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trippinsorrows · 2 months ago

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in your hands + three

authors note: ya'll been on me for this, so here it is. hope it lives up to expectations!

need to catch up? read part one HERE and part two HERE.

warnings: fluff and a tiny bit of smut

words: 8k (again, don't ask)

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Solana confesses. “I mean, it’s just….it’s just dinner, ya know?”

Kayden lifts her eyes from Raya who continues to grasp at her ombre braid, staring with all the fascination in her little world. “Seriously?”

Solana frowns. “What?”

“Just a date?” Kayden scoffs and grabs onto Raya who’s suddenly intent on crawling away from her godmother to further explore the apartment that’s essentially her second home. “Sis, need I remind you that man blew your back out and had you speaking six other languages?”

Solana looks away, heat rising to her cheeks. “I didn’t…..I didn’t say all that.”

“You didn’t have to.” A glance at Kayden reveals her knowing smirk. “That walk the next day told me all I needed to know.”

And the blush is increasing. Solana can’t deny it. Roman’s dick is huge, and in the moment, it felt amazing, but her soreness the next day certainly did not. Not enough to not try again if given the opportunity. No….not at all.

“Naw, but forreal, you’re nervous because of this adorable lil’ munchkin right there,” Kayden gestures to Raya who’s given up on her great escape attempt and has settled for one of her toys as a means for passing time. “It is pretty….interesting that he said it was cool for you to bring her.”

Solana has a feeling that interesting is not the word Kayden really wants to use. “You think it’s weird?”

She shakes her head. “Not that. It’s just…..I guess, I’m not used to seeing that,” she admits. “I feel like most men don’t want to give women with kids the time of day.”

Solana nods, adjusting her position on the sofa. “I agree.” She groans and finds herself asking, “should I just cancel?”

Kayden gasps. “Absolutely not! I didn’t say there was anything wrong with it.” Carefully grabbing Raya as she moves to stand up, Solana is reminded, “didn’t you say you really like him?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“And the S-E-X was great?”

The blush deepens, Solana low key grateful for Kayden censoring herself. “Y–yes.”

“And he already knows about my goddaughter and is cool with her? And the nigga rich, too?” She slaps her hand over her mouth, making an ‘I’m sorry’ expression before finishing. “You better not cancel. Just go and see how it goes. Maybe the vibes are off, or maybe you’ve found Raya her new daddy.”

Solana is the one to scoff, laying back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah right.”

One

Solana only has a single regret when it comes to her baby girl, and it’s simply that Raya was not blessed with a father.

An actual father who wanted to be in her life.

If only.

Roman could never be or even want to be that. Of that, she’s sure. He’s rich, handsome, and childless. Why would he ever want to take on the responsibility of a child he didn’t make?

She can fully understand that and doesn’t fault him for it, either.

Can only give him a tremendous amount of credit for being open to seeing where things go with them while just acknowledging that Raya comes first in everything.

He truly seemed fine with it when he took her home and they discussed it just earlier in the week, and he’s seemed fine in all of the text exchanges they’ve had since.

She just….she just needs to, like he said, see where this goes.

If anywhere.

—-----------

Having a best friend like Kayden is useful for so many reasons, including when it comes to situations like this where Solana feels overwhelmed and out of her league.

The two of them, three including Raya who’s being held by her godmother, currently sit outside on the steps of Solana's apartment complex waiting for Roman who’d texted about ten minutes ago that he was on his way.

Ten minutes that have been filled with anxiety and a back and forth dialogue playing out in Solana’s head.

Blowing out a breath, she finds herself seeking reassurance once more. “Are you sure this is a good id—”

“Ladies.”

An instant scowl that’s shared across three sets of faces, including Raya’s.

Solana is almost wishing they’d opted for staying inside her place versus sitting and waiting outside. She should have known it was too risky, too big of a chance of running into the very man standing before her.

Carmelo Hayes. Resident Casanova. A handsome, attractive man, all things considered, compared to some other unfortunate men she’s come across. But, the attraction is dead as soon as he opens his mouth revealing that no one loves Carmelo Hayes as much as Carmelo loves Carmelo Hayes.

He slides his sunglasses down, shooting Solana a wink. “Neighbor.” And then a reluctant glance at Kayden, followed by a lazy murmur of her name and a wide, yet awkward smile to Raya. “Sup, lil bit.”

As she does with most interactions regarding the man, Raya’s scowl deepens as she turns her face into Kayden’s chest.

Kayden snorts, not trying to hide her telling comment, “smart kid.”

Clearing her throat, Solana does her best with the pleasantries. “Hi, Carmelo.”

“What ya’ll sitting out here for?” He leans against the wall, eyes briefly falling to Solana’s chest. “Your car still broke?”

“Is your hairline still uneven?”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Ursula.”

“It is,” Solana cuts in, not in the mood for their back and forth. One drunken night between her best friend and her neighbor that ended in a verbal assault from and on both sides, and these two haven’t seen eye to eye since. A forever feud that’s destined to last the test of time, given the fact it literally happened when they were all still in high school.

Because, of course, the “pretty boy” from high school who never looked her way would one day, someday end up being her neighbor.

Life is just ironic like that.

He makes a sound, offering, “you know I could fix it up for you.”

She has no doubt. Solana has heard that Carmelo, "Melo," is pretty good at what he does at the local car shop, his mechanic work known as some of the best in town. But, she also knows it wouldn't come without an expectation. She knows that his offer definitely involves going through his job for compensation, maybe using his employee discount, and definitely requiring a date to top it all off.

And when hell freezes over will she ever go out with this man. Even if he wasn’t under the impression that he’s God’s gift to women, Raya has never seemed to take to him, her little mouth either shifting to a frown or a scowl. Nothing else.

And her daughter’s response to people in her life, especially men, will always be the number one indicator for who she lets around them.

“I’m working on it,” is all Solana supplies, shifting on the steps as she sees Kayden switch Raya from one hip to another.

Carmelo, forever dedicated, is undeterred by the soft rejection. “Come on, I know you gotta be tired of riding that raggedy ass bus with lil' mama.”

Very much so, but given her options, it’s definitely the better of them. “It gives us more time to bond.”

Because it does. Because holding her baby girl while on the way to work or to drop her off at her mom’s is a sort of one-on-one time that Solana appreciates. Will give the bus credit for that much, at least.

“Why can’t you just take no for an answer?”

“Why can’t you grow your own hair?” Melo sneers. “Been rocking them locs since we was teenagers. It’s time to let shit go.”

“Why can’t you grow a bigger dick?” Kayden counters. Solana’s eyes widen as she focuses on her daughter, oblivious to the inappropriate things being stated but still exposed, nonetheless. “Been bragging about that Vienna sausage since we was kids. Accept you a micro-man, and keep it pushing.”

“Guys,” Solana sighs. Yeah….definitely should have stayed inside. “Please—”

Solana is distracted by the moment her eyes land on a sleek, shiny, black SUV pulling up to the front of the building where they’re all sitting. A fucking Range Rover. Most likely the most expensive thing to ever grace her regular shmegular apartment complex.

And the mesmerized staring continues as the car pulls up in front of the group of them, Solana already knowing who’s about to get out before he does. But even that knowing can’t stop the way her stomach fills with butterflies seeing him step out the car that costs more than some houses.

Butterflies that only intensify when her eyes land on him, an almost slow motion type of experience as he circles around the front of the car, dressed in dark jeans, a dark jacket draped over, of course, a dark shirt. Black sunglasses that he slides up atop his head, revealing warm brown eyes that are focused on her, only to harden when he shifts focus to Melo.

Solana is thoroughly aware of the shift in mood, seeing how Melo straightens his posture, as if that makes a difference. Roman is huge and towers over all of them, Melo included.

Moving off the steps, Solana walks over to Roman, smile growing as she looks up at him. “Hey.”

Her voice seems to break Roman from his unspoken stand-off with Carmelo. Solana does her best to remain calm as he bends down and kisses her. Nothing intense, nothing long, but enough to have her craving his soft lips on hers once more when he pulls away with a small smirk. “Hey, baby.”

Her eyes widen.

Baby.

Lord Jesus, be a fence.

A part of her is unsure if he says it just to fuck with Melo. Another part doesn’t care regardless because being called as such from him, with that deep voice, is enough to have those butterflies fluttering all over.

Kayden clearing her voice drags Solana back down to reality as she focuses on her best friend and daughter. “This is my best friend and Raya’s godmother, Kayden.” Kayden steps closer to avoid Roman having to move, holding Raya with one arm as she offers her hand. Roman introduces himself, followed by his gaze shifting to Raya. “And you already know this one.”

“I do,” he chuckles, eyes softening a bit. “Hi, Raya.”

Raya’s response to Roman is night and day from her response to Melo. She still has her face in Kayden’s chest, but she’s not turned away from the man before her. She’s looking at him with a smile, eyes twinkling with curiosity.

Kayden snorts, loudly exclaiming, “looks like it’s just you, Hayes, that baby Raya doesn’t fuck with.”

“Kayden.”

Roman turns back to Melo with an uninterested expression that contrasts his question. “Who are you?”

“The annoying, irrelevant neighbor.”

Solana feels stressed already, and the outing hasn’t even begun. “Kayden, please.”

“Carmelo Hayes,” he responds, subtly—or not so subtly—rolling his shoulders. “Been knowing them since high school.”

Solana frowns. What is he trying to imply? Certainly not friendship. Carmelo is many things, but someone she considers a friend is not one of them.

“He lives on the first floor,” Solana provides, hoping it’s an indirect but efficient way to clarify his role, per se.

Roman makes a sound, that smirk returning as he rolls his eyes at the shorter man. Focused on her, he asks, “ya’ll ready?”

Solana nods, suddenly appreciative of the opportunity to get out of this situation. She gestures to the car seat sitting on the steps. “Yeah, let me just get this set up.”

Roman moves to open the backdoor as Solana grabs the car seat, securing it in the backseat of one of the nicest cars she’s ever seen, briefly stunned by the screens on the back of the passenger and driver headrest.

“Damn….” Shaking her head, Solana gives a tug on the car seat, ensuring it’s ready before walking over to Kayden. “Come here, baby girl.” Raya is all the willing and wanting as she reaches over, giggling when Solana holds her and kisses her cheek. “Time to go for a ride.”

Raya makes an incoherent sound of excitement as Solana starts to buckle her in, Kayden right by her, speaking in a low voice, “girl, you didn’t say he was that damn fine.” Solana bites down on her bottom lip, watching how Raya also looks around the sleek black and red interior with all the amazement. “Marry him.”

Solana has to roll her eyes at that.

Like that would ever happen.

“Give me her bag,” she requests, Kayden handing over Soraya’s diaper bag. Placing it on the floor in front of Raya, Solana smiles, “ready to go?” Raya claps and wiggles her little legs, making both women laugh.

Turning toward Roman, Kayden playfully elbowing her side, Solana shares. “Ready.”

Roman nods, sliding his sunglasses back down, speaking to Kayden first. “It was nice meeting you.” He moves over to the passenger door, opening it for Solana. She carefully closes Raya’s door, holding back a smile when Kayden makes a sound.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Kayden responds in that knowing tone, while Solana slides into the seat. Roman makes sure she’s all the way in before closing the door. Out the window, Solana catches the haughty smirk Roman directs toward Melo before circling the front of the car and climbing in.

Solana jumps when Kayden taps on the window. It takes a minute for her to figure out how to roll down the window, but when she does, it’s instant regret. “Just so you know, I have her location as well as a tracker on baby girl’s clothes. Try to kidnap either of them, and I’ll have the FBI on your doorstep before the 6 o’clock news even has a chance to run the story.”

“Kayden!”

While Solana is filled with embarrassment, Roman seems only amused. “Noted,” is all he states before adding, “I’ll have them back at a decent time.”

“What is your definition of decent?”

“Oh my gosh,” Solana scrambles to find the button again, starting to roll up the window. “Goodbye, Kayden.”

Roman only continues to look amused as he asks, right after Kayden calls out another goodbye, “you good?”

