Grandsire. “Otto Hightower, you orchestrated an unlawful rebellion and therefore you will be put to death.”

Grandsire gapes at him. “What? When?”

“Oh, immediately.” Daemon steps back and the guards unlock the cell, seize Grandsire, knock him over and drag him wriggling on his belly into the corridor. Mother pleads for his life. Helaena shrieks and claws for him, trying to keep him with her. The guards fling her roughly away and slam the door of her cell shut before she can escape.

“No, no, do not mourn me!” Grandsire is bellowing as he is hauled away. “I am an old man, I have lived a good life, do not think of me, think of the living and what you can still do for them!”

“Father!” Mother wails, reaching through the bars of her cell though she knows she will never touch him again.

“I am ready to see your mother, Alicent,” Grandsire says; and then he is gone. The men of Rhaenyra’s council begin to file out of the dungeon.

“You followed us across the Narrow Sea, Lord Celtigar!” you shout after him, crawling across the floor and pressing your face against the bars of your cell. “House Targaryen saved you from the Doom, and now you rip it down from within by aiding a usurper. We will not forget your treason when the war is won. We will visit you on Claw Isle and bring with us fire and blood. And you will have no defenses. You are no dragonrider.”

“Neither are you, princess,” he says cooly, and leaves you in your prison.

Daemon is the only man still standing in the aisle. He peers down at you with shadowy deep-set eyes and twirls his Valyrian steel sword again. He grins, humorless, hungry, burning up inside with fury. “Perhaps I’ll be back soon.”

Mother yanks you away from the bars, and you can see what she’s thinking etched into the desperate lines of her face: How can I save her?

“I’m going to behead your father now,” Daemon tells Mother, then sweeps down the corridor. There is the sound of a heavy door closing when he reaches the end of the hall.

“Do not speak to them,” Mother hisses to you, and you are in too much pain to respond. Now you can hear men jeering out in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Daemon is listing Grandsire’s crimes. Crows are cawing.

He’s going to die too? you think dizzily. When does this end, how do we stop it?

The door at the end of the hallway opens again, and Mother stands and places herself in front of you; but it is not Daemon this time, relishing his chance to drag another Green to their death. It is Rhaenyra and Jace. The Blacks’ queen stops at your cell, her son a few paces behind her. He looks at you with heartbreak, with hatred, and of course he does; one of your brothers murdered Luke, the other killed Baela. And he does not believe you to be blameless like Helaena. You are a very different sort of woman.

“Alicent, your degenerate son’s insurrection is over,” Rhaenyra says. “I have taken the city and—”

“Jace needs to strengthen his claim,” Mother interrupts. Outside, men are cheering; Grandsire’s head has been struck from his shoulders. In her cell across the aisle, Helaena sinks to the floor and sobs quietly into her palms.

Rhaenyra studies Mother, incredulous. “What did you say?”

“There have always been people who doubted his parentage, as you well know,” Mother says, and you can see her hands are trembling; but her voice is steady. “And there are many who favor my line. They fear Daemon’s recklessness, and perhaps yours as well.”

“You speak so boldly for a woman who stands behind bars.”

Mother is unflinching. “Perhaps you imagine that you will kill every last Green, and all of our loyalists throughout the Seven Kingdoms, millions of people, and therefore you will have no use for bricks upon which to build a lasting peace. But I think that would be a mistake.”

“And you wish to help me?” Rhaenyra mocks.

“I wish to safeguard what is left of my family.”

The woman who calls herself queen considers this. Surely the same hope lives in her ribcage as well, the same catastrophic fear that it will prove impossible.

“One way or another, the war will be won,” Mother says. “And whichever side triumphs will have the other at their mercy.”

“I will have you at my mercy, yes.”

“Aemond and Vhagar are still out there. Underestimate them at your peril.”

“And what is your suggestion?” Rhaenyra demands. “To bolster Jace’s claim, to save your own skins?”

“Baela is gone and he is unspoken for. You once offered to unite our bloodlines by marrying Helaena to Jace. Perhaps if I had accepted that, I could have spared us this torment. I was wrong to dismiss your proposal so swiftly, Rhaenyra. I did not give you the respect you deserved. And I have reconsidered.”

Rhaenyra is puzzled. “Helaena is already married. Unless you have proof that Aegon is dead, which would be welcome.”

“No. I have another daughter.”

Both you and Jace begin to object at once; your mothers silence you with fearsome glares.

Rhaenyra is aghast; her sharp blue eyes dart to where you are slumped on the floor of your cell and then back to Mother. “This is a sickening insult.”

Mother seems calm, measured. It cannot be easy for her. “Willingly marrying my daughter to Jace is accepting his legitimacy. She is a Green, and very close in age to your son, and from what I have heard of Jace’s temperament I believe them to be well-matched.”

“I don’t,” Jace says.

Rhaenyra shakes her head in disbelief; but is there a ripple of uncertainty across her regal face? Yes, you think there is. “Aemond has already bedded her.”

“And who has said this?” Mother asks. “Daemon, who hates my family and has no mind for strategy or alliances? Rhaenys and the Sea Snake, who hungered for the Iron Throne all their lives and saw a chance for their descendants to possess it through Baela?”

Rhaenyra is looking at you again. “I’ve seen the way they watch each other. The way they move.” The dinner, she means. The night that Viserys died.

“She is a maiden,” Mother insists, but she gives you a transient sideways glance. Are you? “They had a flirtation, yes, as is so common for siblings of your foreign house, but nothing more. I would never have allowed fornication or the use of moon tea to disguise its consequences under my roof. They are grievous sins. You know me. You know my devotion to my faith.”

“She will submit to a maester’s examination to make sure?”

“Did you, Rhaenyra? Before you and Laenor Velaryon were wed?”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. And you have the sense—vague and dreadful—that perhaps it is dawning upon her that taking something Aemond holds dear might have its advantages. “What do you want in return?”

“We have both lost innocent people,” Mother says. “There has been enough bloodshed. It must stop somewhere, or all the Targaryens will be dead and their dragons too, and this dynasty will vanish from the earth, and our ambitions will be for nothing. If you do indeed win the war, I want my surviving children and grandchildren spared. And my brother Gwayne, and Sir Criston Cole.”

“I cannot give you Aemond.”

“If you swear that you’ll pardon him, we shall do the same for Daemon if it is our armies that triumph.”

Now the hope is unmistakable on Rhaenyra’s face. “And my remaining sons will be allowed to live? All of them?” Even Daemon’s?

“Yes.”

She muses on this. “You make tempting promises, Alicent. But I don’t have any conviction that Aemond will heed you if Aegon dies and he is made regent until Maelor is grown. I don’t believe you can control him.”

“He’ll listen to his sister,” Mother swears. “He will not do anything that would bring her despair. And if she is married to Jace, she will come to love his family as her own. All the more so if they have children together.”

“She might not be trustworthy,” Rhaenyra says.

“She is of no threat to you. She is untrained with the sword, she rides no dragon. And you have her mother, sister, niece, and nephew held captive. She would not endanger us.”

“You have great confidence in her. Your hopes for survival are in her hands.”

“She is spirited, but she is clever, and she loves deeply and enduringly. She will do whatever is required to protect her own.” Now Mother’s voice breaks. “I want her sent away.”

“Mother, no—”

“Far from the war, far from Daemon,” she says, ignoring you.

Rhaenyra is nodding. “Somewhere secluded and peaceful…all the better for her to quickly give Jace an heir. The Riverlands, yes? Perhaps House Footly of Tumbleton.”

“No, not far enough. The Westerlands.”

“The North,” Rhaenyra counters.

“The Stormlands.”

“The Vale,” Rhaenyra says. “There will be no battles there, winter has already begun in the mountains and the roads are treacherous. She will be tucked away in obscurity until the war is won.”

“The Vale,” Mother agrees. She looks down at you and smiles, soft and sad and merciful. At last, after eighteen years, she has saved you.

Jace is whispering furiously to Rhaenyra, but she holds up a hand to stop him. He is exasperated. The supposed queen tells Alicent: “I shall think on this tonight.”

“She needs Maester Orwyle,” Mother says, kneeling beside you. “She is ill, she gets headaches. This place is bad for her. It’s the cold and the dampness. And the fear.”

“I’ll consider that,” Rhaenyra quips, and then she leaves, the hem of her black gown displacing dust on the floor of the aisle. Jace gives you one final glance—seething, appalled—and stalks after her. At the end of the hallway, he slams the heavy wooden door.

“I won’t do it,” you snarl, sick in body and soul. “I won’t, I won’t. I don’t care what you say.”

“We are in a fucking dungeon,” Mother says, grabbing and shaking you, and you’ve never heard her curse before. “Do you want to try to save your brothers’ lives? Or do you want to surrender to the destruction of our house? If you care for Aemond, as I know you do, you will give him a chance if he and Criston cannot win on the battlefield. You will earn Jace’s affection and convince him to spare us.”

You look at her, weak, stunned, at war with yourself. Jace can’t touch me. Only Aemond.

She asks you something; it takes great effort. “You are still…you haven’t…you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. “In the literal sense.”

“In the…? Never mind, stop, I don’t want to hear any more.” Mother takes a deep breath. “Good. Then we haven’t lied to them. Jace might be able to tell. Sometimes there are…signs. Pain, blood.”

“He’s a bastard,” you hiss.

“He’s Rhaenyra’s son, and so he is a Targaryen and a dragonrider. And if Jace’s side wins, he will one day sit the Iron Throne. He can be proud, but no one says he is cruel. I don’t believe he would harm you. Your brothers are warriors, but you’ve never killed anyone.” Then she goes soft and hushed, and she cups your face with her gentle hands. “I know you’ve always thought you would marry Aemond.”

“Mother, I love him.”

“My darling, my brave girl, what you and Aemond have is…” She shakes her head, her large dark eyes grim and glistening. “It’s strange, and violent, and obsessive and profane and…and…unnatural.”

You are defiant. “If we had grown up in a true Targaryen court, we would have been expected to be this way. We would have married years ago, and no one would have condemned us for acting exactly like what we are. We aren’t First Men or Andals. We are the blood of the dragon.”

“It’s an affliction that brings nothing but sin and suffering.”

“You wed Aegon to Helaena!”

“And it has been a source of tremendous sorrow for them both,” Mother says, and now she is weeping again. “I should have stopped their marriage. But I was young, and I had already refused Rhaenyra’s offer of a match with Jace, and Viserys was so adamant, and I thought…maybe…maybe it’s not an offense to the gods. Maybe it’s just something I don’t understand. It was my husband’s custom, and so I deferred to him, as I had been taught to. But I was wrong. It’s too late for me to undo the pain I’ve caused Aegon and Helaena. It’s too late for me to mend Aemond’s eye or his soul. I can’t spare Daeron from the horrors of war. But I can still save you.”

“I belong with Aemond.” I belong to him.

“You don’t know better. You never had a choice.”

“I’m not you, Mother,” you say. “I’m not a Hightower or a Lannister or a Baratheon. I’m not like them, and I don’t want to be. I want to be Visenya.”

“You’re not going to be anyone if Daemon convinces Rhaenyra to have your head hacked off your shoulders.” Her vast eyes, dark like the mouth of a well, plead for you to understand. This is not a punishment; it is tenderness, it is compassion. “I would do anything to save you and Helaena and your brothers. Anything. You marrying Jace unites the realm. It provides a cornerstone around which to build a peaceful resolution. He will protect your kin. When the battles are past, we can negotiate a divided Westeros, or a line of succession, or exile to Essos or banishment to the Wall, or anything else that will preserve the lives of the people we love. And if Aemond can still win somehow…” She shrugs, and you know whatever affection she once had for Rhaenyra is dead now. “Then he can do whatever he wants with the Blacks who are left.”

I don’t want them to die. Aemond, Aegon, Criston, Daeron, Mother, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor.

Mother asks: “Will you do it?”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Again, desperately: “Will you do it?”

And you cannot look at her when you answer. “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Maester Orwyle appears an hour later to dose you with enough milk of the poppy to kill the pain in your skull, and when you sleep it is deep and dark and dreamless. Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jace arrive at first light, dreary grey dawn trickling into the dungeon. You know what she has decided. Both Daemon and Jace are scowling, and you think, somehow knowing that it is true: The more they try to dissuade her, the more convinced she is. She feels the need to remind them that she alone was Viserys’ heir, that she is a queen in her own right.

“Just marry him to Rhaena!” Daemon is ranting.

“Rhaena brings nothing to our cause that we do not have already. And she will always feel second to Baela. She knows Jace loved her sister. It is perverse.” Then Rhaenyra collects herself and asks Mother: “She consents?”

“She does.”

Rhaenyra turns to Jace. His reply is toneless. “I will do as you bid me to, Your Grace.”

“She will be in the keeping of House Corbray until the war is over,” Rhaenyra says, nodding to you. “They are an honorable but old and modest house, and of little strategic importance. No one beyond who is absolutely necessary will know where she is, for her own safety and that of the children she bears. Jace will fly her to Heart’s Home.”

House Corbray. You remember their banner, Aemond once taught it to you: three black ravens, three red hearts. You have a memory of being in the library with his lips on your throat, his fingers skating up the inside of your thigh, whispering for you to keep quiet as maesters stock books on the other side of the shelf.

“She cannot ride a dragon,” Mother says.

“Sure she can, if he puts her on Vermax.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Mother insists. “Dragons hate her. She cannot go near them. They will attack her, they will kill her. She and Jace will have to travel by ship.”

Rhaenyra is taken aback by this. Daemon scoffs: “What the fuck kind of Targaryen repels dragons?”

“The kind that will never be able to fly to battle against us,” Rhaenyra mutters, and you think: She is angry with him. He has done something, he has displeased her somehow. And you wonder about the girl who rides Sheepstealer.

Your eyes drift to Jace, you cannot stop them. He stares back from beneath dark curls, his gaze hard like the cold stony earth of the Vale, his fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the very first time.

You are at your vanity, and you are supposed to be getting ready for dinner: choosing your earrings and bracelets, combing out your hair before you braid it, a silver river that shimmers like moonlight in the mirror’s reflection. You have bathed, and steam still clings warm and dewy on your skin. You wear a silk robe the color of ripe cherries and nothing underneath it. Candles flicker, cool evening air breathes in through the windows…and your mind is wandering.

For years, you have felt episodic pangs of longing, an indistinct need, a deep untouchable hunger, and you have never found a way to satisfy it. It waxes like a moon growing full and then wanes into nothingness, but it always reappears again, and tonight you are feeling restless, occasionally shifting on the cushion of your chair, seeking the pressure that gives you a taste—and only a morsel, a nibble, a drag of the tongue—of what fulfillment might feel like. Lately, when you are like this, you find yourself thinking of Aemond. He has never spoken of it directly, but you have noticed the way his eye catches on your chest and your hips, how his hands linger when he grabs or shoves or embraces you. You can’t stop wondering what it would taste like to kiss him. You can’t stop imagining which positions he would fuck you in, remembering the lustful figures on the tapestries that hang from the walls of Aegon’s bedchamber.

Your hand settles in your lap, and there—over the glossy blood-colored silk of your robe—presses down tentatively. You sigh, you writhe, you picture Aemond forcing your thighs apart and gazing transfixed at the rare pieces of you he’s never seen.

