#the city between is like.... spare content? anyone have spare content?

[vamppeach]

it might be recency bias but that athelas fic is one of my favorite things I've ever written . for a fanom of like, 2. i am god's favorite fool

[seosracha]

──── Room 69 , sim jaeyun

⸻ Room Sixty-Nine, where love is made

SYNOPSIS ⸻ As your parents' company fails to outperform others, you find yourself in the midst of a new financial situation and on the search for a new apartment. The roommate you stumble upon has no intentions of getting to know you better and well- you wonder how long it'll take until he fucks you.

PAIRING ⸻ roommate!jake x fem!reader

GENRE ⸻ strangers to lovers, smut

TAGS ⸻ smoking, foul language/cursing, jake is weird and stalkerish?, making out, dom!jake, oral sex (m. receiving), degrading, unprotected sex, creampie

WC ⸻ 7k

⸻ NSFW CONTENT UNDER CUT, MINORS DNI. this is purely fiction made for entertainment purposes only. do not like= don't read.

You were broke. Triple digits that usually decorated your bank account slowly turned into double digits, as you tried to endure the new reality. It was hard to let go of your usual habits, spending money like it had absolutely no value, living a lavish life and going out every Friday. Now, you had to count every penny. Instead of purchasing a basket load of expensive fruit and drinks, you were forced to reach for the cheapest bread and milk in order to survive. 

Maybe you were exaggerating. Your parents' company hadn't gone completely bankrupt, yet. The technology department, which brought in the most profit, had endured a sudden decline due to a new company, which had stolen all their clients. Maybe they were exaggerating too, the other four departments running just fine. 

Even with that, they had decided it would be best if you gave up your expensive apartment and spending mania. You would live without spending such amounts monthly, but you definitely wouldn't survive without your city view apartment. 

Since you were little you dreamt of moving out, and living in one of those high up buildings only the richest could afford. And upon viewing the apartment for the first time it was everything you had imagined. Down to the spruce wood kitchen and bottle green tiles in the bathroom. 

But here you were, intensely searching through apartment listings, hoping to find something equally nice for a good price. 

You had hoped your best-friend, Minjeong would offer you to move in with her, knowing she had a spare room in her apartment not far away from your own, but her boyfriend's move in had crushed that desire to the ground. 

You didn't want to let the thought sink in, but you knew you’d have to get a roommate. You knew that was the only solution for your poor financial situation. Unfortunately for you, any of your friends that were potential roommate material, either lived with their parents still or weren't looking to share a place with anyone. 

You had honestly put off the search for a long time, hoping you’d soon get a call from your parents saying they had finally given up on this stupid idea of cutting your monthly budget in half, but it never happened. 

One offer caught your attention, the monthly rent wasn't too bad, allowing you to still live comfortably, the deposit was also doable, and the room was just fine. 

With a few clicks, a message chain between you and your hopefully new leasing agent had formed. You prayed the offer was still available, slowly warming up to the place, analyzing every detail about the apartment through the numerous pictures attached to the advert. 

Soon enough, the generous and kind Mister Choi Jaeyoung had responded with a short confirmation and a list of information regarding his availability and precise location of the complex. You had agreed on a short tour of the apartment, but by now you had already memorized every corner. You’d probably give him a better tour of that place at this point than he could. 

“This would be your room” he pointed with his hand, gesturing you to enter the space to look around. 

It was even better in real life, the sun shined brightly through the large window, and the closet was bigger than you expected. Obviously, it was nothing compared to your high ceiling bedroom that included a bathroom and medium sized wardrobe, but still it satisfied you enough to sign all the papers your new leasing agent threw at you. 

“That room, right there” he said looking up to the closed door “-is your roommate's, Jake’s, room” he said, and you nodded. 

“Is he here?” you asked, hoping to meet him. 

You wondered why the boy hadn't come out by now in order to introduce himself to you. I mean, you two were going to be living with each other for a long time, it would be nice to at least see what kind of man he was. 

“I don't think so. Even if he is, I wouldn't recommend bothering him” he answered, and you tilted your head, confused. 

“Why? Don’t tell me he’s like fucked in the head or something” you cursed yourself for the choice of words. 

The older man laughed “No, Jake is a nice guy, but I reckon he’s just a little more on the introverted side. He treasures his peace more than anything, let’s say it like that” 

“I think I can respect that,” you smiled. 

“There was someone here before you, but he was definitely a talkative person, and I guess he didn't like the fact that Jake wasn't,” Jaeyoung added, and you nodded. 

“That really isn't a good enough reason to move out” you laughed lightly and so did the man beside you. 

You felt a bit uneasy at his words. Was Jake really that bad? Obviously your leasing agent, who was too nice for his own good, wouldn't admit to Jake being a complete lunatic with a fucked up sleep schedule, or something even worse than that. But the place was pretty tidy, it calmed your mind a little bit. 

“With that being said, you can move in as soon as you’d like. If you need any help with moving your belongings, I’d be more than happy to help you find a nice moving company. You really can't trust people with your stuff these days” he smiled kindly and you thanked him for the tour. 

You guessed you’d have to figure out your mysterious roommate on your own. 

_____ 

It had been a week since you moved in. A whole seven days had passed, and you haven't even seen his face. 

You hoped that maybe he’d offer you a helping hand with all the moving boxes, and furniture, but Jake didn't even bother to come out of his room the day of your move in. 

You knew he was there. You had passed by his room, hearing a quiet melody coming from his room or an indecipherable chatter. You considered knocking, introducing yourself, but the words of your landlord kept ringing in your ears, keeping you away from that door. 

“Isn't he going to like, help us?” Minjeong mumbled, wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead. 

She had been helping you move everything in since 9AM, and Jake hadn't even budged. You were debating asking him instead of Minjeong, finally getting a chance to let yourself be known to him, but then again you knew he’d decline, or worse, not give you an answer at all. 

“Doesn’t he need to use the toilet? Or eat?” Minjeong asked, sitting down on your bed, the two of you struggled to build. “A real man should have made an initiative to help, and build this furniture” she added, looking around at the still boxed up closet and desk. 

Sizing down your living space also meant getting rid of your ridiculously large furniture, that had absolutely no right fitting into this small room. Then again, it was great to use some of the pieces as bribery, you knew Minjeong would never agree to do this for free. 

“I don’t care, but it is kinda creepy” you said, sitting down on the chair next to your dresser. 

You weren’t alone, but that’s what it felt like. You wondered what he looked like. You had looked him up on Instagram, Tiktok, even Facebook, but none of the profiles under his name matched the information you had about him. 

“It is! What if he’s like a 40 year old creep that lurks in these areas of town cause he knows this is where most students live” she inquired, and it made you feel uneasy. The story sounded plausible, and that’s when you felt like going into his room ��by accident’ just to see him would be the best idea. 

“Don’t say that, you’re freaking me out” you said, and she laughed lightly. It was unlikely, to be completely realistic, but you could never truly know until you saw him. 

“If he turns out to be weird, you can always stay with me” she reassured, walking over to the mirror. 

“And listen to Heeseung getting his dick wet all night long? Yeah, no thank you” you half smiled, and she laughed. 

“Better than a 40 year old pervert” she pointed out, and you were forced to agree with the girl. 

Minjeong sighed turning to you “I swear I’m going to knock on his door myself if you don’t do it” 

You shook your head. You’d rather torture yourself with all the things that were yet to be done, than reach out to Jake. 

“You know what my landlord said, he could kill me in my sleep if I bother him” you warned, and she sighed once again, her gaze falling on the numerous boxes. 

“I have to leave soon, are you seriously going to do all this by yourself?” she asked, and you nodded with a sad expression on your face “You should ask Jay to help you” she grinned evilly. 

You chuckled “We’re not that close” 

“Oh c’mon, I’m not telling you to have sex with him on your precious newly built bed, just ask him for a little help. Have you seen his muscles, he can take all these boxes at once” she said, and you hid your face in your hands, smiling “And stop acting like you don’t want him. You can’t hide anything from me” 

Jay was hot. Really fucking hot. He was tall, well proportioned with long legs and a muscular torso. He carried himself so well, with a style that was so different, and a captivating face. He was also a well known frat boy and stoner, but you didn’t mind, it wasn’t anything unusual. One of the things Jay liked about you is that you weren’t naive- he knew he wasn’t the only one you were fucking around with, and you knew you weren’t his only girl. 

“I can handle it, don’t worry” 

Minjeong had left, leaving you alone with all the unmade furniture, unpacked boxes and thoughts regarding your roommate. 

What if he truly was a 40 year old, unemployed man who earns all his money from his parents? 

Or a discord mod, who has awful posture, and a dent in his head from the constant use of headphones? 

But then again, you saw the food in the fridge, he had already cleared up two shelves for you, but his own contained a healthy variety of food, which calmed your mind in some way. The same went for the bathroom, it was clean, all his things were organized, and the products he used seemed to be those a rather younger person would use. 

His music taste also contradicted all your suspicions and theories. You noted that he listened to a lot of RnB, and from time to time he’d play some rap or hip hop. 

That’s how your first week went by, analyzing every detail, and attempting to listen in on any conversations he’d have, just to finally get an idea of who your secretive roommate was. 

On friday you came back from your pilates class, something you refused to give up, crying in front of your parents to let you have at least one thing. They were reluctant, but gave in sooner than you thought they would. 

You were extremely spoiled, and there was no point in denying it. You were raised that way, and you found peace in using that as an excuse for your behavior. 

Some part of you was expecting to catch Jake in the bathroom or kitchen, hoping you’d finally get to speak to him but the only thing of his that you came home to was a handwritten note with numerous household rules. 

It made you laugh. It’s not like he was paying more than you, but still he thought he had any right to boss you around in your own place. And his handwriting- it was awful. No matter how serious you tried to take the note, it felt like you were trying to decipher ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. 

Some of them were reasonable, cleaning up after yourself in the kitchen, keeping the bathroom tidy, and doing your own laundry- all of it was understandable and something you already had been doing. 

No smoking was something you could agree to, you didn’t really do it anyways so it didn’t bother you much. The same went for no music after 11PM. 

You couldn’t help but laugh at the “no having friends over” point on his long list. It was insane, especially since he had a friend over just two nights ago. You had no idea why you were the only one not allowed to bring friends over, wondering if maybe you had to ‘earn it’, or if it was because you were a girl. 

There was absolutely no way you were going to comply with any of these. 

_______ 

On a Tuesday morning you woke up later than usual. The only reason for that was a previous cancellation of your anatomy class. 

No matter how spoiled and entitled you felt, you’d never allow yourself to miss class or fail an assignment or exam. Being a model student was something your father engraved in you from a young age, sending you to expensive boarding schools and making sure you get into a good university. 

You wondered if Jake had left for class already, or for work. Not like you knew what he was doing in life anyway. 

You opened your phone to an excited text message chain from Minjeong who expressed her excitement after a steamy and long night with Heeseung. A small smile surfaced on your face as you texted back her with a simple reply. 

You were afraid to leave your room. It was stupid, this was your place and you had every right in the world to go and make yourself fucking breakfast. But the impression Jake made on you was holding you back. You wondered how he managed to avoid you every single time, how you never were able to catch him leaving the bathroom or making a dish in the kitchen. That definitely took a lot of skill and starving on his side. 

It was pathetic, the more you thought about it. You were his roomate for fucks sake, not a serial killer who was just waiting to slash his head off. You two didn't have to be friends, you never expected that of him or anyone else you were going to move in with. But a short greeting would be nice. 

After a short call with Minjeong who pulled you back to reality, with a stern voice convincing you that Jake probably wasn't in the apartment anyway. 

“If you're going to behave like this, you should start looking for a new apartment” Minjeong said, and you thought about it for a second. 

Maybe she was right, but the thought of him scared you so much to the point that you would rather starve yourself than leave the room. 

The first week you purposely did things to catch him in action, get him to finally talk to you, and that slowly faded into you not even wanting to pass by him in the hallway. 

“Fuck Y/n, seriously he’s probably some incel loser who’s afraid to look a woman in the eye” you laughed at her comment, silently agreeing “I can come over and make food with you if that’s going to make you feel safer” she said, and you instantly were reminded of his set of rules and regulations. 

“Can’t. He doesn't allow friends over” you answered and she scoffed loudly. 

“So you did speak to him?” she said, still in disbelief. 

“No, not at all. This stupid prick left a note on my desk when I was out, 30 fucking rules and most of them seemingly only apply to me. He had a friend over just 4 nights ago!” you answered angrily, and she sighed. 

“You should move out of there, seriously. If not that, then purposely piss him off until he moves out” she inquired, and it birthed a whole bundle of ideas in your head. 

Maybe that was your solution. Purposely pissing him off and going against his crazy rules, forcing him to move out before you were forced to do it. 

“That’s a good idea, I like it” you answered, and she cooed excitedly. 

“Invite Jay and fuck so loud he’ll be slamming doors” she said, and you were quick to hush her, embarrassed by her ideas. 

“I gotta go make a mess in the kitchen then” you remembered one of the early points on the list, bidding her a quick farwell and ending the call. 

She had already convinced you that Jake wasn't in the apartment, so you didn't even bother getting dressed, just slightly adjusting your underwear and strapless top. 

It really felt like you were living alone most of the time so none of the habits you picked up on while living alone had the chance to vanish. 

You slowly open the door with a quiet creek to the floor boards and leave the room, your face in your phone as you checked all the notifications that bundled up overnight. 

You weren't expecting your first meeting with Jake to look like this, but there he was in all his glory. 

He must've thought the same thing- you shouldn't be here at this hour- a single pair of boxers keeping him away from standing fully nude in front of you. 

You didn't even know the man's last name but here you were standing practically naked in front of each other. Maybe you’d be more frightened if he wasn't so fucking hot. 

His skin was slightly tanned, shoulders broad with toned forearms. He had a tiny, slutty waist- if you knew he wanted it too you’d probably fuck him right there in that kitchen. His face was even better, big doe eyes and a shaped jawline. His black hair slightly covered his face, but you could still make out all of his features. 

All the fears you had completely vanished, a new disgusting arrangement of thoughts taking over your mind as you tried to speak to the man in front of you. 

“I’m s-sorry” you quickly said, covering your eyes. 

It had only been a couple seconds since your eyes met him in this awkward situation, but it felt like you’ve been staring at him much longer. 

He didn't even bother to reply, closing the fridge with a protein drink in hand, he passed by you like you weren't even there. You watched him enter his room and close the door with a thud. 

Was this seriously all of it? You had hoped he was just a little shy, waiting for an opportunity to greet you properly whenever you had the chance to pass by each other, but he obviously wasn't interested in getting to know you. 

But how could you possibly not want to get to know him when he was so breathtakingly hot. How could you possibly stay sane knowing you're living with a David reincarnate. 

You no longer planned on playing the ‘how long until he finally speaks to me’ game, preferring to see how long it’ll take for him to fuck you. 

______________

After that day you hadn't seen Jake at all. 

You heard him occasionally laugh with his friend who seemingly had the right to come over every day, or rage at a game but that was it. He once again opted to ignore you. 

You wondered if he was thinking about you too. You couldn't possibly get him out of your head, spending a little more time in the common rooms, hoping he would finally walk out of his room. 

Was he playing hard to get or was he just a fucking sick antisocial weirdo with no interest in real life women at all. 

You had spoken to Minjeong, the girl convincing you to do something that’ll rile him up. She had finally persuaded you to invite someone over, specifically Jay, in hopes that it will piss off Jake enough to get him to speak. 

“I know him from university, he’s an engineering major” Jay said, taking a hit from the freshly rolled blunt. 

The smell of weed spread across the area, and you secretly hoped Jake could feel it seeping in through the cracks of his door. 

“What’s he like?” you asked, inhaling the smoke as he held out the blunt for you in his fingers. 

He smiled “Fucking weird. Like he doesn't talk or anything, he just hangs out around the same people all the time” 

Jay pulled you closer, blowing the smoke into your mouth, and you obeyed, inhaling the rest. He gave you a sly smile, and finally put out what was left of the blunt. 

You didn't know what was between you and Jay, but until you get Jake to notice your true intentions towards him or even speak to you, he was a good option 

“That checks out” you chuckled, shaking your head “Look at this” you opened your drawer, pulling out the paper your roommate had left you. 

You handed it to him, as he read through all the rules. He laughed and with wide eyes kept looking through it. 

“Fuck, I need Sunghoon to see this” he laughed, taking a picture of it “Already broke two rules” he smirked and handed the list back to you. 

“Not stopping there, trust me” you smiled and put it back in your desk drawer. 

He smiled evilly, and pulled you back over to sit on his lap. You complied with a sly smile, and pressed your face against his chest, Jay softly caressing your back. 

“You should move far away from this freak, seriously” he says, and you can’t help but hum in agreement. 

If you chose to disagree, Jay would start asking too many unnecessary questions you truly had no answer to. You couldn't even tell yourself why after seeing him only once, you wanted the man to dick you down so bad. 

“And live on the street? No thank you” you replied, your voice muffled by the material of Jay’s sweater. 

He chuckled “You can move in with me” 

“The streets sound much better than living with 4 sweaty frat boys in one room” you replied, and he huffed. 

“We’re not frat boys, c’mon” you scoffed at his words. 

“Stoners, frat boys, fuckboys, whatever, same thing” you count and he just rolls his eyes playfully. 

Jay’s delicate touch and sweet voice almost stopped you from hearing Jake’s angry footsteps in the hallway. 

The chance had finally come, and you were forced to ignore it. 

The sound of his footsteps kept ringing in your ears as Jay told you something about having to leave soon to do a drop. You barely listened to him, wondering what Jake was thinking about, probably already noticing you were not alone. 

The vibrating sound of Jay’s phone knocked you out of your trance, forcing you to rise from his embrace, passing him the device. 

“Yeah yeah, I’ll be there in a minute. I’m around the area” he replied, and lazily standing up with a stumble to his feet, he stretched and turned to you “Sorry, pretty thing. Gotta go” he gave you a half smile, and you nodded your head, trying to refocus on what’s going on behind your closed door. 

You walked him downstairs to the door, and with a chaste kiss to your forehead, he sprinted towards the subway station. You smiled, your eyes chasing his figure until he finally disappeared around the corner. 

Opening the door to your apartment once again you hoped that Jake would still be rummaging around the hallways. 

And you were right, he fell right into your trap. He was waiting there for you. 

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, and his voice was deep. It was a little raspy, probably from the way he’s screaming his lungs out playing games all night. 

His face was dark, and figure was lean. He looked a little creepy, his back blocking all the light, his body casting a shadow onto your figure. 

You wanted to smile, but decided to keep it cool “No hello, or goodmorning?” you asked, tilting your head with a sly smile. 

He looked like he was about to explode, and you liked it more than you thought you would. 

“Oh you wanna be like that? I fucking told you, loud and clear, that there were no guests allowed around here. Didn’t get through your head the first time, did it?” he groaned. 

“I’ve been here for 2 fucking weeks, and you haven’t even bothered to introduce yourself to me. You can seriously fuck off, and shove those rules up your ass while your at it” you replied, turning your back to him, heading towards your room. 

He grabbed your wrist, pushing you to the wall “You listen to me, yeah? So don’t fucking try to invite anyone over again” he said, harshly letting go off you, and without letting you finish, walked back to his room with a slam to his door. 

You were left there stunned in the hallway. Although you knew Jake wasn’t normal, you never expected him to be this fucked up. 

And you also didn’t expect it to turn you on so much. 

_______________ 

Once again, you haven’t seen Jake around. 

He must have been extra cautious to ignore you especially after your previous incident. 

You hadn’t even heard him play his usual loud and obnoxious music anymore or him raging at his games. No one has come over since then either. You couldn’t understand why Jay coming over bothered him so much to the point where he changed up his whole routine, choosing to take on a rather silent stance. 

But he wasn’t here today. 

For the first time in 3 weeks, you were there for his absence in the apartment, and you knew exactly what you wanted to do. 

You wanted to finally see what his own space looked like. 

Maybe in the slightest way it would help you figure out the type of person he is, maybe you’d find something that’d help you understand why he is the way he is. 

You double checked, making sure that psycho wasn’t hiding somewhere, hoping he’d catch you in the act. But when you checked every possible spot, you quietly and slowly opened the door to his room, steadily taking in the space that was unveiled in front of you. 

Cream walls, gray curtains, a cheap wooden bed frame, no posters, pictures or plants, you truly expected something more, but there was no personality to the boys room. 

In some way that answered a handful of your questions about him; he just had nothing to himself. He was just a simple boy with a fucked up character and greasy keyboard. 

His desk was messy, a mixture of textbooks, used up tissues and a half-empty lotion, crumpled up pieces of paper and cables. Yet through the mess you managed to notice a note, your name written in capitals on the top of it. 

And well, a scrunched up, stained pair of your light pink, lacy panties. They were abandoned in the middle of all the tissues he disgustingly didn’t get rid of yet. 

Just when you thought he couldn’t get weirder, he somehow did. 

“There is no fucking way” you whispered to yourself, your mouth parted and eyes wide. 

You looked back and forth between the paper and your underwear, eventually grabbing at the note, narrowing your eyes as you began to read the contents. 

You skimmed through the bullet points; your full schedule written down on the paper with almost exact numbers as to when you leave and when you come back. These were the things you didn’t even know yourself. 

“You think about me a lot don’t you, Jakey” you murmured with an evil grin, not forgetting to snap a picture of it and send it to Minjeong. 

You decide to leave the now useless fabric where you found it, also deciding to leave it out of the conversation with your best friend. She had already freaked out over the schedule and if she found out your crazy roommate is also jerking off using your dirty laundry, she wouldn't waste a second moving all your things into her apartment personally. 

She replied swiftly, an arrangement of emojis decorating your home screen and a “WHAT THE FUCK, CALL ME ASAP?”. You smiled and put all his things back in place, leaving the horrid space Jake created for himself. 

“Hello? Y/n?” Minjeongs voice ringed in your ears as you called the girl. 

You decided to spend some time in the living room, waiting for Jake’s return. Your eyes were constantly plastered on the door in the end of the hallway, ears listening in for a turn of the key. 

“Yeah, I’m here” you laughed lightly, and that’s when Minjeong got her confirmation to start her full on blowout. 

“Move out of there as soon as possible, girl. That man is dangerous, I swear to god” she half screamed, and you just chuckled “You’re laughing? This doesn’t scare you, like at all?” she asked, and you thought about a reasonable reply, cause ‘He’s hot’ was definitely not going to make the cut for your best friend. 

“I can’t afford anything else Minjeong, you know that. He doesn’t bother me that much, it’s okay” you said in an attempt to calm the girl down. 

“I told you, you can come stay with me” she said calmly, and you let a stray breath out. 

“Min you know I love you, but I already told you I do not want to hear you banging Heeseung every other night” you smiled even though she couldn’t see you. 

“Personally, I’d rather listen to pornhub recreations than live under the same roof with a potential stalker” she said, and you laughed. At least she knew about her problem. 

“He’s not a stalker Min, he’s just weird. That’s all” you replied and she sighed. 

“You can’t fix him, Y/n” she said, and you scoffed playfully. 

“You can wait and see” you told her and she just hummed. 

“Before that happens, you'll be six feet under” she said, and you couldn’t help but laugh at her overprotectiveness

The topic slowly faded when the seriousness turned into playful banter, the two of you discussing random topics and gossiping about every possible person that ever graced your campus. 

You didn’t leave the living room, not once, because according to Jake's precious and impressive schedule, you should be out now. Normally that would be true if not for the cancellation of your pilates class. Self-cancellation. 

As the keys turning and metal hitting the wooden door sound through the apartment, you hang up without further explanation, quietly running off to your room. 

If you stayed in the living room, upon noticing you, he'd practically bolt to his room, locking the door, once again, avoiding you. You were smarter than that. 

As soon as you heard him settle down, the sound of your old fridge being opened, and his quiet footsteps pacing around the kitchen, you pulled out your phone, the picture of his note staring back at you. You smile mischievously, phone in hand as you open the door, heading straight towards the kitchen, 

He looks slightly taken-aback and you know damn well why. He wasn't expecting you. You shouldn't be here for another 30 minutes- the perfect amount of time for him to shower and make dinner. He had precisely calculated all of this just so he could avoid useless encounters with you. 

“What is this?” your voice is taunting as he realizes what's displayed on your screen. 

All the blood drained from his face as he realized you entered his room and looked through all his things, possibly even read all the perverted thoughts he had about you that were scattered across his desk in the form of crumpled pieces of paper. He remembers exactly what he took from your dirty laundry basket and how much he enjoyed having the fabric wrapped around his thick shaft. 

“You went through my things ?” he asks, voice laced with anger as the reality of the situation comes down on him.   

You bark out a laugh, amused by his attempts to shift the blame on you “Oh and my panties, you can keep those. Hope they milk your short dick good” you smirk, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, the look of confidence on your face. 

Jake's expression darkens, a cruel grin twisting his lips as he moves closer to you, his face inches away from yours “You think you're so fucking clever, don't you? Going through my things, catching me in a little indiscretion and using it against me. Impressive” his voice is low as he laughs in your face. 

One of his hands moves to grip your chin, the look on his face menacing as he forces you to maintain eye contact “You're nothing but an entitled brat. I'm not some fucking pushover and you should know that by now. Weren't those rules enough? You just had to go and invade my privacy to feed your little ego. You knew what you’d find, didn't you?” he stares down at you intensely, his grip on your chin tightening, his thumb slowly brushing over your lower lip, his smile growing as he notices your silence. 