“Yeah,” she answers, putting on her seatbelt.

Gaze back on him, she sees him glance at Raya through the rearview mirror. “You want to put something on for her?”

It takes a second for Solana to realize he’s referring to the screens in the backseat. “No, she’s fine. She loves car rides, so all you have to do is start driving, and she’ll be entertained.” A true blessing, as Solana is well aware many babies don’t do well in the car. Not Raya. Raya could spend the rest of her little life riding in a car and be just as content.

“Got it,” he chuckles, starting the car and starting to pull out of the parking lot. “You look good.”

A compliment that has her cheeks tinged pink. “Thanks.” Shifting in her seat, she shares, “I didn’t really—I didn’t really know what to wear.”

Because it’s a date, sure, but it’s a non-traditional date. A sexy dress would be too much, and jeans would be not enough. Thus, her settling on a normal dress, covered with a cardigan and some sandals.

Roman takes his eyes off the road only for a second to give her a quick one over. “You chose well.” The pink deepens as she contemplates returning the compliment when he speaks again, “we gotta stop at the mall before the grocery store. Macy’s, apparently.”

Solana is rightfully confused. “Oh. W–why?”

“Gonna be honest with you, I’m not much of a cook. At all. So, it was only this morning I realized I don’t have any pots and shit for you to cook with. I asked my cousin’s wife where to get that stuff, and she suggested Macy’s.”

His explanation both does and doesn’t make sense. “Roman, you don’t have to go buy anything. I could have just brought some of my pots and pans over.” That would be significantly easier and make a lot more sense, considering it sounds like this man has zero desire to use said pots and pans after today. “Plus, pots can be….expensive.”

Especially at a department store like Macy’s.

At that, he reaches his hand over, placing it on her thigh, giving a light squeeze. “Money is never an issue.” She swallows, partially distracted by his big hand on her leg. It’s such an innocent thing that shouldn’t affect her as much as it does. “Not when you’re with me.”

With him.

She’s not with him though. Not…..not in the traditional sense.

He doesn’t seem to be acting like that though.

“But—”

“Relax.” The deep timbre of his voice is insanely soothing, conjoined with his thumb moving across the material of her dress. “I’ve got this.”

He certainly does, it seems.

—-------

A part of Solana wishes that Roman had given her a heads up about the extra stop, because she might have taken Raya’s stroller. Truthfully, her baby girl is kind of on the smaller side, weighing just about 15lbs, so it’s no issue to carry her around the store. It’s just the wiggly phase Raya is in that has her having to continue to hold Raya’s tiny stuffy, using it to entertain her at times.

Thankfully, Roman is very much to the point, easily asking a sales associate where the cookware is. He walks them over to said section, finding yet another associate—he seems to be good at seeking people out—asking for the “best” set of pots they sell. And at that, Solana’s eyes widen.

“Roman,” she whispers harshly, Raya pulling at the top of her dress, something that seems to put a small smile on his face. “Do you—do you have any idea how expensive a pot collection can be?”

He shrugs, answering calmly as they follow the associate through the section. “No. Don’t care either.”

That only widens her eyes even more. “We’re talking potentially thousands of dollars.”

Again, this man looks so unbothered. “And?” He stops, turning to her with a focused gaze. “Solana, I don’t think you understand how ri—”

“Mama!”

Raya’s interjection pulls the focus from the topic of expensive ass pots and pans to a kids toy someone clearly placed down after deciding to not get it. A musical, interactive teddy bear with floppy pink ears and clothes that’s clearly captured Raya’s attention.

Solana has to hold her daughter a bit tighter as she starts wiggling and whining in an attempt to grab the toy.

“Raya, no,” she scolds lightly, switching her to the other arm to widen the distance. Raya is irritated by that, whining yet again as she pushes on Solana’s chest. “I said no, Mija.”

“No!” She shouts back one of the few words she knows, an expression that makes Roman move to grab the toy, holding it in front of her.

“This what you want?” He asks, smile returning yet again. Raya’s scowl shifts to a wide grin as she grabs for the toy, squeezing the hand which causes kids instrumental music to play. Raya is suddenly a clapping, giggling child, making Solana feel slightly bad as she says to Roman in a low but firm voice.

“Roman, no. I don’t even know how much it is,” Solana argues, very well aware that the price really doesn’t matter, because she truly does not have any extra money to splurge on a toy. On anything, really. Every single dollar is spoken for.

“Doesn’t matter.” Roman shrugs, supplying, “she wants it, so I’ll get it for her.”

Solana’s stomach drops. “Roman, you don’t have to do—”

“Solana, it’s fine. It’s a kid’s toy. Not a big deal,” he says it so casually, taking her by surprise yet again as he starts to pry the stuffy from out of the box, ensuring none of the tiny plastic things are on said stuffed animal. He hands it back to Raya who doesn’t hesitate to grab it, Solana using her hand to help hold it up as a babbling Raya is fully immersed in her latest toy.

His gaze lingers on Soraya with a hint of curiosity and a lot of amusement before he grabs the box and finds where the associate has been silently waiting and watching the whole exchange.

Solana is still trying to process said exchange, still trying to grasp how easily and kindly Roman just acquiesced to the most random of things. But beyond that, how he’s gone along with everything so….easily. No irritation or frustration at having a baby tag along with them, a baby he plans to buy a toy for just because she was getting fussy at not having it.

And now he’s following the associate who’s carrying a box of Viking pots. Solana moves over to him, trying to not think too much into his kindness. “Roman, Viking is an expensive brand.”

“I asked for the best, because that’s what I get. I get what I am, Solana,” he answers. Solana gasps a little when he walks past her, slapping her ass in the process. “Come on.”

Still flustered by it all, she follows wordlessly as he guides them to the register where she learns the damn toy that Raya continues to interact with is freaking $34.00. She’s never paid that much for a toy.

But, that $34.00 is nominal compared to the $3,340.00 that pops up when the 12 piece set of pots are scanned.

“Oh my God.” Her anxiety is spiked at just the thought of Roman dropping that kind of money. Meanwhile, he’s already pulling out his wallet at the total that’s close to $3.700.00. “Roman, please, you don’t—”

He ignores her, handing over his black card without a care in the world, as she tries to not have a panic attack in the middle of this department store.

How rich is this man?

Not even in her dreams can she imagine dropping so much on something that’ll only be used once. Maybe he’ll return them afterwards?

For some reason, though, Roman doesn’t strike her as that type of man. The type to purchase and return before the credit card statement balance updates.

If he even checks that.

“Thank you,” he says, taking the large bag that contains the box of pots as well as the now empty box that Raya’s stuffed animal was in. He looks between mother and daughter, asking, “ready?”

Solana is still silenced by the opulent display before her, only able to nod. Roman stops, however, suddenly turning to her to ask, “what are you going to do with her while you cook?”

That’s an easy answer. “I’m just gonna hold her.”

He looks perplexed. “While you cook?”

Now, it’s Solana’s turn to chuckle. “I’m a single mom, Roman. Multitasking is all I do.”

Because it is. Because she’s more or less mastered the art of holding her daughter while completing a variety of tasks, especially cooking.

If only that worked for the man before her. “Naw.” He shakes his head, motioning for her to follow him in the direction they just came from.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Roman doesn’t answer her, just walks up to the same associate who checked them out and issues a question.

“Where’s the baby section?”

“Roman!”

Her voice is louder than she anticipated but enough to get him to offer a plain explanation. “We’ll just pick up a couple things. Enough so you don’t have to hold her the whole time.” Solana opens her mouth to protest, to explain that what’s not a big deal is her just keeping Raya on her hip. But, he’s already following the associate, thus leaving her rushing to catch up with him.

Realizing Roman is a man who doesn’t seem to take no for an answer when his mind is made up, Solana aims for some level of compromise, pleading, “not a lot, okay?”

His smile is genuine but his eyes twinkle with mischief. "Okay. Not a lot."

—---------

Turns out rich people have very different definitions of “a lot” compared to the rest of society.

Thousands.

By the time they finish not only at Macy’s but the grocery store, Roman has spent close to $4,000.00 dollars. $4,000.00 on a variety of items, many of which are unnecessary, a lot of which are for Raya.

Random toys, a play mat, a high chair, a floor seat, a baby lounger and toys that Raya most certainly doesn’t need, as she has all of that back in Solana’s apartment. Something Solana does her best to explain to Roman, but it seems it goes in one ear and out the other.

A mixture of several emotions, Solana isn’t sure what to make of Roman’s financial kindness and generosity. A part of her wonders if he’s expecting something in return, something she’s not opposed to, per se, but would like to be because they just desire each other in that way versus him using sex as payment.

Though something tells her Roman isn’t that type. Because someone who looks and even fucks like him could get any woman he wanted. She has no doubt about that. He doesn’t need to try to bribe someone like her, a single mother, for sex.

He can get that without even trying from quite literally anyone else.

Thus, that leaves her with the belief that this man might be one of the kindest she’s ever encountered.

And that, she also doesn’t know what to make of.

Walking back into the spacious living room after changing Raya in one of Roman’s bathroom, a bathroom that’s about what and what with her actual apartment, she finds him lounged on the sofa. He’s got one arm resting atop the sofa, phone in the other hand as he focuses on the screen.

Solana quietly steps in, moving to the floor, close to the sofa where he’s lounging but needing to be close to Raya who seems to want to explore every single bit of the massive penthouse despite the makeshift playroom that is Roman’s living room from all the stuff he got her.

Roman is quick to lock his phone, tossing it beside him as he compliments, “dinner was delicious. You can cook your ass off.”

Briefly tearing her eyes from Raya, Solana looks down and pushes some hair behind her ear. “Thank you.” Clearing her throat and pleased to see Raya crawl over to the play may where she starts hitting at the dangling toys, Solana looks back over at Roman and shares, “I love to cook.”

“I can tell.” His gaze is focused solely on her, an intimidating thing in some ways. “How’d you learn?”

“My mom,” she smiles, reflecting and elaborating. “My mom loves to cook too, so it’s just something she taught me and my sister.” Leaning back into the sofa and angling her body more towards him, she adds, “and my Uncle Booker, too. He owns a restaurant out in Georgia, and I’d visit him sometimes during the summer when I was younger, so he taught me how to make soul food, and my mom taught me how to make Mexican food.” The best of both worlds, in many ways. “You really don’t know how to cook? Like, at all?”

“I can do some things,” he says with a shrug. Solana makes a face, prompting him to ask, “what?”

Biting on her lip to hold back an amused smile, she points out, “it didn’t seem like it.” Roman rolls his eyes as she pulls up receipts. “Roman, you couldn’t even crack the eggs.”

“That’s cause they’re too damn small. I have big hands.” She giggles at the almost petulant scowl on his handsome face. “Besides, I have people who do that for me.”

“Cook?”

“Yeah.”

She nods, remembering him mentioning his private chef. Must be nice. “Well, I don’t cook as much as I’d like to, but you’re always welcome to join us for dinner when I do, though I might have to make a bigger portion size.” Because the man has the appetite of a group of middle school boys. Granted, with someone his size, he must have to eat a lot to keep in shape.

A perfect shape.

“Why don’t you?”

“Cook more?”

“Yeah.”

A lot of reasons, only some of which she feels like sharing. “I’m just so busy.” She gestures to Raya who is now holding onto the stuffed bunny that was the first of many purchases by Roman for her. “And this one doesn’t eat much of it anyway, couple on how expensive groceries are, it’s just not worth it, ya know?”

He nods. “Well, you can come over here and cook for me anytime.” She smiles, as his simmering gaze intensifies on her. “Or just come over, period.”

Solana’s voice lowers, her tone slightly teasing. “A foodless visit?”

“I love the food.” Their eyes lock. “But, I like you more.” And the heavens are on her side, because before she can freak out at such a bold statement, overthink what his actions continue to indicate, he changes the subject a bit. “But, I gotta ask…..the neighbor?”