How do I satiate this craving, how do I make it go away?

Your bedchamber door opens and Aemond stands in the threshold, black leather and silver hair. “Are you ready yet—?” Then his eye drops to where you snatch your hand out of your lap, not quickly enough to escape him noticing. There is a stretch of silence that seems very long. Then Aemond’s scarred forehead furrows and he asks: “What were you doing?”

You consider lies; they dangle in front of you by the dozen, so many ways to deflect or deny or even to disparage him, those prickly games of wordplay. But when you speak, it is not just the truth. It is an invitation. “Thinking of you.”

And Aemond steps into your bedchamber and shuts the door behind him. He crosses the room, kneels in front of you, reaches beneath your robe to hook his arms under your thighs and yanks you halfway out of the chair. You yelp in exhilarated shock as he buries his face between your legs, and then your fingers knot in his hair, and then you are pushing him closer, shaking, awestruck.

Is he really here? Is this finally happening?

You cannot stay quiet when the pinpoint ecstasy opens, blooms, drags you to places you never knew existed. It is something too powerful to be found in the world of mortals. It is bloodmagic, it is shade of the evening, a poison so sweet you’d let it ruin you.

Afterwards—collapsed and gasping on the stone floor, your robe open and your body laid bare for him, flesh that he has claimed irrevocably, bones he owns like a dragon or a blade—you say: “What was that?”

“You had a climax,” Aemond murmurs. “It’s easier for a man, but they are possible for women too.” He smooths your hair back from your face; it is unbound and wild, spilling all around you. You think vaguely: He wants me even when I don’t look like Visenya? He ghosts his thumb across your lips and then kisses you, and it is nothing but warmth, desire, the shared minerals your blood is built of, undying affinity like the celestial kinship of stars in the same constellation. “You can always ask me to take care of you, and I’ll do it. I’m the only one who is allowed to. No one else, not ever.”

This is no sacrifice. You have never wanted another man, and now you know you never will. “Teach me how to satisfy you,” you say, smiling. “I want to see you helpless too.”

Before you dress and leave your bedchamber, you erase as much of the evidence as you can, washing your skin clean and taming your hair into a tidy braid; but still, Mother frowns worriedly at you and Aemond all through dinner.

[foreseers-flower]

there's a lot of discussion and speculation about the fact john doesn't speak of arthur in rdr1. logistically it's not hard to understand that rdr1 just came out years before rdr2 and thats why but . But.

but when you think of rdr1 with the additional context two, there is something quite... in line with john trying to forget arthur. wanting to. or burying him. not just in metaphor or in soil but in his memories and in some way failing to do it but in another succeeding

you think of john and his commitment to his son and wife and you think of his willingness to do anything for them. moral or not. righteous or not. and you think of the fact that john didn't know at the time the sort of man arthur believed him to be, but he perhaps modeled himself in the image of his older brother. near incidental. he has so little in common with arthur really. john's broody and lacking remorse and at twenty-six he's inconsiderate entirely in a way arthur never was.

but time is a thief and one day, he turns 38. he's older than arthur when he dies. and john doesn't remember well what he looks like, and all he can feel when he thinks of arthur is grief. grief that never ends. thats the thing about all of it, you'll realize - is that john knows arthur best in the retroactive.

the sort of complicated, odd man arthur was revealed to him in the creases of pages and keepsakes. in the carving of his guns that john finds after arthur is gone. in the ring of the woman arthur loved long ago. in the confessionals to his son isaac and the regret in the letters he wrote to their psuedo father. you realize john knows more of arthurs stagnant ghost that can't guide john into manhood the way he so desperately needs. and it's all he has to go by to make a man of himself.

john never finds out what kind of man arthur believed him to be and he has to infer the real good man arthur was. in grief there is love. john loved arthur enough to want to be like him. and in burying the living, breathing man arthur was he's forced to cling to his spirit. has to piece together the kindness of his older brother through memories and diary entries and secondhand stories. and that's how he models himself in rdr1 to me. where arthur is moral john becomes dutiful and where arthur is kind, john is helpful. he becomes the shadow of arthurs best qualities. he can never be arthur. no one could ever be arthur, even if arthur had given them the page by page instructions of how to do so. this is all he has. all he knows. all he can do.

john misses his brother. so he tries to embody him. but he can't really in the same way he can't grieve him. so he makes a home for arthurs ghost to return to in himself. john never mentions arthur because it dregs up painful what-ifs, but they share so many mannerisms and bastardized qualities. john has fashioned himself based on those loose memories.

one day, a stranger meets john and says. "why would you remember me, friend? you've forgotten far more important people than me" and john will remember all the ghosts he's ever loved briefly. there will be a blurry face and a forgiving voice and it will sound like a memory and it will linger in johns ribcage like a moth. and john won't remember. he won't. he can't. he buried his brother without ever doing it.

john says a lot of things. feels a lot of things. he shoots his gun to the stranger who calls his memory into question and the thing jams and the bastard roams free. john will taste blood in his mouth. he'll feel a cough in his lungs and well, he won't remember his brother still. buried men must stay buried.

of course. of course john never mentions arthur. he can't remember him, even though he's inherited so much of his manner. to speak it of him would be admitting to his existence. its admitting: i miss you. im sorry. it was my fault.

of course john never mentions arthur. he's made all this effort in forgetting him that even when his body and his gesture and his character betray the fact he's forgotten - his mind will soothe the pain and blur out his face.

and instead of remembering in life even once, he'll die the same way arthur did. alone. protective. contented. redeemed. john loves arthur like most brothers do - with muscle memory.

even if john cuts the necrosis of arthurs memory off of him, his body will twitch at the phantom feeling of his existence. john remembers even when he can't. arthur his only brother. the most important man he's ever forgotten.

[pursued-by-the-squid]

iv. cop out

pairing: gi-hun x gn!reader x in-ho

word count: 6.5k

ao3 | masterlist

1 Year Later, May 2024

“I have my final exam next week and no classes today, so I’m gonna be at the library for a while. Let me know when you want to do dinner.”

The voice message goes through with a little hum and a chirp, showing that it’s been delivered to Gi-hun before you have the chance to turn the screen off. You scan the apartment a few extra times, patting down your pockets and double checking your backpack for your charger because you are not doing a repeat of last week and leaving the study session early because your laptop died. While you’re at it, you snag a few bags of chips, some fruit, and refill your water bottle to keep you energized for the rest of the day.

Hefting your backpack onto one shoulder, you grab your keys and open the door, only to catch the tail end of a piece of paper as it flutters to the floor. Huh, it must have gotten caught in the door jamb. Knowing your luck, it’s probably an advertisement or some weird pastor coming to proselytize, so you have every intention of tossing it in the trash later. You nudge the paper with the toe of your shoe so it slips inside – it’s a later problem and you are very much trying not to be late for your bus – only to stop when you spot something familiar.

There are numbers on the back, a phone number, though you don’t recognize it. But there’s something about the typeface and the background they’re stamped on… Kneeling down to pick it up, you turn the card over in your hand and are instantly flooded with nostalgia of the worst kind. The businesswoman, the ddakji, Gi-hun in all his righteous anger. Three simple shapes shouldn’t have this much power over you, but the instant you see it, you’re awash with fear.

Trembling hands go scrambling for your phone. “Pick up, pick up, dammit.”

You dial a second time and he answers after only two rings. “[___]-?”

“It’s them,” you gasp, your throat raw from the effort of holding your screams in. “The ddakji people, t-the business card! I opened my door and there was a card jammed in there.”

Even from across the city, you can sense the change in Gi-hun’s mood. It permeates the air until it’s vibrating between the atoms separating you both. “Are you safe?”

A quick scan of the surrounding hallway confirms that you are alone. “I’m okay. I’m still at my apartment, I haven’t left yet.”

“Lock your door and stay inside until I get there.”

“Okay,” you nod, already dragging yourself to your feet to follow his instructions. “D’you want me to–”

“Listen to me,” he grits out, and it’s achingly familiar to the night he had first come to your apartment, all his hardened edges and quiet desperation. “Grab whatever you need – clothes, homework, anything. Just be ready to go when I get there.”

Your breath stutters in your chest for a second. “Ready for what? What are you talking about?” As if you don’t already have an inkling nudging at the back of your mind, as if this is all just a bad dream that you can talk yourself out of.

“I’m getting you out of there.”

It should have been me.

But he was the one who put you in harm’s way, wasn’t he? Thinking he could swoop in and save you from a life of poverty and misery, patting himself on the back all the while because he had done a good deed. He had done what Oh Il-nam could not and helped someone who couldn’t help themselves.

The tires lose their traction for a few moments, accompanied with the high-pitched scream of the brakes when he slams on them. He very nearly takes out a street sign and another vehicle, but he doesn’t. Neither does he care. There is only one thing in the forefront of Gi-hun’s mind and until he sees you with his own eyes, safe and unharmed, he will not rest. He can’t. Because it should have been him.

He barges into your apartment minutes later with his pistol drawn, his heart slamming itself against his ribcage, his throat so tightly constricted that he thinks he might actively be choking, and your name is already breaching his lips.

“What are you doing?” he hears you screech. Immediately drawn to the sound, he turns his head, searching and searching until finally he sees you, curled up into a ball on your sofa with your things gathered around you just as he’d asked.

You had said that the apartment was empty, that there was no way anyone could have gotten inside while you were sleeping, and he knows that’s probably true. He trusts you’ve been using all the proper safety precautions. But that doesn’t change the facts – you are not safe and you never have been.

“Where is it?” he demands, already stuffing the pistol into his coat pocket as he surges toward you, but you cower before him. You’re afraid of him. You don’t know, you don’t understand, not yet, and he doesn’t have time to explain it to you. “The card, [___].”

“I-I tore it up,” you stammer. Your eyes are wide and wild and so painfully afraid, and it guts Gi-hun to the bone. “It’s in the trash–”

His fingers close around your wrist and pull. “Good. We need to go.”

And while you do stand at his beckoning, you don’t allow him to pull you further. Your feet dig into the carpet until you’re able to tear yourself free, and Gi-hun wishes that you would’ve chosen any other time to fight him, any other place except here and now.

“[___]–”

“You’re scaring me.” And he can see when he looks in your eyes that you mean it with every fiber of your being. “Why do you have a gun?”

Because the only power these monsters respect is the power of a bullet. But you don’t even know what kind of monsters you’re running from, do you? He never told you.

He never wanted to.

Gi-hun swallows the despair lodged in his throat. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

Your eyes flicker from his face to the ominous swell of fabric in his pocket, the gun that presses into his hipbone. “Okay. So, why do you have a gun.” This time, it isn’t a question.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” You don’t actually think he’s capable of that, do you?

“I… I didn’t think you were,” you answer, but he can see the uncertainty on your face, tainting your trust until it grows murky like blood in the bath water. “But you can’t just run into someone’s apartment with a gun in your hands. What if someone saw you?”

His teeth grind painfully together when he grimaces. You have so many questions, and you have a right to each of them, but now is not the time! “It’s alright. I’ll explain in the car, yes?” Your hesitation is reasonable, he has to remind himself. He can’t blame you for it. But oh, how badly he wants to shake you, how badly he wants to drill into your skull that every minute of hesitation is another mark on your death warrant. “Now, [___].”

He doesn’t let his shoulders unwind from around his ears until after he has you in the car, your bags stuffed into the back seat and the boot, your apartment far, far behind the both of you. You don’t look at him and Gi-hun tells himself, pretends, that it doesn’t bother him. You don’t understand yet, but you will. He’ll take you to the motel and tuck you into a room where you’re safe from the recruiters, from the game runners, from the world, and he will make you understand why this is so important, why you have to trust him.

Your head tips back when he pulls to a stop in front of the motel. Your confusion is as blatant as your uncertainty, both growing steadier and stronger with every passing moment. “What is this place?”

He shoulders one of your bags, a reusable canvas tote overflowing with clothes. One leg of your favorite trousers, the dark ones you always wear when it’s cold, is hanging over the side between the loops of the handle. It slaps harmlessly against his ribs when he walks.

“Pink Motel,” he offers. The gesture feels as useless as he does.

You furrow your brows at him and finally, he sees a glimmer of something other than fear in your eyes. He’s not terribly fond of you being angry with him, but he supposes it’s better than the alternative. Like your tear-stained face or your bloodied, lifeless body.

“Yeah, I see that.”

The padlock on the front doors clicks open. He decidedly doesn’t notice how your movements suddenly still when the security chains shudder and clank against the metal, heavy in his hands and even heavier in his heart.

“I just mean… why are we here?” The midday sun casts a shadow on your face. He tries not to notice that too. “How is this safer than my place?”

If he didn’t feel so guilty about being the reason you’re in danger in the first place, Gi-hun might have found it in himself to smile. He doesn’t, of course, but he thinks about it. Because there is some twisted piece of him that festers deep within the rotting cavern of his ribcage and it delights in knowing, in protecting, in providing, even in circumstances such as these.

He offers you his hand to help you up the single step. “I live here.”

“You don’t have an apartment?” You’re trying so hard not to sound surprised and to instead be polite about asking.

He guides you through the empty lobby, across dusty floors and rubbish leftover from an unfinished renovation, to the elevator, his hand hovering over your back. Not quite touching except in the spaces between moments when he thinks he can get away with it.

“The motel is mine,” he says, waiting until the elevator doors close to do so. He stares at the floor numbers, watching them tick by like seconds counting up, like money pouring into a display case, and he reminds himself to breathe. “I’ve been searching for the recruiters from here, keeping track of things.” Keeping track of you, too. Another fraying thread in the tapestry he has tried to weave out of bloodstained won and bullet casings.

“How long?” It seems a strange thing to ask until he realizes what you’re really wondering – how long has he been living out of an empty building where the lights rarely come on and no one is allowed entry except by the virtue of their discretion?

Since I met you. “A few years.”

Your knuckles tighten around the straps of your backpack. “Why?”

The elevator dings. The doors open to reveal a long hallway, painted in shades of pink and maroon and almost-black, dimly lit, and he suddenly realizes how just miserable he’s made his life. He hadn’t thought much of it before. But that changes the instant the light hits your face.

You don’t belong in a place like this. For as long as he has known you, Gi-hun has seen only hope and vitality in your eyes. You are the very thing he’s fighting for, the part of the world that he wants so desperately to protect from the predators running the Games. Bringing you here dampens that light. The illumination is cold and the walls are barren – a far cry from the warmth and welcome of your cozy apartment.

There’s no hope for a rundown old motel with no lights on inside, he thinks, with no guests to keep it warm, no hospitality to speak of beyond a few worn mattresses, a single functioning bathroom, and an entire armory tucked into the cracking walls. Yet this is all he can give. This is the only thing he can offer you.

It has to be enough. It will be.

“Sit,” he says, though he doesn’t even give you the time to respond. He grips you by the shoulders and directs you to the edge of his bed, pushing you down until your legs give way and the mattress accepts you with an undignified squeak.

“Gi-hun–”

He stops you with a raised hand, palm out and definitely not shaking. Not at all. “Do you remember what I told you about the recruiters?”

There’s a lump in your throat that bobs when you swallow and it makes Gi-hun feel uncomfortably warm, so he distracts himself, allowing you both the distance to think. The wooden chair by the coffee table is pulled out so he can sit across from you. His fingers curl around the slope of his knees while he waits.