“Here's what will happen, okay? You’ll apologize for breaking my rules, send all your guests packing as soon as they show up on this doorstep, and we’ll never have this conversation again. You'll be a good little girl and listen to me from now on” he murmurs, his voice low as he trails his fingers along your jawline. 

“You look so hot when you get mad like this, Jakey” he looks caught off guard for a moment, before the low and seductive laugh parts his lips. 

“You think so?” he leans in closer, his breath hot on your skin, his voice down to a whisper as he continues “Then maybe we should put that dumb fucking mouth of yours to use and I'll show you just how hot I can get” 

A smirk spreads across Jake's face as his hands move down to grope your behind, giving it a firm squeeze, chuckling at your reaction. 

He moves to settle down at the edge of the couch, stripping off his shirt, presenting you with the view you’ve missed way more than you thought you did. His chiseled torso glistens under the lights, his belt buckle clinking as he undoes his pants, pushing them down. The fabric falls down to the floor almost instantly. 

He watches you intently as you smile up at him, his fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers, his movements slow and tantalizing. 

You’re enjoying this and he knows it too, watching from the way you slide down to your knees in front of him. 

“I knew you'd like this. Is this what you wanted?” he teases, his gaze never leaving yours as he watches your desperate pleas. 

When you nod, he laughs softly, finally pushing down his boxers, freeing his rigid erection “Show me how much you wanted it” 

He grips the base of his shaft, giving it a few slow strokes as he watches you, waiting for you to take him into your mouth. 

You grin at his heat and hardness, your fingers wrapping around his length. He pulses in your grasp, begging to fill your throat. You lean in, your gaze locked on his, running your tongue from base to tip, savoring the bitter taste of his precum. 

You slowly take him into your mouth, your lips stretching as you push his length further down your throat. You bob your head, the determination to bring him pleasure coursing through your veins. 

As your wet mouth accommodates his thick cock, a strangled groan escapes his lips “Yeah, fuck, don’t stop” 

His fingers thread through your hair, pushing you further down his shaft. He guides you as the sensation of your tongue around his sensitive tip brings him over the edge, his knees weak as he shakes with pleasure. 

“Keep going, suck me off good” he moans, his mouth parted as he continues to guide your head down his throbbing cock. 

As you pick up speed, your movements harder and faster, he can feel his body begging for release, the orgasm building in his stomach. 

He can barely keep his eyes open as he speaks, his voice strained “Fuck, I’m close" his heartbeat quickens "Gonna cum so hard down your throat you’ll never want to go against me again” 

His hips buck, as he tries to savor the last moments before his awaited release. With a hoarse cry, he loses himself in the feeling, spilling himself deep into your throat. 

His grip on your hair loosens, his eyes rolling back with pleasure “Swallow” he commands, his body shaking as he rides out his climax. 

With a contented hum, you comply, lapping up the last drops of his seed, the salty flavour coating your mouth. The rest of his release, mixed with your spit, coats your glistening lips, as you remove yourself off him. 

Jake watches you lick your lips before pulling you into a bruising kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His tongue moves along your mouth, his hands sliding up your shirt, his fingers stroking the smooth skin of your stomach. 

“Strip” he says, pulling away, watching you with an evil grin. 

As he watches you slowly and teasingly remove your thin shirt and shorts, his hand begins to slowly stroke his cock back to hardness, smearing the ramints of his own release and your saliva along his thick shaft. 

He sits down on plush comforters of the couch, tapping his lap for you. His body presses against you as you straddle his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“So pretty” he whispers, locking his eyes on you as he watches you subtly grind your hips on top of him. 

He pulls your head back, exposing you bare throat, his lips leaving a trail of bites and bruises on his way down to your collarbone. 

A soft gasp escapes your lips as you feel his wet lips on you “I need more” 

He smiles at your words “I’ll fuck you so good the only rule you’ll remember is how nice it is when you submit to me” 

Jake swiftly moves you down onto the cushions, his body looming over you as his hungry eyes wander over your body. His lips meet yours again, his hardness grinding against your wet core. 

He uses your wet slick as a lubricant, his cock sliding against your folds as he hisses at the sensation. 

“I fucked myself to the thought of you every night” his voice is rough with barley restrained lust as he notches himself at your entrance “Wanted to bury myself in this little cunt for so long” 

With a powerful thrust of his hips, Jake sheathes himself fully inside you, groaning as your tight heat elopes him. You breath out in ecstasy as he fills you completely, your inner walls clenching tightly around his thick length. 

Your back arches off the couch, as you hold onto his forearm, your nails digging into his skin “Shit, Jake. So fucking good” 

You start rolling your hips, meeting his every stroke, the sound of skin slapping against skin and loud gasps fill the once quiet apartment. 

Encouraged by your wanton pleas, his thrusts become erratic, hitting deep and hard. He pounds into you with a wild force, pressing you down in place, taking the pleasure from your willing body. 

“That’s right, take it all” he holds onto your hips, slamming you onto his length. 

You can’t even bother to reply to his comments, writhing beneath him as he uses your body for his own gratification. Each of his brutal movements sends you further over the edge, his pace almost demonic as your nails dig into his back, leaving red scratches along the surface. 

Jake feeling your trembling thighs and the way you clench around him, smiles evilly, slamming into you with precision, grinding his pelvis against your clit. 

“Cum on my cock” he speaks, his voice dark “Milk me for all I’m worth” 

With a piercing whine, you come undone under his dripping body, the orgasm crashing down on you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as with heavy pants, you ride out your intense climax. 

The feeling of your release and the sound of your name falling breathlessly from your lips, proves too much for him to handle “Gonna cum so fucking deep inside you” 

With a low, guttural moan Jake presses himself deep inside you one last time, and finds his own release, pumping his hot, thick cum directly into you. 

He finally collapses on top of you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he comes down from his own, intense orgasm. Jake lies down next to you, your damp body sticking to his, as he threads his fingers through your hair. 

“Don’t go through my shit again, Y/n” he whispers, biting down on your earlobe. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 11: Westchester]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, illness/death/hospital stuff, a Targ family gathering!

Word count: 6.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

In the darkness of your nightscape bedroom—plumes of neon and incandescence floating beyond the window like man-made stars—you read Becca’s Instagram posts and blog entries about how brave Aegon has been in the wake of his diagnosis, and between the lines of course is her courage too: the caretaker, the self-sacrificial curator, the saintly hands his demise has been entrusted into, his long slow disintegration until only the bones are left, no memories, no dreams, no future and no past.

The last weeks of August float away like a balloon, carried high and quick into a sky that is dizzyingly hot and so bright it stings the eyes. On sidewalks, you hide under the shade of palm trees. On lunch dates with Chloe—running lines, trying perplexing new foods like escargot and sea urchin, giggling over celebrity gossip—you ask for tables inside or under the refuge of patio umbrellas. Each night in your apartment that Aegon now pays your half of the rent for, religiously deposited in your bank account by Brandon at a least one full week before it’s due, you lie in the bathtub reading the movie script or books on the Gilded Age until the water turns lukewarm and steam glistens on your skin; and into these infinitesimal black-ink worlds you disappear, a new name, a distant time, a different man who has stitched himself to you with dissolving threads.

Now you are in Chinatown with Aegon, and the ember-colored oscars are murderous and darting back and forth as he skims his fingers across the top of the tank, and you have devoured your moo goo gai pan but Aegon has barely touched his boneless spare ribs. His is listless and distracted. Strands of sandy blonde hair are falling out of their gel to rest across his forehead. There are dark shadows like smudges of ash under his eyes. Your own eyes are adorned with shimmering dusty rose powder to match your sundress, three shades blended together, all by Urban Decay: Liar, Stolen, Right Time.

“I really think you should see a doctor,” you tell Aegon, not for the first time.

“I might,” he says absently, still tormenting the oscars.

“It can only help at this point. They could confirm the diagnosis and get you on a treatment plan. I’ve been researching it and there are drugs that suppress tremors, and physical therapy, and antidepressants...and oh, these things called ‘dopamine agonists’ that are good for motor functions...and they even have Huntington’s support groups!”

Aegon sighs.

“If you make an appointment, I’ll go with you,” you say. “Any day, any time, I don’t care, I’ll go. I’ll reschedule whatever else I have on my calendar.” Workouts with your personal trainer, meetings with your dialect coach, calls with Dusty or Santi or anyone else from the film, outings with Chloe, a life that is growing abundant and bright like a full moon.

“Maybe.” Then Aegon studies his Chinese zodiac calendar, an attempt to change the subject. And you’ll let him; you don’t want to spend the time you have left arguing. “What year were you born?” he asks, as if you’ve never had this conversation before. “Which animals is yours?”

And instead of being offended, frustrated, startled, you just force a smile and hold up your hands in the shape of claws. “I’m a dragon, Aegon.”

He leans in close to read the description: You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. Then he laughs. “Oh yeah, of course you are. Sounds just like you.”

“And you’re a horse.”

“Do you like horses?”

“I like one,” you say, and Aegon grins and offers you a forkful of his boneless spare ribs, dripping viscous red sauce like bad blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, August 30th, and the wedding is exactly one week away. The Targaryens are throwing a bon voyage party for Aegon at their Malibu beach house, something planned a month in advance, although it has a certain somberness to it now. Alicent keeps dabbing at her large dark eyes with a green handkerchief, collecting herself, crumpling into tears again. Guests are murmuring gravely about their vague, archaic memories of Viserys: Saw him in a wheelchair a few times...then he just disappeared...never really asked...a Hollywood legend like that...wanted to respect his privacy...such a lovely family...how awful they’re going through this all over again.

Aegon has dispatched Becca to ready the new house in Houston, a project that she is posting about on Instagram with great frequency and euphoric triumph; she has been given a vital task. If she suspects his true motivations for wanting her two time zones and 1,500 miles away, she gives no indications of it. In Becca’s absence—and much to your own surprise—you are Aegon’s plus one on this hot, golden afternoon as salt-smelling wind blows in off the Pacific Ocean and children splash in the pool.

As your floral yellow sundress billows and the breeze tangles your hair, you smile and chat with the series of guests that Aegon introduces you to, distant relatives, industry people, the new agent he keeps trying to offload you onto, a bookish young woman named Kristen who is perfectly polite and surely very knowledgeable and yet not the one you want. Kristen didn’t agree to sign you when no one else would. Kristen didn’t put her knuckles into the wall of a Beverly Hills mansion for you.

Several of the party guests recognize you from the Maroon 5 music video and congratulate you on your starring role in your upcoming indie movie, which has just been publicly announced. Each time the conversation drifts towards Aegon—his misfortunate diagnosis, his exodus to Texas—he steers it back to you. He doesn’t want to talk about himself, of course, or his situation, or the fate that awaits him in Houston, and that’s part of it; but he’s also proud of you. He’s taking full advantage of one of his last chances to advocate for you. He’s going down swinging.

Now Aegon is eating hors d’oeuvres with his other recent clients, Steve, Fatima, and Angus, all of whom have found new agents with Aegon’s assistance, and you are sitting on the ledge of the swimming pool with the hem of your dress tucked under your thighs and your legs submerged to the knees. Helaena has children, which isn’t something Aegon ever mentioned before; there are four of them, wreaking havoc in the pool as they play volleyball with their friends, hurling a beach ball back and forth over a miniature net. You are keeping score for them and serving as the cheerleader, which is much preferrable to making small talk with self-important industry executives or listening to people sigh over how selfless Becca is for assuming this burden.

Aemond wanders over to you, dressed in his version of casual: a full suit, but beige instead of black or navy. He doesn’t say anything. He observes the kids playing for a while, though you have the sense he isn’t really seeing them. You peek covertly at the scar that cuts down the left side of his grim face, and you remember what Aegon told you about Viserys: He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye.

“You’ll watch out for him, right?” you say anxiously to Aemond. “Even when he’s in Texas?”

He gives you an impatient look, like you’re stupid for asking. “I’ll always make sure he’s taken care of. There’s nowhere he could run that would be far enough to keep me away.”

You are relieved. “Good.” You glance over at Aegon to check on him; he is still mingling with his former clients, and he seems happy. Then you find Alicent in the crowd. She is ever-encircled by Helaena and Daeron, who appear to be trying to distract her. The beach house is besieged by blue balloons. A DJ is playing artists that you recognize from Aegon’s extensive Spotify playlist: Alanis Morissette, Pearl Jam, Third Eye Blind, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“I really wish he’d see a doctor,” Aemond says after a while, his voice low to be discrete. “We have great specialists here at Cedars-Sinai.”

“He has an appointment on Wednesday morning. I finally got him to make one.”

Aemond stares down at you, mystified, suspicious. “Who are you?”

“What do you mean? I’m a client.”

“Yes, I know that,” Aemond says; again, like you might be a little slow. “Why do you always know what he’s up to? Why does he care what you think? He doesn’t care what anybody thinks.”

You aren’t sure how to answer. You avoid the question by lobbing away the beach ball when a child’s spike sends it hurtling at you.

“He talks about you a lot,” Aemond says. “He insists that you’re a good actress. He asks me to help you. And then he forgets that he asked, and he asks again.”

“I don’t know why he cares what I think.”

“Sure you don’t.” Aemond’s brow is furrowed and his eyes narrowed: one real, one eternally unseeing. “Are you going with him on Wednesday?”

“I am,” you admit.

“Give me your phone.”

You comply immediately, digging it out of your floral Patricia Nash purse. Aemond Targaryen is not an easy man to refuse. He types something quickly as he stands beside the pool. One of the children giggles as they swim up to the edge and splash him with chlorinated water, wetting his beige suit and brown leather Gucci shoes. Aemond sighs irritably.

“I put myself in as a contact,” Aemond says when he returns your phone. “After his appointment, call me and tell me everything the doctor said.”

“Okay.” Aegon probably wouldn’t approve of that, but it’s good for him.

Then Aemond does something unexpected. He reaches out to you, and for a second you instinctively flinch away, but his hand is gentle; Aemond’s palm settles on the back of your neck, and you blink up at him, bewildered. “I’m sorry you’re losing him too,” Aemond says, soft and strangely tender. Then he swipes something off his right cheek and leaves, weaving through the crowd to join his mother, who is pretending to fret over a rapidly melting ice sculpture—a Texas Longhorn—so she won’t have to think about Aegon instead.

A child is tugging at you, grappling for your hand with slippery, dripping fingers and then trying to drag you into the pool. “Come swimming!” a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, is crowing with a missing-baby-teeth grin. “We’re going to play Marco Polo. You can be the person who shouts Marco! and tries to find us.”

You laugh. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit. I didn’t know this was a pool party.” Aegon neglected to mention that part.

“Please?” she begs, and now the other children are joining in, a chorus of reckless encouragement. You have the impression they aren’t often able to cajole the adults into playing with them. And the little girl looks so much like Aegon—same eyes, same hair—that you find yourself thinking: When he’s gone, will there really be nothing left of him? Is that possible?

“Alright, I’m coming in!” you announce, and the kids cheer. You shove your purse far enough away from the pool that your phone should be safe, and then you slide off the ledge and into the water: brisk blue currents that thrash as the children flee away from you, giggling as they hug the curved cement corners, poised to bolt again if you venture towards them.

“Now close your eyes,” the little girl demands, and you cover them with your palms. You feel her shoving you and it takes you a few seconds to realize what she wants: for you to spin around. You do this as quickly as you can until you are completely disoriented, stumbling, blind, laughing as you reach out with your eyes squeezed shut, your yellow sundress flowing around you in the cool water like the fanlike fins of a koi fish.

“Marco,” you say.

“Polo!” the children yell, and then squeal as you lunge for them. Waves swell through the pool, water droplets from their kicking feet spray across your face. There’s sun on your bare shoulders as your legs traverse the rough concrete floor in slow motion, your steps heavy and silent. You can hear adults muttering in scandalized disapproval: Who is that? What’s wrong with her?

“Marco?” you call out again.

“Polo!” a gaggle of children hurl back, too many; the voices seem to come from everywhere. You can’t pinpoint a direction, so you choose one at random and dive.

“Marco!” you shout, then yelp as you bump into the side of the pool and stun yourself.

Someone grabs your outstretched hands. “Polo,” Aegon says, and you open your eyes to see him kneeling at the edge of the water. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, but he’s smiling; he helps you scramble back up onto the ledge of the pool.

“They wanted me to play with them.”

“You could have said no.”

“I can never say no to kids. They walk all over me.”

“You’re too nice.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Though it doesn’t sound so much like a criticism when Aegon says it. He sits down beside you on the ledge of the pool and lets his legs dangle in the water; he has kicked off his flip-flops to rest haphazardly beside your tan wedges. He is wearing white cargo shorts and a powder blue short-sleeve Oxford that is at least a size too big for him. He’s losing weight, you think, forlorn. He’s disappearing.

Helaena arrives with a towel—very thick and soft, doubtlessly expensive—and gives it to you. She is one of the few party guests who do not seem horrified by your antics; instead, she titters and tells the children not to entrap you again, that you’ll play with them later. They resume their game of Marco Polo with a new blind explorer. As you wrap the towel around your shoulders, Aegon takes a corner and uses it to dry your face. Then he gazes out over the patio towards the Pacific Ocean, ignoring the children. He never really interacts with kids, you’ve noticed; even when he watches them with a transfixed sort of wonder, he keeps an expanse of space between them like an alcoholic trying to stay away from the drink.

“You could have done IVF,” you say, and Aegon looks at you, eyebrows raised, a how did you know what I was thinking? sort of expression. “They can screen the embryos for chromosomal defects and only implant the ones that are healthy. So you’d know the baby wouldn’t have Huntington’s.”

Aegon shrugs, kicking his feet beneath the rippling crystalline line of the water. “I think that takes a lot of trust, you know?”

You aren’t sure what he means. “To do IVF?”

“To leave a kid with someone,” he clarifies. “If I’m going to be out of the picture in a few years, I’d have to feel really confident that the mother would be the kind of person I’d trust to raise the child the right way. Not use them as a prop or something. Not raise them to be fucked up like I am.” Or like Becca is, he leaves unsaid.

And although it is ludicrous and forbidden and impossible, instantly you are doing math in your head: I’ll be done filming by winter, we could start trying in the spring. You always envisioned doing it the other way around, chasing dreams in your twenties, settling down in your thirties, but if Aegon doesn’t have much time left...

You turn to him, searching. But Aegon is in his own world, oblivious to your uninvited machinations. Of course he wouldn’t expect any discussions of the two of you staying together. You’ve already offered. He’s already declined. Now the song on the stereo is Keith Urban’s You’ll Think Of Me, and Aegon’s oceanic blue eyes begin to glisten. Everyone is crying today, you think.

“This was your dad’s favorite song,” you say gently.

Aegon nods. “Did I tell you that?”

“You did.”

He chuckles bleakly. “Fuck, I don’t even remember.” He wipes his eyes with the heel of one hand, and you wish you could touch him; but everyone at this party knows he’s getting married in a week, and to a woman who definitely isn’t you. “When I was really young, my dad was always telling us: You are Targaryens. You have to be extraordinary. You have to be extraordinary. And to me, that meant inhuman, or unnatural, or something else that I would always be incapable of. What about the real people? What about all the people like me, we were just supposed to vanish into cubicles somewhere, or hate ourselves enough to change our bodies, our faces, our souls? No, I couldn’t stomach that. Then my dad got sick, and for the first time he tried to understand us, and we had a few good years. Then he was gone again. But it was so goddamn slow.”

You are desperate to touch him, to console him. “Just because Viserys became a monster doesn’t mean you will. Just because he was a curse to your family doesn’t mean that’s how I’d feel about you.”

Aegon swipes at his eyes again, then brightens. He pretends he hasn’t heard you. “You’re coming to the wedding, right? I told Brando to send you money for the plane ticket.”

You spent it on eyeshadow palettes and books about the Gilded Age. “I don’t think so.”

“I really want you to be there.”

“You want me to watch you standing at the end of the aisle, and then Becca frolicking to meet you in her perfect Instagram-worthy dress, and then you exchanging adorable vows and kissing while people whistle and applaud, and then I’ll endure a whole night of celebrating your wedded bliss on the beach, all so you can get a glimpse of me in the crowd and maybe talk to me for five minutes before I fly back here alone, devastated that I’ll never get to see you again?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says.

“That’s an insane idea.”

Aegon throws his arms wide, exasperated. “It might be! I have a brain disease!”

“And why would I do that?” you demand. “Because I’m so happy for you and Becca?”

“No, because I’m doing you a favor,” he hisses, sudden hushed vitriol. “Because I am sparing you from everything that will happen next.”

I want to be there. I want it to be me. You shake your head, your throat burning. “I can’t watch you marry her.”

“Okay,” Aegon relents. “It’s fine. Sunshine, it’s fine. I don’t want to fight with you.” What he means is: I don’t want to waste the time we have left.

And for a moment he rests his head on your shoulder—your pulse thudding hot and red and feverish, pool water dripping from your hair—not caring who sees.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to be here,” he says.

“I know, Aegon.” The exam room at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills is sunlit but cold, curtains drawn back from the glass walls, frigid air conditioning gusting through the vents. Your eyeshadow is a dark blue to match your sundress: Equilibrium by Natasha Denona, Madness by Urban Decay. You take Aegon’s hand and hold it tightly. He is perched restlessly on the edge of the exam table; you are standing beside him, too anxious to sit in the requisite chair for a spouse or a parent, and of course you are neither of these things.

The doctor returns, knocking politely before opening the door. He closes it behind him as he enters the room. He’s in his early-fifties, pudgy, receding reddish hair and pale skin that has been turned pink by too much time spent in the sun. He is a family man—he’s already mentioned his wife and kids several times, you imagine the desk in his office must be adorned with their ever-smiling photographs—and an unassuming, slightly nervous disposition. He’s one of the best neurologists on the West Coast. When he heard Aegon’s last name, he fit him in immediately.

Dr. Gallagher turns the computer screen towards you and brings up images from the MRI scan. He takes his pen out of the pocket of his white coat and uses it to point at the bluish specter of Aegon’s brain. His voice is soothing, sympathetic, practiced in delivering bad news. “Unfortunately, what we’re seeing here is consistent with what I would expect to find in a patient with Huntington’s disease that has progressed to the moderate stage.” His pen leaps between pertinent locations. “There is already some striatal atrophy visible, and slight frontal horn dilatation as the brain matter around it shrinks. A lot of the time, we can’t even see that on scans in people who’ve been recently diagnosed. But you...” He looks at Aegon, gives him a soft subtle nod, casual catastrophic confirmation. “You’ve had symptoms for a while, as we discussed.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says quietly. You’re still clasping his hand, like he’ll vanish if you let go.

“I’m very sorry,” Dr. Gallagher tells him.

“Not your fault, doc.”

“But there is some good news,” Dr. Gallagher says. “Now that you’re in treatment, we can get you set up with a regimen that will alleviate your symptoms as much as possible. There are prescriptions—and I’ll go over each of those with you, so you understand what they are and the possible side effects—and also excellent therapists who have experience working with patients like you, Aegon. We want to keep your quality of life intact for as long as we possibly can.”

“I’m moving to Houston,” Aegon replies, and for some reason every time he says this you feel the loss of it all over again, as if you don’t already know, as if he’s not almost gone.

“Texas, huh?” Dr. Gallagher says, like he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to spend their final years there but is determined not to be judgmental about it. “Well, best wishes to you! I have some very capable colleagues at Houston Methodist, I’ll reach out to them and transfer your records over so you won’t have to worry about any of that once you get settled in.”

“Thank you,” Aegon says, quiet, distant. Dr. Gallagher glances at you curiously; he keeps doing that. Aegon didn’t introduce you. You didn’t introduce yourself. What are you supposed to say? You aren’t his wife. You aren’t even his fiancée or his girlfriend. You’re a mistress, and soon you’ll be nobody. Better to let the gaps remain unfilled. “How long?” Aegon asks after a while. “I mean, I know it can be unpredictable, but...”

Dr. Gallagher sighs and contemplates the MRI results again. “It really is impossible to say for sure. You said your father passed away at fifty-five?”

Aegon nods. “Ten years after he was diagnosed. And he must have gotten it from his dad. My grandmother lived to be really old and was healthy up until the last few months, but my grandfather died in a car accident, and that would have been before any symptoms were obvious.”

Dr. Gallagher considers this. “So we have multiple generations of the gene being passed down patrilineally, which does exacerbate anticipation. And with these MRI results and the symptoms you’re already experiencing...memory loss, involuntary movements, difficulty working and driving, problems with sleep, loss of appetite...” He shrugs, an acknowledgement of fate’s unknowable design. Then he looks at Aegon with eyes that are deeply apologetic. “I do suspect it will be relatively quick. You’ll probably have another year or two that are decent. And then...”

“And then,” Aegon echoes bitterly, not a question but an agreement. No one knows this better than he does.

“I think you’ll see forty.” Dr. Gallagher steals another glimpse of the MRI results. “But not much beyond that.”

“Okay,” Aegon says, trying to be stoic. And then, gingerly but very deliberately, he untangles his hand from yours.

At an In-N-Out Burger down the street, Aegon pays in cash, a habit he got into not just so Becca can’t track where he is; it’s so that if she asks where he’s been and he can’t remember, she won’t think he’s purposefully lying when he tells her the wrong places. You sit together in a quiet corner booth slurping your Cherry Cokes and picking at your burgers and Animal-Style fries, the silence both heavy and weak, anemic, listless, immovable. Aegon is typing around on his phone. You are trying to imagine what the world will feel like without him in it.