“Carmelo?” Solana can’t even hide the disgust in her face at just the thought of that man. “Absolutely not. Never.” Raya wobbles over to her, Solana pulling her baby girl against her as Raya starts to reach over for yet another toy. “He’s just…..he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”

It’s not missed upon Solana how Roman’s disposition shifts into something more serious. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs, gently caressing Raya’s back. “He’s asked me out, directly and indirectly, over the past couple months, and it seems all of my creative ways of telling him no don’t seem to register.” Solana rolls her eyes and shakes her head, adding, “it’s fine though. He’s harmless. Just egotistical.”

Roman doesn’t say anything, but Solana can see it. Can see the wheels in his head turning. “I’m sure he’ll get the hint soon enough.”

If only. “Maybe.” She scoffs, Raya showing and babbling about the toy in her hand. Solana smiles softly, speaking to Roman while watching her daughter. “It’s ironic. He never paid me any attention when we were in high school, and I was on the dance team, so we would travel together sometimes with the basketball team. Never looked twice at me. Now, I’m 26 with a baby, and he won’t leave me alone.”

Something flashes in Roman’s eyes that seems to contrast with the curious nature of his question. “You were a dancer?”

She nods. “Since I was six.”

Roman tilts his head, asking, “do you still do it?”

And, he notices instantly the shift in her demeanor. The way her gaze shifts downward, almost awkwardly. “No,” she finally answers, voice almost sad and distant “Not….not anymore.”

Right away, Roman can sense it, see that there’s a story there. A story that wields some level of hurt and pain. It makes him almost regret even asking anything in the first place.

Solana suddenly gasps and asks, “shit, what time is it?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, pulling out her phone to see the time that reads quarter to 7. “I forgot, I have to make a business call.” She bites on her lip, gaze moving to Raya and then back at him. “Can you watch her right quick? It won’t take long. I prom—”

“Solana, it’s fine,” he assures, nodding in the direction of the terrace. “You can take it out there if you’d like.”

She seems appreciative of both his agreement as well as the offer for privacy. “Thank you.” Solana climbs to her feet, Raya’s little eyes moving to her mom, as she shares, “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Raya doesn’t say anything, just watches Solana walk out of the living room and onto the terrace. It’s only when the doors shut and she’s out of Raya’s view that the baby starts to make noise. “Mama….” It’s a soft exclamation, conjoined with her climbing onto her feet and starting to slowly waddle in that direction.

“Hey,” Roman moves to the edge of the couch, ready to block her path, if need be. “She’s coming back, okay?”

He’s unsure if his words actually provide any sort of comfort or a type of distraction, because Raya is suddenly moving over to grab a book on the floor that came with one of the toys he got her.

His eyes are glued to her, recognizing in being around her for the day how mobile she can be. A normal, expected thing, according to Solana.

Book still in hand, Raya waddles her way over to him, offering said book. “Is that for me?” She makes a loud sound that makes him smile a bit. “Thank you.”

She smiles loud and proud, suddenly looking up at him and reaching her arms up, her next request unmistaken.

Roman tenses a bit, suddenly unsure of himself. For the most part, interactions with Solana’s daughter have been easy, because it’s quite simple to see a kid’s face light up at an item, only for that light to intensify when they receive said item. It was mostly Solana who engaged with her as she sat in the high chair he’d picked up from Macy’s while they (mostly Solana) cooked. And even as she’d made his living room a bit of a playroom, that was mostly just a lot of watching to make sure she didn’t get anything, from both himself and Solana.

However, this is the first time such direct interaction would occur, and he’s mostly taken back how Raya is the one initiating and asking for it.

He’s clearly taking too long, Raya starting to babble and scowl, one little hand hitting his leg. He gives her a look that brings the smile back and has her reaching once more.

Roman chuckles. The kids is definitely determined, that’s for certain.

Pushing against the lingering discomfort, he yields. “Alright.” Roman moves the book to the other side of him and leans down to pick her up, settling her down on one of his thighs. “Better?”

Her answer is another loud sound that’s a mixture of a giggle and shout. It makes his smile widen ever so slightly. Roman’s only experience with kids has been Jey’s wild bunch of offspring and Aniyah, Jimmy and Naomi’s lil comedian of a daughter. But even with that minimal experience, there’s something different about Raya.

She is every bit her mother’s daughter, the spitting image of Solana, but beyond that, she has her mother’s softness and kindness about her. Even at such a young age, her aura is warm and welcoming.

It’s…..different.

Soraya is shifting on his lap, her little head turning until she spots the book and reaches for it.

Roman helps her out, handing it to her, continuing to watch and study how her eyes focus on the book as little fingers pry it open to a random page. She’s then pointing and “talking,” looking up at him.

“What is that?” Roman also points to the drawing, explaining to her, “that’s a dog.” He jumps a bit as she makes another loud sound for no reason. This time, he laughs a little as well. She has so much personality for such a young child. “You like dogs?” No response this time as she tires of said page and starts moving to the rest of them, easily growing bored, eventually knocking the book to the floor.

Roman sucks his teeth, playfully chastising her, “why you gotta be throwing stuff, huh?” Raya’s response is a loud yawn as she looks around, shifting once more on his lap. He moves his hand to her back, providing an extra layer of security as she stands up on his lap. He tenses yet again as she extends her arms, as if reaching and trying to hug him, clearly wanting to be held.

Another moment of uncertainty, because damn, Roman has never felt so out of his league and unsure of himself. Raya sitting on his lap, wanting to sit on his lap is one thing, but her wanting to be traditionally held is another.

It’s been years since he’s held a baby. And while Raya is not a baby baby, she’s still a tiny little thing.

But, it’s when she starts to whine against him that Roman feels almost compelled to comply, moving both arms around her as her little arms go around his neck, her face on his shoulder.

What the fuck?

He’s the last person in the world he’d expect any child to gravitate towards, but this little girl….the way she yawns once more against him and feels so….at ease in his arms…..he doesn’t know what to make of it.

What to make of any of it.

Just knows that he can feel the discomfort on him melting away at the same time he feels the subtle rise and fall of her chest against him.

Almost….almost peaceful.

The sound of footsteps alerts him to Solana’s return. She looks flustered and stressed, but it shifts into an almost look of guilt, as she starts apologizing, “oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he answers, honestly.

Solana moves over and crouches down in front of them. “She must be getting sleepy. She likes to be held when she’s tired.” Solana is careful in the way she takes Raya into her arms, murmuring something in Spanish and kissing her temple. Gaze back to Roman, she says, almost sadly, “I should get her back home….”

Her statement breaks Roman from this strange mental space finds himself in. Shaking his head, he clears his throat, “yeah, of course.”

Solana offers a small smile, looking around the room. “I can lay her down for a few minutes to clean—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he dismisses. “I can do it when I get back.”

“Roman, no, I can’t just leave this here—”

“Solana, it’s fine,” he interrupts, explaining as she straightens up and he stands from the sofa. He can just move most of the items into one of his guest rooms, but not everything. Roman already knows a couple of the toys Raya would probably want to have at home, especially the teddy bear.

He noticed she seemed to really like that one the most of them all.

“Okay,” Solana finally agrees with a defeated sigh, eyes shifting a bit as she stammers, “do you….do you have something to do later?”

Roman looks at her with a quizzical expression. “No. Why?”

Obvious hesitation, as she nervously licks her lips. “It….it only takes me about half an hour to get her down for bed, so if you want to stick around so we can…..talk, we—we can do that.”

His smirk is unavoidable, Roman already feeling a tightening in his pants at the visual of them talking.

Warm gaze raking in over her body, imagining her naked and wanton on top of him, his reply is an easy one. “We can talk all night, if you want.”

—---------

As Roman sits on the sofa in Solana’s apartment, waiting for her to get Raya down for bed, he finds himself catching up on some work shit that’s transpired while he was spending the day with the mother and daughter duo.

Nothing serious. Nothing his sister and Wise Man couldn’t handle for the time being, though she loathed the vague answer he gave her when she asked why he’d been MIA all day. Not surprising.

Rosalia has always disliked being kept out of the loop.

A necessity though, as Roman wants to keep Solana as far away from that as long as possible.

Raya, too, for that matter.

And in thinking about keeping people away, Roman finds himself sending out a text to one of his good, longtime friends and hitman.

Roman: Carmelo Hayes. Spring Hills apartments. Building 2.

Dean Ambrose: Yo. What ya wanting done?

What Roman wants and what he can realistically have done right now are two different things, because what he’d like is to find this bastard’s apartment himself and be the one to see to it that he never bothers Solana again.

Ever.

Or anyone, for that matter.

But, that’s too risky, too soon. He, himself, can’t make such a bold move.

Not yet, anyway.

So, he’ll have to settle for a simple, or not so simple, beating.

Roman: Fuck him up. Don’t kill him, but something close.

Dean Ambrose: You got it, dude.

Roman chuckles, imagining the childlike excitement in Ambrose's eyes at the chance to act on his sadistic, violent impulses. A true treat for the eccentric man.

The next thing on his list is arranging to have a security detail patrolling Solana's apartment complex at all times. Another trailing her outings to work and elsewhere.

He won't take any risks regarding the safety of mother nor daughter.

Roman also utilizes the time to message his driver, informing him to be ready to come pick him up in two to three hours, because the Tribal Chief has every intention of leaving the keys to the Range Rover in Solana’s apartment.

She doesn’t need to be taking the damn bus. Especially not with Raya. It’s too dangerous.

He’d just pay to get her car repaired for her, but there’s something he likes better about her driving his car. A possessive thing, he might even admit. With good intentions, though.

Always.

“Hey.”

Solana pulls him from his thoughts as well as his focus on the phone in his hand. She’s standing before him with an almost nervous expression.

Roman sits forward, tossing his phone to the side. Beckoning her over with his finger, his eyes don’t leave her as she climbs onto his lap, dress raised as she straddles him. He needs a distraction from the fact that clothes are the only thing keeping that part of him from that part of her. “She sleep?”

Solana nods. “When she’s tired, she taps out pretty quickly.”

That makes sense, Roman thinks. Baby girl was almost entirely knocked out just in the few minutes he held her.

“Roman…..” Her hands move to the bottom of his shirt. “I really did enjoy today. It’s….it’s the nicest day I’ve had in a while.”

He agrees, wholeheartedly, but there’s something underneath said statement. “But?”

She closes her eyes, asking in a small voice. “How is this supposed to work?”

He doesn’t hesitate to seek clarification. “What do you mean?”

She takes a deep breath. “I’m okay with us having sex. I want that, but….it’s hard for me to understand you being so nice and generous to me, and even Raya, and not feel like the sex is….payment of some sort.” Eyes opening, she starts to shake her head, “because if that’s the case—”

“It’s not,” he cuts her off, tone almost hardened as he moves his hands up her back. “Everything I did for you today, for Raya, was because I wanted to. And not because I was expecting anything in return. I told you that before.”

“I wanna believe that, but….” She pushes back some of her hair, further explaining, “it’s just that most men don’t—”

“I’m not most men.” Not even in the slightest. In ways she could probably never fully understand. “But, I am very interested in you. I told you that before, too. That I wanted to see where this goes, and I don’t know about you, but so far, I think it’s going pretty damn well.”

Because, it is. There was something both relaxing and rewarding. Spending the day with her. Even Raya. All so simple and easy, and in a world where everything is usually anything but that for the Mafia Head, he appreciates it.

And doesn’t want to let go.

She doesn’t disagree with him, just continues to be honest. “I guess I also don’t want you to feel like….like I’m using you or something.”

At that, Roman chuckles and moves one hand to her cheek. “Solana, you looked physically sick the whole time we were shopping. You’re the last person I’d ever suspect that from.” Most women would have walked up and down that damn department store trying to get him to buy them any and everything they could get their hands on. Solana was the complete opposite.

Her intentions are pure.

Just like her.

A true unicorn in the life he’s always lived, most of which is why Roman is certain he finds himself so drawn to her.

“It was a lot of money, Roman,” she protests, weakly.

“To you,” he counters. “Solana, money is not something I’ve ever had to worry about and never will, but I recognize that’s not been the case for you.” He also gets the sense it’s a moderate problem for her right now, based upon the fact she can’t even afford to get her car repaired. “So, if you need something, you just have to ask.”