The red glow behind the frosted glass of his only window casts a strange sort of halo around you from behind. “You said they were dangerous. That you were tracking them or something, right?”

He nods. “Yes. Them, and the people that they work for.”

“What kind of people do they work for?” The light from the bathroom, a faint yellow-orange, glints in the depths of your pupils. Like starlight, perhaps, or fire. Or the glow of a plexiglass pig, half-full with stacks of won and shining obnoxiously in the back of his mind whenever he sleeps.

Squeezing his eyes shut is the only thing he can do to keep from screaming.

“The recruiter I met was different. A man.” Tall and broad shouldered. He had smiled once or twice, in a way that wasn’t entirely threatening, but then he’d seen him after the airport. Then the smile had changed. “They approach people in need of money. Gamblers, fraudsters, unemployables – the vulnerable. They let you play a bit of ddakji, let the money sit in your pocket, and then they give you a card and tell you to call the number you see. That you can play even more games for even more money.”

If only he’d known then what he knows now.

“All that card will bring you, [___], is death.” He can feel it still – the blood on his hands, the marbles in his palm, the glass beneath his bare feet. And he can see them all, even with his eyes wide open. “They take you somewhere no one can find you and they make you kill other people for money. Every death is worth something. Every life is a dollar amount.”

Sang-woo’s face swims before him, filling the space that your body takes up in his vision. The knife in his throat, the rain in his face, the pain – the pain. That could have been you. If he’d never stepped in to save you from your own debts and student loans, would the recruiters have found you? Would you have found yourself trapped inside those arenas as he once was? Would you have died alone and afraid?

“I watched 455 people die before my eyes. My friend… My friend killed himself. He almost killed me.” He killed Sae-byok. Ali. The glassmaker. And perhaps, if you had been there, Sang-woo would have killed you too. He’s grateful that he’ll never have the chance to prove himself right or wrong. “I won’t let the same thing happen to you.”

Silence hangs between you for a long few minutes, thick enough to suffocate. In your eyes, Gi-hun sees the same horror he had once felt reflected back at him. You’re doubtful, of course, wary. He understands it. That had been him too, three and a half years ago.

He takes your hand in his, the one that’s been clutching at your bag like it’s the only lifeline you have left, and he smooths his thumb over the bones that shift beneath your skin. “I am trying to stop the Games. That’s why I live here, why I track the recruiters, why I told you that it was safer not to know me at all. I was afraid they would hurt you.” They haven’t yet, but tracking you to your apartment and shoving a recruitment card into your door jamb is a step too far. “But I can protect you here, [___]. Do you understand?”

You don’t respond and Gi-hun doesn’t like that. You can be quiet sometimes, yes, but rarely ever with him. He doesn’t want you quiet. He wants you alive, he wants you curious and clever like you always are.

He squeezes your hand and ducks his head down to catch your drifting eyes. “[___].”

Trust me.

Your head shakes after a moment, your expression distant in all the wrong ways. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you understand.” Say you trust me. Because he’s doing this for you. Don’t you trust me?

Long eyelashes flutter in Gi-hun’s shadow as he leans in, his silhouette falling across your face. “I’m trying to.”

He tries so hard to make his space comfortable for you, the effort is clearly carved into every line on his face. He gives you his room. He lays out the cleanest sheets and blanket that he has – you’re at least 75% sure they’ve been washed within the last month – and carries the rest of your things in from the car. He switches his pillow out for yours, though the difference in theme and color between your bedding and his is enough to make both of you laugh, and that is blessing enough. He crawls behind the bedframe to plug your charger into the wall. He encourages you to arrange the bathroom to your liking and swears that no matter how desperate he is, he won’t wake you in the middle of the night if he has to take a leak.

He tries and you love him dearly for it, but it’s impossible to turn this place into a home when it feels like the entire world is falling out from under your feet. You lay in a strange bed that night, your mind ablaze with images of ddakji games and bodies scattered in a formless void. You picture a faceless man, his unnamed friend, bleeding out and Gi-hun crying, screaming for help. You picture greed and rage mixing until they become indistinguishable from one another, and then you think of the man you’ve come to know these past few years, and you find the broken pieces of his kind heart and anxious mind suddenly come into focus.

455 people. How could such mindless death go unnoticed by the police? 455 people all worth a handful of cash. You’re not even sure how much money could go into such a thing, but if the cash flow Gi-hun has been supplying you with is anything to go by, it’s a lot. Hundreds of millions of won worth, maybe even more. And anyone with the power and money to design modern day gladiator games of that scale would surely be able to bribe whichever police department or federal jurisdiction they pleased.

And Gi-hun wants to stop it all.

It’s hard to imagine Gi-hun stopping much of anything apart from a crying college student in a back alley on Christmas night. But then, you’ve never seen him hold a gun before today. The gun changes things. So does the calling card.

You turn over onto your side, placing the expanse of the room behind you so you can stare at the red glow emanating from the other side of the window. You try very hard not to think about the blood of 455 lives. Instead, you focus on the things you can feel, the things you can sense, the things you know to be true beyond a shadow of a doubt.

You are alive. You are as safe as you can be, for the time being. You are in a strange place and a strange bed. It smells faintly of Gi-hun. You don’t usually like the smell of sweat and stale cologne, but in the midst of such uncertainty, you find that the familiarity of his scent is soothing. Pleasant, even. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend he’s in bed with you. Not that you would ever want to, of course, because that would be weird, but is it so wrong to crave the comfort of an arm around your shoulders or the warmth of another soul after the day you’ve had?

You’re in the middle of trying to decide whether or not you should be chastising yourself when your phone buzzes. Glancing over your shoulder, you just catch the tail end of a name in your notifications before the screen goes dark again, and your heart leaps into your throat.

Rolling over onto your opposite side, you unlock the screen and read through the text. ‘Missed you for coffee earlier. Everything alright?’

Shit. You were so distracted by the business card and Gi-hun coming to whisk you away that you hadn’t even thought to warn Young-il that you weren’t coming. ‘Sorry, had a bit of an emergency at home. I hope I didn’t make you wait too long??’

‘Not at all.’

Your phone vibrates again a moment later, and you curse yourself for the way your face flushes and your pulse quickens. He’s just being polite, that’s the only reason he’s asking. That’s all this has ever been – polite – and truthfully, you’re not even sure you want it to be more than that, but sometimes his attentiveness makes you feel a bit gooey inside. He has this uncanny ability of always sensing when you’re upset and knowing exactly how to make you feel better… It’s endearing, to say the least, and a welcome distraction.

‘I’m okay, promise.’ You pause for a moment to find a believable excuse, Gi-hun’s earlier warning not to tell any of your friends about your temporary relocation ringing in your ears. ‘Family drama, you know how it is. I’m really sorry I ditched you though :(’

‘Will I see you tomorrow?’

The words turn over and over in your mind until the screen finally goes dark. He wants to see you – to make up for the lost time? To check on you? Yes, you want to say. I don’t want to be trapped in here like a rabbit in a cage. But then you think of the card wedged into your doorframe and the gun in Gi-hun’s hand, and you think of the 455 lives lost so that he might live, and you think that maybe the outside world can wait one more day.

‘Probably not, unfortunately. Next week might be better.’ Next week, you might have the courage to go outside without fearing for your life, among other things.

Young-il’s response warms your heart more than it probably should. ‘Keep me updated. If there’s anything I can do to help, please tell me.’

Well unless he can magic away the impending threat of a series of death games, there’s not much he can do to help you. The thought is still appreciated.

You sleep fitfully, waking every couple of hours in a dead sweat, heart racing, and terror in your bones. There’s so much you don’t understand. Too many unknowns crowd your mind and leave you restless, shaky, and paranoid. Did Gi-hun kill people? He must have in order to make it out of those games alive. Does he feel guilty for it? Is that why he chose you, to atone somehow? Old anxieties from the first year of your friendship are starting to creep back in, tinted in shades of violence. You trust Gi-hun, really you do, but the gun, the padlocked motel, the wall of security cameras blinking at you from across the room – none of it inspires any confidence.

Normal people don’t do this kind of thing. Normal people don’t burst into your apartment with a pistol in hand and wild, blazing eyes. Normal people don’t stalk strangers in business attire. Normal people make you feel safe, they take you out for coffee and smile when you crack a joke.

But perhaps you lost the right to normality the day you decided to accept several thousand won and a phone number from a stranger.

It’s been years since he last shared his bed with anyone. There was the occasional winter night where it was too cold to sleep alone and he’d crawled under the blanket beside his mother, huddled together in their shared apartment like children. Before that, he’d shared a bed with his wife. Sometimes Ga-yeong would climb in to sleep between them and he’d soothe his hand over her face, chasing her nightmares away with promises of her favorite dumplings and a bad scolding for the monsters in her closet.

After the Games, it was a concept that made little sense in the context of his new normal. He knew he would never share his bed, let alone his life, with another soul for however long he managed to stumble through this mortal coil. So sharing a bed with you is… difficult. Strange. Not that he is truly sharing the bed with you – it’s yours now, for as long as you’re here, but the memory of that bed is all him. His sweat and tears have stained its fabric for years now. The ashes from a few of his cigarettes have burned spots into the edges. His dreams have overpowered him in that bed. His anger, his fears, his carefully constructed plans all formulated on that bed. And now you’re sleeping on it, unconsciously sharing every piece of him that has soaked into the mattress.

Some invisible hand squeezes around his heart. The sudden need to shift the waistband of his trousers confuses him, but he’s careful to turn his back when he does. The last thing he needs is for you to wake up and catch him doing something inappropriate while you sleep. Not that he’s actually doing something wrong, because he’s not. It’s muscle memory, he tells himself. A remnant of a life he can no longer live come back to haunt him at the most inopportune of moments and nothing more.

He takes the opportunity to study the security cameras, as had been his original intent, and is pleased to see that everything looks normal. No pink soldiers laden with guns, no game runner and no sleek limo parked out front. No recruiters breaking the door down to get at you.

Gi-hun sighs. He’s content to have you under his eye because it means he can keep you safe, but it comes with a price he’s hesitant to pay. The recruiters are still out there. Jeong-rae is a capable man, of that he has no doubt, but paranoia prickles at the base of his skull when he isn’t out on the front lines himself.

But he can’t just leave you here. Locking the front doors wouldn’t be enough to convince him that you would be safe in his absence and he isn’t about to padlock you in like a prisoner. He can’t give you a gun, either, not yet. He’s not even sure you know how to use one and you may not want to learn.

Then he remembers you sitting in the car yesterday, your backpack clutched against your chest, your face pinched with confusion. He swallows the pressure rising in his throat. He could always take you with him. He isn’t terribly fond of welcoming you into his world because it’s not meant for someone like you, that’s the entire reason why he’s kept you at arm’s length for so long, but the longer he ponders, the more he realizes that a compromise needs to be reached. The recruiters are his priority, but so are you. Can he truly manage both?

“I want to show you what I do,” he says when he extends the offer some hours later, already far beyond his usual starting time. He hadn’t had the heart to wake you any sooner. The offer is also the most blatant lie he’s ever told you. It’s the very last thing he wants to do, but he knows that making you choose between glorified house arrest and a chaperoned car ride isn’t going to endear him to you. “So you can understand.”

Your responding frown is remarkably unencouraging. “Is it dangerous?”

“No,” he lies. The handgun tucked into the back of his waistband burns against his spine.

This time your face shifts and it makes something in Gi-hun’s stomach twist. “Do I have a choice?”

“You are not a prisoner here,” he says, and that, at least, is true. He would never force you into anything you didn’t want. If it came down to your safety, though, he thinks he might be inclined to be more persuasive than he usually is. He doesn’t want to think about that, but the potential of your betrayal lingers in his head and his heart. “I’m sorry if I made you think that you were.”

How he wishes he could turn back the clock and do things over. He wouldn’t have rushed you with a gun in his hands. He wouldn’t have frightened you. He would have made sure none of this ever happened. Until he learns to bend the shape of reality to his will, however, he will settle for this – your hand within his, warm and pliant and safe.

It takes you a few minutes to come out of your shell, but Gi-hun is grateful for the effort. He’s unaccustomed to your shyness. He much prefers you when you’re like this – asking questions, eyes alight with curiosity, daring to smile in the moments when you think he can’t see.

“Four cell phones is a lot, you know. I really think you just need one.”

Gi-hun feels the corner of his mouth twitch. “I’m trying to be thorough.” He flicks the ash off his cigarette and watches it catch on the wind for a moment before taking a long drag.

“Thorough is… certainly a word.”

You think he’s obsessed. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out and maybe you aren’t wrong. Maybe this stopped being a mission a long time ago and it’s turned into something more severe.

He flicks his cigarette again.

An obsession. A gamble, even. Perhaps so, but it’s a gamble he’s willing to take if it means he can sleep at night, if it means that you and every other vulnerable person walking the streets of Korea are safe.

“So… you do this every day?” There’s a notable vulnerability to your voice, like you’re hesitant to ask and even more hesitant to know the answer.

“Most days,” he nods.

“And you haven’t found them yet?”

Ironic, isn’t it? The recruiters always seem able to find him at their leisure, but Gi-hun can pour millions and millions of won into his search and still turn up empty handed after two and a half fucking years.

He scans the five screens displayed across his dash, checks and double checks each chat box, surveys the map of the subway system that he’s sure, by now, is burned into his retinas. Nothing. Time is running out and still, there’s nothing. If you hadn’t awakened to find a business card stuffed into your door, he might almost think that the Games have ended. Too little funding, maybe, or too few players, but he knows that’s a fool’s hope. The Games are alive and he has to put a stop to it.

“What will you do when you find them? The recruiters, I mean.” Your foot taps lightly on the belly of the car.

Honestly? He isn’t entirely certain. Sometimes he fantasizes about drawing blood – one life in exchange for the 455 lost. Sometimes he thinks he’ll use them as a hostage. He could get the game runner’s attention and demand something. Sometimes he thinks about meeting his recruiter on the squid game field, defeating the man who had doomed Gi-hun to either a brief existence or a tortured one, and finally exacting his revenge.

Right now, though, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t even know if there’s a point in hoping or fighting anymore.

“I want to find the ones responsible for the Games,” he says finally. Smoke burns in his lungs and the sun warms his skin until he’s sweating, and he’s glad for it because it means this indecisive, in-between existence isn’t some kind of waking nightmare. “I’m going to put a stop to this, one way or the other. And their recruiters are the only way I know how.”

You can’t seem to find anything to say to that, and Gi-hun doesn’t know what more he can add that hasn’t already been uttered. Silence settles between you, uneasy perhaps, but not entirely unwelcome. It allows Gi-hun the chance to think, to plan and plot and strategize. With you by his side, no matter how temporary, he finds that the drive to continue fighting comes a bit easier. The memories don’t weigh on him so heavily.

He will find them. It’s no longer a question of if or when. If it takes the rest of his life, he will fight to uncover the corruption and the greed and the sick, twisted desires of men far less tortured than he is. And until that day comes, Gi-hun is going to protect you. He’ll even teach you how to protect yourself so that when he dies with a bullet in his brain, you can keep fighting for all the things he sees in you, all the light you bring to his windowless world.