“Forty is good,” Aegon says abruptly. “You know, Becca will still be in her thirties. She’ll definitely be able to marry some other guy and have kids.”

“Aegon,” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“I wouldn’t want to waste away for a long time anyway. I hope I don’t make it past forty.”

“Aegon,” you plead. “The doctor said you could have a few good years left, so shouldn’t you spend those here with your family?” And with me?

Aegon stands up and slides his iPhone into the pocket of his shorts. “My Uber is outside.”

“Your what?” You are alarmed. “I can drive you back to your office, it’s not that out of the way for me—”

“No, I should go.” He gathers up his barely-touched food and stuffs it in a trashcan.

“Aegon...”

“I’ve been really selfish,” he says hurriedly, like if he doesn’t get it out now he might not ever. “I’ve been holding on to you because you make me feel better, and because I didn’t want it to be over, but I...now I have to do the right thing. And this is definitely the right thing.”

“You don’t have to go yet—”

“You’ll be taken care of,” Aegon says. “The people working on your movie...they’re legit. They’re trustworthy. And you can always call Brando or Aemond, they know they’re supposed to take care of you, they’ll get you anything you need, money, a place to live, help navigating the industry, whatever. And Kristen will be your new agent.”

“I don’t want another agent.”

“I set you up as well as I possibly could have,” Aegon tells you, curt, clinical. “And now it’s September, and I’m leaving Los Angeles. That was the deal. I never promised you more than that. I explicitly warned you there would never be more than that.”

“But...” But I didn’t love you then.

“Don’t make this any harder. Say goodbye and move on.”

“Goodbye, Aegon,” you reply, unconvincingly, not meaning it. But it must be enough; he walks out of the In-N-Out Burger, and through the clear glass of the windows you watch him climb into a stranger’s car, and you think numbly, because it seems so impossible: I’ll never see him again?

You stay in the booth for a long time, sipping your Cherry Coke as tears well up in your eyes and spill over, ceaseless rivulets you dab away with napkins that your eyeshadow turns from pure white to a smudged watery blue. Then when you leave and start your shimmering gold Honda Accord, you call Aemond. He listens intently, asks a number of highly technical medical questions you can’t answer, and gets impatient. You apologize, your voice breaking. Aemond sighs, says he’s sorry, tells you with a strangled tension in his own words that he has to go and will call back in a few days to check on you. You’re his new pet, after all; Aegon has assigned you to a different Targaryen, a new agent, a life still orbiting his gravity even in his absence.

At home, your apartment is empty. Jace is at one of his PhD classes. You don’t turn the tv on, you don’t listen to any music. You lie down on the living room couch as afternoon light slants in through the windows and the muffled sounds of Harbor Gateway bleed in through the walls: car horns, shrieking sirens, pedestrians’ shouts, revving engines, stereos and their rumbling bass beats. You can’t stand this, the knowledge that life continues on uninterrupted for everyone else. Becca will get to keep Aegon for years. His family can fly east to Houston to visit him. He is only dead to you.

You pick up your phone and call him. Aegon answers after a few rings; he is startled, like he hadn’t expected to ever hear from you again, like something bad must have happened: your car broke down and you’re stranded on the side of the freeway, you got heat sickness and are trapped in a store somewhere. He says: “Hey, are you alright?”

“I miss you so much and you’re not even gone yet.”

There’s a pause that feels much longer than it is. “Are you at home?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a quivering whisper.

“Okay,” Aegon says, gentle, warm, like you’re friends again and always will be. Due north in his office in Elysian Park where there is no more work left to be done, you can hear his chair scrape against the scuffed hardwood floor as he pushes it out from his desk. “I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

“Okay. Bye.” You hang up, mop the tears from your face, and begin getting ready.

When Aegon knocks, you answer the door in your pajamas, no illusions of propriety: just a L.A. Dodgers t-shirt, black sweatpants, and nothing underneath. Aegon does not pretend to be any more noble. He is through the doorway—swiftly, soundlessly, like a shadow—and then he’s here in the sunlit living room lifting away your shirt and kissing you, deep and wordless, as you stumble together towards your bedroom, you staggering out of your sweatpants as he yanks them down to the floor, you fumbling with the buttons of his green short-sleeve Oxford shirt, and you wonder: Did Becca fasten these buttons this morning? Is that why he didn’t miss one?

“Oh, thank God,” Aegon sighs when he knows he’ll be able to do it, that his body is not yet a stranger to him entirely, and as you sink into the mattress his weight settles on top of you, opening you, filling you, not disappeared yet, not long-lost like a childhood dream that turns to cynicism, only warm and sweet and real. And just like the times before, when you believe you won’t be able to finish with him, you’re wrong. Your eyes brim with tears, like Aegon knows happens when it’s good, and as he whisks them away he murmurs: “Find somebody who does this for you.”

“There’s no one else.”

“Find somebody you love.”

“I love you, Aegon.”

“You can’t, you can’t,” he moans, like he knows it’s hopeless, like he’s already lost the same war.

Not just once, but twice, and then you are exhausted—your muscles unraveled from your bones, your resistance crumbling like eons-old earth—and the world is quiet and fading, used condoms in the trashcan beside your nightstand, the sheets damp with sweat, and you’ll never have him like this again. You’ll never have anything like this again. Daylight, weakening from yellow to gold to amber to blood, pours in through the window and cascades across your bed.

“Remember me like this, okay?” Aegon whispers, kissing you one last time: lips, forehead, the apple of your cheek. “Now look away.”

You turn to the window where sunlight beckons, leaving him in darkness. You hear the bedroom door click shut as he leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, September 6th, the wedding day. You have nothing planned. This is a mistake, although it isn’t exactly your fault; filming starts on Monday so everyone has this weekend off as one last respite, Chloe’s parents are in town for a visit, Baela is wrapping up the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie in Paris. You wake up ridiculously early, groggy and miserable. You wander aimlessly around the apartment. You glower at the red-ink note in the box on the calendar: Aegon’s wedding. You stare at the vase of dried sunflowers and feel like crying.

You open Instagram and scroll blindly; the blue-white glow hurts your bloodshot eyes. Becca has posted numerous stories in the past twenty-four hours, which is typical: Pinterest-worthy plates of food, teasing glimpses of her dress and shoes, selfies with her friends and family. There is a wheezing Pekingese in the background of one of her videos from the luxurious hotel suite, and you think, rather disparagingly: She flew her dogs to the Caribbean?

What’s not-so-typical is that Aegon has posted an Instagram story too, something he doesn’t do often. After several minutes of deliberation, and against your better judgment, you click on superstargaryen’s story. It’s 4 a.m. here, so 7 a.m. on Turks and Caicos. The sun has already risen there. And Aegon’s story is a simple photo of the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, as if taken from a balcony. There is no caption and no frivolous emojis: a ring, a bouquet, toasting champagne glasses, a cartoonish yellow couple. Instead, there is only a song added, a fifteen-second snippet that plays on a loop each time you re-watch the story, which you do about ten times. The song is Hard To Concentrate by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

And instantly, you are there again, the night after you shot the music video in Beverly Hills, the night after Aegon saved you: flying in his convertible southbound on the 110, streetlights and headlights and neon that cut through the indigo ink of the world, Aegon’s hair flying, his right hand on the steering wheel, bruises on his knuckles, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he keeps looking over at you, as if he’s feeling the same things you are: This is right, this is real, I want this forever.

I have to be there, you realize abruptly, like a lightning strike or the jolt of an earthquake. I have to try to change his mind.

You close Instagram, open Google, search for flights from LAX to Turks and Caicos. You find one with two seats left, both in First Class. My parents are going to kill me, you think, and then put them on your credit card. You get Jace’s full name and date of birth from the driver’s license in his wallet, which he left on the kitchen counter.

You go to Baela’s bedroom and shake Jace awake. He glares at you blearily from beneath chaotic dark curls. “What do you want?” he groans.

“Do you have a passport?”

“Yeah...?”

“I have to fly to Turks and Caicos.”

“What? Where...?”

“It’s for a wedding. I don’t want to go alone. Will you go with me?”

You wait for him to say no. Instead, Jace mulls it over and then drags himself upright, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Turks and Caicos...that’s in the Caribbean, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a long flight. When are you leaving?”

“In twenty minutes. I already called the Uber.”

Jace blinks a few times, then stands up. “Island vibes,” he mutters in a Jamaican accent as he shuffles off towards the bathroom.

You throw some essentials in a carry-on bag: toiletries, makeup, clothes, TOMS wedges. The only wedding-appropriate dress you have that’s clean is the electric yellow gown you wore to the Maroon 5 music video red carpet premiere. You yank it off the hanger and stuff it in your suitcase. Jace rolls his luggage into the living room just as the Uber is pulling up outside. You urge the driver to hurry as you glide northwest on the 405 towards Westchester, home to Los Angeles International Airport. It’s early enough that traffic is thin, and the lines are short at the TSA security checkpoint. Jace is momentarily stopped for further inspection; he accidentally left a vape pen in his pocket.

Will we make it there before the wedding starts?

At the gate, passengers are already lining up to board the plane. You check the time on your phone and do some quick math. It’s currently 5:30 a.m. here in California. If your flight leaves on time, you’ll be in the air at 6:00. Turks and Caicos is three hours ahead in Eastern Standard Time, so that would be 9:00 a.m. The flight is almost nine hours long, including a brief layover in Atlanta, which means—if everything goes perfectly—you’ll touch down at Providenciales International Airport shortly before 6:00 p.m. The wedding ceremony begins at 6:30, sunset on the beach, very romantic.

“It’s going to be close,” you tell Jace as he slurps on a venti-sized Lavender Crème Frappuccino from an airport Starbucks.

It’s going to be very close.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Bitter Sweet Symphony 1

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Thor

Summary: you meet a god in real life but he's not the saviour you think.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You catch Joanie by her knapsack before she can disappear into the crowd. Your heart lurches as you just picture her tiny stature getting lost in the New York crush. You pull her back to you. 

“Joan, take me hand,” you demand shakily. 

“Sorry, I thought I saw...” she begins then shakes her head. The cat ears on her hat wiggle. She grabs your hand with her small one and you squeeze. “Nothing. I’m just excited.” 

“You know mom would kill me if I lost you,” you draw her out of the way of another pedestrian. The man in his suit doesn’t spare you a single thought as he charges by. 

“Ha, I’m not going to get lost,” she insists. 

You grumble but don’t voice your anxiety. She’s young and it’s all so big and loud to her. She’s still to young to be scared. You admire your half-sister for that but it also fills you with dread. 

“I did!” She squeals and jumps in her pink high tops. “I saw him, I saw him.” 

She points and her hand bounces off the hip of a woman strutting by. You apologise and once more redirect your sister. You squint and search in the direction she pointed. Yellow taxis honk as they roll by and jay walkers dodge between them. 

“Thor!” Your sister hollers and hops up again, waving her hand. 

That’s when you see him. You don’t know how you missed him. There’s so much going on that all the buildings and bodies blend together. For as long as you’ve been in the city, you’re still not used to the chaos of it all. 

“Thor?” You echo her. 

“Duh! God of Thunder! He hangs out with Iron Man.” 

“Right,” you shepherd her back before she can get underfoot. “You know what mom says about talking to strangers.” 

“He’s not a stranger, he’s a hero.” She argues. 

“Maybe but I’m sure he’s just trying to live his life. He doesn’t look like he’s hero-ing right now, kiddo,” you chide. 

“But...” her face falls. “But we don’t have heroes at home! What if I never see another one again? I just wanna say hi.” 

“I know, Joan, but I...” you pause and glance back. There are others clustering around the tall man. He smiles and welcomes them as he greets them all graciously. You just hate to be in others way. You should have considered that before you moved to one of the most overcrowded places on earth. “Alright, but we’re going to go down and cross at the walk, right?” 

She harrumphs and agrees begrudgingly, “right.” 

You take her down the sidewalk, clamped onto her as you steer her around the New Yorkers trapped in the tunnel vision of their own existence. You get to the corner and wait and cross with a cluster. You glance down the pavement as Joanie squirms. 

“Oh no, I think he’s gone,” she whines. 

You look desperately ahead and grimace. You hope you didn’t ruin it for her. You drag her along, hoping that long blonde hair will pop up again. It doesn’t. You get to the exact place you spotted him. He’s not there. 

“I’m so sorry, Joanie. I just wanted to be safe.” You turn to her, your chest dropping. “I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s fine...” she drones and hangs her head. 

You stumble as a man knocks into your hip. You try to make yourself smaller but it’s hard to dodge anyone on the sidewalk even without a little extra cushion. You peer around and your eyes catch on the hanging sign of a bakery. 

“How about a treat instead? You love cupcakes, right?” You coax her. 

“Mm, I guess,” she shrugs. 

Her disappointment stings. You feel horrid. You know she’s going to hold onto this. 

“Come on, let’s get out of this,” you pull her to the bakery door.  

As you enter, you sigh. You’re happy to be free of the city crawl. You look up at the menu above the counter. You’ve never been in here before. It’s a nice place and the desserts look immaculate. They’re also expensive. 

“Look they have a unicorn--” You begin and Joanie rips her hand away as she wiggles. 

“He’s here!” She cries out. “It’s Thor.” 

Her voice carries across the space and you cringe and you look over to find the man, or god, in question. His blue eyes round as he bites into a cupcake piled with icing. The sugary topping marks his nose as he pulls it away and gulps. He gives a goofy smile. 

“Joanie,” you whisper, “he’s just trying to enjoy his food.” 

“Little one!” He waves before you can deter her. “You know me.” 

Joanie giggles and squeals and skips over before you can stop her. You trail after her reluctantly as she hops up to his table, “your Thor, king of Asgard, God of Thunder!” She jitters. “I know you!” 

He booms with laughter and wipes the icing from his beard and nose. His cupcake is forgotten on a small saucer. “An honour to meet you...” 

“Joanie!” She nearly hollers. “My name is Joanie.” 

“Ah, a beautiful name,” he praises and his eyes wander over you as you hover behind her. “And this lady, your mother?” 

“Sister!” Joanie replies before you can and gives your name. 

You try to smile as he grins at you and his eyes seem to sparkle. You wonder if that’s a god thing. Your cheeks are hot as his gaze bores into you. 

“Are you here for the cupcakes? They are delicious. I recommend the confetti.” He puts his attention back to Joanie. “Would you like to join me?” 

“Oh, sir, thanks, that’s so kind but we’ll just be getting ours to go--” 

“But--” Joanie begins to whine and you lay your hand on her shoulder. 

“If you don’t mind. She’s a big fan.” 

“Not at all,” he assures you. “Allow me to treat you. What are we having?” 

He stands and you shrink as he towers over you. There aren’t many who can make you feel small. You can’t help but take a step back and herd Joanie with you. 

“Um...” you look over, “it’s really—I don’t mind. I can’t get ours. We’ve already bothered--” 

“I must insist. As a king, I prize courtesy above all. Please sit and allow me to bring you some sweets.” 

“I want the unicorn!” Joanie demands before you can stop her. You give Thor and apologetic look. He only seems amused by her awe. 

“That’s very generous of you, what do we say, Joanie?” You say. 

“Please and thank you,” she chirps. 

“Yes, thank you, Thor. I’m fine with something simple. Vanilla is good for me.” You move Joanie away from him, “come on, let’s sit down. We’ve done a lot of walking.” 

[muiitoloko]

Moonlit Secrets

Summary: A maid stumbles upon her eccentric employer's dark transformation during a full moon, uncovering a truth more horrifying than she ever imagined.

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Violence, Injury, Intense Fear, Supernatural Themes, Gore, Sexual Undertones and Animalistic Behavior.

Author's Notes: Here’s another story I wrote but never shared—after posting about a zombie, I figured, why not share this one too?

Also read on Ao3

You rang the mansion's bell, your finger pressing against the brass button as the chime echoed faintly through the empty halls inside. "Mr. Bryant?" you called softly, leaning closer to the heavy oak door. No answer. Frowning, you shifted your weight and peeked through one of the large windows. The house was silent, unnervingly so. The drawn curtains offered only glimpses of the dimly lit interior, and you found it strange—Sinclair was usually so meticulous about his home, keeping it well-lit even when he wasn’t expecting company. Could he have left?

Sinclair Bryant was, without question, an odd man. Despite his kindness and your generally amicable working relationship, you couldn’t help but feel a certain unease around him at times. He lived in this sprawling mansion, far from the city, seemingly content in his isolation. Over the two years you’d worked as his maid, you had never seen anyone visit him. He spent his days wandering the grounds or buried in his books, endlessly curious about the future yet so detached from the present.

And then there was the strangest quirk of all: he always gave you time off during the full moon. At first, you hadn’t thought much of it—Sinclair was eccentric, after all. But now, standing at his door under the eerie glow of tonight’s full moon, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss. Still, you had come here for a reason: you’d forgotten your cell phone, and you needed it. You knew you shouldn’t be here, not tonight, but the mansion’s eerie stillness only added to your resolve to grab your phone and leave as quickly as possible.

Your fingers brushed against the spare key he’d given you months ago, tucked safely in your pocket. Sliding it into the lock, you hesitated for a moment before turning it. The heavy door creaked open, revealing the grand foyer shrouded in shadow. The air inside was cool and still, carrying the faintest hint of something earthy and metallic. You stepped inside, your footsteps echoing faintly on the polished floor.

“Mr. Bryant?” you called again, your voice louder this time, yet still met with silence.

As you moved through the house, your nerves prickled with unease. The usual hum of Sinclair’s chatter, his baritone voice rambling on about one topic or another, was nowhere to be heard. The house felt… empty, but not abandoned. Books were stacked neatly on tables, a cup of tea sat half-finished on the counter, and the faint glow of a lamp illuminated the corner of his study. Everything appeared normal—yet the silence was deafening.

The kitchen was eerily quiet as you stepped inside, the faint metallic smell stronger now. Your gaze landed on your cell phone lying on the counter. Relief washed over you at the sight of it, though the battery was dead. You pocketed it quickly, your heart rate beginning to steady after the unnerving silence.

But then—a noise.

It was faint, but distinct, coming from beneath your feet. You froze, every nerve in your body on edge as you strained to listen. There it was again—a dull, rhythmic thud, almost like footsteps, but heavier, more deliberate. You glanced toward the basement door, now painfully aware of its presence. The noise seemed to be coming from below.

Your first instinct was to leave. Grab your phone, get in your car, and drive back to the city. But what if it was Sinclair? What if he needed help? You hesitated, torn between your sense of duty and the gnawing unease twisting your stomach. Sinclair had always forbidden you from entering the basement—a rule you’d never questioned before. But now, with the eerie sounds and the strange atmosphere, your curiosity was impossible to ignore.

Taking a deep breath, you crept toward the basement door. It loomed before you, a solid barrier to whatever secrets Sinclair had kept hidden. Your fingers brushed the handle, trembling as you turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. The noises grew louder, reverberating through the still air.

"Just a peek," you whispered to yourself, as if the words could dispel your growing anxiety.

With each step, the air grew colder, heavier, the metallic scent thickening until it was almost suffocating. At the bottom of the stairs, a massive metal door stood dented and imposing. The noise was louder now—an animalistic growl that sent a chill down your spine. You hesitated, your mind racing with absurd possibilities. Could Sinclair be keeping something down here? Was he hiding something sinister? You scoffed at the thought. Sinclair was kind, gentle, eccentric, sure—but a serial killer? Impossible.

The growl came again, deeper, angrier, and your curiosity got the better of you. Steeling yourself, you pushed against the heavy door with all your strength. It groaned on its hinges, opening just enough for you to peer inside.

And then it burst open.

Claws the size of daggers shoved the door aside, the force sending you stumbling backward. A massive wolf loomed in the doorway, its golden fur shimmering in the faint light, its eyes glowing with an unnatural amber hue. The creature’s nose twitched as it sniffed the air, its fanged snout curling into a snarl.

Your gaze darted past the wolf to the shredded remains of clothing scattered on the floor—Sinclair’s clothing. Panic seized you as your mind raced to the worst conclusion. Did this wolf kill him?

The wolf lunged forward, and you reacted on instinct, kicking it in the face with all the strength you could muster. The creature growled in surprise but recoiled, giving you just enough time to scramble to your feet and sprint up the stairs.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you ran through the mansion, your footsteps echoing in the empty halls. You didn’t stop until you were outside, the cool night air biting at your skin. You bolted toward the road, desperate to reach the city, to find safety. But the mansion was isolated, and the city was miles away.

A deafening snarl erupted behind you, and before you could react, the wolf appeared in your path. Its massive frame blocked your escape, its glowing eyes boring into you.

“Stay back!” you screamed, stumbling backward. Your legs trembled, your body frozen in fear.

The wolf tilted its head, its snarls softening into a low growl. For a moment, you swore you saw recognition in its eyes—something human, something familiar. But then it lunged, knocking you to the ground. Its weight pinned you down, its hot breath fanning against your face as its claws dug into the earth beside you.

Your breath hitched as you writhed beneath the creature, its hot breath fanning over your face, carrying a faint coppery tang that made your stomach churn. “Please,” you begged, your voice trembling. “Please don’t hurt me!”

The wolf growled low, its amber eyes glowing with an intelligence that sent a chill racing down your spine. You felt its claws press against the dirt beside your head, its massive weight pinning you in place. Desperation surged through you, and your fingers scrambled for anything within reach. Your hand brushed against a jagged rock, and without thinking, you gripped it tightly.

With a cry, you swung the rock upward, striking the creature on the side of its head. The impact made a sickening thud, and the wolf let out a deafening howl, recoiling from you. Its weight lifted just enough for you to scramble free, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you stumbled to your feet and bolted.

The night air was cold against your sweat-dampened skin as you ran, your legs carrying you to the relative safety of your car. You dove behind it, your chest heaving as you peeked around the edge, your gaze locked on the wolf. It was rising to its full height now, standing on its hind legs.

Your blood ran cold.

It wasn’t just a wolf. It couldn’t be. The creature’s hunched frame towered over anything remotely animalistic, its fur rippling under the moonlight. Its amber eyes gleamed with something distinctly human, and its snarling maw curled back to reveal teeth too large, too sharp for anything natural.

It was a werewolf.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head in disbelief. “No, that’s not possible. They don’t exist… they can’t exist.” But the evidence was right before your eyes, every horrifying detail confirming what you refused to believe.

Sinclair’s quirks, the isolation, the full moon schedule—it all clicked into place. “Oh my God,” you breathed, your voice barely audible. “He wasn’t killed by the wolf… he is the wolf.”

Your eyes darted back to the creature just as it threw its head back and let out an earsplitting howl, the sound reverberating through the still night. Fear gripped you as your body refused to move, rooted to the spot as the creature lowered its gaze to the horizon. But then, silence.

When you dared to look again, the creature was gone.

A cold dread settled over you as you realized the absence of noise was even more terrifying. You stiffened, ears straining to catch any sound. And then you heard it—a low, guttural growl, so close it sent shivers down your spine. Slowly, you turned your head, your heart slamming against your ribs as you found yourself face-to-face with the werewolf.

Its massive frame blocked out the moonlight, its amber eyes fixed on you with a predatory gleam. Drool dripped from its snarling jaws, pooling at your feet. Its lips curled back, revealing jagged teeth as it loomed closer.

“Stay back,” you stammered, raising your hands in a futile gesture. “Please, Sinclair… if you can hear me… don’t do this.”

The werewolf paused for a fraction of a second, its eyes narrowing as if it recognized the name. But then it lunged, and you barely managed to sidestep the attack, the sound of its claws raking against the car’s metal door making you cry out in terror.

You ran, darting around the vehicle, but the creature was fast—too fast. It lunged again, pinning you against the hood of the car. Its weight was suffocating, its claws digging into your shoulders as its snarling maw hovered inches from your face.

“Please!” you screamed, your voice breaking as you struggled against its grip. “Sinclair, stop! You’re in there—I know you are!”

The creature hesitated, its growl softening into a rumbling snarl. Its amber eyes locked onto yours, and for a fleeting moment, you thought you saw a flicker of recognition, of humanity. But then its jaws snapped inches from your face, and you flinched, tears streaming down your cheeks as you fought against its crushing weight.

Desperation took hold, and you kicked upward, striking its chest with everything you had. The creature snarled in frustration, its grip loosening just enough for you to twist free. You scrambled across the hood of the car, your body trembling as you pressed yourself against the windshield.

The werewolf didn’t give chase. Instead, it circled the car, its glowing eyes never leaving yours. Its movements were slow, deliberate, as if it were toying with you, savoring your fear.

As the werewolf circled the car, you made your decision. You couldn't outrun it in the open, not with its speed and power. You had to fight back. Steeling yourself, you bolted toward the mansion. The beast roared behind you, but you didn't dare look back. Your trembling hands shoved the heavy oak door open, and you slipped inside, slamming it shut and throwing the lock. The sound of claws scraping against the door sent a shiver down your spine, but you wasted no time. You needed a weapon.

Your mind raced as you sprinted through the halls, your shoes skidding on the polished floor. Sinclair's office—he kept strange artifacts there. If there was anything that could help you, it would be there. Reaching the door, you slammed it shut behind you and locked it, your breath heaving as you pressed your ear to the wood. The silence was deafening, broken only by your ragged breathing.