She looks uncomfortable, frowning almost, “Roman—”

“I get it may feel too soon, and I respect that. Just know the offer is there for you.” Roman can see it’ll take time for her to come around and accept his help, that he’ll have to ease his way into things, so he’ll wait for it. Wait for her to come to him when she’s ready. In the meantime, he’ll have to sprinkle little things along the way. “And we don’t have to do anything—”

“No,” she cuts him off, shaking her head and moving her hands up his chest. “I want to. I just…..I just needed to know where we stand and how this is going to work. That’s….that’s all.”

Roman sits up further, pressing her against him as he moves his thumb across her bottom lip. “I told you before, you’re mine. You need something, I got you. You want some dick, I definitely got you there.” Her eyes flutter shut, and Roman smirks feeling the way she’s shifting atop him. “And judging by the look on your face, that second thing is exactly what you wanting right now.”

Solana lays her head on his shoulder as he drops his hand from her face to her ass, squeezing her supple cheeks. “Please…..”

He makes a sound. “First, you gotta tell me when I can see you again.” Roman easily glides his hand from her ass to the side of her thigh, working his way past where the material of her dress is ruffled to the smoothness of her thick thigh. “A week is too damn long….” His mouth moves to her neck as she grasps at the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Roman, I—I work,” she breathes out, shifting once more as he sneaks his hand in between her legs, long fingers teasing her underwear. “Oh, shit.”

“I’m aware,” he chuckles, amused and also turned on by how she wiggles closer to him, eager for his fingers as they slide past the damp cotton of her panties. “And, I don’t care. We gotta figure something out.”

“Roman,” she moans, hands gripping his shoulders as he enters one digit inside her wet, tight cunt. “P–please.”

He works her with his fingers, his mouth sucking on her neck before he asks in the calmest voice, “you gonna let me see you more often?” Finalized with the entering of another digit as she bucks against his hand.

She’s practically in tears, crying out against him, nails pressed into his skin through his shirt. “Yes, fuck, whatever—whatever you want.”

Pleased with her agreement, Roman pulls his hand from her, chuckling when she whines against him. “You work tomorrow?”

His question as well as him stopping altogether have her pulled back and scowling. “No.” Moving once again on his lap, she's clearly feeling the growing erection underneath her. “Why–why’d you stop?”

The answer is simple. “Because I need a bed for everything I want to do to you, and I needed to know how much time I have.”

His answer has her swallowing as she shares in a small voice, “she….she usually sleeps through the night.”

Roman smiles. Music to his fucking ears.

Standing up, holding her up by her ass, he asks, “where’s your bedroom?”

At some point, he’ll have to issue a new text to his driver.

He won’t need them anytime soon.

Or at all, tonight.

#roman reigns x black!oc #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns #arisnotebook

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simply-ivanka · 4 months ago

Text

Why Do the Young Vote Left?

Socialist teachers lead them to think of government as a free-money tree.

It’s the gifts. The progressive vibe is that big government will take care of you. It knows what’s best for you. It will redistribute money how it pleases. You need to put a smile on your face while it takes away your laurels, guns and money. “We believe in the collective,” Ms. Harris declared, much like Hillary Clinton’s “it takes a village.” Equity in Schenectady. Handouts for all.

You want proof? Ms. Harris’s Senate voting record is leftward of socialist Bernie Sanders. Vice-presidential candidate Tim Walz fawns over China, saying “everyone is the same and everyone shares.” Viva la revolución and Che Guevara T-shirts for all.

This is antifreedom. Too many of today’s youth fall in line with progressives because they’re undereducated and overindoctrinated with someone else’s agenda. I watched in horror as local high-school biology classes spent weeks on the science of recycling centers and only a short afternoon on mitochondria and mitosis. Profit is a bad word. It’s gimme, gimme, whether it’s student loan forgiveness, free healthcare or tax credits.

Who’s to blame? Misguided capitalism-hating social-studies teachers to start, with Tim Walzian thinking: “One person’s socialism is another person’s neighborliness.” Who is he, Mr. Rogers? Add like-minded college professors. Work ethic and ambition are evaporating.

Worse, Pew Research notes almost a third of currently childless 18- to 34-year-olds aren’t sure if they ever want children. Why? The Harris campaign’s “climate engagement director,” Camila Thorndike, is among the hesitant, telling the Washington Post, “I want to protect them from suffering.” Perpetually pessimistic progressive prognostications induce fear. No wonder U.S. fertility rates are at historic lows.

OK, I know I’m asking for trouble. Every time I write about youth, I get a chorus of comments and tweets telling me I’m an old man screaming, “Hey you kids, get off my lawn.” Yeah, yeah. Very clever. I’m not that old. But in the Kamala collective—as California attempted—private “ornamental” lawns are out, and drought-resistant vegetation is in. Progressives literally want you off your own lawn.

My conversations with young folks who do exhibit some actual drive show their confusion: “I want to do a startup.” Great! To do what? “A sustainable something or other. To save the planet.” OK, is it productive? “What’s that?” Does it scale? “Huh?” Will it do more with less? “Not really, it needs lots of money to keep going and save more of the world.” Sounds like a nonprofit. (That usually invokes a smile.) Actually, wealth comes from delivering ever-cheaper stuff to millions of people, not handouts. “I don’t care about money.”

OK, I say, but progress and societal wealth happen when you delight customers and postpone consumption to reinvest profits into better products. The looks on their faces are as if I’m describing Chinese arithmetic.

Our youth aren’t lazy but lost. Progressives have strong opinions about society but no viable solution beyond handing out other people’s money—taken from the few who actually are productive, drive progress and generate wealth by fulfilling customer needs. It’s a downward spiral: When progressives tax—screaming “fair share!”—they cripple the productive few who actually create the real non-burger-flipping, get-out-of-your-parent’s-basement jobs.

To aggressive progressives, government is simply a magic money tree. Vote left and dollars appear. The gross incompetence of government—think billions for eight electric vehicle chargers—destroyed healthcare (thank you, ObamaCare) and education (assisted by Randi Weingarten’s teachers union) and is close to destroying energy (net zero), even while the Biden-Harris administration works hard to destroy Big Tech—one of the few productive industries. And I’ll never forgive progressive Hollywood for turning “Star Wars” into unwatchable wokey Wookiee drivel.

What industries will be left standing? Who cares, because the dreamy types think generative artificial intelligence will kill all jobs and government will provide universal basic income so they can Zyn, TikTok and play College Football 25 videogames all day. A naive youthful triumphalism.

This is a false endgame. There is so much more to be invented: drugs, immunotherapy, fusion, self-folding clothes, humanoid robotics, flying cars. Hard brain work plus quality recharging leisure time is the goal, not a nation of welfare queens.

I feel sorry for the youth that do care, do work hard, are productive and help push the boulder of progress up that steep slope, while essentially carrying all the others on their backs. It’s you against the collective, the village, which is always about being supported, pampered, living off someone else’s hard work and then complaining that the handouts aren’t big enough. So, yeah, get off my lawn, while lawns are still allowed.

#Harris #Democrats #Biden #Obama #-----#Vote for #trump #trump 2024 #president trump #repost #america first #americans first #america #donald trump #ivanka

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quitealotofsodapop · 9 months ago

Note

Nez Ha probably didn't just appear on Pigsy's Noodles doorstep, but rather probably appeared before Wukong whilst he was out on a delivery or soemthing similar, mainly because he'd have known Wukong was incognito and didn't want to risk giving any unnecessary attention like

Wu: *sees cloaked child suddenky appear behind him* Sweet Nuwa! Nez Ha!? The heck happened to you!?

Nez Ha: I had nowhere else to go

Later on Wu introduces Nez Ha as his friend 'Nez,' a family friend of sorts who's parents kicked him out

truth.

General Li Jing basically disowned Nezha for almost "setting chaos upon the world" (again), and the arguement got so heated between the pair that Nezha lost his place among the celestial guards. And since Heaven long since confiscated most of his treasures, Nezha was left almost powerless on Earth.

Nezha, in his true form and a child for the first time in milennia, just runs to the first person he can think of.

Sun Wukong.

Someone living in secret among humans because of the fallout of the Harbringer's Comet.

Nezha isn't sure how to approach Wukong, but he ends up following the ugly pig tuk-tuk around for a while before just walking up to the monkey. The reaction from Wukong is one Nezha did not expect.

Wukong: "How long have you been out on your own?!" Nezha, not understanding the issue: "A week or more. Why?" Wukong: "Have you eaten anything or even slept?" Nezha, thinking: "..." Wukong: "That's it. I'm taking you home. Until we can figure... this out, your not spending another minute out on the street." Nezha: (*confused but touched*)

Pigsy was about to protest the sudden arrival of a whole child, but noticed that "Nez" seemed super down in the dumps. And he def wasn't lying about his dad kicking him out so...

Tang: "Aww. You softie." Pigsy: (*has fed, helped bathed, warmed, and tucked in the little guy into a spare futon*) Pigsy: "Shaddup."

Now a little pink demon lives at the noodle shop. A little pink demon who's definitely seen a lot of violence in his life and is desperate for the approval of a parental figure. And is weirdly good at rollerskating. This is Pigsy's life now. Another son-figure acquired.

The Queen Mother def blows up at Li Jing for exiling his son, but when she tries looking for Nezha; she finds him in the care of a monkey-demon couple with a baby on the way + a childless human/demon pair with endless love to give. She decides that he is safer on earth for now, learning how to reign in his power and being a child again. She blesses the couple's baby for good luck.

She knows who the demon couple are. She's not a snitch.

#the monkey king and the infant #the monkey king and the infant au #lmk nezha #sun wukong #dad sun wukong #lmk pigsy #lmk dadsy #lmk tang #lmk #lmk aus #lego monkie kid

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daisynik7 · 2 years ago

Text

Dirty Thirty

Pairing: Kishibe x f!reader

Rating: Explicit

cw: thigh riding, cunnilingus, fingering, spanking, spit play, vaginal sex (doggy, cowgirl), cockwarming, use of pet names (princess and Master)

Word Count: ~5.6k

Summary: An alluring stranger gives you a special treat on the night of your 30th birthday.

Notes: Kishibe is in his mid 40s. Also, apparently he is 6’4”, so reader is shorter, below 6’. This is very self-indulgent considering my own 30th is in a few days (shout out to all my fellow Pisces babes)! Also, I started this after finishing Chainsaw Man a few weeks ago, so this is a result of heavy Kishibe brainrot.

Additional Note: Check out Part 2 here: After Last Night! Reblogs, likes, and/or comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading!

--------------------

The bass of EDM music reverberates through the speakers at the DJ’s booth. This particular bar you frequent turns into a club at 11 PM. College kids from the university down the street congregate in this establishment on the weekends, like today. You and your friends have been here since an hour ago, drinking and chatting in a booth hidden away to the side of the dancefloor. After dinner, you stopped by for a quick drink. With the booze and vibes just right, you ended up staying.

Tonight, you celebrate your birthday. It’s the end of an era, really. You’re officially thirty. You’ve been dreading this day for the past few months, sad to bid farewell to your twenties, which wasn’t all that anyways. The number of times your friends reassure you that your thirties are the new twenties only brings you mild comfort. Glancing at the crowd tearing up the dancefloor, you can’t help being envious of their youth.

Maybe it’s your buzz talking. You’re not one to feel sorry for yourself, especially about something as inevitable as aging. Thirty is young. Who cares if you’re the only one in your inner circle who’s single, unmarried, or childless? There’s no shame in it. You’re sick of women being scrutinized each year they get older for not doing what society tells them they should do. Who the fuck cares if you don’t have a ring on your finger or haven’t popped a baby out your vagina yet? It isn’t on your radar, and that’s perfectly fine. Men don’t get this much shit for remaining bachelors well into their forties or fifties, why should you?

You fidget with the glittery Dirty 30! sash you wear over your little black dress. A shimmering tiara sparkles on top of your head to complete your ensemble. Your friend’s voice in your ear snaps you out of your thoughts. “Hey birthday girl, how’s it going?”