“Like this,” he instructs, twisting his arms so you can see the shape of his hands and the gun nestled between them. “Keep your finger on the outside of the trigger. If you keep it inside, you might fire before you’re ready and hurt yourself.” He’d learned that lesson the hard way when he almost shot his own foot off about a year ago.

Your mouth is twisted in concentration, your eyes laser focused on his hands as you attempt to copy his position. Your trigger finger carefully shifts and then the butt of the gun is readjusted so it fits more snugly in your palm.

Gi-hun nods approvingly. “Good. How does it feel?”

“Heavy.”

His chest tightens. “Too heavy?”

“No. It’s just different, is all.” The light glances off the cool, matte black exterior as you tilt your hands one way, then the other. “I thought it’d be lighter.”

You’re probably fine – in fact, he knows that you are, but he can’t help the spike of anxiety, the burning need to make things perfect for you, easy for you. “There are smaller ones,” he says as he drops his weapon, already turning his attention to the makeshift arsenal and the array of pistols, revolvers, and derringers on the wall.

You shake your head as he passes. “I’m okay.”

A derringer might be better suited for you. It’s much lighter than the pistol already in your hand, so the recoil won’t be as intense.

“Gi-hun. Gi–”

He steps back into the bathroom, toggling the light switch as he surveys the variants. Which one would fit in your hands just right? The derringers are small, yes, but he worries they won’t be powerful enough to stop an advancing attack. A revolver instead, then. He’s just about to pick one when he hears your gun go off.

His blood runs cold, then violently hot. He damn near trips over himself, nearly throwing himself through the wall, in his rush to find you, too preoccupied with the thought of you hurting yourself because you were too impatient and too stubborn to wait for him, too preoccupied to think of anything more than the gush of your blood and the panic in your eyes.

He sees the smoke trailing from the mouth of your gun, then the slight wobble of your hands. He calls your name, and then you fire three more rounds, each one carefully aimed and measured between by the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Four shots in total. Two of them made it onto the target and close enough to the center of each shape that Gi-hun might have been mildly impressed were he not already struggling to breathe. You, on the other hand, are elated. It’s clear in the way your shoulders unwind and your chin tilts up, how your eyes flicker excitedly in his direction.

“Can I try again?” you ask, and he’s bowed over by the weight of your breathless enthusiasm.

In the years he’s known you, not once could Gi-hun have ever guessed you might actually enjoy this. But you do. With every round fired, your aim grows sharper and your confidence stronger. Pride settles within your chest and flares out across your shoulders. He has to correct you a couple times – “feet like this,” he’ll urge you with a quick demonstration; “shoulders back,” he murmurs, tapping you lightly on the upper curve of your arm – but you take to each direction with a nod or a hum and you transfer it into a hundred rounds buried in the splinters of the far wall. He's never been prouder in his life.

It becomes a new habit, even after you’ve convinced him to return you to your apartment and your scent has faded from his bed. You go about your life, doing whatever it is young people like you do in the summers between courses, and he goes about his, tracking a man who doesn’t want to be found, but the weekends are yours and his. He picks you up in the morning (or early afternoon, more often than not), buys you a cheap cup of ramyeon from the corner store, and drives you to the motel so you can practice your aim.

He doesn’t have to keep correcting you by this point, but he still does sometimes. He likes being close to you, likes watching the way your hair shines in the light and your jaw sets in determination, how your body stills when he touches you. He likes it so much that he thinks about it when he can’t sleep (which is most nights), or when he’s out on his watch and can’t focus (which is most days now), or when he studies the photos Jeong-rae sends him each week to confirm that you are, in fact, alive and safe within the walls of your apartment.

For so long he had feared tainting you, carving your kindness from your bones if he so much as looked at you and you caught a glimpse of all the death that hides behind his eyes. What would happen to the too-trusting and unassuming college student he met on the street, crying to an alley cat about your troubles, if he let you see the misery that’s been eating him alive? The violence?

But you aren’t tainted. It’s strange to say it, but Gi-hun thinks he might actually prefer the person you’ve become. Fear doesn’t come to you as readily. You still won’t accept any weapons from him, and he still hesitates to offer them, but you’ve become familiar enough with their presence to no longer worry over what-if’s and might-be’s.

So no, he hasn’t tainted you. Perhaps he has somehow managed to make you stronger. And perhaps he can learn to be okay with that.

[yakamozhoez]

understanding the kennedy

✎ sadly, leon isn’t the most optimal guy to enjoy the time with cause he is the bluntest man out there, but your time spent together and your adventures in the process of survival prove just how cuddly and sweet he can be… in an elevator, preferably with his hands on your body.

cw: fingering, leon being an ass, tit play, dirty talk bc auugh i love his voice, mentions of gore? kinda, fem! reader, idk if i should add anything else bc my mind is not minding, MDNI

You’re about to throw up, no kidding. Your dubious gaze flies between Leon and Ashley, bouncing between two blonde heads. Okay, so how did you end up in this situation? Let’s recap. First things first, you’re an agent with an orderly and strict life under the rules of the government. Being good at your job is what pockets so much trouble plus fresh green dough, which you deserve to earn to the bitter end.

Let’s proceed to the second reason.

When the President’s daughter suddenly disappears and an anonymous tip comes in that she’s been sighted in a village in Spain you’ve never heard of, the President himself appeals to two names he can rely on with his very life.

You and Leon Scott Kennedy.

As crystal clear as it is that you’ve heard his name before, pretty much every ear in this business you’re in has heard of this man at least at one point in time. The funny thing is that this may be exactly where things get tricky. People only know a name, Leon, but nothing about the personality or the story behind his name.

You’re very much aligned with this category of people.

Yes, and in the middle of the mission, not to mention how crucial it is, you don’t exactly expect to playhouse with Leon Kennedy, granted. Still, it’s not entirely flattering that the man projects himself to you with nothing more than a short nod.

He certainly doesn’t like to talk, albeit occasionally overhearing him talking to himself or cracking one-liners to infected villagers that makes the skin chapped and dry in winter, paints a much different picture of Leon in your mind.

He schemes on his own and rarely consults your point of view when he takes the matter elsewhere, which naturally leaves you feeling inferior. The sour grimace on your face is always preceded by a wisecrack, conveying the image of a self-righteous and, conversely, insecure man.

Is this what the infamous Kennedy is like?

“Psst, amp up your game, agent.” A laconic tone, a haughty flow to his voice, as if to say, ‘I know best around here, and you don’t.’

In a riot you never expected to stumble upon, the villagers clogged with armaments composed of pitchforks, axes, and hacksaws, your life is miraculously salvaged by an anonymous clarion call of a bell.

Now you are looting a random house in the village for Leon’s ridiculous reasons, or rather, he’s the only one doing the looting because there is no way you would ever touch anything of these ailing locals.

“Hunnigan warned that the sooner the better, herring brain.”

“Herring brain?”

His back is turned to you, so you can’t quite see what sort of emoticon is hanging on his face. But the inflection is the same. Sarcastic as hell.

He jams his elbow into the glass of the vitrine, and it’s not hard to discern whether he’s pivoting to protect his prissy face or to prove to you how pinched his frown is. Definitely the former one, even though his face is too pretty to harm.

Putting a grenade in his gear as though it will be enough to slaughter the entire village because it certainly won’t be enough, he tosses another curt retort back at you—not that you weren’t born yesterday.

“Oh, nice.” He’s woven with acrimony and malcontent. Seriously, where does his assertiveness stem from?

“We need to get to the mill straight away.” You try again. Nothing that can’t be solved with a little more civility, right? It’s worth a try.

The soles of his boots crunch on the chunks of broken glass as he trudges forward in front of you. Okay, Mr. Vanity.

All humor aside, his gaze is unnerving, as if there are vines tied around your ankles holding you in place, so much so that you can do nothing but loiter in his presence, bunglingly.

It’s as though for a moment you forgot about his previous ’joke’, mainly about playing bingo (?) and his usual goofy mentality—how dare you be demeaned in front of him?

Seriously, this guy is a nonentity for his sheer size; he has a giant head full of cheesy jokes and an enormous high forehead that he tries to cover with a fringe of his... perfectly bleached and conditioned hair.

Ugh, lame alert.

But… He’s still handsome, let’s face it. Could be the work of charm that these dronemen so rarely acquire.

Still, don’t give him the time of day on this one after seeing how obnoxious he’s proven to be.

You roll your eyes, undeterred, your steps already dragging you forward, and you make your way down the stairs to exit this ramshackle excuse for a house that smells of dung and blood in equal measure.

If only you could get out of the seconds you’re in now as you got out of that specific moment. It’s not that simplistic; it transpires.

“Hey Leon, there’s some armor. Bet you could use it like a bulletproof vest.”

Well, Ashley is a cute girl, and denial can be deemed as a blind existence, or deafness, whatever. But when she starts to fill up your patience drop by drop, as it has been the case ever since you reached the Salazar Castle, she gradually grows more and more friendly with... Leon, not with you.

The president’s daughter’s words are clear and concise, one hundred percent flirtation.

It’s fine; you don’t care. But usually speaking to you as if you are not the part of this mission, or sometimes outwardly ignoring you, is an aspect you don’t understand.

“Little old-fashioned for my taste,” Leon quips in the world’s blandest tone. Damn.

It’s a wonder what happened to the girlhood chumminess. Maybe Leon and Ashley are more apt to form a closer friendship, or perhaps you’re the low-key of the group, or else Leon alone spotting Ashley in the church fostered a stronger bond of trust between the two of them when you went your separate ways and found out that Leon had gutted a lake monster or something.

Absurd as fuck.

To your credit, you weren’t a fat lot of good; a few diary fragments of your findings were the remains of a scientist who had scribbled on a piece of paper about a brand new parasite: the plagas.

Anyway, back to the shit you’re in.

It’s pretty obvious that there’s nothing too serious damage to emotions here; in fact, Leon is so thick that he turns Ashley down time and time again, not in a rude way—never in a crude way—but just with his inane and arid jokes.

“Too bad. I think you’d look pretty dashing." Ashley’s chirping, but it’s no good. She gets no reaction from the guy.

You take it’s the signal for the end of their conversation, and just follow the two of them into the moonlit room, keeping silent. I mean, why join in, since watching this awkward thing going on between the two of them is frankly like a cutscene in a sit-com.

You know Leon sucks at the whole flirting thing; you figure it out, so all that bravado, all that stoicism—it’s all a veneer. Insecure, yet cute.

The romp with Luis is a very specific narrative. It’s short and abrupt, so sudden that it’s unreasonably all tied to him. The only thing you know is that Luis has the 'medicine’ to treat the poisoning of Leon and Ashley by the parasite that is probably written on the pieces of scrap paper you found and... that’s it. It’s obvious that you’re Luis’ ticket out of here, and that he’s telling you how he no longer works for Los Illuminados as a way out of this clusterfuck while ogling your boobs is extra hassle.

He‘s a completely alternative man to the intangible and abstract man Leon is. Flirting is Luis’ breakfast, lunch, appetizer, and, of course, his dinner. Like the water, he has to drink so he can exist. Like his cigarettes, you can say.

One small maneuver could stop him; you could even tell Leon that you won’t go along with his scheme to trust this guy (he, too, somehow doesn’t like the attitude Luis gives), put a bullet in his head, and take his life on the spot.

But it’s the inner attention whore fairy in you that permits Luis to flirt like there’s no tomorrow. You like the limelight. That and he’s pretty cute; his hair looks great. You can work with that.

Basically, it’s a peculiar combo. There’s nothing stopping Luis. Even when you’re underground, literally underground and trying to get back up, there's nothing stopping him from alternating between you and Leon, occasionally putting a few bullets into the infected villagers, while mostly watching you both do the work. Two hot agents wrestling their way out of the mess—what can he say? It’s hot.

When Leon asks him to assist, he just shrugs. "Hey, I’m the brains. You’re the brawn, and the señorita is the vision."

Luis, a paragon of bisexual charm, effortlessly switches his attention. But what impression does this strike in Leon’s eyes? One word: bleakness. The rest—sourness and everything unpleasant.

Trusting someone, especially someone he didn’t necessarily know, to get things fixed was beginning to become a habit of Leon’s. Yes, he wants to help everyone whenever he can, and that’s where all the shit hits the fan for him. He is, notably, reluctant to put his trust in someone (formerly!) working for a corporation that has razed a young rookie full of dreams and wrecked several lives in one simple night.

Call it survival instinct or whatnot.

Besides, it’s quite asinine for Luis to act so laid back or to think he has that luxury in the midst of so much grime and squalor.

The flirting game doesn’t cease, and Leon’s pestering you as well. Blatantly flaunting around with a flamboyant flirt would suggest that you’re neglecting your expertise and don’t give a damn about the mission.

That’s exactly what bothers him, never for any other reason. Yeah, right.

Or... how an agent of your reserve falling for Luis’ tricks and snubbing Leon might (it is a certainty, but he’ll never admit this) be playing a small part in his aggravation.

“Really? I didn’t take you had such a low standard,” he says casually in the elevator that’s now hauling you upstairs, in a rare moment when you can have some privacy. You wonder if he’s never spoken or at least ever bothered to talk to you.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You quirk an eyebrow and watch as he cocks his gun, giving it a quick once-over—an idle thing he almost always does, but one that makes your skin prickle with welcoming tingles.

What the fuck is going on? Intensifying gun kink moment, perhaps.

“WhAt is thAt suPpoSed to mEan?” He mimics your intonation effortlessly.

Hey, come on, your voice isn’t that squeaky.

It would be a challenge for him not to miss the wintry glower on your face; he’s observant, and to tell the truth, watching your face makes him feel good at times.

At times, it's the key ingredient. For after all, he had made that mistake once before of falling into the maw of the sweet trap of the woman he had known overnight in Raccoon City and in whom he had tormented his heart.

Except things are otherwise; he’s not a rookie anymore, and he even finds these traps interesting. Or rather, he likes you. And your traps.

“You need to watch your mouth, asshole.” Your voice lectures him with a sharp vibrato.

“Huh?” Quite the sport that he is.

What, was he guarding his stone-like reticence in order to torture you for hours on end? Or has he gotten over the familiarization period and is suddenly expecting you to click like best pals?

Reading men is the toughest exercise in the world; everyone knows for a fact that they don’t use their brains, but reading Leon is much more demanding. It’s a lot of strain, and it’s the kind of maltreatment that can cripple a person both physically and cognitively.

It takes a lot to tune in to the energy of the likes of Luis, a verse of assertive words for a few more ambitious words, and, well, he’s a good warm-blooded friend now.

Then Leon?

It's tricky to figure out how to stay on his good side.

“Whatever.” Your voice echoes with finality, and your follow-up answer is disrupted by the juddering of the elevator accompanied by a broken, beeping sound. Lights flicker and breaths are held in short gasps, as these things often don’t augur well. Then darkness blankets the space like the teasing gloom of a sky before the copious rain patters fall on the soil.

“Hey, I’m talking to you. Better tune your ears.”

“Wh-What?” You really do stammer.

“Come on, are you daydreaming in the middle of a mission? Man, it looks like you’re not as polished as the president thought you were.”

“Stop it,” you hiss in rebuke, to which he reciprocates with a ragged snort. There is something staggering about the fact that the man who didn’t say a word to you last night is surprisingly toying with you like a schoolboy. So much so that there can be no other conceivable answer to the vermouth tint of your cheeks.