Turning, you scanned the room in desperation. Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents useless in the face of claws and fangs. A desk stood in the center, cluttered with papers, a globe, and—your eyes locked on it—a silver dagger gleaming under the dim light.

You darted to the desk, your fingers closing around the cool metal handle of the blade. A memory flashed through your mind—Sinclair, sitting at this very desk, explaining the properties of silver and how it hurts werewolves while you had laughed it off. "Werewolves? Mr. Bryant, this is ridiculous," you'd teased, your voice light with amusement. Now, the weight of the dagger in your hand felt like the only thing standing between you and death.

The door rattled violently, and the sound of splintering wood made your stomach drop. The werewolf was here. You gripped the dagger tightly, backing toward the far end of the room. The door burst open with a deafening crash, wood and metal flying as the beast stormed inside. Its glowing amber eyes locked onto you, its lips curling back to reveal teeth as sharp as razors.

"Stay back!" you shouted, though your voice cracked with fear. The werewolf snarled, its massive frame blocking any chance of escape.

It lunged.

You raised the dagger, but its weight slammed into you like a freight train, knocking the breath from your lungs. The dagger flew from your grip, skittering across the floor and out of reach. Pain flared in your shoulder as you hit the ground, the creature's claws raking against your skin. You screamed, writhing beneath its crushing weight, the metallic tang of its breath filling your nostrils.

The werewolf’s snout was inches from your face, its snarls vibrating through your chest. You clawed at the floor, desperate to find leverage, but its claws pinned you in place. "Sinclair," you gasped, the name spilling from your lips. "If you're in there, please, don’t do this!"

The creature hesitated, its growl faltering. For a brief moment, its amber eyes softened, a flicker of humanity piercing the feral rage. But then the snarl returned, louder, angrier, as if it were fighting an internal battle. Its jaws snapped dangerously close to your neck, and your survival instincts kicked in.

You drove your knee upward with all your strength, striking its ribs. The beast howled in pain, its grip loosening just enough for you to twist free. You scrambled across the floor, your eyes darting toward the dagger lying just a few feet away. But the werewolf recovered quickly, its massive claws swiping toward you. You barely rolled out of the way in time, the floor splintering where its claws struck.

Your hand shot out, fingers brushing the hilt of the dagger. The werewolf lunged again, its weight slamming into your back and sending you sprawling. The dagger slipped from your grasp, clattering against the floor. The beast pinned you again, its claws digging into your arms as it growled low in its throat, saliva dripping onto your skin.

"Please," you begged, your voice trembling. "Sinclair, fight it! You're stronger than this!"

The werewolf's snout hovered just above your face, its growl shifting to a lower, almost purring rumble. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as its massive body pressed down on you. Its glowing amber eyes narrowed as it sniffed along your skin, inhaling deeply as though committing your scent to memory. You flinched when its wet nose nudged against your neck, then lower, grazing the curve of your belly with a deliberate and oddly possessive motion.

A growl rumbled from deep within its chest, strangled but unmistakable. It wasn’t anger—it was something else entirely. Then, the beast spoke—or at least, it tried. The words came out as guttural sounds, half-growled and half-formed, but clear enough to make your blood run cold.

“Female…”

Your entire body went rigid, your pulse thundering in your ears. The word echoed in your mind, alien and impossible, yet undeniably real. This creature—this monster—had spoken, its voice deep and rough but disturbingly human. You stared into its glowing eyes, desperately searching for some flicker of Sinclair, of the man you thought you knew. But the werewolf’s gaze was primal, assessing, as if it were measuring you, weighing your worth.

Its snout nudged your belly again, this time with more insistence. The motion made your skin crawl, your stomach churning as another growl vibrated from its chest. “Puppies…” The word was low, guttural, and horrifyingly deliberate. Your heart stopped as realization dawned.

Oh God. No. This couldn’t be happening.

You tried to move, to scramble away, but the werewolf’s massive paw pressed against your shoulder, pinning you to the ground. Its nose brushed against your hip, its hot breath fanning over your skin as it sniffed again, a low, approving growl rumbling deep in its throat. “Strong… female,” it growled, the words sending a wave of revulsion and panic through you.

The werewolf wasn’t just assessing you—it was claiming you. The realization hit like a freight train, leaving you trembling beneath its overwhelming presence. Was it… in heat? The thought made bile rise in your throat, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it. The beast lowered its head, its nose brushing against the curve of your neck as it growled again, the sound dark and possessive.

“Fit… for pups…”

Oh, God. You couldn’t think about what that meant. You couldn’t let yourself even consider it. Your fingers groped blindly along the floor, desperate to find the silver dagger you’d dropped. The werewolf seemed too preoccupied with its assessment, its massive frame shifting as it sniffed and growled, its amber eyes filled with an unsettling mix of hunger and recognition.

“You… mine,” it growled, the words sending a shiver of terror down your spine.

Your fingers brushed against something cool and metallic, and relief surged through you as you realized it was the dagger. But the werewolf noticed your movement, its eyes snapping to yours with an intensity that stole your breath. It growled low, the sound filled with warning as its massive paw pressed harder against your shoulder.

“Stay,” it rumbled, the command clear despite its guttural tone.

Your hand closed around the dagger’s hilt, your heart racing as you tried to keep your movements subtle. The werewolf’s snout hovered above you, its glowing eyes locking onto yours as if daring you to defy it. The air between you was charged, every second stretching into an eternity as you weighed your options.

And then, with a surge of adrenaline, you acted.

You drove the dagger upward, aiming for the beast’s side. The blade sank into its flesh, and the werewolf let out a deafening roar, its body jerking backward as pain wracked its form. You scrambled to your feet, clutching the dagger tightly as you faced the creature, your chest heaving with fear and determination.

The werewolf whimpered like a wounded dog, its massive frame trembling as blood dripped onto the polished floor, pooling beneath its hunched form. The pure silver burned into its flesh, the wound sizzling faintly as it writhed in pain. It should have filled you with triumph, with relief—after all, the beast had tried to kill you. And yet, as it curled on the ground, its anguished whimpers echoing through the room, you felt an overwhelming pang of pity.

Because the werewolf wasn’t just a monster. It was Sinclair.

The realization churned in your gut. This wasn’t some mindless beast attacking out of instinct. Somewhere, deep within that hulking frame of fur and muscle, was the man who had spent countless hours rambling about the future, the man who always remembered your birthday with an oddly specific gift, the man who, despite his eccentricities, had been nothing but kind to you. Sinclair wouldn’t have hurt you—not if he had been in control.

Taking a tentative step forward, you hesitated. The werewolf’s glowing amber eyes snapped up to meet yours, narrowing with a warning growl. The sound was low and guttural, filled with pain but unmistakably meant to keep you at bay. Still, you couldn’t ignore the pitiful way it tried to curl around its wound, its massive frame trembling as it attempted to lick at the gash. The blood staining its golden fur was darker than you’d expected, almost black in the dim light.

“Sinclair,” you whispered, your voice trembling. You weren’t even sure he could hear you, let alone understand. “I know you’re in there. Please, let me help.”

The beast growled again, the sound rumbling through the air like distant thunder. But it didn’t move to attack. Its eyes flickered to the dagger in your hand, then back to your face, the intelligence behind its gaze undeniable. You hesitated, heart hammering in your chest as you crouched slowly, lowering the blade to the ground. The metal clattered against the floor as you kicked it away, the sound echoing ominously in the still room.

It was a gamble, a stupid one at that. If the werewolf wanted to kill you, nothing was stopping it now. But it didn’t lunge. Instead, it let out another low whimper, its massive body sagging against the floor as the pain of its wound consumed it. The silver was doing more damage than you’d thought, its effects clearly more than the creature could bear.

“Okay,” you murmured, taking another cautious step forward. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just… just let me see the wound, okay?”

The werewolf’s head snapped up, its lips peeling back in a snarl. You froze, raising your hands slowly as if you were calming an angry dog. “Easy,” you said, your voice soft but firm. “I’m not going to hurt you, Sinclair. I promise.”

The growl softened, though its amber eyes stayed locked on you with a predator’s intensity. Slowly, you closed the distance between you, your knees nearly buckling as you got close enough to see the wound. Blood seeped from the gash where the dagger had struck, the fur around it matted and sticky. The faint smell of burnt flesh made your stomach turn.

“You’re going to be okay,” you lied, not entirely sure if it was true. Your hands trembled as you reached out, the heat radiating from the creature’s body nearly scalding your skin. It flinched as your fingers brushed its fur, a warning growl rumbling deep in its chest. But it didn’t move away.

The fur was coarser than you’d expected, sticky with blood and sweat. “Shhh,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I’m just going to check the wound.”

The werewolf let out a low rumble, something halfway between a growl and a sigh. Its muscles tensed as you pressed gently around the wound, the sharp tang of blood filling the air. “You’re hurt bad,” you muttered, more to yourself than to the creature. The silver wasn’t just burning the skin—it was spreading, the edges of the wound turning an angry red that made your chest tighten.

You needed to clean it, but how? The kitchen was too far, and you doubted the werewolf would let you leave without reacting. Your gaze flickered to its face, and for a moment, you saw something almost human in its eyes—pain, fear, maybe even shame.

“Sinclair,” you said again, your voice firmer this time. “I need to stop the bleeding. Please, let me help.”

The werewolf huffed, a sound that might have been a reluctant agreement, though it was hard to tell. You tore a strip of fabric from your shirt, wincing as the sound of ripping cloth seemed to echo louder than it should have. The creature watched you intently, its amber eyes following your every movement as you pressed the makeshift bandage against the wound. It flinched, a growl rumbling deep in its chest, but it didn’t pull away.

The blood seeped through the fabric almost immediately, staining your hands as you worked to stem the flow. “You’re going to be okay,” you whispered again, though the words felt hollow. The werewolf’s breathing slowed, its growls turning to soft whimpers as the pain dulled. For a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that you could save him—that the man you knew as Sinclair wasn’t entirely lost.

You finished tying the bandage in place, your hands trembling as you stepped back, keeping your eyes locked on the massive creature before you. The werewolf’s chest heaved with labored breaths, its amber eyes tracking your every movement. You were about to turn and make a run for it when it took a slow step forward, then another, its hulking form moving with a deliberate, unsettling grace.

“Stay back,” you whispered, your voice cracking as you backed away, your legs trembling with exhaustion and fear. Your foot caught on the edge of the rug, and you stumbled, falling onto your back with a thud. Pain shot up your spine, but there was no time to focus on it—the werewolf loomed closer, its glowing eyes locked onto yours.

You dragged yourself backward, your palms scraping against the polished floor as you moved. The werewolf’s steps were slow, methodical, its claws clicking softly against the wood as it closed the distance. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to get up, to run, but your body refused to cooperate. The beast stopped just inches away, its massive head tilting as it regarded you with a predatory intensity.

You closed your eyes tightly, your hand shooting out instinctively to shield yourself. “Please,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Please, don’t…”

The expected attack never came.

Instead, you felt something warm and rough brush against your outstretched hand. Your eyes snapped open, your breath catching in your throat as you watched the werewolf nuzzle against your palm. The gesture was oddly tender, almost hesitant, as if it were testing your reaction. Its amber eyes softened, the predatory gleam replaced by something almost… mournful.

“Sinclair?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

The werewolf huffed softly, its massive frame lowering to the ground with a pained sigh. You froze as it rested its heavy head on your leg, the weight of it startling but not unwelcome. It made no move to attack, its body curling slightly as if seeking comfort. For a moment, you were too stunned to react, your heart hammering in your chest as the beast let out a low, rumbling growl—not of aggression, but of exhaustion.

You swallowed hard, your hand trembling as you hesitantly placed it on the creature’s head. Its fur was coarse but warm beneath your fingers, and it let out a soft, contented noise as you stroked it lightly. “This… this is better than being mauled,” you muttered, your voice shaky.

The werewolf’s breathing slowed, its massive frame rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Its growls softened to faint rumbles, almost like a purring dog. “Strong… female,” it rumbled, the words slurred but unmistakable. “Strong… puppies…”

Your hand stilled, your blood running cold at the words. Puppies? You didn’t dare dwell on the implications, not now. The werewolf shifted slightly, its weight pressing more heavily against your leg as it seemed to relax further. Its amber eyes fluttered closed, and within moments, its body stilled entirely.

It was asleep.

You sat frozen, your mind racing as you tried to process what had just happened. The beast’s head was heavy on your leg, but you bore it, not daring to move and risk waking it. The steady sound of its breathing filled the room, and for the first time that night, the tension in your chest eased—if only slightly.

What had you gotten yourself into?

Sinclair Bryant, the eccentric millionaire who spent his days rambling about the future, wasn’t just odd—he was something else entirely. Something dangerous. Something that shouldn’t exist. And yet, here he was, his monstrous form draped across your lap like a loyal hound.

Your fingers brushed against the werewolf’s fur again, almost absently. You weren’t sure what to do next—if you should leave, try to wake him, or simply wait for him to change back. But one thing was certain: your life, and your understanding of Sinclair Bryant, would never be the same.

[avocado-writing]

notes: sorry anon who requested morning rainy day cuddles, I had a fight with tumblr and it deleted your ask :(

“We need to get up,” you tell Astarion. 

“No we don’t. The weather is terrible,” he hums, nuzzling his face into the tender skin of your neck, seeking out the soft thrum of your blood at your pulse like a cat seeks the warmth of a familiar lap. You groan and wrap your arms around him. 

“We have things to do.”

“Nothing that’s more important than you staying here and keeping me warm,” he purrs. 

“You’re a terrible influence on me, you know.”

“Mmm, certainly the worst. If only you had a way to shut me up…”

He lifts his lips towards you hopefully and you chuckle. He collapses your willpower without even needing to try. You kiss him, long and languid and sweet, and let him move you onto your back and settle between your legs. 

“God it sounds shite out there,” Karlach mutters, taking a handful of blanket and wrapping it around the two of you tighter. You give a full-body shiver in response.��

“Bloody rain. Bloody camping. Bloody Sword Coast weather,” you grumble and Karlach laughs good-naturedly at your grumpiness. You become aware of her embrace and she brings you to her chest, all hard muscle and sweet skin, tucking your head under her chin to mould you against her better. You giggle a bit as you feel her tail swipe up to give you an extra caress. 

“Here,” she mutters, and you hear the sound of her infernal engine beginning to tick. Soon a warmth spreads outwards from her chest and makes your little nest toasty. You release a noise of contentment and snuggle closer to your lover. 

“You’re a miracle,” you whisper to her, and you can feel her grin without needing to see it. 

You know that Halsin is relaxed. It’s a mood he’s in more and more these days, ever since you left the city and returned to nature with those carts full of children. Trust the man you fell in love with to be the only person in Faerûn made more calm because of dozens of new little charges.

He lies in bed, one arm behind his head and one around you, listening to the drip-drip-drip of the rain against the canvas of your roof. He hums a nonsensical tune, tracing random patterns on your back with his callused fingers. 

“You’re cheerful,” you mumble, burying your face against him. He huffs a laugh. 

“How could I not be? I’m with you, surrounded by nature, and the rain means we have a few more minutes to ourselves before anyone comes outside looking for us…”

You raise your head to look at him and he cocks a brow. You snort in surprise and glee. 

“Oh, Archdruid! Are you saying you want to have your wicked way with me when we’ve just woken up?”

“When we’ve just woken up, before we lay down to sleep, if we get a spare ten minutes when gathering firewood - I’d have my way with you as often and as wickedly as you’d allow,” he grins, all pointed canines and promises. 

You sling a leg over to make him your mount, and make good on them. 

taglist: @ghosti02art@sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13@trappedinlimbo15 @infinitely-kate@dhampling@wereallbrokenangels@tilldeathdonugget@hopeful-n-sad

[belovedspector]

Love at First Sight's for Suckers (At Least, It Used to Be)

Pairing: Jake Lockley x f!reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Summary: Jake can’t help but notice you when you become a regular at his favorite diner.

Content: Fluff!

A/N: Title is from “I Never Planned on You” from Newsies. I’ve never written for Jake before, and I haven’t read the comics, so I don’t have much to go off of, but I figured I’d give it a shot. I hope I did okay! Enjoy! :)

Masterlist

Jake Lockley knows his place. He’s the protector of the system, keeping Marc and Steven out of harm’s way and doing Khonshu’s dirty work. He doesn’t have time for “earthly pleasures,” as Khonshu had once put it. He doesn’t really have a life outside of protecting his alters and the travelers of the night, and he’s fine with that. He’s content to lurk in the shadows if it means Marc and Steven getting to live their best lives. He treasures what interaction he does get, when he’s driving his cab through the city or getting food late at night after a mission. He tries not to dwell on it, though; there’s no sense in mourning what he can’t have.

Jake notices everything. It’s his job, to always be on high-alert, even when he’s not the one fronting. So, when you start showing up at his favorite diner every Friday night like clockwork, he notices. He observes from afar. From that first time you walked in, the bell tinkling to announce your presence, he’d been…interested in you. He’s not sure why—it’s not like you pose a threat. You should fade into the background, just like everyone else.

But, you don’t.

Jake can’t help but take note of everything you do—the way you always say your “please”s and “thank you”s to the waitress, your soft laugh, your sweet smile, the ungodly amount of sugar you put in your coffee. He’s good at watching people; it’s part of his job, after all, so he’s able to absorb you and your habits without drawing suspicion from you or anyone else. Some might call it creepy, but Jake means no harm, and he can’t help his…infatuation with you. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him.

One night, he finds himself rambling as he drives around the city. He likes to talk out loud to himself in the safety of his cab; it gives him a chance to make sense of his thoughts, and it’s not like he has anyone else to share them with.

He starts off by talking himself through the details of his upcoming mission, but he soon finds his mind wandering to bright eyes and the scent of coffee. You.

“She’s really something, huh?” Jake says to himself. “I—I don’t know what it is about her. I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“I think you humans call it a ‘crush.’” Khonshu suddenly appears hunched over in the back seat of Jake’s cab, and, if he was a less skilled driver, Jake absolutely would have crashed. As it is, he jumps almost imperceptibly in his seat, swerving the tiniest bit before regaining control of the vehicle.

“What?” Jake asks, not even sparing Khonshu a glance in the rear-view mirror. He’s used to the god’s antics by now.

“It appears you have a crush, Jake Lockley.”

“I don’t get crushes,” Jake protests. “Don’t have time for that shit.” He grips the steering wheel more tightly, the leather of his gloves straining against his knuckles.

“You’re right; you don’t have time,” Khonshu agrees, “so I suggest you nip this little problem in the bud, before it interferes with our work.”

“What, you want me to kill her?” he deadpans.

“No, nothing that extreme. I was going to suggest finding a new diner.”

“But I like that diner.”

“Then you’d best find a way to ignore the girl.”

With that, Khonshu disappears, and Jake mutters some choice words about the bird in the quiet of his car.

It’s Friday night again. Jake sits alone at his usual booth—in the corner, with his back to the wall, so he can continually scan the entire diner for any threats. He alternates between sipping at his coffee and taking bites of his blueberry pie while scanning the newspaper.

The door opens, the bell ringing along with it, and Jake instinctively looks up.

It’s you.

Jake casts his eyes back down to the sports page. Khonshu had given him orders, and he intends to follow them.

His plan is going great. He’s not thinking about you, not even a little bit. But, shit, now he’s thinking about how he’s not thinking about you. Does that count as thinking about you?

Jake returns his coffee cup to the table with a little more force than necessary. He can feel a headache coming on.

Get it together, Lockley.

He looks up again to do another sweep of the interior, when he notices you’re not sitting in your usual spot. No, you’re…walking towards him. Surely, you’re just going to use the bathroom past his seat, right?

No such luck. You stop at his booth, standing awkwardly with your hands clasped in front of you.

Slowly, Jake moves his eyes from his newspaper and allows them to find yours. He’s never seen you up close before, and, God, you’re even more breathtaking when he can see the sparkle of your eyes and the way your lips curve upward into a soft smile.

“Um, hi,” you start, rocking a little on your feet. “Sorry to bother you. I was just wondering if you had a pen?”

Jake’s not very well-versed in pickup lines, but he’s pretty sure that can’t be one, right? He stares at you for a few beats, dumbfounded that you’re really speaking to him, before he pulls himself together.

He clears his throat and answers, “Uh, yes.” He reaches for the pen he always keeps in his jacket pocket and hands it to you.

He can’t help but notice the way your soft, warm fingers brush against his as the pen exchanges hands.

“Thank you!” you say, and you sound so sincere. “I just wanted to do today’s crossword. I’ll have this back before you know it.”

“Sure,” Jake forces out as you turn on your heel, back to what he’s begun thinking of as “your” booth.

He goes back to his own paper, definitely not thinking about you and your sweet smile and soft hands. It’s by complete coincidence that the next page he turns to has the daily crossword puzzle. He’s never been much for puzzles; that’s more Steven’s thing. Still, he takes a look.

Across 1. An infatuation with another person

It’s five letters. It can’t be anything other than “crush.” Jake groans. He scans the rest of the clues and notices they all seem to revolve around love. It dawns on him that Valentine’s Day is fast approaching. So, maybe the universe isn’t totally fucking with him, after all.

Jake has just about finished his pie when you come bounding over. You don’t wait for him to look up before you’re speaking.

“Thank you again!” you say, placing his pen back on the table near his coffee cup.

You’re already turning to go back to your booth, but Jake can’t just let you go. Screw Khonshu’s orders, he thinks.

“Wait,” he calls to you. He half-expects you to ignore him, to keep walking away, but you do turn around and take a step closer to him. Shit, now he needs to think of something to say to you. “That was, uh, fast,” he says lamely.

You beam at him, and it’s just about the prettiest thing Jake has ever seen. “Oh, yeah, I used to do them with my dad all the time, so I’ve gotten pretty good at them.” Your eyes drop to his newspaper that sits forgotten on the table, still open to the puzzle page. “Oh, do you do crosswords, too?” you ask, and you look like you’re genuinely interested in his answer.

“Oh, uh, not really.” Jake’s hand comes up to rub the back of his neck nervously. Since when does he get nervous?

“Ah,” you say, nodding wisely, “you must be more of a Sudoku guy.”

“Uh, yeah.”

Great conversation skills, Lockley, he chastises himself.

“Well, thanks again for the pen. I hope I didn’t keep you from your Sudoku for too long…” You trail off, and Jake realizes, belatedly, that you’re waiting for him to offer his name.

“Jake,” he provides, putting on his most charming smile.

You smile right back, telling him your own name.

“Pretty name,” he remarks.

“Thanks, I got it for my birthday.”

Jake just stares at you for a moment before the joke lands, and then he’s laughing—like, genuinely laughing. He can’t remember the last time this has happened.

He notices you seem a little flustered. Maybe he laughed too hard? Maybe it wasn’t even a joke, and he just totally misread the situation? Maybe—

“Wow, I don’t think anyone’s ever actually laughed at that one,” you say with a slight chuckle of your own.

“I liked it,” Jake says honestly, as if you couldn’t already tell. Before he can second guess himself, he’s asking, “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Oh!” A look of surprise crosses your face. “Um, yeah, I’d like that. May I?” you ask, gesturing to the bench seat across from him.

“Please,” he says with a wave of his hand.

You slide into the booth as Jake gets the attention of the waitress and orders two coffees.

“Anything else?” the waitress asks, looking between the two of you expectantly, pen ready against her notepad.

“The pie’s really good,” Jake tells you. “My treat.”

You seem hesitant. “Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

“Come on,” he encourages with a smile.

“It is really good,” the waitress chimes in. 

“Well, okay,” you relent. “One slice of”—you look down at the table to scan the menu briefly—“chocolate cream pie, please.”

“Coming right up,” the waitress says with a smile and a click of her pen.

The time passes quickly, and the conversation between you and Jake flows as freely as the coffee. All that’s left of your pie is an empty plate with a few stray crumbs. You’re laughing at some comment Jake made when you glance down at your watch.

“Shit,” you say, your brows furrowing together in worry.

“Everything okay?” Jake asks.

“Yeah, I just didn’t realize how late it had gotten,” you say. An apologetic look crosses your face.

Jake checks his own watch. 2:53 am. He really should be getting back home, so Steven and Marc can wake up in the morning without suspecting anything.

“Can I drive you home?” he offers.

“Oh, that’s okay.” You shake your head. “I’m just a couple blocks over.”

“It’s late. I’d feel better if I knew you got home safely.”

“You’re sure it’s no trouble?” you ask hesitantly.

“Not at all,” he says with a smile. He’s smiled a lot tonight.

“Well, lead the way,” you say as you both exit the booth.

Jake throws a wad of cash on the table—more than enough to cover the coffee and pie—and walks you to his cab parked out front.

“You’re a cab driver?” you ask, sounding intrigued.

“I am,” Jake says as he opens the passenger’s door for you.

You pick up right where you left off at the diner, intermittently giving Jake directions to your apartment. He doesn’t want the night to end, but, soon enough, he’s parking in front of your building.

You start to unbuckle your seat belt but pause and turn to him. “Hey, can I borrow your pen again?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” Jake says, digging it out of his pocket and handing it over once more.

You take it with a smile and reach into your pants pocket. You pull out a crumpled napkin and quickly write something before handing both the napkin and pen to Jake.

Jake looks down to find your name and phone number written on the napkin.

You smile, looking a little shy. “In case you want to see me before next Friday,” you explain.