Smiling, you hold your half empty glass up towards the middle. “Good. Thanks so much for coming out to celebrate tonight!” You’re ready to chug the rest of your liquor so you can head to the dancefloor. The other three women in your group cheers, clinking their drinks with yours.

You’re about to suggest dancing when your friend says, “Shall we call it a night?”

It catches you off guard. The music just started and it’s not even midnight yet. You’re not ready to go back to the real world; it’s your special day until you fall asleep, which you don’t plan to do for a few more hours. You’re silent though, listening as the other girls repeat a similar sentiment.

“My husband is waiting for me at home, so yes.”

“And my babies have an early morning play date tomorrow!”

Your friend beside you turns to you and asks, “Ready to go?”

Contemplating for a moment, you respond, “I think I might stay, actually. Have another drink or two.”

They stare at you bewildered, surprised you want to be here alone, which is unusual for you. “Are you sure?” they clarify.

“Yeah! Go ahead, I’ll be fine! I’m a big girl now,” you joke, standing up to hug them. They kiss you on the cheek, greeting you one last happy birthday before leaving together to go home to their husbands and children.

Craving another drink, you abandon your booth to approach the bar. You order your favorite: a vodka cranberry, your comfort cocktail throughout your 20s. A reminder that you’re still the same you despite moving up a decade.

You close your tab, promising yourself this is your last, and go back to your table. It’s now occupied by an older man in a black coat, sipping on amber liquor. Annoyed, and slightly intrigued, you sit opposite of him in the same booth. He lifts his head up slowly, noticing you.

“Hi there,” you greet him. Even in the dim light, the stitched scar on his left cheek stands out. The metal piercings on his ears glisten, the strobe lights reflecting off them from the dancefloor.

“Can I help you?” His voice is low and raspy, either naturally or from the alcohol.

“I was sitting here earlier. The other tables are all occupied, and I really don’t want to stand around on the dancefloor by myself. Can I sit here until I finish my drink? There’s plenty of room for the both of us.” You put on your most charming smile.

“Where are your friends? I’m sure you’d rather sit with them instead of with an old man like me.”

“They ditched me to go home. Besides, it looks like you could use the company.” You tip your cocktail into your mouth, keeping your gaze on him.

He watches you, skeptical. “How old are you?”

You glance down at your sash, which is now twisted so that the answer to his question is on your back where he can’t see. You grin at him. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman her age?”

He hums, unamused. “I’m not keen on hanging out with girls in their 20s. Not really my style. Not tonight, anyways.”

“How old do you think I am?”

Narrowing his eyes at your tiara, he responds, “You’re wearing a crown, drinking a cranberry vodka at a bar that plays this shit music. I’d say you’re 23.”

This amuses you, like getting asked for your ID does, which is becoming rarer nowadays. It’s flattering.

“Hey, you’re here too. The only difference is that you’re drinking a whiskey,” you tease him, pointing at his glass.

“In my defense, I finished work nearby and this shitty cesspool was the closest bar I could find.” He takes a swig of his alcohol. “So, am I right?”

Sliding the sash to face him, you answer, “Nope. You’re wrong. Lucky for you, today is my birthday. And I just turned thirty.”

He cracks a smile at this, giving you a flutter below your belly. You’re not typically into older men; however, this guy has piqued your interest. There’s something about him that is alluring. Exciting.

“Happy birthday,” he says, swallowing the rest of his whiskey. “Get anything good?”

“No. But the night’s not over yet.” You’re full-on flirting now, not at all ashamed of how brazen you’re acting. Fuck it. You only turn thirty once, right?

There’s distance between you, but the tension is so thick, you could smell the bold scent of liquor coating his lips. He leans closer, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Well, I guess it’s my responsibility now to give you something good.”

~~~

Minutes later, you’re in the back of the cab, riding towards an address he mutters to the driver. He holds you, interlocking his fingers with yours, peering out his window in silence. You focus on your entwined hands resting on the middle seat, the intimacy of it all distracting you from the fact that you’re about to hook up with this attractive stranger.

The driver arrives to a swanky apartment complex. Once inside, Kishibe doesn’t give you enough time to marvel at the beautiful interior of the room. In an instant, his lips are on yours, both palms cupping your cheeks assertively. Breath hot and chalky from the mint you saw him savor earlier in the car. It barely masks the lingering taste of that cigarette you witnessed him drag waiting for your ride. He didn’t have the same type of smoker’s breath that you’re sick of from your coworkers. With him, you don’t mind it at all.

His hand trails down your neck, thumb carefully brushing over a pulse point right below your chin. His skin is rough and calloused compared to yours. The scraggly facial hair scattered along his jaw is scratchy on your cheeks.

He breaks the kiss, gazing at you while he removes his overcoat, hanging it on the rack in the corner, kicking his shoes off in the process. There’s a small bar cart in the kitchen, where he pours himself a whiskey. At the freezer, he reaches for the ice, dropping three cubes into the dark liquor with a plop. You stand still, observing him, nervous and thrilled about what this mysterious man will do to you tonight.

At the couch, he takes a seat, thighs spread wide, his wrist hanging low between them, gripping the top of the glass with his fingertips. “Come here,” he beckons.

Removing your heels quickly and abandoning your purse, you step towards him, ready to sit beside him until he demands, “No. Not there.” He pats his thigh with his free hand. “Here.”

Your body trembles with lust as you straddle him, pussy pulsing against his muscular thigh. He studies you, from your hazy stare down to him between your legs, savoring his cold liquor all the while. You gulp loudly, obediently waiting for his next command.

Gently removing the crown atop your head and tossing it aside, he asks, “What do you want from me, princess? It’s your birthday after all.” Hearing him call you princess gives you a rush you can no longer contain. You start moving on his thigh, riding it to feel the glorious sensations on your clit.

His chuckle vibrates through his chest as you grasp at his collar to hold you steady. “This is what you want? Okay. Take what you need. Come on my thigh. I’ll watch.” His gravelly voice in your ear makes you ride him harder, grinding against him until your creamy mess is soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. You clench his tie, loosening it around his neck. He continues to watch you, sipping on his booze, enjoying his own private show.

Once the glass is empty except for the melting ice, he sets it down on the coffee table, pulling you in closer, his hand behind your neck. Lightly blowing cool, whiskey breath along your lips. You lean forward to kiss him, his tongue slipping past to explore your needy mouth. The longing for his touch on every inch of your body grows stronger by the second as you moan into the kiss, bouncing on his leg.

“Can you come by yourself? Or do you need my tongue on it? I can lick it up real good if you’ll let me.” His obscene suggestion surprises you, as if you weren’t already performing lewd acts on his lap. You tug at his tie to pull him into another fierce kiss before sitting next to him on the couch, lifting the hem of your dress up to reveal your wet undergarments.

“I’ll let you do whatever you want to me. But I’m not calling you Daddy,” you tease, spreading wide for him.

His voice is low in his throat, kneeling on the carpet, face positioned between your thighs. “Good, because I prefer to be called Master.”

You roll your eyes at him, to which he responds, “What? You don’t like that? I bet I’ll have you screaming it all night long.”

This has you speechless as he drifts towards you, staring at the wet spot soaking through your lingerie. “Look how fucking wet you are for me.” He hooks his fingers around the fabric, stretching it to the side to expose your sopping cunt. Leaning in closer, he flicks his tongue gently onto your clit, causing you to squirm above him.

He’s testing the waters, starting slow to gauge your limit. It’s gentle at first, toying with your bud until it’s plump and sensitive. Until your wanton moans are bouncing off the walls of his big, fancy apartment. There’s no doubt that he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s obvious this man has years of experience beyond you. Having this stranger swirl his tongue on the most intimate parts of your body makes you weak in the knees. This is the first time all night that you’re thankful to be turning thirty. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be in this apartment, getting wrecked and torn apart by him.

“I’ve always wanted a plaything I can ruin,” he breathes out, finally wrapping his lips around you. “Will you be my pretty plaything tonight?” He surrounds your clit, drawing an erotic whimper from your mouth.

“Fuck, Kishibe. Yes. Use me as your plaything, fuck.”

He eats you out noisily, emphasizing every wet sound his mouth makes on your swollen bud. Several times, he spits on it, spreading his saliva up and down your pussy, plunging his tongue into your entrance to get it lubricated with his own drool.

“You’re fucking drenched down here. When’s the last time you let a grown man eat you out like this? I bet you’ve never been with someone like me, huh?”

You shake your head, swiping through his hair, spreading yourself wider for him. “Never.”

“I can tell,” he says, slipping his middle and ring finger into your entrance. “So fucking wet for me. I love it.” He pumps into you, curling his digits just right, resonating all the way down to your toes. His lips latch onto your clit, drinking you up to quench his insatiable thirst.

“Hold these for me,” he says, guiding your fingers to your panties. “Want to stroke my cock while I eat this gorgeous pussy out.” You hear the unbuckling of his belt, the sound of him shoving his fist into his slacks to jerk off. The vibrations from his moans tickle your skin as he nuzzles himself deeper into your arousal, practically drowning in it, flattening his tongue to smear his warm saliva all over. You whine in ecstasy, heedless of attracting any neighboring attention to your explicit blubbering.

“Come on my face,” he muffles, too busy lapping up your clit to pull away, fingers pumping in and out of you, shiny and sleek with your slick.

It doesn’t take much longer for you to reach your orgasm, pleasure jolting through your body while he works you until you’re overstimulated, twitching from the euphoria. He laughs softly, face glistening with your essence, taking a seat beside you. You watch him in a daze as he sticks his cum-coated fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean. “You want a taste, too?”

You nod, disoriented from your intense climax. He drags your bottom lip down using the pad of his thumb, mumbling, “Open.”

Obediently, you stick your tongue out for him, knowing fully well what he’s about to do. Your pussy throbs again, ready to be fucked for real by this provocative stranger you were so fortunate to meet tonight.

He grazes your open tongue, then spits in your mouth. “Swallow,” he demands, voice husky with desire. You do, making sure to gulp loudly, incredibly aroused and needy for his cock.

“Show me,” he whispers, opening his own mouth to mimic you. “Ah.”

You show him your tongue again, a dumb expression on your face while he inspects. Satisfied, he grunts, “Fuck, you’re bad. You’re a bad girl, aren’t you?” He reaches down to your soaked panties clinging to you. “Take these off.”

He slides out of his trousers, revealing briefs that barely conceal his obvious bulge. As you slip out of your underwear, he removes his, displaying his impressive cock. “You going to ride this cock now?”

Without a word, you nod. You’re already anticipating how fucking amazing he’s going to feel inside you. Your brain is jumbled with naughty thoughts of him taking you in all positions in every room of his apartment.

There’s a hungry gleam in his eyes as he watches you mount him. You hoist your dress up, stripping it from your body. He unclasps your bra, baring your breasts to him while he still wears his dress shirt and tie. For some reason, you want him to keep it on. Get it nice and dirty with slick and sweat.

You reach behind you to position him at your entrance. Once aligned, you slowly sink onto his cock, allowing yourself a few seconds to adjust to his size. Given his stature, it’s not surprising how big he is, both in length and girth. When you bottom out, he lets out a raspy fuck, holding your ass to squeeze your plush cheeks. “I’m ready whenever you are, princess. Like I said, take what you need from me. Milk me dry. I know you want to.”

Spurred by his provocative encouragement, you ride him, rocking your hips back and forth onto his lap, gripping his cock tight with your wet cunt. Forehead pressed to his, lids closed, jaw hanging open, experiencing the best fuck of your life. With a brief glance, you catch him watching you, a similar dazed expression on his face. You bounce on him faster, his dick pounding into you over and over again, determined to feel every inch you possibly can.

“Fuck, Kishibe, feels so fucking good,” you moan, directing his fingers down to your clit. “I want to come all over this cock. Make me come, Master.”

Bingo. His eyes widen as soon as it slips from your mouth. It’s the magic word. The trigger.

Without hesitation, he brushes his thumb ruthlessly onto your swollen bud. “Say it again,” he demands, pressing it hard as he massages it, eyes wild with lust.

“Fuck, make me come, Master. Make me come.” You’re riding him so fucking good, couch creaking, clutching his shoulders tight, his carnal stare locked on your every movement.

“Tell me when you’re close,” he growls.

“I’m close, I’m close!”

Suddenly, he pulls out, cock covered in your arousal, wet and stiff against his abdomen. Strings of slick cling to the hem of his dress shirt. You’re about ready to yell at him for teasing you. Before you can, he stands up, grabbing your wrist to lead you into the bedroom. His breathing is heavy as he points to the bed, hastily removing his clothes. “On your knees, ass up. I’m going to fuck you so good. Make you squirt all over my fucking sheets.”

The anger immediately subsides and you’re back to being eager again, knowing damn well that he means every fucking word he says. You do as he commands, wiggling your ass to entice him. He chuckles behind you. “I’m sorry for denying you earlier. I just really want to see this ass bounce on my cock like this.” He teases you with his tip, tapping your clit, sliding it along your pussy lips.

“You’re not forgiven,” you pout, growing impatient.

Placing a soft kiss on your lower back, he laughs again. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about this stranger you met mere hours ago, it’s that he is a man of his word.

He guides his cock into you slowly, stretching you little by little until you’re squeezing him, his entire length inside you. “Look at you, sucking me in again like you were made for me.” He starts thrusting, holding you steady to penetrate you deeper.

“So fucking good!” you cry out, fists bunched on his silky sheets, drool leaking from the corner of your mouth.

“I know, princess. It’s amazing for me too.” His heavy balls slap your damp skin with every brutal thrust of his hips, fucking you hard, dipping into your sweet spot until you’re woozy with pleasure. “You take it so good. So fucking sexy.” He tightens his grip on you, increasing his pace. “So fucking beautiful.”

You throw your ass back, arching your spine to get the perfect angle. With your cheeks bouncing obscenely against his thighs, you beg, “Spank me, Master. Spank me like a bad girl.”

Not wasting a second, his rough palm connects with your ass, the loud smack ringing in your ears. He spanks you again and again, your pussy clenching him tighter while you continue to thrust back onto his cock. You’re about ready to burst, desperate to reach your second orgasm after being denied earlier. You play with your puffy clit, electricity rippling through your body upon contact. Whimpering, you rub your bud faster as he pounds into you, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck,” he moans, staring at your ass jiggle after each fresh slap he delivers. “Come on my cock, princess. That’s it. Get it creamy. Just like that, fuck.”

Waves of pleasure sweep over you, the intensity of it causing you to tremble before him. In the midst of your climax, you plead for him to finish inside you, greedy for his cum. It doesn’t take long for him to fill you up, staying nestled deep in you as he releases his warm load, letting out a husky fuck.

He pulls out, his warm release leaking from your pussy, dripping onto his sheets. He ogles at the pornographic sight in front of him, pleased with himself.

“Like what you see?” you tease, lowering your torso and relaxing on the bed.

“You are a naughty, naughty girl,” he says, collapsing beside you. “Can’t believe I let you seduce me.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault? You were the one who offered to give me something good for my birthday.”

He raises a brow at you. “Did I succeed?”

You gaze at him, properly examining his appearance. Scruffy facial hair, eyes that are perpetually tired, the striking scar aligned with his frown. You find yourself wondering what his story is; someone this fetching must have a story.

“Considering the mess we made, I would say you exceeded my expectations.” You lay your palm on his firm chest, his now steady heartbeat lightly thumping against your fingertips.

“I’m glad to hear I wasn’t a disappointment.” He doesn’t take his gaze off you. Normally, you’d be intimidated by such intense eye contact. With him, it’s different. You feel safe. He places his hand on top of yours, rugged thumb gently caressing the skin of your knuckles. The two of you stay like this, enjoying each other’s presence in an easy silence.

“We can’t do this again,” he mutters, finally looking away from you. He turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, your hand still snug under his.

“Why not?” The shift in energy surprises you. This is not the typical pillow talk you’re accustomed too.

“I’ll keep wanting to see you if we keep this up,” he admits. Although it’s a sweet sentiment, he’s deciding to end it here and now, not even waiting until the morning like in a typical one-night-stand.

Matching his candid demeanor, you ask, “What’s wrong with wanting to see me again?” A strange feeling of unease swells in your chest, anxious for whatever truth he’s about to reveal.

He takes a breath before explaining, “I’m a Devil Hunter. The best in the world. My job is very dangerous. A young woman like yourself shouldn’t get attached to me. My life is expendable.” He avoids you while he speaks, eyes laser focused on the ceiling, barely blinking. It’s as if he doesn’t want to say it; rather, it’s part of a script, forced to recite the lines like it’s standard procedure. How often has he had to deliver this sober spiel to his ex-lovers? You start to pity him, speculating how detached he must remain to the outside world strictly because of his risky profession.

You continue to stare at him, letting the information sink it. The air is thick with a serious tension. It’s a sudden switch from the wild romp you just experienced. Choosing not to pester him further, you decide to lighten the mood. You scoot towards him, mouth skimming his ear, muttering, “Well, l didn’t really like you anyways.” The cold metal of his piercings contrast the soft warmth of your lips.

He turns to you again, the tension in his brows easing slowly as he gives you a small smirk. “Oh yeah?”

You nuzzle your nose against his. “Yeah.”

“Good. It’s better this way,” he says, planting a kiss on the forehead.

Sighing, you ask, “Can I at least spend the night?”

“Of course. I’ll even cook you breakfast tomorrow morning.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean a cup of coffee with a splash of whiskey and a couple cigarettes,” you joke.

He chuckles. “I’ll throw in some eggs for protein, does that work?”

“Sure. I’ll take whatever I can get, since this is the last time we’ll be seeing each other.”

There’s a small smile on his lips as he gazes at you. A minute passes and he reaches for you, grazing your cheek delicately. You feel comfortable in bed with him. Protected. You snuggle into his chest, his arms wrapping you into a bear hug. Cozy in his embrace, you listen to his rhythmic breathing, lulling you to sleep.