The grin on his face provides a unique glimpse of his crooked teeth. Or his soft jawline. Up close, he’s full of his flaws, but he looks cute. You can’t lie. And you can’t just imagine being dissuaded by someone so full of little foibles. Especially on duty, in a malfunctioning elevator.

“Shy, or am I living things in my head?”

“The latter and for the first, dream on, buddy.”

“Oh, well. I shouldn’t be dreaming much then.”

None of these rejoinders are smooth; they’re frankly lame, painfully corny. Except that you have an infinite penchant for pretty-faced men and their languishing eyes, namely for Leon.

Which is why in the darkness you can’t visualize how his hand is tucked into your pants. It happens.

The sound of his fingers curling inside you is the root catalyst for the darling mantle on your cheeks, and the pilgrimage is the secondary motivator. Alongside his drenched and glove-clad hand, his other hand is under your shirt, cupping your right tit, which is sticking out of your bra with gusto.

“Tsk tsk, how long have we been on post, hm? For how many hours?”

He bombards you with queries as if you have the breath to center on his inquiry. How blunt.

Leon jeers when he sees your eyes blinking disproportionately at his. You’re a dumb blur, wet, and yes, only for him. Not for Luis, not for anyone else. It’s just a finger dipping in and out of you, and the second he sticks a second one in, you adopt a piquant pout, your lips pursed, eyes glazing over. Too pretty a spectrum for Leon.

“Let me answer that for you, sweetheart, it’s been about 7 hours and you’re getting fingered by someone you barely know.” His scratchy drawl tickles your ears like a freshly scabbed wound scratching vigorously, like he’s the only thing that will soothe the pain inside you.

“That’s what all your bitterness was for? To get me and keep me for yourself?” His questions almost never conclude, fingers pumping and scissoring the daylight out of you.

“Ashley walks out because you only want me for yourself. To be all yours?” In return, a protracted, keening whine rolls out of your mouth, your lips bruised from his previous kisses, his teeth. Ouch, so utterly ignominious.

When this is over, you will definitely remember this moment and break your sleep.

His swelling hubris, just like the twitching dick inside his pants, gives Leon a feeling of entitlement and conceit. At least he looks more appealing in that way.

“Wish I could understand your blabbering, beautiful,” he jests, his thumb darting over your puffy clit, rushed but attentive as he knows you’re inching close. The face buried in your bosom, his lashes and hair delicately brushing over your skin, shrinks the knot in your belly; warmth flutters.

Leon’s urge is stirred by the tight grip of your lovely cunt squeezing the fingers inside of you that are ebbing and flowing incessantly. A harsh and crass mark, a tiny imprint his teeth leaves on your neck, faint, purple, the kind you will carry with you tonight, on this mission and for a time being as it appears.

A seal that is almost bruising, hard enough to draw blood, and so irascible because it can’t draw blood; a brand that quickly grows purple; a sting that is the right match for the pinch it leaves on your nipple.

A brand that says you are Leon’s, for a fleeting while.

It’s absurd that it’s been so long since the last time someone fingered you that you can’t remember cumming. Guys just suck at this shit. And you never dreamed that you would just melt and cum in the fingers of a trite man like Leon.

The sight of you paralyzed in rapture is so captivating that his craving to lick and devour you is eclipsed by the sudden illumination of the elevator lights. Pulling out his two fingers, he finally succumbs to his instinct to taste you and allots them close to your lips.

In a very non-sanitary, even grossly insensitive method, his fingers are swabbed thoroughly, as if your tongue were a gauze pad when he pushes them inside your parted lips.

He’s spectating you in a blissful trance, and if he were to claim that he didn’t put his fingers in place of his cock gliding between your lips, he’d be the world’s biggest fibbing bastard, and he’s not the world’s biggest fibbing bastard—mind you.

Only at the last second does he catch your hand sliding down his hip, grabbing it by your wrist.

“Ah, ah, not so fast.” He winces in pain, and the longing to impale himself inside you eats him up, but he has some principles, and he doesn’t want to break them. So, he wipes his fingers on your shirt once they’re out of your mouth, knowing it’ll leave a big ass stain. For real? Well, ew.

“H-hey, why the hell?” Your outburst is both about the dick he’s detraining from you and his juvenile antics.

He just shrugs his shoulders and hitches up your jeans, notwithstanding that your panties are still damp and caked in juices.

“Sorry, but I’m keeping myself back for the right time. Maybe we can finish it in a hotel after the OP, yeah? That’s if we survive.”

Oh, but really? Did he really cockblock you?

“Don’t tell me you're a virgin or something.” You just can’t let him go easily; you’re grinning impishly.

“Don't tell me you are a loser cumming on a virgin’s fingers.” Message received. He's so blunt. Salty.

He reaches down under your shirt and grabs your utility belt lying pointlessly on the floor and your holster. On his knees, like a man designed to minister to you. What can you say? He knows he’s a fucking pain in the ass and he looks hot, that’s for sure.

He fastens the belt around your hips—not too tight and certainly not too loose—snaps the holster back to its original place on your thigh and adjusts the straps with a fair dollop of precision.

“There you go, agent. Ready for action and about to kick some serious cultist ass.” He pushes himself to his feet and strolls out of the elevator, as if his fingers, which minutes ago had been rearranging your pussy walls, had never been inside you.

When the elevator doors open, Luis's gray eyes greet you with a knowing look as he waves the inoculum tube in his hand.

“Finally, eh? You should have paged me, Leon,” Luis says flippantly, while Leon looks at him with a dismissive dazzle, and your insistence on biting your fingernails out of abject embarrassment is the solitary subject on your mind. Never ever again. (Lies!) It’s not like you’re here to shoot a porn video, right?

[kurishiri]

THE CHARA CAFE × Ikemen Villains menu translation

(src) this translation may not be 100% accurate or contain creative liberties. You can click on the image for better quality. Please reblog, not respost!

which ones would you order? ✨✨

To my precious robin and from the self-righteous king, a most sinful love: a frozen strawberry drink (William)

strawberry ice cream

strawberries

milk

strawberry sauce

whipped cream

I encaged the scenery I saw with you inside this glass: a blue ocean drink (Elbert)

blue raspberry syrup

lemon water

lemon slice

gold leaf

Drink this if ya want. I ain’t drinkin’ it though: a ruthless butterfly pea soda (Jude)

butterfly pea syrup

carbonated water

lemon syrup

violet jelly

I want your greatest happiness: a berry tea of happiness (Ellis)

berry tea

blackcurrant jam

For you, the sinful one who wandered into a den of evil: the death god’s hot chocolate (Victor)

cocoa

whipped cream

coffee sauce

Blooming in the dark night, a violet cream soda

cider

purple melon syrup

vanilla ice cream

cherry

wafer cake with bean jam (monaka)

I swear a most sinful love to you on this wedding mocktail

pink grapefruit syrup

peach cheese

carbonated water

edible flower

“So that you, the one I love, may smile, I cast a magic spell on this”: the Cheshire Cat’s fresh fruit salad (Liam)

salad mix

smoked salmon

raisins

grapefruit

diced nuts

lemon dressing

black pepper

edible flower

wafer cake with bean jam (monaka)

“Nothing like meat for a reward, don’t you agree, lil lady?”: the egoist’s roast beef plate (Roger)

roast beef

rice

rock salt

baby leaves

parsley

mini tomatoes

camembert cheese

steak sauce

The Crown members’ favorite! The head chef’s special tomato sauce pasta

pasta

tomato sauce

bacon

consommé soup

parsley

crouton

“Hey, wanna split this half and half with me?”: a chocolate mint parfait of the Lying Fox’s charm (Harrison)

bavarois

mint jelly

chocolate corn flakes

whipped cream

mint chocolate ice cream

chocolate sauce

mint

brownie

“Aha! It’s my creation, as someone with a steel stomach”: a special scone set made by Alfons

scone

vanilla ice cream

blue raspberry syrup

whipped cream

chervil

biscuit

silver dragee

A vow to fall deeper into your sinful love: a wedding berry cake set

berry cake

macaron

cookie

whipped cream

mint

cotton candy

rock salt

wafer cake with bean jam (monaka)

Dessert of the robin on a moment’s break: a fresh fruit cocktail

cider

orange (mandarin)

yellow peach

cherry

strawberry

three-colored agar agar

heart-shaped gummy

popping candy

if you order something from the food or dessert menu, you’ll be gifted a 2L photocard (top), and if you order a drink, you get a coaster (bottom).

[starlightsearches]

track 8 with eddie!

all i ask is that it’s sub!eddie 🤞

Brat

So I lied earlier about deleting all of the requests for the mixtape milestone 😬 i did get rid of the some of the requests i hadn't started, but i couldn't let go of the ones i drafted, which is good news, because inspiration struck for this one!

Ex-boyfriend! Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader

Warnings: NSFW 18+, pussy eating, bratty eddie but he gets put in his place super quick, bondage, not a happy ending if you want them to get back together, language, and i think that's it!

You never thought you'd be back on Eddie Munson's doorstep.

Hands hanging heavy at your sides, a little taste of a summer breeze teasing at the hem of your skirt. You'd been full of a strange mixture of righteous fury and sick anticipation on the drive over but it's all gone now, a choking feeling in your throat when you lift up your hand to knock.

And you still can't do it.

Your eyes rake over his completely uninteresting door (are there even interesting doors?)— pockmarked with random dents and dings and sticky residue from long gone flyers—but you study it like it's the Mona Lisa, like it's got the meaning of life hidden somewhere in its peeling paint.

Fuck that. You didn't come here for the meaning of life.

Your knuckles meet the cool metal, once, then twice. The door flies open before you get a chance to drop your hand.

Eddie was waiting for you on the other side.

Heat floods through your entire body—and not the good kind—the oily feeling of embarrassment creeping up your neck. Had he been watching you through the peep hole?

He leans casually up in the door frame, arm stretched long above his mess of curls. The smile on his lips is so familiar it makes you ache.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Eddie looks good. Better than the last time you saw him—a little over a month ago, although not much as changed. Kind of stubbly, kind of toned. Still very, very hot.

There's no need to feel guilty for thinking it, but that doesn't stop your stomach from sinking as you drag your eyes down the white t-shirt he wears, band logo faded and the sleeves cut off, knees poking out of the rips in his jeans.

It should be ridiculous—a fucking caricature of a cool guy with his artful rips and the tats littering his arms. A Halloween costume on anybody else. But not on Eddie.

You push past him, like you push past the thought about how tight he wears his jeans. "Don't call me that."

He follows you into the living room of his shitty little apartment, kicking the door closed behind him. "What can I call you, then? Sugar tits?"

He doesn't even pretend to whither under your stare, although you feel like you cut glass with the look you give him.

"I thought I told you not to call me at all. Where is it?"

He's standing too close, looming over you with a little smirk. You can feel how hot his skin is. Feel the warm puff of breath from his nose on your cheeks. "Where's what, gorgeous?"

He never called stuff like that when you were together. Baby was his favorite. Princess when he was feeling sassy. Honey, but only on the rarest occasions, the sweetest mornings. That one always made you weak at the knees.

"The box of my stuff," —you're mad at him, at this, and it hits you hard, has you jamming a finger into his sternum, feeling the wiry muscle of his chest underneath the tee—"the one you left me three desperate messages about."

That humbles him a little bit. A very little bit, but enough to make Eddie shut his mouth for once. He points down the hall behind you.

"Bedroom."

You know the way, but let him lead. It's colder in his apartment than it was outside, the hair on your arms standing up, and you hold yourself a little tighter, cussing yourself out for leaving your jacket in the car.

"You look good," he calls back without turning in your direction, eyes on the clutter covering every inch of the floor, maybe hoping you won't notice the edge in his voice, “going out tonight?"

That was the plan—before this. "Yeah."

"Who with?"

Eddie doesn't even have enough shame in him to look embarrassed about asking, staring at you openly, like he has any right to know anything about your life now that he's not in it.

"You don't know them," you answer, and he laughs.

"Come on, sweetheart. Your friends are my friends."

And yeah, that used to be the case. Robin still called you up some weekends, inviting you out to girls' nights in a sad little tone. You made up excuses every time, but she still called.

Whatever. They were Eddie's friends first.

"Well, I made new ones."

Eddie runs his tongue over his bottom lip, crossing his arms across his chest.

“What’re their names?”

Jesus, he's such an ass.

"Just a bunch of guys I met outside a liquor store. Said they'd buy me shots tonight if I let them motorboat me in the parking lot."

"Har-har," Eddie rolls his eyes, but you didn't miss the look. His concern for you makes you itch. "Seriously, princess, just wanna know if you're keeping good company."

"Well, I'm not. Can I get my stuff now?"

And maybe you feel kind of bad for lying to him, but you can't let him know the truth—that it'll just be you and a couple girls from work. A few glasses of wine and some gossip. Hell, you'll probably be in bed before midnight.

Eddie digs around at the bottom of his closet, producing a cardboard box littered with garbage—a stack of magazines, some stupid teddy bear he won for you at an arcade, and a couple of bras you'd never be able to wear anymore with the way Eddie's spit is probably permanently fused in the fabric.

A wasted trip.

You try to take the box from him, but Eddie's grip doesn't budge.

"I can carry it out to your car, sweetheart," he says, standing up tall, "unless those biker guys are out there waitin' for you."

"I never said they were bikers," you respond, adjusting your grip on the box, pulling it tighter to your chest. It just has Eddie taking another step closer, big, warm hands sliding over yours.

"Good, 'cause I don't think bikers are your type."

He's whispering a little, lowering his voice all sexy in the way that always used to get you into bed with him.

Not this time.

"Oh fuck you, Eddie. What would you know about my type?"

"Uh, at least a little, honey," he laughs, smiling wide and boyish—so confident, self-assured.

"Don't—" you snatch the box out of his hands, "call me honey."

That's the landmine he's been waiting for you to step on. Eddie looks at you, ready to mash all your buttons until he figures out which ones will have you on him. You wish he wasn't so close to the right combination.

He stalks closer, trapping you up against the closet door, both hands planted above your head. You can't feel anything below your knees.

Voice low, breath wet up against your ear, Eddie says, "what are you gonna do about it, honey?"

The box falls with a whump, spilling all your shit across Eddie's bedroom floor. It's nothing compared sound of your body slammed against the door when your lips finally meet his.

You don't know who started it—whether it was your hands tangled up in his hair or him pinning you in place with his hips. You just know you don't want it to stop.

Eddie's running hot—hot hands at your waist and stubbly skin scratching up your jaw and his whole, hot body pressing up against you, moving just the way you like.

Liked.

You push his hands away with both of yours, trapping them against his sides, but it's not enough to stop him, his mouth at your neck.

"Come on, honey," he whispers, "I said I was sorry."

"I don't want an apology, Eddie."

He tries again, fingertips just brushing against your hips. He looks at you, eyes a little sad, a little too honest.

"Then what can I do to get you back?"

Fuck him. You didn't come here for that either. There's only one thing you want from Eddie Munson, and it's not a box full of bras.

"Get on your knees."

You're surprised his bones don't break with the speed he falls to the floor, thumping against the carpet. Hands already pushing up the hem of your skirt, face pressed low against your stomach. Maybe he's missed this as much as you.