Jake doesn’t even think about the implication that you’ve noticed him at the diner every week, just like he’s noticed you. No, he’s too excited about the fact that you want to see him again, maybe even to go on a proper date. He hopes you can’t tell that he’s blushing in the dim glow of the cab’s ceiling light.

“Good night, Jake,” you say, finally unbuckling your seat belt and opening the door.

Normally, he’d do the gentlemanly thing and open the door for you, but he’d been too caught up in this surreal moment. Next time, he thinks, because there definitely will be a next time.

“Good night,” he echoes, still in a bit of a daze. He watches as you walk up the stairs to your apartment, making sure you’re safely inside before he pulls away from the curb.

Jake will deal with Khonshu’s wrath over disobeying orders. It will be more than worth it, if it means getting to see you again.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think! :)

[thedorkurge]

Illario Dellamorte is my favorite Veilguard character.

And it's because he makes sense.

A fatal flaw in Veilguard is that every character is made to be super agreeable and nice, and it means that their origins hardly even matter in the story of the game. Bellara isn't impacted by the isolationist nature of the Dalish, Neve has no controversial opinions on magic, Lucanis isn't jaded by his training, etc. (these points can be debated, sure, but generally I think they hold true).

Even the villains are painfully one-dimensional. Cartoonishly evil cultists, necromancer who wants to conquer a city, darkspawn who wants to blight innocent creatures. There's little room for nuance or motivation, because there are simply too many bad guys to actually go in-depth with any of them, and the game can leave no room for interpretation, because it depends on you being 100% against them. So an easy black and white hero/villain dynamic is what they choose to go with.

And then there's Illario. Sure, on the surface it's a classic plot, jealousy making him turn on his family. But it makes sense. Because it actually feels like a product of his upbringing.

The crows are... Very different in this game. This point has already been discussed to death, but I think it's obvious that they changed them a lot to make them fit the narrative they needed for the faction mechanics. However, we know from the other games that growing up as a Crow is hell. Even if Illario wasn't subjected to the same treatment as other "recruits" (typically slaves and orphans), he still grew up in an incredibly cutthroat environment. Both Illario and Lucanis lost their parents to the power struggles between the houses when they were just kids, and were sent to live with a grandmother who trained them to be killers. The same grandmother who likely chose her position over her own children. Lucanis even describes her methods as "torture", which says a lot coming from the guy who was locked up in the Ossuary for a year. And he was the favored grandchild. Caterina clearly never hid her favoritism either. Illario learned from an early age that the only way to succeed, to be recognized, was to kill and rise through the ranks. And while it seems that his skill set (charming/manipulating people) is less valued than the flashy methods of "The Demon", it was an excellent skill to have when it comes to surviving within the crows.

The crows are known for infighting, Ivenci even points this out in the game. Anyone raised by the crows would know that the greatest battlefield is your own home, your own parties. They know that their allies are also their greatest enemy. They know that the other houses could be plotting behind your back, and that they will take advantage of any perceived weakness (such as leveraging familial love to force Caterina to give up the seat of First Talon).

So tell me, what makes more sense after being raised in a place like this? Becoming a kind and shy coffee addict who trusts and adores the other crows? Or becoming a jaded social climber who uses everything in their power to strengthen their own position? One who would turn on his family before they turn on him, allowing him to take the thing he has been taught to value above all else: The title of First Talon? One who thinks that family members are disposable, and that the only way to come out on top is to betray them before they betray you?

Illario was allowed to have that kind of nuance because you get the option to spare him, but I think the game would have benefitted from more characters like this. Characters whose backstories mattered, characters who weren't deliberately evil, but rather a product of their environment. It would have made everything feel more real, more grounded in the actual world building.

I wish we got more content with this bastard man, because he's (to me) the most interesting villain the companions have to face, and it seems a shame to reduce his storyline to "he was just jealous".

[reaper2187]

Asami sato x firebender reader

I still remember the first time I saw her.

It was during one of my training sessions, when I was still a young firebender trying to master my abilities. As I practiced, I couldn't help but notice her, standing at the back of the room, her long dark hair tied up in a ponytail and a confident aura surrounding her. I was instantly captivated by her beauty and strength.

Asami Sato, the heiress of Future Industries, was well known among the benders community. Her business empire was built on groundbreaking technology and innovation, and she was also an accomplished non-bender martial artist. Her reputation preceded her, and many firebenders admired her from afar.

But I was not content with merely admiring her from a distance. I wanted to get to know her, to be a part of her world. And so, I mustered up all my courage and approached her after the training session.

To my surprise, not only did she reciprocate my interest, but she also offered to help me improve my firebending skills. Asami could see the potential in me, and she was more than willing to mentor me.

With her guidance, my skills as a firebender improved tremendously. I was able to control and manipulate flames with ease, creating intricate shapes and patterns with my fire. Asami was patient and understanding, never once losing her cool even when I struggled with a particular technique.

As we spent more time together, we grew closer. We shared stories and experiences, and I learned that Asami was more than just a powerful businesswoman. She had a kind heart and a fierce determination to make the world a better place.

I found myself falling deeper in love with her with each passing day. Her strength and grace were irresistible, and I felt grateful to have her by my side.

But we both knew that our love was forbidden. As a firebender, I was expected to marry within my own kind. And Asami, being the heiress of Future Industries, was constantly watched and scrutinized by her father and the public.

However, our love was stronger than any societal expectations. We decided to keep our relationship a secret, knowing that the consequences could be dire if anyone found out.

Despite the risks, we were happy. We sneaked away to spend time together whenever we could, whether it was on a rooftop under the stars or in a secluded area of the city. Asami even started to join me during my training sessions, bringing along her latest invention to assist me in my training.

Our love blossomed, and I felt like I was living in a dream. But as they say, all good things must come to an end.

One day, while we were enjoying a peaceful moment in a garden, we were ambushed by a group of firebenders who were against any kind of relationship between a firebender and a non-bender. Asami and I fought against them, our bending skills meshing together perfectly as we defended ourselves.

But it was no use. They outnumbered us, and just when I thought the end was near, Asami stepped in front of me, using her martial arts skills to fend off our attackers. However, in the chaos of the battle, she sustained a severe injury, and I was too preoccupied with protecting her to notice.

When the attackers were finally defeated, I rushed to Asami's side, my heart sinking as I saw the blood seeping through her clothes. With tears in my eyes, I tried to heal her injuries with my firebending, but it was no use. Her injuries were too severe, and she needed medical attention immediately.

Without hesitation, I scooped her up in my arms and rushed her to the nearest hospital. As her life hung in the balance, I prayed to the spirits, begging them to spare her life. I couldn't imagine a world without Asami by my side.

After what seemed like an eternity, she finally regained consciousness. She looked at me with a weak smile, and I knew at that moment that she was going to be okay.

Asami's father, Hiroshi Sato, arrived at the hospital soon after. He was shocked and angry to find out about our forbidden love, but as he saw the love and care I had for his daughter, his heart softened. He gave us his blessing and even offered to help us keep our relationship a secret.

From that day on, Asami and I were no longer just two people in love. We were a team, facing any challenges that came our way, together.

Asami and I eventually got married, and we continued to train and support each other in our respective abilities. Together, we used our skills and resources to make a difference in the world, just like we always dreamed of.

Looking back now, I realize that our love was the catalyst for great change. Our love had the power to overcome any boundaries and obstacles, setting an example for others to follow.

And as I stand here, beside my wife Asami, I couldn't be more grateful for our love that started in a training room. It was a love that transformed not only our lives, but the world around us.

[tomfoolies]

selfshiptober: tomja edition days 9-11

gonna say it immediately: all of these are super sappy, super fluffy, VERY silly and completely self-indulgent. the worst in that regard so far, that's for sure. that's why i wrote them, but i figured i'd give everyone a heads-up so y'all can't sue me if the sweetness of these is too much to handle 🤭

9. music 

Just as they leave the club, in that perfect state of drunk where the world feels both dreamy and sharp, real and fantastical — Sonja hears it. Barely audible through all the noise, both from the establishment they just left and the sleepless city they stepped back into. But she recognises it immediately.

"Our song! Are you kidding me?"

Tom spares a glance over his shoulder, listens, and then turns back to her. A look of exaggerated disbelief on his face. "This is our song?"

"One of our songs," she corrects herself, sighing in similar overdramatic fashion. "Hours of shitty song after shitty song and only after we leave, the good stuff starts."

From her lamenting he gets an idea. He holds out his hand for her, but it takes her a while to pick up what he's putting down. Once the choreography of his move becomes clear to her, she lets herself be pulled into an impromptu dance that's an awful mess to anyone watching. Their feet keep colliding, their rhythms do not match, and she ends up having to hold onto his jacket to stay upright.

Their shared drunken high hazes things over, and the streetlight they're directly under becomes a spotlight shining upon them.

10. warmth 

Tom hears the front door open and close, then the usual sounds from the hallway; the rustle and thud of Sonja taking off her coat and boots, the clink of the leashes as she releases Juno and Mondale. The dogs come barreling down the hallway, beelining to their food bowls in the kitchen. She follows quickly behind them, but her target is one particularly defenseless man situated right in the middle of the living room couch.

"Move over, big guy. I'm fucking freezing."

But the warning comes too late, and he yelps when her glacial body collides with his in a way that rivals the Titanic.

"I did not need to be convinced about it," he complains as she digs her cold feet into the toasty space between his thighs and the couch cushions. "Did the nuclear winter finally start?"

"It sure felt like it."

She reaches over to grab the TV remote from the coffee table. Soon the dogs come trodding over, bellies full; Mondale jumps next to her onto the couch while Juno settles at their feet. Both content and comfortable, just like their owners.

11. recovery

When he wakes up, hours have passed. The bedroom's shrouded in darkness, but the light coming from beneath the door tells him it's still daytime. Sonja's right next to him on her side of the bed, work laptop propped up on her knee while she types away. The light from the screen shines a dim spotlight on her face; an expression of deep focus, of mild annoyance. When she notices he's awake, her whole face softens.

Her voice is mellow, almost a whisper. "Feeling better? The meds kicked in?"

It'd been a while since the last bout of migraines this intense, so when she'd gone raiding the medicine cabinet and returned with a prescription bottle, the expiration date on it almost faded, she worried they wouldn't be of much help. His head still feels like it's not quite correctly attached to the rest of him, and the dizziness returns for a moment when he sits up, but the pain seems to have faded beneath a relieving numbness.

"I think so, yeah." A beat of tentative silence, then: "Thank you."

Overtaken by emotion, she reaches out in a feeble attempt to tame his hair, in a state of total disarray from his nap. Her touch is barely there, making sure not to hurt him. It makes him feel fragile, yet at the same time revered — a completely novel feeling. Something he can't quite wrap his head around.

[strawberryfairi]

Synopsis✨: The story of how you catch heavy feelings for the hot photography student, Shuji Hanma…even though you already have the perfect (fake) boyfriend.

Pairings: Photography Student! Shuji Hanma X Dance Major! Black Fem 🤎 Reader (ANYONE CAN READ🧚🏾‍♀️) Content: Drama, lots of denial, angst, sneaky link, lots of cheating, mutual pining, unserious Shuji, controlling parents, forced relationships, romance, fighting, porn with a good plot vibes, intense sexual tension, etc (just find out the rest lol)

w.c: 4.4k💠 Released: Jan 5, 2024

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3; NIGHT RIDE 夜骑

A heavy silence fell between the two of you, making your palms sweaty and throat feel dry. "I...guess I should probably head back inside. I'd really rather go home though..." You mumble the last part to yourself bitterly. You really didn't wanna go back into the party with all that loud noise, and knowing Ken was somewhere in there probably not sparing you a single thought made you feel nauseous.

"Why stay then?" Hanma questions lazily, reaching in his pocket and taking out a pack of cigarettes.

"Well, I Uber'd here since my original ride bailed on me, I barely even spent time in there, and I was actually lookin' forward to the alcohol; even though it's nasty and cheap." You chuckle dryly, leaning your head against the window. "I wanna at least celebrate my accomplishment a little, you know?" You add with an exasperated sigh.

"Wanna celebrate with me instead?" He raises a brow, clicking the lighter a few times before it finally gave him a little flame, lighting up a new cancer stick.

You narrow your eyes skeptically at him. You felt you knew him well enough by now to understand he's a very flirtatious, very outspoken kind of guy, so whatever he was suggesting was definitely not innocent.

"What d'you mean?" You ask hesitantly.

"No need to look at me so suspicious, doll. Just seemed like you could use some fun." He chuckles breathily, taking a long drag.

"Fun..." You murmur, looking out at the frat house from the window. Flashing blue, white, and green lights shined from inside, and folks were jumping up and down to the music. You knew Ken was somewhere in there, having a blast with his boys and Ms. Butterfly tattoo celebrating his big accomplishment. Why does he get to live it up and you don't? Your jaw clenches, feeling that anger that prompted your meeting Hanma in the first place rise back up for a second.

"You know what? I could use some fun for real. What'chu trynna do?"

💠

The sky looks so pretty, and to think you would've never seen it had you not come out here with Hanma. You look up at the pretty, glittery  stars from the window. The sky is completely clear, and every single star is so luminous along with the nearly full moon. Tonight the pale moonlight is so bright that it's lighting up every surrounding as if it's day.

At the last point you looked at the time on your phone it was about twelve something, now...it could be any time, you had no clue. All you know is that Hanma had taken you to some random liquor store on the way to where you both currently are now. It was on the near outskirts of the city, up high and looking over the night. You two had gotten into the backseat of his car, much to your little angel on your left shoulder's dismay, talking about any and everything. Chill, vibey music played from the radio, going along perfectly with the atmosphere the night created.

"This is waaaay better than that frat party to be honest." You murmur lazily, taking another little sip from the bottle Hanma bought you. You felt so much looser around him thanks to the sweet alcohol, now you could relax and just be in the moment.

"Glad I could help." He grins, blowing smoke into the air as he wraps his arm over your shoulders. You sigh blissfully, leaning into his side with your eyes closed. The scent of him was so loud now that you were this close, that harmonious mix of cologne and cigarette smoke, it was honestly more intoxicating than the alcohol.

"If I stay like this too long I might fall asleep on you. You're surprisingly comfortable." You chuckle lightly, snuggling closer for a moment to further prove your point. Hanma let's out a short hum in response, then takes another long drag of his cigarette.

"Can't have that, can we?" He says lowly, taking your chin under his pointer finger, and making you look up at his pretty honey eyes.

"I guess not." You shrug, your voice matching his with just the slightest undertone of shyness.

He leans towards you, eyes lingering on your lips. "Got any suggestions on what we should do?"

You feel yourself fold instantly, only able to utter out a meek "Mm mm" in response.

"No? No idea?" He teases, dragging his gaze back up to your innocent looking eyes. You shake your head hesitantly, unconsciously clenching your thighs together. It felt like his eyes were reaching deep into your soul, picking you apart piece by piece. He made you feel so exposed, like prey out in short, cut grass with no place to hide. Honestly, it excited you to a shameful degree. Not even Ken has ever made you flustered so easily. A simple question Hanma asks in a particular way has you utterly falling apart at the seams.

He notices the way your legs come together tightly, a knowing look plastering onto his face. "Well I got a good idea, and it starts with you sittin' your pretty ass on my lap." He purrs, his voice dripping with lust.

You could've passed out right then and there. Shyly, you sit yourself on his lap, facing the window. Hanma laughs lightly at this, taking his time with another inhale from his cancer stick, then slowly exhales to the side. "Face me, sweetheart." He instructs. You kept your hands wrapped around the alcohol bottle, hesitantly putting your legs on either side of him. You look straight down, feeling so conflicted on the inside-well...not that conflicted, and that was exactly the problem. It was crystal clear what you wanted, it's just...

"Good girl." He coos, grabbing your chin with his free hand and making you look up at him. Your heart pounds so hard in your chest, you're sure he can hear it. Hanma takes the bottle from your hands, chugging it down and finishing the rest. Your hands clasp together, waiting for his next move. He reaches past you, placing the empty bottle in one of the cup holders up front, his other arm snaking it's way around your waist and pulling you up closer against him. Instinctually you put your hands on his shoulders.

Without a word his right hand reaches behind your neck, holding you still as he finally leans in, placing his lips on yours in a slow, intense kiss. You visibly shudder, a shockwave of electricity flowing down your spine and throughout the rest of your body, eliciting a sigh-like moan from your mouth.

"Wait wait...this isn't...a-a good idea." You mumble breathily between the kiss, attempting to pull away.

"It's not?" He asks with a faux innocent tone, and mischievous looking smirk on his face. His hand on your neck keeps you steady while he skillfully slips his tongue into your mouth.

"I-I have...a boyfriend." You finally admit, though it was more of a harsh reminder for yourself. At this he finally pulls away just slightly.

"I know you're Ryuguji's girl." He states plainly, lips brushing temptingly against yours.

Your heart sinks, eyes going wide in shock. He knows?! He knows and yet the whole time around each other he's been coming on to you like this?!

"You know? You don't care?!" You question in bewilderment. Hanma lets you go, allowing you to shift back and put more space between the two of you.

"I knew he had a girl, just didn't know it was you until after the game. But it seems like you don't really care that much either." He shrugs, taking one last drag from the cigarette he still had then put it out on the ashtray he had sat next to him earlier.

"I do care! I-..I care..." You repeat with a frown, brows furrowed deeply. It's the first time you've really thought about Ken this whole time since you left that party.

"Are you tellin' me or tellin' yourself that?" He asks with a raised brow.

You wanna be mad at him, annoyed, anything, yet you know you'd just be a hypocrite. How could you be mad at Hanma yet feel sorry for yourself? You're the one that let him-let this-happen.

"Babe, babe, I apologized already. What else do you want me to do? I didn't know she was gonna kiss me!"

"How 'bout not put yourself in a position to even have something like that happen! This don't even make no sense, Ken! You just straight up let her kiss you, like, I watched you hesitate! Had I not come over here would you have even stopped?!"

Those were your words, your exact words that you yelled to Ken just some hours ago. You were already a hypocrite; already a fool. You even had the audacity to cry and storm off, you made a whole scene in front of people, and here you are hours later with butterflies in your stomach and wetter than a waterfall for a guy you just met. Uuuugghhhhhh! Conflicted isn't even the word...

Ken has never been particularly terrible to you. The two of you know your relationship came about in..not the most genuine or natural of ways, but you both made it work; you learned to love each other. He's sweet to you, you respect him, it's always been that way. But tonight, for some reason, that thing that you've always been missing, you can't ignore it.

There's no excitement, there's no...spontaneity or adventure with Ken. Everything is the same, everything's plain. You've tried to talk to him about it, ask him for something more or different, but he says it's just not his way. Ken likes stability and sameness, you've always loved newness, feeling stuck in a box or a loop that you can't escape when things are always the same. Hanma though, he gave you that excitement from the get go, without you even having to ask or hint at it. Sure you only just met him, but the way he makes you feel-gosh...Ken's never been able to pull this off in the entire two years and eight months of dating each other.

Then suddenly, Hanma rips you out of your turbulent thoughts, placing his hand underneath your jaw and lifting your head up with his thumb. "Tell me what you want. If you wanna stop...we can stop." He murmurs softly.

Oh no, not another crossroads of decisions! This wasn't really the night for good decision making, especially not now with this mix of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Your eyes immediately shift to the side, already knowing your resolve would be out the window if you looked at him and those alluring eyes for even a second.

"It's not about what I want." You shake your head, wrapping your small hand around his wrist.

"It's exactly about what you want." He says almost like whisper, leaning in slowly towards your lips once again. You squeeze your eyes closed, brushing your lips against his, breathing heavier with each passing second. If you kissed him now, there's no one around to see you two...nobody would find out.

"Tell me what you want, angel." He commands, a slight urgency in his voice. He's becoming impatient.

You bite your tongue briefly, then clutch a fistful of his shirt by his shoulder, pressing your lips against his in a needy kiss. Instantly he wraps his arms around you, pulling you against him as close as possible. Your hands rest on his shoulders, then slide up to cup his face. This kiss was much more intense then the first, much more needy. As soon as your lips met, your fake boyfriend was once again long gone from your mind...and you loved it.

His hands grab your hips, guiding you back and forth slowly against his hardening erection in his pants. Shameful excitement coursed all through your veins, moaning into his mouth as your tongues hungrily danced with each other. Even though this was so wrong no matter which way you looked at it, it felt absolutely right; perfect.

His fingers dip into your sweatpants, tugging on them slightly. Pulling away from the kiss, he helps you take your sweatpants off, lazily throwing them in the passenger seat up front. "Lowkey, this is gonna take a while. I still have my costume on." You chuckle, gesturing towards yourself. From your skintight body suit to your tights underneath, you had the entire fit on. He helps you take it off anyways, slipping you out of the bodysuit and just ripping a large hole in your tights right in the crotch area.

You let out a noise of shock, staring at him dumbfounded with your jaw hanging open. "You're a dancer, I know this isn't your only pair." He chuckles, running his fingers around the rip he created. "You're lucky I have more..." You narrow your eyes halfheartedly. He pulls you back into another heated kiss, reaching through the hole of your tights and swiftly shifting your panties to the side. Your heart skips a beat, gasping against his lips as you feel fingers graze against your wet folds.

"Damn, you're soaking wet, pretty girl. All that talk about "I can't" yet your pussy's begging for me like this..." He purrs lowly, his honey brown eyes intently watching as his fingers run back and forth, coating them in your syrupy slick.

You whimper, turning your head to the side in embarrassment while placing your hands on his shoulders. His free hand instantly grabs your jaw, turning you back to face him. "Wanna ride my fingers, angel?" He asks in that addictively sultry tone, lightly massaging small circles around your clit with his thumb.

"Mhm." You nod, your mind going fuzzy with bliss.

"I want words." He demands, abruptly pulling his hand away. You're eyes widen, a pained look on your face at the feeling of his fingers no longer there. "Yes, yes!" You answer frantically, your hips desperately searching for his fingers. "Yes what?" He asks smugly, just slightly brushing his fingers over your needy clit.

"I-I wanna..", You hesitate, the embarrassment getting to you a little, "I wanna..ride your fingers." You finish, biting your lip as you force yourself to look into his intoxicating eyes. "Please." You add breathily, gripping onto his shirt.

"There it is." He says with a satisfied grin on his face, slipping his middle finger inside as deep as he could. You gasp, tightening your grip on his shirt as you take in the stretch his finger gave you. He pulls out slowly then eases back inside, watching the faces you make. You bite your lip, uselessly trying to keep your moans quiet, moving your hips just slightly. He adds another finger, his ring finger, stretching you out further.

"Ohhh!" Your mouth falls open, unconsciously grabbing onto his wrist as you start to bounce up and down on his fingers and setting your own pace. Your slick coats his fingers in a sensual sheen, dripping slowly down to his wrist. "Feel good, baby?" He asks seductively, leaning in to kiss and suck along your jawline and neck.

"Uh huh." You moan, breaths quickly becoming pants as you bounce faster. "Gimme words." He demands sternly, making your walls clench around his fingers. "'S so good!" You whine. Your legs start to tremble, making it harder to keep your pace steady. The sounds your pussy was making, that loud squelching against his fingers, was driving you crazy. You crashed your lips against his, sloppily kissing him as your hips helped you bounce faster.

He responds so fast, matching your pace as he curls his fingers, hitting somewhere so deep your eyes rolled back. Your hips stutter, breaking from the kiss as you throw your head back while your legs shake harder. "Fuuuuck! Oh my god!" You cry, digging your nails into his wrist. "Right here?" He murmurs, curving his fingers and hitting that same, sweet spot once again. Stuttered whimpers and whines was all you could respond with, your mind had completely shut down. Desperately you try to bounce with his strokes, but the tightening sensation building up in your core is too overwhelming.

Hanma places his hand on the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him, his eyes ablaze with lust. "You look so pretty all fucked out already. You wanna cum?"

You fall forward, leaning your head on his shoulder. Making eye contact with him was just too dangerous right now, one look and you were seconds from an orgasm. "Yes yeees, uuugh!" You moan loudly, wrapping your arms around his neck. He adds a third finger, easily sliding it inside with the rest. Your hips raise in the air, attempting to get away, yet Hanma's hand follows you. "Don't run from it, angel." He coos, stroking your trembling thigh. You've never had three fingers before, especially not three fingers his size. You really didn't know what feeling full was until now, the feeling quite literally breathtaking. He picks the pace up, the sounds of your panting and moaning mixing harmoniously with the lewd noises your pussy makes. His fingers keep that same pace, same angle, with every stroke.

"Ah! Aah! I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum-oh my god!" You cry out frantically, tears prickling at your eyes. "Lemme see your face. Wanna watch you cum all over my fingers." He says lowly. You shakily lift yourself up, placing both your hands on his shoulders and digging your nails into them as you finally reach that high, cumming on his fingers. "There you go, baby." He coos sweetly. Your legs kept shaking violently, eyes rolling back as he helped work you through your orgasm. It felt like he'd brought you up to the moon and back, pulling you apart then placing you back together. It took you a second for your body to relax, slowly sinking back down into his lap, only twitching here and there.

His fingers slip out of you with a little popping sound, then licks each one, tasting you as he looks you right in the eyes. You felt your pussy clench desperately around nothing at the sight. "I want you." You murmur softly, leaning over and giving him needy licks and kisses on his neck. A deep, sultry moan leaves his lips, his large hands gripping your plush hips tightly. "Yeah? Wanna fuck me, pretty doll?" He asks sensually, moving you back and forth and slightly bringing his hips up into you with each movement. You both moan together at the sweet friction, your head absolutely spinning. He feels so big. "Mhmm, so bad." You answer blissfully, lightly sucking his neck between kisses.