~~~

In the morning, you wake up alone, tucked under the covers, clothed only in a dress shirt, barely buttoned. The bedroom door is wide open, the sound of a pan scraping on iron ringing in your ears and the inviting smell of food cooking wafting from the kitchen.

You spot a pack of baby wipes on the drawer next to you, noticing that your body is fresh and clean, opposite the sticky mess you fell asleep to. Next to it is a brand-new toothbrush and toothpaste. With these items in hand, you tip-toe into the bathroom, appreciating his thoughtfulness.

When you’re done, you study his bedroom for the first time, and probably last. There are no pictures hung anywhere, no personal touch to anything. Only small traces of a man whose entire existence is his job. Several ties scattered on his dresser next to a metal flask. A mini calendar on his nightstand with random scribblings of future work commitments. Hamper in the corner of the room, filled to the brim with white dress shirts, black slacks, and a couple of mismatched argyle socks. You’re slightly tempted to investigate some drawers to see the type of weapons a Devil Hunter of his caliber carries, but you don’t.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him in the kitchen. He’s in a plain white t-shirt with navy-blue pajama pants. As promised, he is cooking a batch of scrambled eggs over the stove, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, spatula in the other. Looking domestic and sexy as hell. His words replay in your mind. You shouldn’t get attached to someone like me. You almost regret sleeping with him, knowing you’ll miss him after you leave.

Quietly, you stroll towards him until he notices you. When he does, he takes a sip of coffee and mutters, “Morning, princess.”

Positioned behind him, you wrap your arms around his waist, raising your heels to place a gentle kiss on the back of his neck. It’s only now that you realize how much taller he is than you. “Good morning, handsome. This is a pleasant surprise.”

“I told you I’d cook you breakfast, didn’t I?” He cranes his neck to face you, smirking.

“You did. I’m pleased to see you keep your promise,” you tell him, resting your cheek on his back. “You’re truly a man of your word. I think that deserves a reward.” You slide your thumbs under the waistband of his pajama bottoms, teasing him.

“If you tempt me, you won’t be able to taste this delicious meal I prepared for you,” he comments, setting his coffee mug down the counter and turning off the burner. His hand covers yours, maneuvering it over the growing bulge in his pants.

“Maybe I’m craving something else for breakfast.” You start palming his erection, suddenly hungry for him rather than the food.

He turns to face you, looking at you up and down in his dress shirt, your legs clenched together to hide your arousal. Still smirking, he says, “You’re making this much harder than it needs to be.” He slowly pushes you against the counter, running his fingers up your inner thigh, spreading your legs to expose your wet cunt.

You moan, anticipating another round of intense fucking, this time in his kitchen. It makes you want to christen every part of his apartment.

“How are you this fucking wet for me already?” He whispers, rubbing his thumb on your throbbing clit. “You’re so sexy, it’s driving me insane.”

“Kishibe,” you breath out, struggling to steady yourself. “Fuck.”

“I got you. Get on the counter for me, princess. Spread those legs so I can lick that pussy clean.”

With his hands on your waist guiding you, you hop up, opening wide for him. Knees bent and body folded forward, he starts licking your clit, palming his erection through his pants. You come within minutes, gushing over his tongue as it glides along your slit, nose digging firmly onto your swollen bud.

“Fuck me, Kishibe. Want that big cock inside me. Want you to fill me up again with your cum.” You hop back down, turning around and lifting the hem of the dress shirt past your ass, ready to get railed right there on the countertop.

“Not like this,” he murmurs, kissing you on the cheek. “Wait for me in my room. We’re going to have breakfast in bed together.”

Minutes later, a tray with a plate full of eggs, toast, and bacon set on top is temporarily forgotten as the two of you fuck on the other side of the bed. Him sitting up, back pressed to the headboard, you riding him until he spills inside you, causing you to orgasm again all over him.

You slump forward, resting your head on his shoulder, tired and satiated from another amazing fuck. Attempting to slide off him, he kisses you on the lips, his grip firm on your waist, unyielding. “Keep my cock inside you. Can you do that for me?”

In your blissful state, all you can do is nod, getting comfortable on his lap. He reaches for a slice of bacon on the tray, letting you take the first bites before he finishes it, doing the same for a piece of buttered toast. He feeds you forkfuls of scrambled eggs, using the same utensil for himself. It’s pleasantly intimate for two people who just met. Playing the role of a long-term couple, indulging in simple delights together, like breakfast in bed.

Plate cleared, both your bellies full of nourishment, you stay in this position, kissing each other leisurely, no rush to separate. He whispers your name, fondling your breasts through the fabric of his dress shirt that you’ve made yours. He repeats it a few more times, relishing how it feels on his lips before he never has to utter it again.

It’s bittersweet, knowing it’s ending as soon as it begun. You have no reason to be so smitten with him. You’re two people who hardly know each other. Still, you find yourself not wanting to say goodbye yet. Something’s there. A tiny spark flickering in the distance. Maybe you’re one of many women he’s done this with before. Maybe you’re nothing special. But in this fleeting moment, you let yourself believe it’s real.

The two of you reluctantly part after an especially long, passionate kiss. You dismount him, grabbing the wipes to clean up the mess that was made earlier. He gives you a smooch on the forehead before getting out of bed to exit the room, returning in less than a minute to hand you your outfit from last night. You briefly recall carelessly discarding it all over his living room floor right before you pounced on him. Is it too soon to consider that a fond memory? It hasn’t even been 24 hours and you’re reminiscing about him already.

He leaves you alone in the bedroom to change. Before you undress, you bring the sleeves of the shirt to your nose and inhale deeply, memorizing his scent. You almost want to keep this shirt as proof that this happened. That Kishibe is real.

Back in your black dress, you sit at the edge of the bed, waiting for his return. When he walks in, he points at the sash and tiara next to you on the bed. “You’re not going to wear that?”

Shrugging, you respond, “It’s no longer my birthday, so it feels silly wearing it. Just toss it.”

You check your phone, estimating the time of arrival for the ride you requested. Any minute now, they’ll be here, ending your short-lived tryst. He offers to drop you off, but you refuse, not bothering to explain that doing that will result in you dragging him into your own apartment and keeping him a willing hostage for another few hours. It’ll only make it more difficult to not get attached. He doesn’t question it, probably understanding this himself.