"God, baby," he whispers against your thighs, fingers snaking under the hip of your lacy underwear, "knew you couldn't stay away."

Your knee juts out against his sternum, pushing him back.

"Stop that."

The look on his face is a little stupid, jaw dropped open and his brows furrowed. You were never like this when you were together, always deferring to him in one way or another. But you’re not together anymore.

You crouch down to his level, tracing the tips of your nails over the distended veins in his neck. Eddie's lids flutter, and then fall closed when your lips run over the same path, hand stroking faintly down his arm.

"You don't get to touch me, Eddie," you tell him, and he starts to nod, until his eyes flicker open again and he gets a good look at you, zeroed in on your tits and the low-cut of your dress.

"I- I don't, I mean . . . how?"

You slip the black bandana from his back pocket, give his ass a little squeeze. "Don't worry, honey, I'll help you out."

Eddie doesn't fight you when you push his wrists together, wrapping the cloth around them. He just stares, like he's trying to make sure this isn't a dream, his throat trembling when you pull the knot tight, letting the coarse fabric bite into his skin. You can almost hear a moan on his lips. But maybe you just imagined that.

Besides, you're not worried about what he likes right now.

Back on your feet, you rest your shoulders against the door, jutting your hips out toward him. Eddie looks up at you, big eyes wider than you've ever seen them, wiggling his wrists a little to see if there's any give.

You raise a brow, nudging at the ripped knee of his jeans with your bare toes. "Well?"

Whatever doubts Eddie may have had, they're out the window the second he sees you lifting up your skirt, revealing more and more of the soft skin of your thighs, the black lace you're wearing underneath it.

"Jesus, honey," he shuffles forward until his face is sandwiched between your thighs again, "you wear these for me?"

There's a little laugh on your lips, if only to cover up the way your breath hitches at the way he kisses at your skin, squeezing you between his teeth.

Even without his hands, Eddie Munson is dangerous.

You shift your legs wider so he can fit better, plant a hand in his hair and pull him closer to where you want him.

"Not a chance, Munson. You think the next guy will like them?"

Eddie can't answer. Not vocally at least. His mouth is busy, tongue splitting your lips, before he stops to rub slow circles over your clit through the fabric. Like he's trying to tell you that there's not gonna be a next guy.

Fuck. You thought you were stronger than that, but maybe he's right.

Because, for all his faults, Eddie really knows how to eat pussy. Even without the use of his hands he's got you shaking—better than the feel of his fingers splitting you open, maybe even better than when he'd rip your underwear off you and dive in, nothing to separate you from the pleasure Eddie loved to give.

Your underwear are soaked, and not just from his spit, the sloppy way Eddie devours you, big eyes dark, looking up at you past the bunched up hem of your skirt. He's got you dripping, a little desperate.

Or more than a little.

Eddie's whispering when he pulls back enough he can speak, and you're shocked you can even hear him with the way he's talking directly into your pussy, and through the buzzing in your ears.

"Come on, princess. Let me taste you."

You snake your free hand down—because you want to, not because he asked, pulling the sticky wet fabric to the side. Eddie whistles low and soft when he sees your glistening cunt, the breeze sending a shiver up your spine when it meets your feverish skin.

He moves back in, slower this time, savoring the taste of you, his tongue peeking into your dripping hole and circling the edges, collecting your cum, drinking you up.

You press tighter against him to improve the angle, one leg coming up to rest on his broad shoulder. Eddie groans and the vibrations go straight to your clit.

Fuck, you're close. Close in a way you haven't been since you slammed the door to this apartment all those weeks ago—the kind of close you'd been looking for with your hand between your legs ever since, losing the feeling every time you were reminded that you should be thinking about anyone but Eddie.

But how could you manage? Head like this was hard to find.

Eddie knows that, the fucker, lips circled around your clit, sucking at you like his life depends on it. Your vision goes dark, eyes rolling back of their own accord. The only thing louder than your moans is the sound of Eddie's sloppy mouth working at your core.

You grind your hips down against his face, riding his mouth when the feeling overtakes you, body buzzing as those little uh uh uhs spill from your lips. Shock waves like fireworks traveling through you with each stroke of his tongue.

Fuck.

Eddie doesn't slow down, still abusing your poor clit, sucking at your puffy lips, trying to drain you of all those moans from you until you've got to drag him away by his hair or else he's gonna make you cum again.

And then you'll never want to leave.

Eddie looks up at you, face shiny, and he smiles.

"How was that?"

And it's almost as thrilling as that orgasm, the way his brain so clearly shuts down and stalls when you shift your clothes back to where they were, unphased, patting his cheek with a patronizing little look.

"Passable. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have plans."

Eddie doesn't have quite enough balance to get back on his feet with his wrists still tied, so he shuffles after you on his knees, tripping on clutter and knocking shit over.

"Wait a second, what about me?"

He waves his hands in front of his face, like you might have forgotten that you tied him up, like it wasn’t the highlight of your day.

"I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out, princess."

You don't even bother to look back, and the satisfaction that washes over you probably feels better than heroin.

You're in the living room before you hear Eddie call out again.

"Hey! You forgot all your stuff!"

He doesn't get a response to that one, either. The last Eddie hears from you is the slamming of his front door.

[tinycheesecakedetective]

Edited 01/22/25.

  ~~~~~

 In the distant past, after the chaos and flame subsided, many creatures baked by the witches scattered across the world. Among them were the Five. Five cookies graced with Soul Jam of the purest kind: Knowledge, Volition, Happiness, Change, and Solidarity. The Dessert World bound by these Five Virtues was nothing short of paradise... 

That's how the story starts, that much hasn't changed. A group of five heroes, chosen by forces greater than themselves to protect the world of Earthbread against those seeking to destroy it. But the line between heroes and villains is one that can easily shift... given the right circumstances.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely, after all, bringing them to the most tragic of ends... A fate even the Witches were unable to foresee. These five cookies, once heralded as saviors of all cookie-kind, became agents of chaos and destruction. The five virtues distorted and twisted, becoming Despair, Obstinacy, Ambition, Gluttony, and Discord.

Emboldened, the beasts ushered in an age of darkness, agony and strife spreading across Earthbread. The Witches, so righteous and tender of heart, could not stand to see their creations suffer any longer. They sealed the beasts within the seed of the Silver Tree, and stripped them of their power. Using the untainted pieces, they reforged and purified the soul jam for a new set of holders to wield: Hope, Serenity, Prudence, Rebellion, and Harmony. With this, the creators hoped to find new heroes capable of wielding this sacred power...

  ~~~~~

SYNOPSIS

 Exchanged Fates is an alternative universe(AU) that takes the Five Ancient Heroes and switches them with their primeval predecessors, the Five Beasts. Alas, even with new heroes, the past still loves to repeat. As an old threat reawakens from a forgotten time, will these ancient heroes be able to stop him from finishing what he started?

This AU will be using the existing traits (and speculative ones for unreleased characters) of each character rather than simply swapping personalities. Due to the nature of this type of AU, the original plot of the source material will naturally be altered; meaning that in addition to new characters, locations, and establishing kingdoms, preexisting characters, plot lines, artifacts, etc., will either be altered or unchanged depending on their roles in the story.

For reference, here are the most notable swaps.

Pure Vanilla → Shadow Milk Hollyberry → Eternal Sugar Dark Cacao → Mystic Flour Golden Cheese → Burning Spice White Lily → Silent Salt Dark Enchantress → Oblivion Knight Cookie

Any posts related to this project will be located under the tag #exchangedfatesau. If you have any questions, comments, or suggestions, feel free to ask me in my inbox or in the comment section! Your support is greatly appreciated!

RULES

No AI period. Please don't use my sprites or writing to feed into a chat bot, generator, or whatever you plan to do. This is kind of a given, but just in case I'm putting it out there on record.

DMs are allowed, but not encouraged for those of you 18 and over. Do NOT DM me if you are 17 or younger. This blog is rated 18+, meaning it will deal with topics not suitable for those underage. If you have any questions, or just want to send something nice my way, the ask box is always open and free to use! I will be tagging all questions from now on with #cheesecake-asks.

Fanart and fanfiction are more than encouraged! To keep the original tag clean though, a new tag will be used under #exchangedfanworks. I'll be re-blogging any fan work I find or someone sends my way to put in the tag!

QUICK MENU

Original Concept Text Posts

Concept Post #1 Concept Post #2 Concept Post #3

New Beasts

Everlasting Vanilla Cookie Sprite A Savior's Lament Baneberry Cookie Sprite Midnight Cacao Cookie Sprite Opulent Cheese Cookie Sprite Wilted Lily Cookie Sprite Witches' Pet Synopsis Post "Everything Will Be Okay." Relationship Post 1

New Ancients

Blueberry Milk Cookie Sprite Character File 01 New Yogurt Council Members Strange Journal Date Sugar Cookie Sprite Rice Flour Cookie Sprite Ghost Spice Cookie Sprite Fleur de Sal Cookie Sprite/Oblivion Knight Cookie Sprite

Extras/Miscellaneous

Beast Icons Silverbell Cookie Sprite Light of Hope

[cyarikasmoon]

Find Someone Better

Arc Trooper Fives x Reader

Summary: Blowing off steam with the ARC Trooper you hate (the feeling is mutual).

Pairing: Arc Trooper Fives x bartender f!reader

Word Count: 1471 words

Warnings: smut, pure shameless smut, hate sex, P in V sex, creampie, rough sex, rough oral, oral fingering, mirror sex, quickie, hair pulling, choking, possessive, NASTY

Divider by: @freesia-writes & @saradika

A/N: a gift for my lovely gal @cocolinagoodnight I hope she enjoys! But OOF this was nasty hehe but fun to write! Sorry I haven’t posted in a few weeks life has been busy! But I hope you like this piece! Enjoy! X

Rhythmic grunts echo out in the fresher, followed by a wet slapping noise. The distant sound of music dulled out by the jammed door to the fresher so no one could come in. Because what would they say if they saw such an esteemed ARC Trooper fucking the bartender he hates with such vigor? 

Your hands grip the edge of the sink, the only thing keeping you upright as he fucks into you hard and fast. He fucks you from behind, his body leaning over you as his hips snap forward. The bulk of his plastoid armour, heavy and uncomfortable and grates against your bare skin. Your back is now red and aching. He had pulled the fabric of your uniform top up, your tits hanging free and exposed and a gloved hand moved to grab one of them, grip hard and aching as he squeezed. 

You cry out and he snaps his hips forward hard and fast, pushing in deep and hard, all the way to the hilt. 

“Fuckin’, keep your mouth shut.” He grunts, leaning over you, his short puffs of breath loud and warm against your ear. 

You pant and manage to roll your eyes as he stills for a moment. 

“Afraid someone will catch us, CT-5555?” You whisper with a taunt, pushing back against him, clenching around his cock.

He clenches his teeth and he pinches your nipple hard and you gasp. He releases it in a second so he can grab the back of your hair and yanks your neck back. You inhale sharply, focusing on keeping your lips shut so you don’t whimper for him. You narrow your eyes, sharp gaze locking on his dark gaze as he glares at you with so much anger. 

You can see in his eyes how much he hates being referred to by just a number. But god the results are worth riling him up like this. 

He grips your hair tight, painful and sharp and his other hand releases your bruising hip to move to your throat and you hate how you swallow and squirm as he applies pressure. You hate even more how you feel yourself getting wetter; your arousal soaking his cock buried to the hilt in your cunt. 

His lips quirk up at this, an arrogant self righteous smirk but as you squirm again, he squeezes your throat and tugs on your hair. 

“Stop fuckin’ moving!” He groans, grinding his hips flush against your ass. “You’re so annoying, can’t even stay still for a second.” 

He continues to grind his hips hard and deep against you, grunting in your ear as he does so and you feel so incredibly full. You feel like you can’t breathe, eyes rolling back and flickering shut as you groan. 

“Look at you whining for my cock. Can’t get enough of it can you?” 

The pull on your hair is painful now, tears are pricking in the corner of your eyes, you open your mouth, ready to curse him out when he suddenly pulls out, surprising you with the sudden emptiness. A hand on your back pushes you down, so you are practically bent in half and two hands manoeuvre you so your arse is on full display, as well as your dripping cunt. 

You turn to look, clenching around nothing when suddenly two fingers push in, curling up quickly and your knees buckle.  

“So needy all the time, so desperate for my cock aren't you?” He sneers, fingers pumping in and out at a brutal pace. “Bet you need to be filled all the time. Bet you’ve taken so much of my vode. Anyone who comes into 79’s and spares you a glance. 

“Fuck you.” You gasp out, rage fueling you at his filthy words but you hear how wet you sound as he fucks you with his fingers. 

“Nah, you don’t get to come on my cock. Not yet at least. You hardly deserve it.” He gloats, curling his fingers. 

You roll your eyes, a snarl on your lips. “You keep coming back to fuck me though, don’t you? Can’t get enough of this pussy.” 

He pulls his fingers out and your lips part, ready to add more liquid tibanna to the fire when suddenly a sharp sting. As he slaps your cunt, you cry out, knees finally giving out and he holds you up effortlessly. 

Pushing your hips to the sink and bending you over again, your hands reach out, palms flat against the mirror there. Your eyes manage to focus again as you see the looming bulk of the ARC Trooper caging you in. You barely have time to process when he suddenly pushes his thick length back deep in you, then immediately pulls almost all of the way out before he slams back in. 

With the air knocked out of you, you watch with hazy eyes and soft whimpers as he beguins to fuck you hard and fast. Like a man starved, quenched of thirst and as if his life depended on it. Brutal, fast, powerful. Slick noises fill the air as his cock pounds into you again and again and again. 

“Going to make you come all over my cock. Then I’m going to fill you up so much, I’ll be leaking out of you for the rest of your shift, dripping down your legs.”

The pure filth leaving his mouth drives you closer to your orgasm, losing yourself in the ideas and promises as all you care about is the release.

“You can parade around 79’s, serving drinks looking so fucked out. All cock dumb because of me.” 

 You hate how you mewl at his words, hands clammy against the mirror and you see how wrecked you look.

“Going to ruin everyone else for you. No one will ever fuck you as good as I do. No one will ever make you come like I do. You can go after as many clones as you want. They. Arent. Me.” 

He grunts out each word with a powerful thrust, causing your breath to hitch and rise in octave. 

He somehow moves after, hand in your hair tugging hard and other hand, palm on the small of your back, pushing you down on the sink, the edge of it digging into your abdomen uncomfortably but you don’t care. 

You’re so close. 

“Fives!” You give in, yielding and crying out his name. 

The dark breathless chuckle leaves his lips and he knows he’d won this round of the silly tooka and womp rat game you play when he is planet side. 

“Wasn’t so hard was it?” He smirks. “So fuckin’ annoying-” 

The palm pushing your back down is gone and the moment his fingers touch your clit your gasping and moaning, writhing under his touch as your aching clit finally is given attention. He moves faster and deeper, driving his cock home deep in your cunt as his finger tipers rub quick harsh circles, rushing your orgasm. 

The build up increases rapidly, and it hits you like a tidal wave as the tremors travel through your body as you come hard and faster, body shaking and you cream over his cock as it plunges deep. You let out a broken sob of a moan at the sudden feeling and all you can do is watch in the mirror as he pulls your hair, arching your back as he comes with a choked groan. 