Then suddenly, horrifically, your phone rings from somewhere in the passenger seat up front. You blink a few times, feeling like you just got ripped right out of an amazing dream. The ringer was on so you could hear it loud and clear, like it was yelling at you. At first, you had the thought to ignore it, but something deep down was stopping you. "Wait. Hang on a second." You sigh annoyedly, pulling away from Hanma and going to reach over up front for your phone.

Incoming Call: Big K💖

"Oh shit!" You whisper to yourself, eyes widening anxiously as you scramble to answer the phone. You quickly clear your throat, trying to compose yourself.

"Hey." You say calmly.

"Hey, where are you? I came to find you at the party but you weren't there, then I just came over to your room but you didn't answer the door." Ken says tiredly.

Your heart sinks in your chest. He's already back from the party?! "Oh, that's 'cause I just-..I'm just out walking around right now."

"At two a.m.? What the hell are you doing?" He sounds genuinely annoyed now.

"Yeah, at two a.m.; I've done that before." You reply, your tone just a little bit snappy.

"Can you just...get your ass back here? I wanted to talk to you about earlier." He says in a more calm tone.

What's there to talk about? You think to yourself.

"Ok, but it's late. We should just talk tomorrow. I'll let you know when I'm back in my room." You sigh exasperatedly, facepalming.

"...Yeah, that makes sense. I'll talk to you tomorrow; love you. Let me know when you're back." He mutters disappointedly.

"Love you too." You mumble lazily before hanging up.

All of a sudden the atmosphere felt so heavy, you couldn't even bare to turn around and look at Hanma, or really, look at what you've just done with Hanma.

"Was that your boyfriend?" He asks plainly, though there was a slight sour undertone in his voice at the word boyfriend.

"Yeah. I...should go." You start, finally looking back at him with a highly conflicted expression. "Could you take me home? Please?"

💠

The silence is so loud. It's heavy and suffocating, like losing the last bit of air you have left while underwater. You know Hanma's watching you, looking over at you every chance he can get while he drives back to campus. You also know that he knows you see him, just waiting for you to finally acknowledge it.

"I shouldn't have done that. We really shouldn't have done that." You finally break the silence, glancing over at him anxiously.

"Maybe not." He shrugs plainly, pausing for a moment. "Did you like it?"

You inwardly facepalm at his question. Of course you liked it, loved it even, but that's besides the point!

"Yeah..." You murmur weakly, a heavily torn expression on your face. Hanma nods, keeping his on the road with a satisfied grin on his face.

I'm terrible... You think to yourself.

"We should-..we should forget about it, right? Then..it'll be like it never happened." You nod anxiously, trying to think of any way to make this better.

A short, breathy chuckle leaves his lips. "And how do you go about forgetting something like this? Let me guess, not thinking about it?" He asks in such a teasing way, it was not helping at all.

"Exactly! Not thinking about it! Just...lock it away somewhere until it's forgotten about. People do that all the time." You say with a bit of attitude.

'Cause clearly thinking isn't really my bag right now...

Hanma lets out a dry, short chuckle. "Hate to spoil it for you, but that won't work. You know it won't." He says plainly, glancing over at you.

"It will. It will 'cause it has to." You grit out.

"You're really not thinkin' this one through, huh doll? You wanted to fuck me, and you would've had your boyfriend not called. You really think you're not gonna wanna finish what we started?" His tone is surprisingly serious as he looks over at you.

A frustrated huff leaves your lips, you couldn't think of a good response yet. You knew full well he was right, and it bothered you so badly. You were already aching to finish it, to finish on him, but you were using every bit of your willpower not to think about it. "You can't just run away from that by 'not thinking about it-

"I know, but I have to! I don't have any other options." You say frantically, leaning your head on the window. Hanma shakes his head clicking his tongue, not bothering to go back and forth about it anymore.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You got back to campus in about twenty more minutes. Hanma pulled up just down the block from your building per you request. With a tired sigh you get out of the car, turning and facing the window.

"I'll still help you with your photography project. If you want me to." You mumble.

"Y'sure you wanna do that? Might not be the best idea with your whole "forget about it" thing." He says with a slight taunt in his voice.

"I'm sure, 'cause what happened tonight was just a one time thing, so there's no reason to be nervous about anything else happening if or whenever I see you again." Your tone is purely serious, looking at him with the most sincere look you could muster.

He nods his head slowly. "Whatever you say, angel."

Your eyes close, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart fluttered when he called you angel. "Could you also please not tell anyone? This has to stay between us, like deadass, it has to." You plead.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna tell anyone." He assures, though it didn't really do much to help how you felt.

"Good. This is the last time we speak of this, alright?" You say sternly, almost like a parent to their child.

"Damn, I see why you're the captain of the dance team now, Ms. Bossy." He teases.

"I'm serious! This is really import-

"I got it, I got it! I'm "forgetting" about you cumming all over my fingers as we speak." He chuckles in amusement, not being serious in the slightest.

You facepalm for probably the thousandth time tonight. Of course you had to cheat on Ken with the most unserious dude in the entire school. "Alright. Well, I'll see you later or..whatever." You huff, already making your way away from his car.

A/N🧚🏾‍♀️: Wheeeew chile...😩 that's all imma say on the matter. Chapter 4 coming soon.

P.S. Oool Shuji is so fine!! Got me giggling n kickin' my damn feet🤗

[nightwingshero]

Just A Drink - Chris Redfield x Leon Kennedy

This is my gift for @a-thousand-lives-lost-for-peace for the My Bloody Valentine's Day Exchange! I hope you like it, it was my first time writing for this ship, but I loved exploring it!!! It was a pleasure creating for you!!!

Of course a shout out to @carlosoliveiraa for making this all happen, you're amazing and I always enjoy these when you do them!!!

“Vacation time again, huh?”

“You owe me a bottle at the very least, Redfield.”

The bar was just a hole in the wall in a random town that really only had two traffic lights. Somewhere out of the way, but not so far off from civilization. Not while they were both so damn busy and at beck and call for whatever disaster came next. It would happen eventually, like it always did, like they had talked about before. Chaos breaks out, they save the day, it gets covered up as needed—rinse and repeat. Neither of them wanted to dwell on that, not when they had just saved Rebecca’s life, only moments to spare before they had lost her forever. But what happened stayed in the past where it belonged, along with the rest of the skeletons and close calls.

It didn’t escape Leon, the irony of the situation, where it was Chris drinking in a bar with Leon seeking him out. The last time it had happened, Chris and Rebecca needed Leon’s help. But as Leon took a seat with Chris, it was clear that Leon didn’t share the same intentions that Chris had—he was content with indulging. He ordered a glass of whiskey on the rocks as opposed to the beer his drinking buddy seemed fond of.

Chris chuckled lightly as he shrugged, inclining the neck of his bottle towards Leon’s short glass, a slight toast in silent promise between them. The smile was a bit short lived as the longer Chris stared at his bottle, the more his smile fell, losing the light and warmth it typically held. Leon noticed, of course there wasn’t much Leon didn’t notice in general, but his attention to detail seemed to heighten when around this guy—despite never wanting to really admit it. A few more moments of silence, a few more heartbeats, and Chris said something that fell under the noise of loud country music blaring from old, worn-out speakers. “You know…if you hadn’t showed up when you did, who knows where we’d all be.”

“Told you, had to take the stairs.” Leon tapped his fingers against his glass, partly avoiding the heavy conversation. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the capability, he just wasn’t sure if he had the capacity. So much weighed on his shoulders and he wasn’t ignorant enough to think Chris was better off. Guilt and regret held a strong grasp on Leon’s mind, the squad he lost, their close call with Rebecca, and just the things that had all led to this, including Raccoon City—where everything had started. It was strange, the more either of them thought about it, to see how their fates seemed intertwined from the beginning, without even realizing it at the time. “Not exactly vacation talk, Redfield.”

“I just…wanted to say thanks. I know that…well, you were going through your own thing when we caught up with you.” Chris replied, taking a sip of his beer. “I am sorry about your squad, Leon.”

A few more taps on his glass and Leon still didn’t know quite what to say. He still felt that anger, that regret and guilt. But if anyone could understand that, it was Chris Redfield. And while he was pissed at Chris at the time he had asked for help, even if he was still so disenchanted with the impact their actions had—or the lack thereof—he was still somewhat grateful to have gone with them. If anything because of Rebecca’s sake, but if he was honest with himself, it was more than that. Leon wasn’t sure if there ever would be a moment where he wouldn’t have Chris’ back, hated the version of himself that ever had to go against him—something he’s been forced to do before.

“That’s why you’re making it up to me, Redfield.” It was these moments that helped bring him back down to earth, a breath of fresh air before diving right back in again. Chris laughed again, nodding as the air between them remained heavy with things left unsaid, thoughts that were shoved aside and buried. Whatever it was, they didn’t talk about it. Or the way their eyes just kind of caught before Chris smiled, holding his beer bottle up in mock salute.

“Well, let’s get you that bottle I owe you then, see if we can get to the bottom of it.”

[fraugwinska]

Chapter 11 - Mesmerize

Mesmerize (verb) 1. to completely capture the attention of; spellbind; fascinate 2. to hypnotize or put into a trancelike state; cause (someone) to be open to the power of suggestion

Tags & Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content

After two more rounds of drinks and a masterful performance of a Britney Spears Medley by Angel you all decided to return home to the hotel. Alastor guided you out the door with his hand on your lower back, glaring at the silhouettes in the VIP section as he did with a taunting sneer. You, in turn, didn't spare a look in that direction, determined not to even give them the grace of acknowledgment. Everyone was more or less tipsy, except for Alastor who maintained his usual poise - and you, since you were the only one who didn't drink any alcohol at all. While Alastor carried a giggling Niffty under his arms like a travel bag, you and Husk had Angel wedged in between the two of you, stabilizing the spider demons staggering steps. Angel was a very loud and fun drunk, flirting with everyone and anything, even a lamp post you passed by. With teamwork and a lot of sweet talking you got him to stop grinding on it and continue to walk.

The hotel lobby was dark and gloomy in comparison to the lounge and the flashing city lights, the only light source brightening the hall the burnt down fireplace.

“Guys, that was so much fun! Thank you all... I... I really love you...” Charlie exclaimed teary eyed. There was always an emotional drunk. Vaggie shook her head with a crooked smile and wished everyone a good night, throwing the now sobbing Charlie over her shoulder and headed to their room.

Niffty was quietly snoring under Alastor's arms, and he excused himself, taking her to her room. Which left you and Husk (mostly you) to convince Angel to down a glass of water and get to bed too. “Are you sure you can find you own room? I don't want to find you in my bed.”, you mused, watching his wobbly steps with slight worry. “Ha, baby, 'ya wish 'ya were that lucky!”, Angel laughed and pinched your cheek. “'Ya can stay and have some good ol' quality time with Husky, pussy to pussy...” he snickered and stumbled up the stairs. You turned to Husk, who had already rounded the bar and fixed himself another toxic looking drink. You sat on a barstool, one eyebrow high. “Feeling dehydrated already?”, you lean forward and read the label on the bottle Husk put down. 'Cheap Booze'. Very original.

“If 'yo don't sober up, 'yo can't get hungover.” Husk grinned, pulling up an empty glass. “Last call, kiddo. What's 'yo poison?” You gave Husk a soft look, pointing at a white bottle in the tiny fridge. “How about a virgin white russian?” “... 'yo jokin'.” You shrugged your shoulders. “Am I laughing?”

Husk chuckled hoarsely, shaking his head. He put some ice cubes in the glass and poured straight cream in. “Don't tell anyone I made that, I gotta reputation.” You took the glass and clinked it with his, then took a sip. “Too bad, best virgin white russian I've ever had, and the world will never know.”

Husk grinned, taking another sip. “'Yo know, 'yo got some good talent on that stage, kid. Could've made yourself a name down here.”

You tilted your head. You felt like it wasn't just a compliment, but that Husk was implying something.

“(Y/n), listen...“ Husky started, more serious now. “'Yo gotta good head on 'yo shoulders... jus', don't take too much shit from him, okay? It's not my business what 'yo whole deal is...” he gripped his hand tighter around his glass, avoiding your eyes, “but 'yo deserve better than sum... thing to be played with.”

You stared at him, mind racing. Where did that come from? Your tail swished slightly under your legs. You tried to word your reply carefully.

“I appreciate you saying that, Husk.” you say, looking him straight in the eyes. “But I promise you, I am not doing anything I don't want to do.” Not a lie. He eyed you as if he wanted to say something, but it seemed he changed his mind. He took your now empty glass. “Okay. Jus'... wanted to say that. Now go hit the hay.” “Good night Husk.” “'Night, kid.”

Alastor sat by the fire in his room, in his favorite chair, crossed legs, elbows on each of the armrests, his fingers intertwined in front of his tense smile. If a lesser mind would've seen him, they would think he's brooding.

Ha! No. Alastor was evaluating.

After taking Niffty to her room and making sure she'd stay in it, he had returned to the foyer, but only found a tired, exhaustingly annoying Husk. His little servant had already gone to rest for the night, the cat demon had informed him with too much smugness for his liking. Insolence never sat right with Alastor, but a quick yank on his soulchains had corrected that mistake sufficiently enough. He had left the coughing cat and made long, quick strides to his room, sending Ozul to spy on her, just as a precaution of course, and used the wait for his return to think in solitary.

This evening has been very interesting for many reasons, and while he waited for his shadow to return, he dissected every one of them.

His conversation with Rosie still left him without a real conclusion. Despite what he said to Rosie – and he had to admit it wasn't his most eloquent or even satisfactory explanation, and he knew Rosie had seen right through it - he couldn't reasonably justify the measures he took on her to lure one of her alter egos out. His friend had been right – it wasn't like him. And it irked him to not know. 'You want my advice, Alastor? I'll happily give it to you:, with it a little personal puzzle to solve: Find the obvious truth in the protective lie.'

He echoed her words in his mind. His dear friend knew better than to hand him answers directly, but right now, in his chair, he found it more frustrating that invigorating. If he wanted to find out what she meant, logic dictated to first of all reveal the lie, peeling it to get to the truth. So what would his jewel girl lie about? His brows furrowed. Her loyalty to him? Evidence proofed otherwise, she had done any- and everything he asked her to without question or hesitation. Even when he crossed that physical line, she had allowed him to use her, reacted to his touch in the way he wanted her to... Mh.

She had reacted to him. Just like he wanted her to.

Realization hit him, stretching his smile until the corners of his lips hurt. She always had her facade in place – collected, calm, detached, except in special moments with him. Smiling just for him. When that excuse for a media demon made his foolish advances to her in the lounge, even going so far as to touch her... Alastor growled at the memory, breathing out a slow, husk breath. ...she had reacted so much more differently, with disgust and anger. What a pleasure it had been to hear her answer... “I think I can decide best which company to keep, and I am fully and extraordinarily satisfied with my current employer.”

He felt a pleasant shudder pass through him. Her words on their own, while indeed enjoyable, weren't the only catalyst for his reaction. It was how she had said these well-chosen words, the icy acid that made it clear she truly meant each of them, the underlying venomous intent and how hard she controlled her rage, her clear wish to incinerate that pathetic parasite. But of course she didn't. She worried to get him in trouble by putting his long time enemy in his rightful place. He had gladly given her the small push – or better: permission – she needed to get up on that stage and rectify this missed opportunity in the best way he could imagine. Watching her, in that borderline scandalous skirt, her figure shaped like an hourglass and swaying expertly to the music as she sent Vox the clear message he had been so oblivious to... yet again, always searching for his eyes, his approval...

Could it be that his gem, his inestimable crown jewel, had developed feelings for him? He drew in a sharp breath. It would be plausible, Rosie was more proficient in matters of the heart, so of course she'd know way before him.

The protective lie: Her meticulously crafted mask of stoic neutrality that she presented to everyone she met. The obvious truth: That he, and only he, was able to shatter this mask, because she had fallen for him.

With dark pride filling his throat his stomach felt hot, his chest was tight and his mouth watering. This information and it's implications meant he had full access to her vulnerability, a privilege no one else possessed – a turn of events that was as unexpected as it was impelling. To properly test his theory he had to create more of these... special moments. And didn't he always say no time like the present? Alastor shot up from his chair and whirled around, adjusting his tie with a strange feeling of urgency while he summoned Ozul back. If his kitten was still awake, he could put his plan into action this very night. The thought made him hum with anticipation. But a minute went by, then two, then three, and his shade still hadn't come back. He had given him too much liberty, Alastor thought with a snarl, and swung open his door. He would have to reprimand him later. He took silent steps into the candle-lit hallway. If you want something done right, do it yourself.

The clothes you shed were clammy with the sweat from the night. You put them lazily over the armrest of the wing back chair, making a mental note to wash them first thing in the morning and give them back to Angel. The evening had overheated you, and you decided against pants tonight, so you just slipped into a soft, flowy top.

The clock showed quarter past midnight, you hadn't even realized it had been this late. You yawned, and sat down on your bed. After being out with everyone, this room felt suddenly too quiet... maybe you could ask Alastor for a radio.

You lied down on the duvet cover, crossed your arms and sighed. The short conversation with Husk replayed in your mind – he seemed to suspect that you made a deal with Alastor, and in genuine worry about him taking advantage of you. While it was a gesture of compassion, something you didn't expect from the cat demon (so soon), it left you feeling uneasy. You closed your eyes. From an external standpoint, knowing of your circumstances, anyone would say you were Alastor's toy. Shit, even you would've said that, it's not that you minded before. You weren't offended thinking like that. But lately, it had felt... different. Even before the – let's call it 'incident', gradually, something had changed within you. Gone was the protective indifference. Gone was the peaceful numbness. Maybe that was this so called 'Stockholm Syndrome'. Getting infatuated with your capturer would be such a nice cherry on top.

Memories of fingers on your spine flashed before your eyes, hands on your shoulders while your fingers pressed down on piano keys, heavy lidded eyes taking you in when you opened the door tonight, hot breath burning your ears, black and red claws clapping in orange and red light... With a shocked gasp, you realized your hands had unwound themselves and traveled down your stomach, halting right above your core. Your eyes opened wide, and it looked like your whole form was radiating a pinkish aura. Trembling, you lifted your hands to your eyes. “What the hell...”, you could hear yourself whisper. Please, we need this...

Your eyes darted throughout the room, searching for the source of that voice... only it was everywhere. All around you... no... In you. You know we like to beg, but now is not the time... you made us wait for so long. We need it. “Wh..”, you stopped talking, completely bewildered, closing your eyes again. 'I don't understand...', you thought. Oh, you do, honey. And you know it's true. 'I can't... I can't do this. It's wrong.'

You heard your own voice laugh, like a purr, teasing. Then why does it feel so right? Come on, lying isn't our thing. Nobody has to know, we can be quiet...

In a trance, you lowered your hands until your fingertips landed softly on your bare skin of your thighs, trailing upwards. Your nails scraped lightly over your skin, making you draw in deep, shuddering breaths. As they reached the barrier of your underwear, you stilled. “What am I doing?” you breathed, shuting your eyes, almost whining. Just what we would want him to do... just imagine, imagine it was him touching you, please... With a needy sigh, your hand pushed under and past the fabric, gliding along your wetness. How did you get so fucking wet already? A heavy breath escaped your lips as your fingers became slick, gliding through your folds with ease, encircling your sensitive bud. Your head felt like it was burning from the inside... torn between pleasure and diffidence. Imagine him, imagine he would take care of you, praise you, such a good girl...

A soft, quiet moan rippled from your throat as you increased the pressure, going deliciously slow and shifting your legs slightly further apart to give more room to your working hand. You felt like your head would split in two, the pressure from the inside almost unbearable. He would like how wet we are for him... how good we'd smell, how warm, how soft... Your fingers circled the bundle of nerves tentatively, your mind getting hazy. You could feel your core start to flutter, a deep need creeping up on you. 'I can't... I can't think about that.' you chided yourself desperately. Yes we can, the voice cooed, think of him - touching us, calling us his little gem while he does all the things that we need to make us come undone with these long, slender fingers... With a deep, ragged breath, you pushed a finger inside, trying to keep yourself quiet. It was the first time you've touched yourself in what felt like forever, and the fact that it was Alastor's face in your mind and voice in your ear that had gotten you to this point made you feel lewd and embarrassed. You felt yourself clenching around your digit, desperate for more friction, and you had to add another finger, moving them faster, in and out. The way your body twitched with want was unfamiliar and scary, yet so sinfully sweet. You could almost feel his gaze on you, hungry eyes, his smile wide and cocky at your neediness. The idea alone had your breath hitch. Would he want you as bad as you wanted him? Would he like the way you looked when you came, dripping and sobbing his name? Would he withdraw just before your high to make you beg to ruin you? You gasped loudly as you pressed down on your clit, rubbing it painfully hard. A shiver rolled through your body, a spark of pain accompanying the rush of pleasure. You were so, so close already... He would want to make us come again and again and again... Your free arm swung up to your mouth, you bit your arm in an attempt to stop the oncoming mewl, tasting the blood you drew from your canines breaking your skin. He'd make us pray to his name... say it... say it... SAY IT!

“Alastor...”

As you cried out his name, the tension broke and a hot rush of ecstasy rolled over you, waves of pleasure crashing into your whole form, ripping you apart.

He had reached the end of the staircase when his ears jolted upright, rigid. Listening intently, he sorted the noises, discarding the typical sounds of the nightly hotel and focusing on the unusual ones. A soft whine? He stalked nearer to her door. Was she crying? No, no. He knew how she sounded when she shed tears. This was different. Again, he summoned Ozul. Again, his shadow didn't come. He furrowed his brows in annoyance when a scent hit him, sweet and ripe, coming from her room. Intoxicated, he sped his strides and reached her threshold, concentrating on what he heard while inhaling the luscious aroma. His pulse went faster by the second at the sound of quiet moans, desperate whimpers and heavy breathing. Sounds so similar to those he heard not too long ago. He reached for the doorknob when suddenly...

“Alastor...”

Her voice, so clear, so wanton, so infuriatingly delectable. His hand twitched with noisy cracks, and in an instant, he sent his shadows to every door in the hallway, blocking them from opening and melted into dark smoke, flowing quickly under her door and reshaped in her room.

Here she was, lying on her bed barely dressed, in an utmost sinful position. She was flushed, blotches of rose and pinks painted on her gray canvas skin, trembling legs spread sensually as he caught her lost gaze, completely swallowed by waves of pleasure. And next to her... Another her , in shimmering translucent pink like a carved glass figurine, laid next to her, its mouth at his kittens ear like it was whispering to her. It turned its head slightly as he appeared before her, and it smiled at him provocatively. He stopped breathing, taking this image in. He felt his antlers growing, his eyes darken and bones cracking. This creature, this energy, this sight...

His gem didn't move, but her copy did. As if it was floating, it left (Y/n)s side, facing him with a sultry expression. He crept forward, slowly. She mimicked him, gliding to meet him at half the distance. The only sounds between them were his now ragged breath, his kittens exhausted sighs from the bed and his own static, buzzing and snapping more ardently with every inch that separated them. He stopped, an arms length away from it, and it did the same, tilting his head at him in playful provocation. Its lifeless eyes glimmered in the flickering light of the bedside lamp, casting rose colored specs on the walls. Alastor felt a strange pull when it lifted her hands to him, as if inviting him. She drifted back to the bed, and he hungrily followed, his grin unnaturally wide, teeth shimmering with drool. She seemed to laugh, and finally, its hand touched his. He had expected a flow of power. But nothing happened. His eyes snapped to it in a low growl. The alter ego just shook its head, and guided his hand to his kittens chest. As his claws hit her supple skin, many things happened all at once. The copy shattered into glittery dust. (Y/n) gasped as if snapping out of a trance, her shocked eyes widening at him. And he was overflooded with pure energy, washing over him, setting his nerves on fire.

“A-Alastor... I'm sorry... I didn't... “, she stuttered, the feeling of shame and embarrassment all over her face as she tried to pry away from him. Oh no. As if he'd let her get away now. Not when he had his answer so close to him.

<< Previous Chapter - Next Chapter >>

[recitedemise]

So, to experiment, I did the sacrifice ending for my origin!Gale run, and I never saw the scene explored or, well, even posted before. It offered quite a few things to think about, namely Gale's place in the afterlife and what path should lay before him.

I have so many thoughts surrounding this. Canonically, by being shown love, being shown that people care for him, that this friends hold him in high esteem simply for being the man he is, Gale would never sacrifice himself simply for Mystra's forgiveness. In fact, as I mentioned earlier on this blog and as reflected through my canon interpretation, Gale comes to battle this war within himself, for SELF forgiveness, for redemption, for understanding his value as a person, and makes it out all the better. He DOES not choose the sacrifice ending. He chooses to fight and live.

But in this angle, I like to believe, perhaps at first he might have considered sacrifice for Mystra, but in time, he realized very much what she asked of him was simply too much, too unfair, too cruel. Moreover, that choice of self-sacrifice was made as Gale thought it most logical. He looked upon the Netherbrain, saw his friends so weary, the city and the world so under duress, so battered, and thought, what is my life in exchange for everyone else's? Gale battles a lot with self worth issues, and he hides this behind a wall where he rationalizes his death in the context of sparing the heartache of those he cares for most.