The ping from the app chimes through your phone. You stand up, smiling at him, swinging your purse over your shoulder. “That’s my ride.”

He walks you to the door, waiting for you to strap on your heels. Once they’re on, you smile. “I guess this is it. Thank you for a fun night.”

“Thank you too. This was fun.” It could be wishful thinking, but you hear a waver in his voice. Is he a little bit sad too?

You face the door, ready to turn the knob, when you feel his grip on your wrist. He spins you towards him, kissing you feverishly, his hand caressing your cheek, the other behind your neck. Yearning for one more moment of intimacy with you. He breaks away, resting his forehead against yours, eyes shut as he says goodbye with one last whisper of your name. You avoid his gaze as you exit, walking out of his life.

It’s better this way.

#kishibe #kishibe csm #chainsaw man #kishibe smut #kishibe x reader #kishibe x you #kishibe x y/n #chainsaw man smut #csm smut #csm kishibe #kishibe brainrot #chainsaw man kishibe #dirty thirty

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plum-pitt · 10 months ago

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LU Age headcanons:

Heyo! Been a while since i rambled about my favorite silly elf boys but this just came on the brain so I thought i’d talk about it! But as a twist, i’m conceptualizing their ages through the lens of a persons development in modern society.

(Disclaimer, this is based purely on appearance and vibes, with just a little input from canon. Also sorry sky fans looking at that mf genuinely scares me because i feel like he could be anywhere from 17 to 25 or even older than time itself and i still wouldn’t know. that fucker just can’t register in my brain.)

Wind: This is fucking textbook 14 year old boy. You can’t tell me he doesn’t still jump up to smack the top of every doorframe he walks through, and pull up clothed head to toe in obnoxious highlighter yellow athletic wear every day.

Four: He’s definitely a 16 year old but like- the kind of 16 year old that’s the only one in the group who has a car, if that makes any sense. Like he IS squad soccer mom.

Hyrule: He’s 17, but that very specific brand where he’s got everyone in his life getting on his ass to figure out what he wants to do after highschool, and probably won’t even figure out if he wants to go to college or not until like a week before graduation.

Wild: This here a 19 year old, he’s moved out already, leaving his high pressure home life behind to live happily somewhere far away with his gf, exploring a whole new world of possibilities free of expectations, and probably also his gender identity.

Legend: This fucker is that one 20 year old you know that is already so burnt out and jaded by the idea of adulthood you’d think he’s getting close to retirement age. But nah he’s just THAT over it.

Warriors: Frat guy who just turned 21 and slowly having the dawning realization that drinking is a lot less fun when it’s legal for him to do it.

Twilight: This man 22 and has his whole fuckin life together, went straight into work after highschool and is probably the only guy in his friend group with a stable income. Really just took to adulthood like a fish to the river. Definitely has nieces and nephews he spoils and brags to his friends about all the time like they’re actually his kids.

Time: Haha look at this fuckin mortgage payer. Ok so i can’t guess his actual mental age, but physically he looks like a guy in his early 40s, fresh outta his midlife crisis, looking confident and very dilfy, despite the fact that he’s woefully childless. Don’t ask me how i arrived at this conclusion or why it matters but he definitely collects antique furniture with his wife.

#lu wild #lu warriors #lu time #lu hyrule #lu four #lu legend #lu wind #lu twilight #linked universe #lu headcanons #thoughts from the pit

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anncanta · 1 month ago

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Savior

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Dracula, Zoe Van Helsing, Agatha Van Helsing

Relationship: Dracula/Zoe Van Helsing, Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rating: Mature

@alma37 @hopipollahorror @moremoveslessannouncements-blog

Read on AO3

Or read below

‘Doctor Helsing.’

‘You're not surprised.’

‘Why would I be?’

Dracula stepped aside, let her pass, and Zoe entered.

‘Are you bored being alone?’

‘Rather, I indulge in thoughts.’

Zoe took a few steps, looking around.

‘A tall building, stands alone, no churches nearby’ She turned to him. ‘You're easy to find.’

‘I'm not hiding.’

She nodded.

It had been two weeks since they had last met. Zoe chuckled to herself. She had never believed in the power of ‘special’ meetings, turning points, or fateful events. Scientists believe in cause and effect. And yet it was after Dracula had appeared, the same evening he had left Harker's Center. She had written her resignation letter – and, despite Kate's protests, said goodbye without looking back.

Was Dracula the reason she had quit? Was it bitterness and irritation, a vague sense of being used, or simply that she was fed up with... everything?

Zoe glanced at Dracula. She wished she had that kind of nonchalance, even if it was feigned. Her eyes slid over his slightly disheveled hair, his shirt, casually unbuttoned and apparently buttoned again, his rumpled, elegant trousers. He had clearly just arrived.

Dracula bowed his head.

‘You don't look like the type to visit at night.’

Zoe smiled and turned away. She walked around the long table, approaching the penthouse window.

‘You said it yourself. Childless, loveless, friendless, keeping myself apart from this world, I'm empty, alone.’ She turned. ‘But that also means I can do what I want.’

Dracula walked up to her.

‘You came here.’

Zoe shrugged.

‘I wanted to have some fun.’

They looked at each other for a minute.

‘Is that what I think?’ Dracula asked.

Zoe shrugged again.

‘I couldn't find anyone better.’

Dracula looked at her with admiration.

‘Zoe Helsing, did you choose me thinking any hole's a goal?’

She didn't have time to answer. Finding herself lifted and pressed against the window glass, Zoe thought for a moment that it would all be over. But the man's palm under her T-shirt had other plans. Running over her sensitive skin, it moved up, stopping between her breasts. Covering the left one, it froze, as if listening to her heart. The fingers grabbed the nipple, squeezing almost to the point of pain.

Zoe held her breath.

‘Doctor Helsing,’ Dracula said, looking up at her. ‘This is going to be a long night.’

With these words, he lifted her T-shirt with his other hand and pressed his lips to her right breast.

Zoe arched her back and closed her eyes. For a moment, she imagined what she looked like – disheveled, open, spread out before him. Understandable, finally visible. For some reason, this was important.

She wanted to go further. Deeper, where those hands and lips would extract everything she was afraid to admit to herself.

Further, harder, further. No need to take off her jeans. She barely understood whether she was speaking to herself or out loud. One of his palms under her shoulder blades, the other on her waist, down, down. Tight and damp, there, in the core, and not enough... yes, more. No... tenderness... Let me splash it out... like this.

She woke up when she realized that she was lying on the table, and her bare buttocks were cool on the smooth marble. Opening her eyes, she looked at Dracula. He looked as crazy as she did. Just as blind. Drunk. Disheveled. Jacket and shirt untouched, trousers unbuttoned and lowered. Zoe raised an eyebrow.

‘Maybe we should move to the bed?’

Dracula shook his head.

‘Here.’

She grinned and wrapped her legs around his waist.

This time she knew for sure that she wasn't speaking – he was simply doing what she wanted. Because he could hear her heartbeat, feel her blood, feel the same. Don't stand on ceremony with me, act like I don't matter, like it's not me, like it's just you and what you want. Like I'm here for you...

‘...Yes!’

When her last screams died down, Zoe felt his hand on her cheek. She smiled a tired smile – she didn't even have the strength to open her eyes. For several long minutes, she just lay there, listening to her breathing, and then she felt Dracula carefully lifting her and carrying her somewhere. Through the fog that filled her mind, she heard his footsteps, then the door creaked, and Zoe sank onto the bed.

She thought it was funny that he was pulling her clothes off – now. She laughed, stood up, tried to help him, but her hands wouldn't obey. Her body was still shaking slightly. Dracula stopped her and, leaving her naked at last, covered her with a blanket.

‘Sleep, Zoe Van Helsing,’ he said and left.

***

The penthouse kitchen adjoined the living room, a nook with a high-tech worktop and sink.

Dracula stood with his back to her, fiddling with some nickel-plated designer gadget, humming softly to himself. The kitchen smelled of coffee.

‘It would be foolish to lose sight of the head of the center created to capture you,’ Zoe said, pulling her housecoat tighter around her chest.

‘You mean the one who managed to keep me in this center for about three hours?’ Dracula asked, turning around. He was holding a cup of freshly brewed coffee. ‘Good morning, Dr. Helsing,’ he added, handing her the cup.

‘Good morning.’ Zoe took the cup and made a sip. The coffee was delicious.

‘How did you sleep?’

Zoe shrugged vaguely. She was in no mood for small talk. The evening's ardor had passed, but it left no shame or awkwardness behind. She took another sip from her cup.

‘I didn't know you could…’ she said, pointing to the cup. ‘Oh, of course. The Turks.’

‘The Turks?’ Dracula frowned. ‘Oh. No, no, no. I didn't learn how to make coffee from the Turks. Believe me, the Italians left them behind long ago.’

Zoe nodded. They spent a few minutes in silence. Zoe drank coffee, Dracula opened the fridge and took out a dark red transparent bag.

‘What do you want, Dracula?’ Zoe asked, watching him open the bag and fill a glass with blood.

‘I want to take you from behind, and the sooner the better,’ Dracula said. He leaned over and threw the empty bag into the trash can.

Zoe finished her coffee in one gulp and put the cup on the table.

‘But that's not why you came.’ Dracula licked his lips and pushed the glass away. He walked around the narrow kitchen table and stood in front of her. ‘We had a great time, but that's not why you came.’

‘How do you know?’

Instead of answering, Dracula turned and left. He returned a few minutes later with Zoe's bag in his hands.

‘Get it,’ he said, handing her the bag.

The vial with the word ‘Dracula’ written on it was at the very bottom, in the back pocket.

‘You wanted to know what I meant when I said about the secret of the blood.’

Zoe looked up from the vial in her hand, startled.

‘I won't drink it.’

‘Do you think it's a trap?’

Zoe was silent. She looked at the vial again. The dark red blood inside looked completely harmless.

Why was it so hard?

Zoe quickly uncorked the vial, brought it to her lips, and drained it to the bottom.

…Zoe stood in the dungeon. In the dimly lit room, she noticed two tables: a stone one by the wall and a wooden one in the center. Both tables were covered with stacks of books, with bottles of some kind of medicine wedged between them. Zoe recognized a pickled bat and a frog.

Leaning over so as not to hit her head on the low stone arch, Zoe walked forward. A man in dark trousers and a white shirt stood in the middle of the room with his back to her. Dracula. A woman in a nun's robe froze in front of him.

Suddenly the woman looked away from Dracula and looked straight at Zoe.

It was like looking into a mirror. Strange, unfamiliar. Alive. Zoe had seen these features many times, she knew them. As if possessed by the same thought, the woman opened her eyes wide.

Feeling sick, Zoe grabbed her head and slowly sank to the floor.

***

‘I saw her,’ she was shaking. Dracula was sitting next to her and silently looking at her. ‘I saw Agatha Van Helsing,’ Zoe raised her hand to her face and pushed her hair off her forehead. She threw the empty test tube away with irritation. ‘I saw her, Dracula.’

She still felt sick. The room was swimming before her eyes.

Reaching out for Dracula, Zoe leaned on his arm and stood up from the sofa they were sitting on, but immediately sank back down.

‘What was that?’ Zoe asked.

Something inside her was wrong. As if it had split in two, opened up, revealing something hidden, new, like in those pictures where the images are visible only in defocus. And at the same time, it felt as if she had finally found something important.

‘Dracula, what the hell –’

‘You'll be part of me. You will travel to a new world in my veins.’

Now she knew what he meant. More than that, she remembered. And that could only mean one thing.

‘You bastard,’ Zoe said quietly. ‘You brought her with you. Like on a flash drive. And now you've downloaded her into me.’

Dracula smiled.

‘It's not that simple. But now we can talk about it.’

He stood up from the couch and looked over his shoulder.

‘Coffee?’