You feel his white cum paint your walls and fill you up deep as he grinds his hips into you, riding out his orgasm and taking you into oversensitivity as he is merciless with your clit. As he finally slows to a halt, you grab his wrist and yank him away from your throbbing cunt. 

His cock slips out and you shudder at the feel of his spend trickling out of you slowly. You clench trying to keep it in and turn to look at him, holding onto the sink for support. You pant heavily, chest heaving, shining with sweat. Fives tucks his softening cock back into his blacks and attaches his cod pieces again and picks up his discarded bucket. 

He stands there. chest moving fast, but with the plastoid armour covering his large build, he already looks composed. Put together as if he hasnt just almost fucked you within an inch of your life. He looks you over, lips turning up smug. 

“I fucking hate you.” You breathe out, the words weak and half hearted and he snorts. 

“Hate you too, sweetheart.” He turns to leave the fresher and glances back with a smirk. “Try and see if you can find someone better until I’m back on Coruscant.”

You glare in fury as he leaves but your cunt already aches at the idea of your next encounter with Arc Trooper Fives. 

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Okay, I've Read Worm: A Retrospective Part 5: What Was I Fucking Surprised By?

So, as you may remember, I got into Worm thoroughly spoiled by the wiki and Wormblr and r/parahumans and r/Wormfanfic and actual Worm fanfic. I knew pretty much all the basic details of all the plot twists. And yet, of course, there are things I didn't expect, things the fandom or the wiki mislead me about, etc. Things I was surprised by.

So let's talk about a few:

Taylor Hebert: As I've said, I kind of worried, before reading Worm, that I'd find Taylor insufferable. The sort of character that tries to be a hero and then convinces themselves to do all sorts of bad stuff while telling themselves they're still a hero/good person/etc is hard to write well without being really unpleasant to read/watc/etc. Self-righteousness in general is hard to enjoy for me. Taylor, honestly, stops thinking of herself as a good person partway through the post-Levi period, in most ways, and she never gets self-righteous about it. So Taylor was much more sufferable than I thought. Which is good, because I would have dropped Worm like a hot potato if she'd been insufferable as the main POV.

Eidolon & The Endbringers: (Sounds like a band name). The whole 'you needed Worthy opponents' thing, and the way people talked about Eidolon (seriously, this fandom as a whole is hugely unfair to the guy, istg) really gave me the impression of like, this vainglorious piece of shit guy who wants adulation and doesn't care how he gets it. And like... I don't get that impression from his Interlude at all? He doesn't seem to give two shits about fame, just about knowing what he did mattered. And he knew that well before the Endbringers. Obviously, he subconsciously created them, and then [High Priest] got all goddamn malicious in his compliance but he's not the vainglorious asshole who charges off to face Scion in single combat or w/e the way the fanfiction gave me that impression. Also, like, maybe it's just me, but I define 'Worthy Opponent' as 'something the person could have a reasonable chance of defeating in a solo fight'. So for me, a worthy opponent would be a rowdy 12 year old with maybe a white belt in karate. the Endbringers are not solo-able opponents for Eidolon. So absolutely not doing what he actually wanted. I really think the fandom is unfairly hard on Eidolon.

Interlude 15.x: Look, at the risk of starting discourse - I'm sorry. I've read 15.x Backwards and forwards and there is just Nothing pointing towards rape in the text, even looking for it as I was. I really expected I'd see some line, some implication, some fucking hint and there's just... absolutely nothing. The text of Worm as written, whatever Wildbow claims he meant and whatever he did mean, does not support a rape interpretation of events. And that sure as fuck surprised me.

Extinction 8.6: The way people - and even some fics - talked about the scene where Amy messes with Taylor post-Leviathan made it sound like Amy straight up ripped off Taylor's mask or something extreme like that, and then Taylor sees unmasked Sophia while trying to run and hide after being unmasked. What we got was Amy being a bit of a bitch, deliberately refusing to answer a question Taylor asked because she knew not answering would upset the girl (not cool), Amy's bedside manner being shit, and Taylor's own paranoia (and the godawful choice of the heroes to handcuff her to the bed) filling in the blanks. And this absolutely tepid-ass shit is pointed to by people as proof that 'Amy was a bitch the whole time'.

The Leviathan Fight: It was a lot shorter than I expected. I enjoyed reading it in ways I was worried I wouldn't.

Cauldron: Now, here's the thing. Characters that do bad things, knowing they're bad, but in pursuit of a greater good? That shit is my goddamn jam. I fucking love characters like that. They're my catnip! And I went into Worm sympathetic as FUCK to Cauldron. and I come out of Worm going 'Jesus Christ what a bunch of fucking idjits!' Their shoestring illuminati was run by a bunch of teenagers who never grew up and a college student who's a worse control freak than Taylor. Their incompetence appears to be the whole point (until Wildbow's WoGs turned everything into Cauldron social engineering and he went out of his way to make a big thing about how Cauldron was totes necessary for making things better. Man just cannot shut up). They try for decades to put some final fight against Scion together, and they fail epicly. No groundwork, no real success, and they turned to ACCORD for their post-apocalyptic plans. And apparently had no plan for a mass Case-53 breakout/attack. Which is... sure a choice. Dumping the Case-53s the way they did. The choice of which Case 53s to dump (Sveta sure was a choice of who to just... let out into the world. Like, not an issue with her personally, but you don't release that kind of uncontrollable murder tentacle out into the world, maybe? Just maybe?). I went into Worm thinking I'd be on Cauldron's side, at least a little, and I came out just... god no, you people are stupid.

Amy's Birdcage Arc: I really thought we'd see more of Amy's time in the birdcage, but 16.z really was all we got.

Alexandria's Death: I don't quite know what I did expect, but I didn't expect Alexandria's death to be so goddamn Darwin-award worthy. The woman died like the biggest of CHUMPs and that was much funnier than I expected.

The Drugs are Fantastic line: I knew it was being taken out of context, but it wasn't quite in the place I expected, I'll be honest. Not sure what I did expect.

Taylor's Weaver Arc/The Timeskip: I expected... I dunno. Less of an abrupt transition, I guess? I thought the timeskip would be like, a series of small scenes skipping ahead over two years between them? Instead, right in the middle of Arc 25, it just jumps ahead two years without ceremony. Did not expect that. At all.

Slaughterhouse Nine: I was not prepared for just how goddamn boring the Nine were. I don't think I read any spoilers about how Jack Slash being boring af was the point until I'd already started the S9 arc, but I especially didn't expect how pathetically bland as characters Manny the Kinless and Burnscar and Crawler and Sibby the Friendly Neighborhood Cannibal would be. Cherish managed to be interesting by being such a failure, and Bonebitch, to my eterntal frustration, managed to be funny, but the rest? Also, I thought Manton would die in the Bay, rather than be killed unceremoniously offscreen while in Boston.

The Butcher: For a character who appears in all of two chapters, the Butcher has a much larger presence in the fandom. But that is Worm for you, because groups like the Elite and the Fallen also show up more in the fics than their presence in the main story merits (Though the Fallen have more of a presence in Ward, even if I gather Ward kinda sorta retcons like half the details or at least presents irreconcilable visions of the organization)

Empire 88: They were way out of focus, compared to how much they appear in fics. But it is fun in fics to see Nazis get beat up all the time, so this is valid. But also, like, even their post-Levi remnants were weaksauce af. Someone in a server the other day said that taking out Marquis took out an entire faction, and that Levi proved that taking out Kaiser (or Allfather before him) doesn't stop the Empire, gesturing to the Aryan's Chosen and the Pure as proof but like... lbr. Both groups were pretty damn pathetic in the post-Leviathan bay. Regardless, I expected to see more of the Nazis getting beat in Worm itself, and we really didn't. But this is one time where I don't care, because as I said, seeing Nazis get beaten up over and over again in the fanfic is fun.

Ward: I was worried reading and finishing Worm might make me want to read Ward. Thankfully, it did not. *whew*

Now, there are probably others, but nothing else as major. But there are also some things I just plain wasn't surprised by.

Amy Dallon: I went into Worm expecting her to be my blorbo, and that didn't change. She's definitely my character type. I feel the same about her storyline in Worm as I did going into it.

Tattlebitch: I expcted to hate her, and I stayed hating her. Lisa sucks. Like, she has her redeeming moments and features, but overall, I still hate Lisa.

Carol Dallon: My Sympathy for Carol remains about as theoretical as it always was.

The PRT/Protectorate: I suspected the PRT/Protectorate was not as useless and incompetent and ACAB as a lot of fics painted it and... I was right.

My Ultimate Opinion: I went into Worm thinking it wasn't really for me, but that I'd probably find it well written and that many characters would be engaging. I figured it would have massive gaping plot holes and that I would never find it to be the 'amazeballs perfect wonderful' that some people seem to find it. And yeah, I was right about that too.

[enigmaticvariation]

I am genuinely so grateful for danger days bc I love sad and angry music and so many of mcr’s sad songs have gotten me through really rough periods of my life but you can’t only be listening to that! You need songs to jam out too also! I love that they were known for being a depressing angsty band and then made a fun, upbeat summery album of songs you can dance to, all while keeping the same high concept, theatricality and emotion of their previous work. It really speaks to how the mission statement of the band is to inspire people to have hope and the strength to keep going, and while righteous anger and letting yourself grieve is important, letting yourself find joy in things and having a zest for life is equally necessary. I love you danger days, my best friend in the whole world.

[tylermileslockett]

ARES

“Ares, exceeding in strength, chariot-rider, golden-helmed, doughty in heart, shield-bearer, Saviour of cities, harnessed in bronze, strong of arm, unwearying, mighty with the spear, O defense of father of warlike Victory, ally of Themis, stern governor of the rebellious, leader of righteous men, sceptered King of manliness, who whirl your fiery sphere among the planets in their sevenfold courses through the aether…” 

(-Homeric Hymn, translated by H.G. Evelyn white)

ARES (AIR-ees), God of war, courage, and civil order. The raging, wrathful deity unleashes his bloodlust in the fury of battle. His sacred weapons glittering; the golden helmet, spear, and shield. The boar head icon on the shield symbolizes Ares turning into a boar and jealously gorging the youth Adonisto death, for the youth's affair with Aphrodite. The serpents are creatures associated with Ares: the Colchian dragon (which guards the golden fleece in the sacred grove of Ares- from the Jason and the Argonauts myth) and the Ismenian dragon (which guards the sacred spring of Ares near Thebes).  

Flying above Ares' shoulderAres shoulder is his daughter, Nike, the goddess of Victory, Nike. In the upper right are vultures, animals associated with Ares, and his sister Eris; goddess of discord. This goddess who, unable to enter the banquet of the gods, threw in the golden apple inscribed "for the fairest" causing strife for the women and ultimately bringing Paris of Troy to judge, as a precursor to Helen and the Trojan war. Galloping into battle below are three Amazon warrior women, the leader being Ares daughter; Queen Penthesilea, (who Achilles killed in battle at Troy and fell in love with her as she lay dying.)

Want to own my Illustrated Greek myth book jam packed with over 130 illustrations like this? Support my book kickstarter "Lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in early 2024. check my bio LINKTREE

[silverzoomies]

Polaroid

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: solo masturbation. that's pretty much it, sorry

word count: 2,625

a/n: i wrote about him jerking off again. whoops. i've been absent for a week. but i'll be home tomorrow !! and hopefully i can get back into the flow of writing. until then, here's this rushed, unpolished thing i wrote on a whim !! it's super clunky and i'm so sorry lol !!

edit: made some minor changes to this. fixed some things that felt off, but overall it's still the same idea.

taglist: @dewberryobssesed @violetharmonscupcake @kaismanwich @jellyluvr @icannot3 @taintandviolent @ahoyladiesz (as usual, ask to be added !!)

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Home alone, at long last. Helllllllz to the yeah. Down in the heart of his (mom’s) basement, Peter lies lazily on his back in bed. Today, it's one of those slow, hot afternoons midway through summer. Sunny, with a slight overcast. Peter hasn’t been outside to see it for himself. But he heard some guy on the radio call it “totally tubular” weather for a day at the beach.

He almost wishes he’d take a two second run to the Bahamas, or somewhere else. Peter could kick it back on a towel and watch babes in bikinis walk by. Maybe he could even stir up some trouble in the sand. Like he used to do, way back in his childhood. Just for some extra mayhem.

Alas. Today, Peter feels lazier than lazy. He’s found a new name for himself in Lazyville. As the leading candidate in the office of laziness. Speeding all around the globe for the umpteenth time this week sounds like too much work. Even a super powered mutant, living life in the fast lane, has his off days sometimes. What’s one break, eh? Breathing a sigh, he stares up at the ceiling. Earphones rest over his ears. Peter listens to a melodious tune by Jefferson Starship. Over his belly, he twirls his thumbs, bobbing his head along with his jams. Chillaxin’ and relaxin’ as one should on his day off. Hm.

Except, Peter’s kind of antsy. No one’s home at the moment. He has all this free time to do whatever he wants, in the privacy of said home. With not a soul around to judge him, or even bug him. And listen. It’s been centuries since he got off. Which may or may not be a slight exaggeration.

But wouldn’t you believe it? Despite his uniquely handsome features and outrageously fit bod; Peter has absolutely no game whatsoever. Crazy, right? Who woulda thought it? The dude who locked himself away in his (mom’s) basement for a good ten years. He’s awkward as hell? Say it ain’t so! Whoa!! Insane in the membrane!!!

Not to mention, it might as well have been a geological age since he got laid. Whatever. Who needs the companionship of someone else to have a totally righteous time, huh? Haha…

Ahem.

Today, Peter dubs himself the crowned king of slacking off and jacking off.

Pulling his earphones down to rest around his neck, his fingers move to find his jeans. He teases himself for a beat or two, his palm rubbing over the denim. Another beat, and his cock is freed from the tight, restrictive material. Peter makes a mental note: He might need to invest in looser pants. This pair is rough and uncomfortable around his legs, so he shoves them all the way down to his ankles with virtually no shame.

What does it matter anyway? For the time being, he’s free. At least until his mom gets back, that is. He should really stop thinkin’ about that. Every time Peter remembers - oh, yeah - he’s a grown ass man still living at his mom’s place; it kinda wrecks the vibe. Makes the mood crash and burn. Total boner killer. And he’s not even hard yet.

His half-hard cock rests limply over a curly patch of silver hairs. Peter would never admit it to anyone, but he’s always been self conscious of his hair situation. Some chick back in high school - he can’t even remember her name - said his silvery bush “looked really weird.” Like the pubes of some geriatric. 

Peter can barely picture her face at this point. But the sound of her giggling at his expense is, unfortunately, locked away in his brain forever. Another embarrassing memory to withstand the test of time. Probably until he dies, or becomes a geriatric himself.

What was he doing again? Oh. Right.

Peter gives his dick a firm squeeze, like he’s checking to make sure it’s still there. Before taking the semi-hard length into his hand. Slowly, he strokes himself to hardness. Breathing a relieved sigh, Peter settles into the groovy-patterned sheets of his bed. The smooth tip of his cock inches through his closed fist with every stroke. As his frustration blossoms, his length throbs with an intense longing for something more.