This line is an interesting line. Mystra having already plucked Gale's thread from the tapestry of fate... as in, remove his essence altogether? I recall a line where Gale, if romanced and sacrificed, would say something along the lines of lingering there, there in the Weave to watch over them until the last sundering of the stars--or something to that effect. This line from Withers could be literal in that Mystra's ultimatum ultimately led to Gale removing himself from the physical world, but I can't help but to wonder if she, too, would have 'plucked his thread' from the Weave itself as well, ergo erasing the very last parts of him. Mystra doesn't strike me as particularly malicious. Absolutely cold, absolutely toxic, and absolutely callous, yes, but after promising him redemption, to but erase the lest vestiges of his Weave would seem quite the insult to injury. So, I don't believe that's the implication, BUT. It is a thought.

Another interesting line. Gale's life in his death has only just begun. I haven't yet looked into much of the afterlife in Forgotten Realms lore, but this could be something to look into. What could Gale achieve in death?

If anyone could achieve anything, even here, I wager it'd be Gale.

But what could the implication be? While Withers says this, however... the pain on Gale's face. The way he lost everything. Be that as it may, this potential for a different role or not, the idea that death is not the end is one he finds extraordinarily difficult to accept quite yet. Regardless, Gale remains very much like ambition itself, still a man with drive, dreams, desires, even there as he wades in the cold chasm of the afterlife. If there is something to be done, to achieve, to twist and make malleable in his hands, he will find a way. He cares so much for his friends, those he has left behind, those he couldn't properly say goodbye to--Gale, even here, would not content himself to simply lay and have his memory waste to the passing of the seasons. He will ease their path. He will do as best he can to protect them even with this infinite veil between them. He will long to touch them, hear them, laugh with then, but he will have to make peace that that is simply not his domain anymore. Perhaps, if yet intermingled with the Weave, he can feel the pulls of those spellcasters in the party, feel them like song, even all the way beyond. Or, perhaps, as my head likes to twist around, he does dabble more seriously in those pulls of necromancy, some sort of vessel of death, though perhaps a white one, not bitter, not angry, simply the cold touch of it, present and constant and there to lend aid when possible.

Gosh, Gale........... This was painful.

[samwpmarleau]

fic: into this night i wander

whumptober day 9: obsession masterlist: tumblr, ao3 Quake’s warpath brings her more than just notoriety.

Robbie makes a mean huevos rancheros. She’d found that out when she’d dropped by on what turned out to be the morning of Gabe’s birthday to see if Robbie — and his other half — had any more information to offer about what’s been going on in the city. He’d reluctantly filled a plate for her, she’d just as reluctantly told him it tasted okay, and thus has been her excuse for showing up here the past two weeks.

He hasn’t always provided such fanfare, sometimes it’s merely cereal, but the prospect of both food and information has kept her coming back. The system she’s constructed for herself has been working out great.

Had been working out great.

“You want to explain this?”

Daisy, contentedly chewing on some toast as she listens to a police scanner, prepares to roll her eyes at his theatrics when she sees he’s holding a piece of paper in his hand. The bite of toast goes down painfully in her suddenly dry throat. She would know that paper anywhere. Even from several feet away, she can see the man’s handwriting. Why Robbie has it, she can’t explain, unless —

“Did you go through my van?” she accuses, getting to her feet.

“No, I went to the front door.” Robbie glances down at the paper, then at her. “Have you gotten one of these before?”

You could say that.

She snatches the paper from him without answering and scans its contents.

Her breath shallows as she reads. It’s not the same as the other letters. Oh, the author is the same, of that she’s sure; the handwriting matches, as does the syntax. But where the letters she’d received were creepily complimentary, this is something else entirely.

After all our time together, why do you turn against me now? Every night I waited for you and you never noticed me. But you never went home with anyone, so I thought you were saving yourself for someone special. For me. I thought this man was just a source. But that’s not true, is it? You walk around his house like he owns you, like he knows you better than I do. He is trying to keep us apart, Quake. Is it my fault? Have I made you angry by being silent for so long? Well, don’t worry. I won’t let him come between us anymore. I will remind you how much I love you. Signed, Your Friend.

She doesn’t realize how long she continues to stare at the letter until Robbie tilts her chin up to look at him. “When did you start getting these letters?”

“I — a few months ago, but he hasn’t been violent like this before. I didn’t think — we’re just having breakfast, I had no idea he’d threaten you.”

“Threaten me? Three years in S.H.I.E.L.D. and is hasn’t crossed your mind that this guy is one bad day away from deciding that if he can’t have you, no one can?”

“I’m sorry, I never meant for you to be brought into it. He’ll leave you alone if I stop coming here. I’ll grab my stuff and go.”

Robbie looks at her like she’s grown a second head. “You’re crazier than the guy who wrote that letter if you think I’m going to let you go off on your own.”

“Let me? You don’t get to let me do anything. Spare me the alpha male bullshit.”

“It’s not alpha male bullshit. You’re being stalked, Daisy.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Challenge in his eyes, Robbie invites, “Yeah? Quake me then. Show me how you can take care of yourself.”

Daisy tugs down the ends of her sleeves, hiding away the purple spiderweb of bruises. The movement makes Daisy’s arms throb with pain, reminding her unnecessarily that even with the bone restoration pills, using her powers means risking permanent disablement. Her left arm’s already broken, her right ready to follow suit. Even fighting hand-to-hand would be recklessly tempting fate.

And Robbie knows it.

A glare is all the ammunition she has, so she throws that at him. “I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“No, just my food.”

Ire growing, Daisy brandishes the letter at him. “If I don’t leave, today, this is gonna escalate.”

“Or it’s going to end.”

“What are you gonna do, kill him?”

“If it comes to that.”

“That’s why I don’t want you involved. You can’t just murder anyone who’s inconvenient.”

“I murder people who deserve it.”

“All this guy’s done is send a few letters. That warrants the death penalty now?”

Robbie lets out a disgruntled sigh. “Look, just … stay here tonight. We’ll see what the danger is. Okay?”

Daisy so does not have the patience for his protectionism. He has no right, and she is not remotely inclined to be responsible for a murder, no matter how skeeved out she may be. Still, maybe one night wouldn’t hurt. She’d at least get some dinner out of it. “All right, fine,” she relents, “one night. But that’s it.”

———

Robbie sends Gabe to a friend’s house for the night as a precaution and insists on sleeping on the couch, something Daisy only performatively objects to. His bed likely is more comfortable than the couch and definitely more comfortable than her van; she has plenty of pride, but she’s not that prideful.

Which turns out to be the wrong decision.

Other than the usual humming of the refrigerator and distant rush of the freeway, the house is quiet with its residents all fast asleep. At first, Daisy thinks the tapping that wakes her is just the house settling. Or maybe the feral cat that frequents the underpass has hopped up on the fence. Except the noise keeps coming, tap-tap-tap, too uniform to be either the house or cat. Groggy yet curious, Daisy sits up in bed and scans for she doesn’t really know what.

Nothing stands out — until her eyes catch on the window she’d forgotten to draw the curtains over. There, almost sheet-white in the moonlight, is a face. It looks like it’s floating, so dark are its owner’s clothes. Floating and staring with hands cupped to the window to better see inside. The man doesn’t blink, his mouth curved into a placid smile. The smile grows when he sees that she’s noticed him.

She yelps in surprise and scrambles out of bed, hitting the flood with a thud. The man mouths her name and moves his hand to the latch that keeps the window shut. It’s locked, she’s pretty sure, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to open it. She wills herself to move, to risk sending a quake at him, something. She’s faced far more dangerous, intimidating creatures than a single man. She’s beaten them, usually with little effort at all. Yet here she sits frozen in the dark, watching as he attempts to enter. To get near her, to … she doesn’t know what.

She wonders what he’ll do when he realizes he can’t get the lock undone. Would he smash the window? Does he have a weapon? The house has a back door and Robbie’s at the other end of the house, what if —

Daisy jumps as the door is abruptly shoved open. Robbie. “Hey, I heard —”

He sees what she sees then, the man at the window. Her breath catches in her chest as the man’s expression twists from eager to furious when he registers Robbie’s arrival. That Robbie clearly hadn’t been sharing even the same room, let alone the same bed, doesn’t seem to matter. Being here at all suffices. The man bangs on the window so hard it rattles in its moorings.

“Go into Gabe’s room and stay there,” Robbie commands. Between his tone and the man at the window, Daisy has no desire to argue. She goes one way and Robbie the other, setting off at a sprint out the front door.

There’s a window in Gabe’s room, too, and she hurries over to throw the curtain over it. From Gabe’s desk she grabs a pair of scissors and backs up against the wall. She can’t fathom a scenario in which the man gets the better of Robbie — of Ghost Rider — but she’s not about to take the chance. Blood rushes in her ears. The way he had looked at her, first with such adoration then such hatred …

If Robbie hadn’t won their argument about staying here, if she’d been in her van and the man approached, if she didn’t have time to get into the driver’s seat to speed away …

She adjusts her grip on the scissors as they slip in her sweaty palms.

She doesn’t know how long Robbie’s gone. It feels like hours. Were he anyone else, she might try to go after him, see if something’s wrong. But if there’s anyone in the universe who could hold their own, it’s him, she just has to trust that.

Her nerves are frayed by the time there’s a knock on the door. Her heart leaps into her throat.

“It’s me.”

Robbie’s voice has Daisy dropping onto the bed in relief as he comes in and flicks on the lights. He seems to be uninjured. “Did you find…?”

“No, coward turned tail and ran. I didn’t see which way. But he gave us those handprints on the window, and maybe he left tracks somewhere that we can check out in the morning.”

“Okay. Yeah, good idea.”

Robbie crouches down in front of her and places a hesitant hand on her knee. “Are you all right?”

“You mean besides never being able to sleep again? Yeah, I’m great.” She glances at the scissors still in her hand, then Robbie in his sweatpants and an old t-shirt. “You gonna say I told you so?”

“No. I’m just glad you’re safe.” Robbie gets to his feet then pulls her to hers. “Did you recognize that guy? Anything familiar about him?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“Well, all those newspaper articles and blog posts, he could’ve come from anywhere. You haven’t exactly been subtle going after the Watchdogs. Quake.”

“Hang on, are you saying this is my fault?”

“I’m saying it’s not going to be easy to figure out who he is. And after tonight, there’s no question of whether he’s dangerous.” Sounding like it’s the last thing he wants to suggest, he says, “You should reach out to S.H.I.E.L.D. They’ll be able to help you. Protect you. Fix your arms while they’re at it.”

He has a point. Between her and Fitz, it probably wouldn’t take all that long to find the man, and she’s willing to bet Simmons has updated gauntlets ready to go. She could outfit her van with surveillance tech she can’t drum up on her own, and it would keep Robbie and Gabe from harm, too.

But the idea of returning after all the damage she’d caused, reviving the roots she’d pulled from the ground, it’s too daunting. Besides, with a new director and S.H.I.E.L.D. in the spotlight, who knows what hoops she’d have to jump through to get their help at all?

“I’m not going back,” she says. “If it’s your safety you’re worried about, don’t be. I’m leaving. He’ll follow me, not you.”

“I can look out for Gabe and myself just fine. I have a demon on my side who’d happily incinerate that guy. You don’t.”

“I’m not some damsel in distress for you to save, Robbie. You don’t get to have a say over my life.”

Robbie clenches his jaw. “Fine. Make your own way. I’m sure Gabe’s scissors and your thirty-year-old van that barely works will stop this guy from finding you.”

Daisy envisions the man tapping at her driver’s side window, or jimmying the lock on the back door, or slashing her tires. Using her powers on him would work to put distance between them … but it would also render her arms virtually unusable, and then what? She’d have to go solicit help anyway, probably end up in the hands of the cops and put in jail for vigilantism. Best case, S.H.I.E.L.D. would take custody and she’d be back at square one.

Doesn’t matter. She can’t stay here. She wants nothing to do with having to rely on Robbie Reyes and his condescension.

She shoulders past him and walks down the hall to the living room to pack up the few belongings she’d brought into the house with her. Pulling a sweatshirt over her pajama top, she bids, “Tell Gabe I said goodbye.”

There’s nothing but incredulity on Robbie’s face. “You’re really that stubborn?”

“I don’t need you.”

“Okay, just — let someone help you. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

“What do you care?” Daisy snaps. “You didn’t want me here to begin with.”

“I didn’t want you getting in my way and threatening my brother.”

“And now I’m getting out of your way.”

Robbie reaches out to grab her wrist. “Daisy, come on. You’re being stupid. You know you’re being stupid.”

“No,” she says, shoving his hand off and striding to the door, “I’m dealing with my own problem.”

———

Daisy doesn’t sleep well, but she does sleep. Her van is a comforting constant. It runs, whatever Robbie had said, and she’d found a vetted parking lot to hole up for the night. While her meager cot may not be as nice as Robbie’s mattress was, it’s a bed all the same. As the Los Angeles sun streams into the van, awakening her, she stretches and prepares to get on the road again.

A thin breeze alerts her to a fluttering piece of paper beneath her windshield wipers.

She opens it, and the sun loses its warmth.

I knew you didn’t want him, Quake. I knew you loved me. I’ll see you soon. Signed, Your Friend.

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Yellow City, Chapter Five

One probable no.

One probable yes.

One vote he has yet to obtain.

Arthur is having a day,, and he may be mad… but at least he isn't in denial.

Yellow City, chapter five. With the first of a couple of cameos.

Not exactly explicit, but there is sexual content and talk.

AO3

-----------

Nobody helped him. Nobody could. It felt like a quest, like proving he meant what he said, showing the world he wasn’t some milquetoast hypocrite. He had a job to do.

The presence of Mama Laveau (Shub-Niggurath, whose very name shook the already-spare sanity quavering in the corners of his mind) pressed him into the earth as he dragged himself toward her.

“Pretty sure he’s not gonna quit,” said Asenath, going on her toes and speaking up, up, up toward Mama Laveau, who was (twenty feet tall a hundred feet tall two thousand feet tall) six inches taller than Asenath.

“We’ll see,” said Mama Laveau. “How often do they do the hard thing, the pricey thing, when they don’t benefit themselves? We’ll see.”

For Faroe—

No. No, it was too late for her, too late for him. This wasn’t about him. This was about everyone else, the innocents, the people who didn’t deserve such a fate, to be fed upon, stolen for entertainment, bred until they died.

Lied to and eaten.

And he wasn’t the right one to fix this, he knew—unworthy, sullied, unclean—but there was no one else. I’m sorry, world, he thought in a doozy way. I’m all you’ve got.

“Do you really believe they’re innocent?” said Mama Laveau over howling wind, her words deep and resonant in spite of the noise of Arthur’s gasps and the scrape of his flesh over suddenly-sharp grasses.

Nobody could hear him over the howling gale, but he answered anyway, dragging, digging his fingers into soft loam filled with sharp and biting roots to pull himself nearer. “Yes.”

“What if I tell you there are no innocent humans, Arthur Lester?” said Mama Laveau, light and conversational, as if his answer didn’t even matter.

Faroe…

Some switch inside him flipped. “I’d ask you what in fuck’s name you think innocent is, because I’ve never met anyone who’s perfect, if that’s what you’re looking for—including you.”

“Yikes, Lester,” Asenath said, making faces as though caught between horror and humor.

Behind him, the wind rose in a strangely bass howl, like a train engine in distress.

“You’ve panicked your owner,” Mama Laveau said, sounding amused.

Owner?

He had a partner, not an owner, and it didn’t matter right now because Hastur wasn’t expected to reach Mama Laveau. “He’s new,” Arthur said.

To his confusion, Mama Laveau laughed.

Whatever that meant. It had no bearing, so Arthur kept coming, through the metal-screaming storm-howling grass-scraping pain, through the actual blades slicing his whole body to ribbons as he pulled.

(Vaguely, so vaguely, heard his partner bellowing, but it was so far behind and surely Hastur was just urging him on?)

His breath was thick and wet, bubbling red past his lips, like that moment when he’d saved the (frogs) children from that sinking boat and slid under the water. Drowning?

Hastur wouldn’t let him drown, so Arthur kept going.

It would be fine. He’d run out of blood eventually and stop smearing it all along his snail-trail path and making his chin so sticky. He’d had worse, anyway, though usually it ended in an orgasm.

She was so close.

#

The last six feet took eighty-four years.

Time didn’t mean things here, or so Asenath said, but enough of it passed (or seemed to) that Arthur no longer remembered why he made this journey.

He knew he needed to reach Mama Laveau. He knew she would stop something bad. He couldn’t remember what, but that was okay. He could wing it. Arthur was good at winging it.

He reached out (shaking, bones peeking through fingertip-flesh) and gently touched Mama Laveau’s foot. “Got you,” he wheezed.

“I’d say you did,” said Mama Laveau, and suddenly, it all stopped.

Arthur wasn’t shredded. The grass was grass, soft and wet, and the worst damage done was the dew soaking through his flimsy yellow clothes, which he’d smeared quite green.

(And a tiny, trembling part of him got a kick out of that, because Hastur would have to clean it up, but the thought evaporated before he could truly enjoy it.)

“You were right, Arthur Lester,” said Mama Laveau. “I’m not perfect. I believed, after all, you’d give up long before you got to me.”

“Ha! You wouldn’t be the first to make that mistake,” said Arthur like an eighty-year-old-man, and struggled to sit back in the grass with all the grace of a skinny walrus.

(Vague bass mourning back there somewhere—)

“Your god is going to need some triage,” she said.

“Don’t have a god,” Arthur said.

Again, she softly chuckled.

Arthur had no idea what that was for, but that was okay. “Give up yet?” he said with full confidence.

This time, she threw her head back and laughed for real, and the sound of it and her proximity shook everything, and his thoughts splashed wild and murky like soapy water disturbed by a rock.

(See to the fool, Shub-Niggurath said to her witch.)

Asenath went to check on Parker’s shuddering form, and Mama Laveau knelt down and brushed Arthur’s sweaty hair out of his face.

Her touch was cool, pleasant, calmed the waves in his mind instead of making more of them, and he had a weird moment of clarity. Her patience for him was thin because of what he was, and he couldn’t take too long with this. “Hey,” he said weakly. “Can I shoot straight with you?”

“I think you’d better,” she said, which was good advice.

“I don’t remember the details of this case,” he said as she plucked some grass from his (elaborate golden collar) lapel. “It’s my fault—had too much to drink last night.”

“That’s a real shame, with such a big, important meeting today,” she said, still running her cool, dark fingers through his damp hair.

He cranked the charm to a thousand, because Hastur was the scary partner, so he had to be the winsome one. “I can be pretty dunderheaded, ma’am, and I’d be the first to tell you that—but the biggest idiot in the world can still pass on an important message. Would you be willing to hear out this particular idiot, just for a minute?”

“Well,” she said, low and soothing, “it’d be a real shame to let all that effort go to waste, wouldn’t it? What’s that message, then?”

He couldn’t remember.

All his thoughts climbed over each other like ants, and he couldn’t see whatever dropped sugar cube they were swarming.

She waited, fingers cool, eyes patient if not exactly warm.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but he didn’t want to risk that patience drying up. Winging it. “Something bad’s coming.”

“It is,” she agreed, because her thoughts weren’t a wasp’s nest climbing out her ears. At least one of them knew what was going on.

“It isn’t their fault,” he said, going with instinct.

“Some are saying it’s yours, being as interesting as you are,” she said like opening a door to see if he’d go through.

He snorted. “No, it’s Kissinger’s for being a greedy, ugly baby who doesn’t like to lose.”

Her chuckle was dark. “You might be right on that.”

A glimpse of clarity, like a light flashing in a dark room. The Fire of Y. So many dead… “We know we fucked up, ma’am. Does that really mean we deserve to just be wiped out, down to the babies?”

She didn’t answer that. Her lovely, round face was unreadable. “Do you know what it’s like to put your good faith in someone, in a lot of someones, only for them to spit on your good will to the point that, in spite of your desire, you find them only distasteful?”

Oh, that was a big one. “I can’t say I’ve been betrayed that badly, ma’am.”

“Can’t you?” she said, and for one moment, just one, he remembered.

Hastur knew who, and knew all along, and never said. I know that if I had given you the name, and triggered my Contract, I’d be obligated to Harvest you—and then I’d lose my eyes in this world.

Parker sounded angry. “Of course I fucking know.” And he fell to his knees, splattering his weird blood.

Arthur cried out and gripped his head, breathing through lungs that felt shrunk to the size of lima beans.

She waited, silent as he rode it out, as the sloshing chaos of his thoughts settled again inside his skull.

Another moment of clarity, and he tried to hold the thought (the truth) that gods, for some reason, had such simple views of right and wrong, such easily hurt hearts, such ever-burning anger. “They hurt you. Like I hurt him. That’s it. Isn’t it?” 

She didn't answer.

It slid like a wine glass on the edge of a table, going over, about to shatter, and he shouted while he still knew what it was: “I’m sorry we hurt you! For everyone! For all of us! I’m a fuckup, but maybe that’s why I’m the one here, in place of all the fuckups! I’m sorry we did it to you! It was wrong, and I…” Images of Faroe (Of course I knew) smashed through his remaining thought like a brick through a window, and he needed another minute while it all crashed and sloshed and spilled.

“What an interesting human you are,” said Mama Laveau somewhere in there. “I knew you were brave; I knew you were stubborn. I knew you were strong enough to hold Hastur within you, and to do what was necessary with the tools I sent. But I didn’t know you could be wise, Arthur Lester.”

Faroe…

“That’s kind of you, ma’am,” Arthur answered from a great distance. “But I promise I’m not wise.”

“Well,” she said. “I chose right before. I’m gonna choose right now, too. I will not vote, Arthur Lester.”

That was bad. Wasn’t it bad? “Wh… why?”

“Because I might vote the wrong way,” she said. “I'm upset; until I’m a bit more soothed, I won't risk making that choice. So instead, I’m going to do what I did before.”

He had no idea what she did before (the feel of that dagger in his hand, its red and black jags biting into his flesh). “What’s that?”

“I’ll give you aid. How well you do with it depends on you.”

This was what she’d done before. This mattered. This… he couldn’t hold on to it. “Aid? What, like a hammer or something?”

“Something like that. Hold out your left hand.”

He did.

Her warm, strong fingers (long and clever tentacles) wrapped around his wrist for one moment, totally enveloping his whole arm, and when they withdrew, they left a present.

A bracelet sat against the bones of his wrist, loose enough to dangle, but far too tight to remove. It was a simple chain, silver, with tiny links and numerous charms that he couldn’t quite make out.

It was surprisingly heavy, too, and his hand fell to the grass, where he stared at it for being weird.

“It’s up to you,” said Mama Laveau, and just like that, she was gone. Her patience was done, and he got that, on some weird internal level. It made sense she’d be gone. It—

Hastur yanked him into a tangle of overly-hot tentacles and swore in some language Arthur couldn’t understand, a language that sounded like rocks grating against steel wool.

“Rude,” said Asenath.

Parker groaned.

Hastur turned to go.

“Don’t you dare,” said Asenath.

Hastur… growled.

And Arthur remembered that sound from his time in Cloud City, when that growl frightened him, when the depth and breadth of it felt ravenous even when immaterial, but now, in the flesh, it was utterly, mind-shatteringly terrifying.

Arthur whimpered.

Hastur pulled him closer, comfortingly tight, keeping him from shattering apart.

There was a pause.

“Very scary,” said Asenath. "Now take your trash with you, for fuck’s sake.”

Hastur rumbled, displeased, and picked Parker up tightly enough that Parker cried out.

Arthur realized that by trash, she meant Parker.

Well. Parker killed her, so that made sense. But Arthur felt he’d indirectly gotten Asenath killed, and quite directly gotten Parker killed. “Don't hurt him,” he muttered.

“I will… not break him,” Hastur said to Arthur, absolutely sullen, and then they flew.

Arthur was glad they flew. The weight of that thin bracelet kept his arm down, making him feel weirdly drained. “Thank you,” he said, though he was already forgetting what for.

Hastur did not dally, did not show off; he simply flew home, slammed the doors of his palace (Arthur’s apartment had never sounded so cavernous), and doused all the lights but one.

#

(Your god is going to need some triage)

Arthur had been right: the green was everywhere, all over his skin, all over his silky yellow whatever the fuck, but he was very tired, and couldn’t gloat or put up a fuss as Hastur stripped him and began scrubbing him down while muttering darkly in another language.

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” Parker snapped from somewhere in the dark, as if trying to get hit.

(Your god is going to need some triage)

“Do you think I care to indulge your little suffering kink?” Hastur growled at those miserable shadows.

“Let me go,” said Parker, sounding weak as a leaking faucet.

“No. I traded for you. I did so on his request. You stay.” Hastur resumed scrubbing.

Arthur realized he’d gotten grass between his teeth, somehow, and Hastur didn’t like that, and was taking it all out. That made it hard to talk, though. “You were mmph… But yoummmph… quit it. Yoummmph…”

“No,” said Hastur, digging deeper.

Arthur gagged a little. “You were suffering,” he threw at the shadows.

“Fuck you,” said Parker, unsteady, like he was about to cry. “I’d almost paid. It would’ve been over.”

Hastur snorted. “Keep telling yourself that. Perhaps, in another world, another timeline, that could even be true.”

“Go to hell!” Parker bellowed.

“I don’t mmph… understand,” said Arthur.

“He thinks the Defiler would be content with temporary suffering,” said Hastur, being mean.

(Your god is going to need some triage)

“Why?” said Arthur.

“Because he wishes to believe the lies of his youth,” said Hastur. “He dedicated his life to something he has found is untrue, and cannot handle the loss, the wasted years, the terrible sacrifices that meant…  nothing.” He laughed, low and cruel. “I broke many cultists’ minds in the same manner, back when we had easy access to Earth.”

Arthur’s brain scrambled all of that in under three seconds. “So Parker had a terrible boss. You were a terrible boss, too. I know it, and you know it, and you ought to give him leeway.”

Everybody stared at him.

“What?” said Hastur, his many limbs going still.

It was a beautiful story! “You don’t have to feel ashamed,” he said, his pride for Hastur warning his tone. “You quit to work with me when you saw how much better it was to help people than hurt people. Sure, the pay’s less, but we’ve had some good windfalls, and you got plenty tucked away, anyway.”

“Oh my gods,” said Parker. “What the fuck is he talking about?”

“A new adventure,” said Hastur softly, and stroked Arthur’s cheek. “It seems now I have been rescued from my own unworthy managerial practices.”

Arthur turned his face and kissed the gigantic hand nearest. “I’ve got you. I know it’s a lot. We’ll do it together.”

Hastur purred.

“Fuck,” said Parker, unsteady. “He’s lost it. They said he broke. I didn’t believe it. I thought he wouldn’t. Him, of all people.”

“Oh, he did,” Hastur said, and laughed darkly. “I, however, did not break him.”

“The fuck you didn’t!”

“I think you know very well what pushed him over that ledge,” said Hastur with a terrible eagerness.

Parker breathed quickly through his nose. “Say it like that, it’s like you think I contributed to it.”

“You did.”

(Your god is going to need some triage)

“Bullshit. You’re a god of madness. You broke him.”

“You and I did together, with the news we hid.”

Parker made a low, pained sound, as if he’d been secretly stabbed in the dark.

Arthur… heard all of this. He did. It didn’t really register, though, because he was too busy studying the bracelet Mama Laveau had given him.

It was pretty. Strange, though, and so much heavier than it should have—

“What the fuck is that?” Hastur snarled, yanking Arthur’s arm up.

“From Mama Laveau,” Arthur said, allowing himself to be lifted like a doll, manhandled. “It’s a clue.”

“It’s a spell,” Hastur declared like a barking dog, and tried to take it off.

“Wait, what?” said Parker, coming closer. “What… I can’t see it. I mean… it’s like a gleam of silver on him. What the fuck is that?”

“I don’t know,” said Hastur, low and getting louder. “Why would she… he’s mine. She wouldn’t want him! What is this? What is this?”

Arthur decided the little dangling charms were books. He wasn’t sure what books, but they were books, some open, some closed. They were the size of his thumbnail, but he felt he could almost read them. “It’s heavy,” he complained.

Hastur trembled. Just for a moment, just once, a tremor from his crown to the tips of his tentacles.

(Going to need some triage) “I haven’t figured out the clue yet,” said Arthur, reassuring. “I will.”

“Clue?” said Parker.

“For the case of the stolen ballots,” said Arthur.

Parker stared. Was it pain on his face? Grief?

“Hey,” said Arthur. “It’s gonna be okay. Kissinger won’t ever get you back.”

For some reason, that just made it worse. “Fuck,” Parker whispered, and turned away into the dark.

“Parker!” Arthur called after him. “Par–”

(Your god is going to need some tri—)

Hastur covered him so suddenly that he had no chance to even finish the word.

#

It took eighty-four years for Hastur to be satisfied.

“Mine,” Hastur kept growling, as if Arthur had a string of competitive lovers lining the street below, and “Mine,” Hastur kept growling, as though he wanted Arthur’s wordless cries replaced with vows, and “Mine,” Hastur kept growling, but all Arthur could do was moan, because it had gone beyond pleasure or pain into bell-ringing, ear-burning, brain-numbing madness.

This was more than scooped out and replaced. This was scraped clean and painted too many times over, and Arthur felt like his original canvas had began to thin.

His blood was spiced with Hastur’s heat. It didn’t hurt? Exactly? It was too much. Too much, and Arthur came again, yet again, and he sobbed. “Yours,” he managed, clinging, clutching. “Please stop. Hastur. I’m yours. Stop.”

Hastur stopped.

(Triage)

Stopped, and stared down at him, somehow communicating horrified wonder without a moving face. “There… there,” said Hastur, breathy. “Little detective. You’re all right. You’re all right.”

Arthur privately made it a goal to make him breathe like that again. “I’m okay,” he slurred. He could feel the tree-branch current of nerves under his skin, humming unceasingly, and he groaned.

Surprisingly tender (curiously ashamed?) Hastur began the healing.

The folding back together took a while. Something had panicked his partner, made Hastur forget not everyone was made of rubber and stone, but it was okay. Hastur was fixing it, following every hair-wide branch of jangled nerves and abraded veins, soothing every sharp bite of shattered bone and burning blood.

It was wonderful. This meticulous aftercare was somehow even better than the sex that led to it. Arthur felt very loved. He felt very safe. It made him all sniffly.

But Hastur was still upset. It was obvious. He kept growling.

Arthur wanted to fix it. “It’s okay,” he reassured when he remembered how to talk. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Fuck,” Parker whispered, somewhere in the dark, sounding shaken and afraid.

Parker. Parker was here. Arthur had forgotten he existed. “Oh, hey,” he said, his lips still bleeding, his throat still sore.

“Fuck,” Parker said again. “That’s what you’re doing to him? No wonder he’s broken.”

“I do as he wishes,” Hastur snarled, which was true because of how good a partner Hastur was. “He wants to forget who he is, to pay for what he’s done. He wants to suffer.”

“Fuck that,” Parker snapped. “You think I don’t know he hated pain? You think I don’t know I pushed him? I did that because he hated it.”

What a weird thing to say.

But oh, that growl turned threatening, and oh, some limbs left Arthur’s still-aching skin as if to point at Parker.

“Yeah,” said Parker with relish. “And I fucked him through it, and made him come while crying. Your point, dandelion king?”

And Arthur couldn’t—

Arthur tried but could not—

He couldn’t make it make sense, and it had to make sense, because that’s how things worked (Not in the Dreamlands, little one, said Mama Laveau in his head, and he ignored that shit). So he closed his eyes.

The moment he did, it all settled down.

The lingering pain, strange and deep, like he’d been fucked by a car. The thrumming nerves, still pulsing with pleasure, like that car-fucking had been the best thing that ever happened. The presence of Hastur, deforming his mind like an elbow on a pillow. The cold, weird weight of whatever Mama Laveau (Shub-Niggurath) had given to him to make things right.

And Parker, breathing in the shadows like preparing for a fight.

Arthur closed his eyes. Took a moment. And he got it. It was a ruse. A goad. And his partner was falling for it, hook, line, and sinker. “Don’t,” Arthur said.

A beat.

“Don’t what, little detective?” said Hastur.

“Don’t hurt him. He wants you to. He thinks…” It was slipping. “He’ll… get… points, or something.”

Hastur’s dangerous rumble changed, switching timbre from angry to pleased. “You’re right. That’s so good, Arthur. To think, he almost got me!” A horrible laugh. “How pathetic.”

“You’re just shaken because we saw Mama Laveau,” said Arthur, because that would shake anybody.

“That would shake anybody,” Parker confirmed, low. “I can’t believe she came out to see you. She doesn’t see nobody but her fucking favorite witch.”

Asenath. Arthur was already sure of that. “She’s not that exclusive.”

Parker snorted. “Yeah, she is. She’s favored you since day one, apparently. If I’d had any fucking idea she’d been giving you things like the Ever Knife, I’d have slowed the whole damn plan down.”

“The… what?” said Arthur, who couldn’t remember.

“And you think he would have let you,” said Hastur, somehow sounding like a crouching lion, ready to pounce.

“Sure,” said Parker. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” And his voice caught. “He trusted me. I… he trusted me.”

“You mistake inability with trust,” said Hastur. “He couldn’t do anything but wait on you.”

“No! He trusted me. I’d earned it. He knew I was all in!”

“And yet turned on you without hesitation for something you had absolutely no control over,” said Hastur as though he’d just been waiting to drop that guillotine.

Parker fell silent.

Arthur shook his head. “Kissinger didn’t deserve you,” he said, eyes still closed. “You’re rough around the edges, but you’re not… you deserve a partner—“ (god) “—as faithful as you are.”

“There’s no such thing,” Parker said, and it felt honest, and it felt grieved, and it felt surrendered.

“Hastur is,” said Arthur, and couldn’t understand why Hastur’s hands suddenly went still.

“What,” said Parker.

“I fucked up at the end,” said Arthur, eyes screwed as tightly shut as he could manage. “I could’ve told him my plan, but I didn’t. He didn’t know what was coming any more than you did. He still forgave me.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Arthur shifted, hurt, moaned, and Hastur resumed healing, resumed comforting, and that made it better.

“He didn’t know for real?” said Parker, sounding amazed. “So when I bound him…”

“I thought I’d lost,” said Hastur in a rare moment of honesty, and Arthur had to reward that.

“You’re doing so good,” Arthur said, turning his sore neck (with sore lips and tongue) to minister to whatever part of Hastur was nearest. It felt good to kiss him, to lick; to gentle the storm that had hit them both.

(He didn’t have names for any of the parts he touched. That was okay. It was all Hastur.)

Parker’s laugh was cracked and crumbling. “Fuck. We all fucked it up. All of us.”

“I did not,” said Hastur.

He had, but Arthur knew better than to push right now. “He forgave me. That’s what good partners do.”

“You’re out of your godsdamned mind,” said Parker.

Arthur swallowed. “Maybe. It doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“Why are you talking to him? You killed him,” said Hastur, suddenly, as though upset Arthur was talking to somebody else. “Remember?”

Arthur shuddered. “I had to stop him,” he said, tremulous and fading. “It doesn’t mean I wanted it to happen.”

“Why are you trying to comfort him?” said Hastur, growing louder. “Why did you even ask for him to begin with?”

Arthur opened his eyes (which was a mistake). “It’s not obvious?” Hastur twisted before him like vertigo taken form, and Arthur closed his eyes again.

“No,” said Hastur, flat. “It is not at all obvious to me why you asked for him, or why I listened.”

Damn it, this question mattered (triage), but Arthur couldn’t think, was aching in a way Hastur could not heal. “Because he needed it,” Arthur finally said.

A beat.

And Parker somehow knew it was coming. “Don’t say it.”

“Even with the knowledge he withheld regarding who killed your daughter?” said Hastur, almost joyful because Arthur had sprung that trap with both hands, and it was

Too late

Faroe cold, Faroe sticky, Faroe riddled with bullets

Too late

Faroe silent, and all the complaints Arthur had ever made about noisy babies lodged in his side like unholy spear-heads

Too late

Arthur screamed.

He tore at his face, his eyes, as though he could rip these thoughts out, and Hastur stopped him, and Parker shouted something like you asshole, and

#

Darkness.

A voice.

Warning?

Instructions.

Three sentences, stated in the dark, given as a gift like the dagger had been, like the jewel. Whom he had to look for. What he could expect. What would happen if he failed.

Her voice, Mama Laveau’s, filling his mind, howling across the unconscious void, just the same three sentences growing like the sound of an oncoming train—

#

Arthur woke. The three sentences nestled behind conscious thought like burglars behind a bush, in wait.

Nothing hurt.

Physically, nothing hurt.

He felt safe, snug; warm, compressed. Wrapped in so many tentacles, held against his monster-god’s torso.

“Good morning, little detective,” said Hastur, sounding pleased.

Something… there was something. “I…”

“Yes?” said Hastur, already anticipating, tentacles sliding over one another and curling at their tips.

Arthur’s brain filled it in. “Can’t believe that ambulance was stolen. Who the fuck? It’s not like there are so many of them. What’re they gonna do with it, anyway? Break it down for parts?”

“Mm, perhaps,” said Hastur, going right along with the story.

“Yeah. A chop-shop. Parts are so damn rare as it is, but we can’t let them do that.” Arthur sat up, stared at the cyclopean knife-edges of this horrible place, blinked, and saw his grimy brown apartment with its incredible view. “The doctors need that thing, you know?”

“For… the wounded?” Hastur said.

“I said ‘ambulance,’ Hastur,” said Arthur, teasing a little, sliding out of bed to make coffee, and bounced off Parker Yang.

Arthur was off-balance and fell backwards. Hastur caught him.

Parker’s hair was everywhere, and his face was creased as if he’d slept on his arm on a table or something. He stared down at Arthur. “Ambulance? What are you talking about?”

“It’s our case, Yang,” said Arthur. “We were hired.”

Parker just stared at him.

“Well, now,” rumbled Hastur, already purring, tentacles sliding over Arthur with possessive familiarity. “Perhaps we can do with help from the police.”

Arthur made a face. “We need the pay. But… fuck, you’re right. This is too important to go solo.”

"What?" said Parker, who usually wasn't this slow on the uptake.

“You need coffee, too,” Arthur decided, finally pulling away from Hastur and going to dump what was left of yesterday’s.

“Oh, shit,” said Parker, snatching the coffee pot (some strange sharp vase with sigils on it that hurt to see). “Easy!”

“You wanna make the coffee?” said Arthur.

Hastur laughed, low.

Parker wore the expression he had last night—pained, maybe guilty, hard to fully comprehend because it wasn’t in line with his usual faces.

“Do you want his help, Arthur?” said Hastur, sounding pleased as punch. “It seems to me it might be a good idea.”

Arthur sighed. “Look, asshole, we do need help. That ambulance matters to people.”

“Am… bu… sure,” said Parker, and turned away to rub at his eyes. “Fuck. Not you.”

“You were fine with him being erased, but not crazy?” said Hastur (which Arthur ignored, running water to make coffee).

“That was different. That was an honor. He’d have been lauded. This is… this is just cruel.”

“To whom?” said Hastur.

Parker said nothing.

Arthur made coffee. Arthur stood at the enormous window (gardens that made no sense plants that fucking moved) and stared out at Cloud City, at its curves and color, and wondered. “Why the fuck would they take an ambulance?” he muttered. “Gotta be a reason. I mean… could’ve taken a lot of the cars out there. Why an ambulance?”

Slowly, almost cautiously, Parker joined him, staring not at the view, but at him. “Maybe for parts, like you said?”

“No,” said Arthur. “I have a gut feeling. That’s not why. Here, let me pour you some.”

Whatever he handed Parker made the man wince, holding it gingerly, and he didn’t drink.

Whatever. His caffeine to waste. Arthur downed his and turned to his partner. “Let’s get moving. I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“Then move, we shall,” said Hastur magnanimous, and picked him up to dress him.

“Fuck’s sake,” said Parker softly.

“What?” said Arthur, obediently stretching his arms over his head.

“Nothing,��� Parker muttered. “Sure you want me along on this, Lester?”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “You’ve got your problems, fuck knows, but we’ll need help on this one.”

“Why?” said Parker.

“They’re gonna pretend,” said Arthur suddenly. “It’s a fake-out. They’re gonna use it to get to the governor! We gotta move!”

Parker just looked at Hastur.

“Come or don’t,” said Hastur, putting Arthur down.

And Arthur was off. He knew just where to go.

#

“Keep up!” he shouted behind him because Yang was lagging again (“We’ve been running for a fucking hour!”), and there was no time to waste.

They’d come to the edge of Hastur’s city and skirted it, just running along the outer wall, and Arthur knew what he was looking for, nevermind that he couldn’t say it, and knew his partner (partners?) would have his back, and knew the smell was the right way to go.

The smell of fish.

Salt-water.

Weed-rot.

Ahead, just ahead, was a dark alley (a gap in the hedge), and Arthur plunged through without hesitation, fists clenched, ready to punch out any monsters he saw on his way to his goal.

“Where the fuck are we goin?” Parker shouted back there somewhere, which was remarkably amateur of him.

“Another’s territory,” said Hastur, grim, and stopped Parker short.

Arthur had already run inside.

It was a walled section inside Hastur’s walls—a sort of preserve, an area, evidently owned by one person. The man sitting there (not a man not a man NOT A MAN) hunched over his own lap as though he had nothing to live for, staring out over the nasty water of a pond (not a pond) big enough to diminish him, though he was huge. Scum lapped at his legs, which were calf-deep in the water. He stared out at nothing, visibly unhappy, ignoring their approach.

“Oh, fuck!” said Yang from somewhere back there, and the man looked up.

He was big, meaty; a strong-looking man, a keen-eyed man, with dark reddish hair and mutton-chops and a look like someone who’d start a brawl just so he could

(Huge, larger than Hastur, scale-covered and sharp with spiked fins on his arm and down his spine and on his head, his eyes so shadowed by his brow that his attitude was impossible to read)

empty the bar out and have some peace and quiet.

This man watched Arthur's approach without comment, without smile. Without anything but an uncomfortable darkness, shading his eyes.

Time for the charm. Arthur adjusted his (lacy metal golden collar) tie and approached. “Good morning, sir.”

The man eyed him, unreadable, still except for breathing (and the occasional fluttering of gills).

Arthur stopped at a respectful distance and doffed his hat.

(There was no hat.)

“Well, isn’t this a thing?” said the man (god).

“Got a moment, sir?” said Arthur.

The man grunted, shifting, sending ripples across the scum that lay over the top of the pond like a weird blanket. “Didn’t think you’d make it all the way to visit me with your craziness, crazy man.”

Arthur’s brain translated that into something he needed. “What, you think just because you’re not high society, your vote doesn’t count?”

(“What… no ambulance, now?” said Parker back there.)

(“Evidently not.” They had not come closer.)

The being grunted again and moved, pulling his legs out of the scummy water, rose (up and up and up and up), and walked Arthur’s way.

So tall. So huge, (taller than Hastur), seven feet if he was an inch, and Arthur was not tall, but he swallowed, and didn’t budge.

The being stopped so close that Arthur could hear unusual air moving through those impossible gills. “You think I want to vote in something that has nothing to do with me?” he warned.

Oh, Arthur knew he had to go carefully here. “Sir—”

“Sir!” And the man threw his head back and laughed. “Who in fuck do you think I am, crazy man?”

(“Hastur!”)

(“Shh. Just watch. He is skilled, my little pet.”)

Arthur blinked. “You’re Morrissey Dagon. You own all the fisheries in Cloud City—which makes you rich, and also really dangerous, because the ocean and whatever the fuck is in there doesn’t scare you. I know all about you, sir.”

The man (sharp shark eyes and sharp shark teeth) was grinning now as though considering adding Arthur to whatever was on the menu today. “And you still walked up here to say hello.”

“Of course,” said Arthur as though surprised. “You’re on the Council.”

Morrissey Dagon tilted his head. “I could eat you. I could fuck you, then eat you. I could wing you over my head like a slingshot, send you over the wall so H’aaztre has to go chasing down your body in wherever the Dreamlands sends you.”

Arthur’s brain translated: they’d never find your body, and your partner will weep alone.

He swallowed hard. “Yes, sir. You could. “But this isn’t about me, sir, or even about you. This is about everyone else.”

Dagon growled.

It was different from Hastur’s growl (though the same birth defect, maybe), a pulsing and resonant thing, like it was somehow meant to sound underwater. “Why in fuck should I care about them?”

Arthur blinked. “Why should you… care about other people?”

“Mine are all gone.” Dagon rumbled like some oceanic devil. “Every last one, at least down there. You get that, crazy man? Do you? I lost them all!”

Arthur winced, gripping his ears. That last line had been so loud (louder than humans could be) and he felt warm wetness on his hands, but refused to look at it. “You... lost…”

“My whole family. Turns out they’re fucking susceptible to waterborne radioactive poisoning. Go the fuck figure,” Dagon growled.

And Arthur

(Faroe)

heard him and fully understood and

(and if he let this subsume him now and lost the plot he’d lose the vote)

took a shuddery shaky choked-up breath and answered. “I get that. Mister Dagon, I… I get that. I lost my—” (it wanted to swallow him whole) “—daughter. I know.” And he couldn’t help one tiny little sob.

Dagon stared at him, unreadable again, eyes shadowed. “You did, huh?”

Arthur’s voice was almost steady. “I do. I know. You… want to give up.” He swallowed, vision wavering, Cloud City smearing like a painting under heat. “Things like not wearing the same clothes for a week don’t matter anymore. You get aggressive, like maybe you hope someone will do the right thing and take you out, but they don’t, and they won’t, and you just have to wake up every damn day and it keeps happening, but she doesn’t come back, isn’t there when you wake, and the ones responsi… the ones who… who did it… got away.” Arthur's voice sounded distant even to him, over the rushing in his ears, a roaring flood, a rising clamor, and he didn’t realize he was hyperventilating until Dagon picked him up.

(Vague snarling back there like some dog robbed of its food)

Arthur dangled, hands up in a harmless gesture, eyes wide, held by his lapels

(by a giant hand around his waist)

up to eye level. “You’re real fucked up, too, huh?” Dagon said, low.

Focus. Focus. Just a little bit longer. “Yeah. Guess I am. But the vote’s really gotta… it matters. It matters.”

“Why?” said Dagon, quietly.

And Arthur said it, just said it, just went to that place. “How different would things be for you if someone had given a fuck about your family the way I’m asking you to give a fuck about other people’s?”

Dagon did not have a readable face. When still like that, terrifying like that, the stuff of deep-sea domains like that, danger was the only obvious projection. “Too late for me.”

“And for me,” said Arthur, low. “But not for them. Please.”

Dagon sighed slowly, deeply. “You’re kinda endearing, crazy man. I’ll think about it. I won’t promise you, so stop fuckin’ asking. But I’ll… think about it.” And surprisingly gently, he put Arthur down.

Arthur couldn’t stop shaking. Judgment loomed, an undertow, ready to pull him down.

“Aww, poor thing,” said Dagon, and patted him on the head. “You get on home, now.” Then he took Arthur by the shoulders, turned him around, and shoved him toward the exit.

Off-balance, Arthur staggered forward, carried that way merely because his own weight angled him forward, and his legs didn't want to fall down.

Hastur waited. Hand out. Not stepping through the gap in the hedge (territory), clearly eager for Arthur to return to him.

Parker did not look or sound calm. He shouted something, waved both arms.

Arthur couldn’t hear them. The rushing in his ears, the deep current of shame, eroded his mind with every step, and he tried to recall why he was really here—the case, something about a theft—but he could not, could only hear Faroe’s sweet giggle, could only feel her cold blood, and he staggered.

The bracelet on his wrist tightened suddenly, sharply, enough to cut his skin.

It sliced through the fog. He cried out and stopped, looking down, staring at the droplets of blood welling through the hole of each tiny link like eyes weeping red.

His vision went dark.

#

The undertow stopped.

The howling in his mind ceased as if someone had shut a door, and Arthur looked up.

The hedge was gone. The daylight was gone. He stood in a dark place, quiet except for the soft howl of air currents far above, surrounded by tall, black shapes like enormous coffins.

The bracelet fucking hurt, but something about it… it was like a knife made of ice, cutting through impossible fog, and he could think. (Could not remember the bad thing, not right now.) Vaguely, distantly, he knew why he was here.

The three sentences, from his dream. It was happening. This was the vote Mama Laveau wanted him to get in her place.

But it would be a challenge. This vote would be coming from someone on the Council who’d never, ever voted, who was locked away in mourning, who had walked away from the world, who had even less reason than Morrissey Dagon to care.

But Mama Laveau had sent him, and he would do what he had to do.

If only he could see. There must have been windows somewhere. Cold, lean light from maybe the moon kissed the tops of the coffin-whatevers (far too big too be coffins, bigger even than Dagon), but below that was only darkness.

This was where the Lady lived? Arthur swallowed. “Hello?”

“How in fuck?” came behind him, and a knife pressed into his back. “How in fuck, dude?”

The last of the three sentences: Her assistant won’t kill you if you don’t give her need.

Arthur would not give her need. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he started.

The knife dug in (though not as sharply as the bracelet). “I said,” threatened the young woman’s voice, “how in fuck? How did you get in here? Who are you? What the fuck do you want with her?”

Arthur swallowed. “Mama Laveau sent me. I don’t mean any harm, and I don’t want anything but just to talk to the Lady for a moment. I swear.”

A pause. “Mama who?”

And the next voice that came rose from this entire place, from everywhere, from the bookshelves (that’s what the coffin-things were), from the floor, the unseen ceiling, the moonlight itself. “Did she, now? That is quite a bold claim. Tabby, bring him to me. I would like to see his face.”

The woman named Tabby gripped his arm, and her knife-point didn’t leave his kidney. “Move. Try stupid shit and you are fucking ganked.”

Arthur walked where tugged. “Ganked?”

A sigh. “Just walk.”

Arthur did.

It was like walking in a tomb, in a mausoleum, in a graveyard if all the dead were somehow standing but no less full of all they once were. He caught glimpses of the books and scrolls that packed the shelves, spines burned and crinkled, gilded lettering all but destroyed; he heard his own steps snapping back at him like accusations, echoed by walls too far for him to see.

Mama Laveau’s words were clear. Three sentences. So simple. Tabby was obviously the assistant. But the last sentence… that’s what scared him most.

If you don’t get her vote, I think you’re going to lose, mon cherie.

Arthur walked in the dark, at Tabby’s prompts, and hoped his charm was up to snuff, because he knew that warning was right.