Thick veins pulsate under his hand. Sparkling beads of precum leak from his tip. He coats the head in a generous glaze of slickness, eliciting a hushed noise from the depths of his throat. Keeping himself as quiet as humanly possible is basically a instinctive response. But he doesn’t have to hold himself back right now, does he?

Sweet. Peter’s gonna be as loud and obnoxious as he wants.

Pumping his cock a bit faster, he momentarily stops to fondle his balls. They rest heavy in his palm, smooth to the touch and loose between his fingers. After teasing himself impatiently, Peter redirects his attention to his twitching length. Aching for more stimulation. He jerks off with a pleasurable rhythm. Subconsciously following the beat that resonates from his earphones, his strokes fall into a more consistent pace. He leans further back in bed, letting his lips part. His nerves tingle. And as he revels in the sensation, he loudly moans. Letting the noise rip through the silence of his ( mom’s ) basement.

Said basement has now become more stifling. Kudos to the summertime heat for that one. Peter’s Conan the Barbarian T-Shirt - now damp with his sweat - feels like too much of a hindrance. He pulls the fabric up, letting his upper half breath. With his shirt clamped between his teeth, Peter leaves his body exposed. A sheen of sweat coats his abs, and his pecs raise with each labored breath he takes.

He takes a half second to admire his own physique. Honestly? No bullshit? His body looks pretty damn amazing. If only there were someone around to appreciate how naturally jacked he is. It’s a hell of a tragedy, really. All this smokin’ hot, speedster bod goin’ to waste. Tsk tsk tsk.

Who was he even kidding? Why would anyone wanna waste their time messin’ around with a total shut-in like him?

Dammit. Now's not the time for some hateful, self-ribbing. He should distract himself with something. Something like-

Using the gift of his mutation, Peter increases his speed by a few notches. His fist squeezes tightly around his length, stroking his cock even faster. He groans into his shirt, knitting his brows as arousal washes through his groin in waves. It feels good. Really fucking good.

But it’s not enough. He wants to utilize this free time as much as he can. It’s the perfect opportunity to get even more frisky than he usually would. Peter bolts around the basement, searching for a few hidden…uh…treasures, we’ll call them. In a blink, he reappears on his bed, leaving his overly tight jeans and boxers discarded on the floor.

Lying next to Peter over the wrinkled blankets, rest a bottle of lube - the tingly kind, a stroker toy - clear, with literal, silver lining, and a polaroid photo. The toy hasn’t been used in eons, but its quality is still up to par. Peter made sure to clean it the instant he found it again. And the photo, well…

It’s his own, filthy secret.

A low-res, high flash picture taken of you at last year’s, X-mansion, Halloween party. Whoa, mama. You were scantily clad in the most outrageously suggestive Indiana Jones costume Peter ever saw. Back at the party, you even tipped your hat and cracked the whip a couple of times. Which may or may not have awakened something in him. But that’s beside the point.

You were so tipsy that night. Way more flirtatious than you naturally would be any other day. Peter remembers you pressing your body against his, hanging over him all night like a sexy sack of potatoes. He sat next to you on the couch. With a cheesy grin on his face, he watched your every move. The tiny shorts you were wearing kept riding up your thighs. It was obvious you were braless under a tight, cropped, button-up shirt. Leaving so little to the imagination.

Point blank, it was fucking awesome.

You crossed your smooth legs. One over the other. And you leaned in to whisper something hot in Peter’s ear.

“Take a picture with meeeee, Quickie, I wanna remember this moment forrrever and everrrr.” You pleaded, your breath tickling the skin of his neck. 

What followed, he hadn’t seen coming. As someone - it’s all a blur, Peter can’t remember who - snapped the photo, you pressed your glossy lips to his cheek. Your giggles were so coquettish and teasing, he felt shivers race through his body at mach speed.

“I’m, like, sooooooooo scared of snakes. Geddit? ‘Cuz I’m Indiana? But your snake doesn’t scare me. Can I pet it, pllllleeeassse?” You giggled again with a little whine.

Making an abrupt move, you reached for Peter’s crotch in front of everybody. After zipping away to grab you a solo cup full of water and some bread, Peter snatched the photo from whoever. And he bolted home in a fit of shameful embarrassment.

In retrospect, you weren’t just tipsy. You were majorly smashed. You didn’t remember a single minute of it. Figures. He’s not too surprised you wouldn’t remember flirting with him.

Peter sighs, blinking himself out of the memory. Eager to continue his once-in-a-silver-moon, jerkin’ session. He squeezes a fair amount of lube into his palm, wrapping his large hand tightly around his cock. Over every inch of his aching length, he spreads the slick substance. Tingles sparkle like stars across the hot, velvet skin of his cock. Wet noises echo lewdly through the basement, as Peter pumps his leaking dick fast and hard.

Clenching his shirt between his teeth, Peter tilts his head back. A loud, seething moan slips from his lips, slightly muffled. He pauses again, grabbing the stroker and guiding its smooth slit over the swollen head of his cock.

“MMmmmnnn~!” Peter hums a steady moan, exhaling through his nose.

The inside of the toy feels nothing even remotely close to the real thing. Kind of a bummer. But the tunnel’s soft, bumpy ridges are still a double A plus. A little too good sometimes, actually. The toy slides down Peter’s cock as he pushes his entire length through. It’s a tight fit around him. Tighter than it should be. Which is doing wonders for his confidence. Maybe he should be more proud of his size.

He’s above average enough, the small toy can’t contain the length of him entirely. His weeping tip peeks out the other side of the stroker, prodding through with every pump. Peter breathes another, shuddering moan. His brows crease in pleasure. Pumping his cock with the squishy toy, he whines in desperation. Forcing his thick length through the toy’s tight grip, slick with lube and smooth as silk. The ridges inside tickle and massage his cock, stimulating his buzzing nerves. 

The muscles in his groin tighten, stiffening his legs. Shoving his cock rapidly through the ribbed tunnel of the toy, he groans louder. Letting his needy noises slip as they please. Fuck it. No restraint. Indulging himself further in his degeneracies, Peter keeps your photo close by. He shoots a glance at it, admiring your soft thighs and amazing cleavage.

He daydreams about you. Imagining the way you’d feel around him, squeezing him so much tighter than any toy. You’d be needy and wet for him too, making it so easy for Peter to bury himself balls deep inside you. 

Peter thinks about the way your titties would look, bouncing with each thrust of his hips against you. Would your nipples peak, stiffening under his fingers? How would you react if he had a little fun, and teased you with a superspeed buzz? Would you even like that? Would you think that kinda thing was weird?

He really does want you sooooo bad. But you have absolutely zero idea. Peter knows he’d treat you right if you let him. If you ever gave him the time of day outside of missions, he’d take you on the wildest ride you ever strapped yourself into.

Clenching his teeth hard into his shirt, he wraps both hands tightly around the stroker. Peter leans as far back as he can, bracing his feet flat on the bed. The blankets curl under his toes, as he lifts his hips. Driving his cock through the slick, textured toy and fucking it hard.

“Nnghh…fuuuuck. Fuck.” He groans, voice catching under fabric.

His breaths quicken, and his moans morph into desperate whimpers. Peter aches for your heat, and the closeness of your body. Your gentle touch. Your sweet voice and little whines. He knows, without a doubt, you’d feel beyond amazing. And you’d probably taste so sublime.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Peter whimpers into his shirt. Saliva seeps through the fabric, melting off his tongue and dribbling down his chin. His cheeks burn hotter, turning a brighter shade of crimson.

“Mmmmmfuckyeah-” Peter moans, followed by a muffled mumble of your name.

He fucks his cock through the toy at rapid, superspeed. Lifting his hips off the bed as if roughly drilling into your tight heat. Peter’s cock throbs as powerful surges of electricity erupt in the pit of his belly. Glossy, white streaks of cum spill from his tip, flooding over the toy. Dripping down the squishy sides of it. His cum stuffs the inside full, coating his dick in its stickiness. Peter thrusts his cock fast enough to appear a blur, until he’s completely spent.

Lying in a sweaty heap over his blankets, Peter pants easy breaths. Tousled, silver hair rests messily over his head. He pulls the stroker from his cock, and slick cum trails after it. Wet and thick against his softening dick. He throws his head back into the bed, taking a moment to compose himself.

It’s really crazy that he’s thinkin’ about you like this, isn’t it? He’s honestly really embarrassed by it. Peter grabs the polaroid and stares at it longingly, unable to suppress the grin pressing into his dimple. Damn. He just can’t help himself. No matter what, he’s kinda ride or die for you.

If only he had the balls to tell you up front.

Peter gazes at the photo for a few seconds too long. Lost in the sight of your sexy body again. You’re such a goddamn knockout. He guides his attention to his dick to find…he’s rock hard again? Seriously? Dropping his head onto the bed, Peter groans with agonizing frustration. He just can’t catch a break, can he? Why’s he always gotta be so antsy, so on edge, or so horny all the time??

A faint sound, like creaking wood, graces his ears. Peter tilts his head up instantly.

Only to be greeted by none other than the unexpected sight of you.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck-

You’re standing in his ( mom’s ) basement with your mouth agape. A faint indication of blush paints your cheeks, though he can barely see it. Peter should be moving. He should do what a speedster naturally would do in this kinda situation: Clean up and dress himself in less than a blink’s time. Just to play innocent afterwards. Maybe he could gaslight you into thinking you didn’t watch him get his rocks off.

But he’s stunned to the point of being frozen. Neither of you make a single move. Except for Peter’s dick. It twitches subconsciously in his lap, catching your attention. And your eyes widen further.

He really should’ve gone to the Bahamas. Peter’s betting those beaches are seriously bangin’ at this time of year.

[lbulldesigns]

Zaun (AITAH Arcane AU Mood board)

The City of Iron and Glass, and revitalisation

Seventy years ago, Zaun, still going by the moniker of the Undercity, was in a constant state of desperation.

The mining colony turned city, was no stranger to hardships. From unsafe mining conditions to unsafe working conditions within the factories jammed packed within the city, to unsafe living conditions due to poor maintenance to residental structure and over pollution brought on my the factories and the toxic gases from the deep mines being compressed within the underground city.

All of this was due to the conscious negligence of Piltover. Whose one and only concern was image and wealth. To them Zaun was an eyesore but they refused to acknowledge that this was due to them.

They preferred the image of being righteous and a city of academics and kept their well-shoed foot to Zaun's throat by unleashing their Enforcers upon them who dealt their "justice" in brutal fashion.

This continuous abuse and oppression had to come to an abrupt end, however.

In 1954 Piltover and its Enforcers had stepped on Zaun and Janna's (Goddess of the Wind) final nerve.

When during an arrest of a factory worker voicing his outrage for being unfairly fired, an officer took liberation to bludgeon a 12-year-old girl who had stepped in to beg her father's release before shooting dead the distraught father.

In this moment something snapped within the people witnessing the scene and every Zaun citizen present attacked the Enforcers without conern for their own lives. This attack would go on to inspire more within the city to take up arms and riots broke out everywhere, with the intention to put as many Enforcers down.

Janna tried to protect as many innocent lives caught in the crossfire as she could, but the death toll was climbing with her people dying in droves.

When Piltover took to trying to blow the bridges and starve the residents in Zaun, Janna had reached her limit and decided something more drastic had to be done.

For a month, the Goddess of Wisdom and Harmony became an unyielding and unrelenting, furious storm.

She took the fight straight to Piltover and wrecked havoc upon the city. Gleaming, unblemished structures that reached to the sky came crumbling down as if they were sandcastles within the oceans reach.

She dispersed her followers to ransack the city of the progress of food, clean water, and medicine. And kept the Enforcers secluded to Zaun, without backup and provisions and many beaten Zaunites looking for their own pound of flesh.

After a month of nonstop terror from the Goddess and many injured and homeless within Piltover, its Council flew up a white flag and begged for an audience.

Upon the Bridge of Progress, Janna stood mighty, if not unproud of her destruction, and yet resolute in her decision. She was done watching the mindless cruelty and violence to her people and would be ruling over them from then on.

An accord was struck that day.

Zaun would be its own nation from then on, and Piltover would pay compensation to the people for their negligence, in the form of money, technology, healthcare, and education.

An accord, that Piltover had no other choice but to agree to.

And this is how we come to Zaun today, under Janna's rule.

A city crushed by oppression and poverty, now turned metropolis of renewed vigor and spirit.

Zaun has transformed within the past seventy years into a technological paradise, built of off science and magic.

Its once toxic air has been dissipated by the trees that now grow within and upon every building, sustained by the HexTech-empowered artificial sun bolted to the cavern ceiling, and scheduled rainy days using the sprinkler system stretched out throughout the city. Water filtration has drastically improved drinkable water, and botany has become an essential subject in every school.

Zaun is now the cultural hotspot in Runeterra, with many coming from all over the world to visit or call Zaun its home.

You'll now find many cultures thriving within the city, as well as old structures standing proud against the tides of time.

One such building is a bar/pub called The Last Drop.

Religions of all caliber operate in Zaun, but none hold a candle to the temples of the Wind Goddess.

Mages with elemental talent, are often in high demand as they assist in the evironmental stability of the city.

And although Enforcers do still operate within the city, their presence holds neither respect nor true authority. Many Zaunites will opt to seek the services of private security firms, such as The Eye Of Zaun or the newly formed Firelights flying through the city on their chem tech-powered hoverboards; invented by 15-year-old Ekko Bennet in 2015, making him one of Zaun's first adolescent millionaires.

However, Enforcers have been reported to tiptoe on the boundaries of the two cities accordance.

With reports of Zaun civilians being killed just on the outskirts of the city, and more than a few being assaulted and/or killed within back alleys of Zaun. It is not difficult to discern what is happening.

The Enforcers are either trying to return to their old ways, or someone is looking to profit of off a potential war.

Either way, Zaun will be ready for what comes at it.

It vows to not wait for their gentle Goddess to bloody her hands again for them, they are the warriors who built this town.

[rqgnarok]

“You think you did me a favor?” he demands, jamming his finger into Tommy’s chest. He's flushed and furious; so, so beautiful and no longer Tommy's. “And for what? For fucks's sake, Tom, what the fuck for?”

Tommy swallows, throat dry. “Buck-” he tries.

Evan flinches as if Tommy had spat in his face, fury flickering to hurt back to righteous anger in tbe matter of a second or two. Tommy feels moments away from vomiting into the pavement. Evan's hands grab the collar of his turnouts and push, that unstoppable force Tommy had chased after when they first met.

He finds himself slammed against the nearest surface, the 118’s truck with Evan's breath spelling morse codes against his jaw, his eyes a brand the shade of the sea caught in a storm.

“Don't-” he begins, cutting himself off. He's shaking, Tommy realizes mid numbness, and suddenly pale. Tommy might not be the only one about to be sick. “That’s not- you, you know that's not-”

“Guys,” Bobby appears from behind the truck and sounds blank enough to fake ignorance,but Tommy worked with him long enough to recognize the thread of warning in his voice, the authority of his posture. “Everything good here?”

Evan lets go of him like the fire's in Tommy's chest and notin the crumbling two-story behind them. He refuses to even side eye the general direction of Tommy’s baffled face as he assures his captain of a professionalism he suddenly wears like a mask, going from desperate to blank in a flash.