***

‘Dracula,’ Zoe said, putting down her almost empty cup. ‘I don't believe in reincarnation. Maybe blood is lives, maybe it's stories, like Agatha said, like you always say. But I'm not her.’

Zoe looked at Dracula almost with regret.

‘Agatha is dead.’

‘What is death?’ Dracula grinned.

‘I'm sorry?’

Dracula picked up the glass he was holding.

‘Young man, twenty-six or twenty-eight, tall, thin, blond. Graduated with honors from college, majored in finance. Dropped out in his second year, made a career as a jazz musician in the Bronx. Recently returned, plays in an orchestra. Married, two kids. Happy.’

He ran his finger along the rim of the glass. He looked at Zoe.

‘I know all that about him,’ he said, in response to her confused look. ‘What I don't know is whether he's alive or not.’

‘Dracula –’

‘Agatha is dead, that's a fact,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘What I'm trying to explain to you…’ Dracula fell silent. ‘That DNA and time…’

‘Wait,’ Zoe said suddenly.

She stood up.

‘If it's as you say... If you're convinced she's dead. Then why…’ She paused. ‘That night in Whitby... You couldn't possibly believe…’

‘I didn't.’

Zoe nodded. The sudden realization struck her as so obvious.

‘You slept at the bottom of the sea for a hundred years. Your box may have drifted away. In fact, you came up in a completely random place. What were the chances that she would be waiting for you there?’

Dracula smiled.

‘Helsings.’ He became serious. ‘That's what made me wary. Even if Agatha had become a vampire, we don't have the gift of foresight. She wouldn't have been able to find me.’

Zoe thought about it.

‘So it was a trap.’

‘Exactly.’

She paused, considering what she had heard.

‘DNA,’ Dracula said.

She shuddered and stared at him.

‘After I left your center,’ Dracula smiled, ‘I dropped in for a quick visit to St. Bartholomew's. They have an institute for genetic research. Renfield told me about it.’

Zoe rubbed her forehead tiredly.

‘All the experts are alive.’

She snorted incredulously.

‘And even the service staff.’

Dracula paused.

‘What bothered me,’ he said finally, ‘was that you were so much like her and that I could learn so little about you.’

Zoe sat down at the table and crossed her arms.

‘What you call DNA,’ Dracula said slowly. ‘It's not exactly a data bank or a specific record. Rather, I would say it's like a single thread on which individual lives are strung, like beads.’

He looked at Zoe.

‘From the point of view of that thread, time doesn't exist. It's you and me, Jonathan, Sokolov, and Agatha, all together. Like in my blood. That context is unchangeable, independent of historical situations and physical bodies. Blood is the perfect material, it contains information about who we are, who we were, and who we can be.’

Zoe looked at him in amazement.

‘All it needs is a vessel.’

For the second time that day, the room spun around her. Zoe gripped the table with white knuckles.

A few long seconds passed before she heard Dracula's worried voice through the roaring in her ears. Zoe looked up.

‘I didn't speak until I was five,’ she whispered. ‘Power outage... my mother went into labor late at night, during a snowstorm. They couldn't revive me right away. The doctors said I was lucky.’ She closed and opened her eyes.

It needed a vessel.

‘I'm just a vessel. I was born... empty.’

All her life she had been haunted by this strange feeling – as if she were a black-and-white photograph, a matrix, a negative. Zoe was smart and very strong. Hard-working, inquisitive, and stubborn. But for as long as she could remember, she couldn't find what made her different from others. In her teens, this especially tormented her. All her peers rebelled, tried to stand out. And she was…

She had no special hobbies, no preferences. She even started painting her nails black because that's what her friends did.

Loveless, childless, friendless. You keep yourself apart.

‘Zoe!’

Dracula's voice barely broke through the panic that had gripped her in a vice.

‘That's not what I meant,’ he spoke very softly. He stood up and came over. ‘Life is not a constructor, not glue, not a form. It does not seek emptiness. But sometimes,’ he chose his words, ‘it is difficult to say where someone's Self begins and ends.’

Suddenly he leaned over and took Zoe's face in his hands.

‘Why do you think that you missed Agatha, and not Agatha missed you?’

…

‘What troubles you, my child?’

Agatha raised her head, without unclasping her hands, clasped in prayer.

‘I have sinned, Mother. I have been carried away by the dark forces. I cannot be trusted.’

Mother Superior closed the door behind her and crossed the room. She paused at the table, littered with papers. She snorted, glancing at the jar with the pickled frog. In a few steps, she was next to Agatha and sat down at the table in front of her.

‘The dark forces are part of nature, – perhaps part of our own nature,’ she said. ‘It is natural for us to want to know this world. And to know ourselves.’

‘I have gone beyond knowledge,’ said Agatha. ‘Much further. I was proud and unrestrained. I... went to extremes. I wanted to find Him too much.’

‘You were looking for our Lord,’ there was understanding in the Mother Superior's voice.

Agatha shook her head.

‘I've gone too far. I've lost my way.’

‘Our Lord is the good shepherd. ‘Which one of you, having a hundred sheep and losing one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one that is lost until he finds it?’* Mother Superior quoted. She reached out and stroked Agatha's clasped hands. ‘Do not lose faith, child.’

Agatha looked at the plump fingers clutching hers for a moment, then took her hands away and stood up.

‘There's a dead man in the monastery, Mother Superior,’ she said. ‘A creature of the night. The fishermen brought him. Because they know I understand such things. They know I'm interested in them. Sometimes lost sheep die in the mountains,’ she said bitterly. ‘And there's nothing you can do about it.’

The memory ended as abruptly as it had come.

‘Zoe, can you hear me?’

Agatha stared at Dracula, who was sitting next to her. He was holding her by the shoulders and looking into her eyes with concern.

The feeling of inner duality grew stronger. She was Zoe. She was Agatha. The nun. The woman who ran the Harker Center. The passenger of the Demeter. The scientist who was searching for Dracula. The nun. The vampire expert and the specialist in the field of dark forces.

‘It's a good thing we slept together,’ Agatha said absently.

They were sitting in the living room again. A spring breeze blew through the half-open doors onto the terrace.

‘Delightful,’ Dracula looked closer. ‘Are you… are you okay?’

‘It was long overdue,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘I don't know what I was waiting for.’

‘Zoe!’ Dracula barked.

‘What's wrong?’

‘What's happening to you?’

‘What you wanted,’ Agatha was surprised. ‘I'm back. I was Zoe Van Helsing. A wonderful girl. It's strange.’ Agatha listened to herself. ‘She is still me. It is hard to explain. But now I understand all this stuff about DNA and genes –’

‘Zoe,’ Dracula called her.

She fell silent.

Dracula suddenly smiled.

‘You were always only yourself. Don't doubt it.’

Agatha chuckled.

‘Expert opinion.’ She suddenly became serious. ‘Now I understand not only about DNA. How did Zoe find you? Why, of all the staff, was she sent to ‘meet’ you on the shore? Who was really looking for you?’

‘Welcome back,’ Dracula grinned. And added in response to her irritated look: ‘I am sure that you, as well as I, understand that all these questions come down to one thing.’ He looked at Agatha. ‘Who finances the Harker Center?’

***

‘I used that money for good.’

‘Agatha, I'm not going to judge you,’ said Dracula. ‘God knows, I'm the last one who would. But we need to know’ he paused ‘who arranged this whole fucking rock concert.’

‘Language,’ said Agatha tiredly.

Dracula snorted.

‘Or you'll deprive me of my treat?’

‘Dog-eat-dog world.’

She closed her eyes.

‘You have to understand,’ she began, ‘things were going terribly at the Harker Center. Zoe… I applied to a bunch of organizations, wrote grants. They all turned me down. Mina's fund was running low, and I didn't know… It didn't seem fair to just close… The Center was their life's work,’ she finished quietly. ‘How could I?’

‘What did they offer you?’

‘Provision. Full funding for all research.’

‘And what in return?’

Agatha was silent.

‘Their representative said we might be asked to go back to a few old projects,’ she finally said.

‘Look for Demeter, for example.’

She nodded.

Dracula thought for a long time.

‘Something doesn't add up here.’ He stood up. He said to Agatha, who was looking at him in surprise: ‘In these strange times, people don't believe in vampires. Stupid movies and books don't count. The Center could have been an excellent cover for illegal experiments, drug production, biological weapons. But they,’ Dracula looked at Agatha, ‘remembered an old fairy tale and brought it to light. Besides, how did they know the ship's route? You said that a sailor and a cook were saved. They could tell this story for the rest of their lives, but they hardly managed to write it down. There must be someone else.’

He walked back and forth across the room.

‘Who were you talking to?’

‘What do you mean –’

‘You must have made arrangements with someone,’ Dracula said impatiently. ‘Who was it?’

Agatha frowned.

‘I don't know. Some clerk. Middle-aged, short. Small eyes, round cheeks. Spoke with a German accent. Stuttered, I think… Dracula?’

Dracula froze. Turned slowly.

‘A German accent, are you sure?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said cautiously.

Dracula approached her.

‘One learns to keep a tidy slaughterhouse,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Of course, he knew where to find me.’

***

‘How could you turn a sailor?’ Agatha screamed.

‘Most of my victims die!’ Dracula screamed back. ‘And those who don't die are no better than zombies. You've seen them,’ he said, suddenly calm.

He sat down on the sofa and closed his eyes.

‘No, I haven't,’ Agatha said.

‘Then you've seen others,’ Dracula responded. ‘In Budapest, in the cemetery. They're all the same.’ He shook his head. ‘That's why Jonathan was so important. He was a treasure.’ Dracula paused. ‘And he hated me.’

‘Okay,’ said Agatha. ‘Okay. Let's say that man –’

‘Portman.’

‘Let's say Portman became a vampire and retained his personality and will. Let's say he learned to choose his victims. That was a hundred years ago. Why would he need you?’

Dracula smiled, and there was no trace of his usual mocking amusement in that smile. He stood up slowly and walked to the door to the terrace. He stopped, looking at the skyscrapers against the blue of the night.

‘You weren't listening?’ he said. ‘Jonathan hated me.’

‘What does Jonathan have to do with it?!’

Dracula turned around, and Agatha saw an expression on his face that she hadn't expected to see at all. An expression of devastation and – indecision. She stood up and walked over to him.

‘Portman is unimportant,’ said Agatha. ‘We need to find out who he works for.’

‘You don't understand,’ said Dracula. ‘You really don't understand, do you?’

They froze facing each other, and for a moment Agatha imagined that she was naked, as if the previous evening, when she came to him, he had taken everything off her, and now she was standing before him, dressed only in silence and the scents of a spring night.

This was long overdue... Zoe was experienced, and Agatha was a virgin, and when, obeying her desire, he filled her to the brim, Agatha understood why she had hesitated, could not, did not want to do it – before. Because never before had she been ready to accept someone with all of herself, entirely. And even more so – she hadn't been ready that it would be so wonderful.

‘What don't I understand?’ Agatha said, looking him in the eye.

And then he leaned over and did what Agatha had been secretly waiting for all this time.

The sea roared steadily and quietly. The creaking of the wheel echoed the distant scolding of seagulls. Above them shone the sky, full of bright stars.

Lowering her head, Agatha saw the wooden flooring and in the corner of the deck – the wreckage of a broken barrel. The lights of Whitby flickered over Dracula's shoulder.

‘Remember,’ said Dracula.

…She was not in pain. She was not lonely or afraid. She did what she had to do, without hesitation and without regret. Such was the price of her knowledge and her mistakes. Agatha was calm. Only the thought of what would happen… later tormented her terribly.

Looking at him, she inhaled sharply, convulsively, as if a noose had once again caught her neck.

‘You see,’ said Dracula. ‘Now you understand.’

The rumbling of the sea and the deck of the Demeter disappeared, leaving only Dracula's embrace and the trembling of his lips on her neck.

‘I thought you left me to die,’ Agatha said, watching him pull away. ‘Left me to drown because I lied to you and because I didn't become a vampire.’

‘Every vampire knows who turned them,’ Dracula said. ‘The one who condemned them to this… existence between earth and sky, where daylight is your enemy and blood is your comfort, but only until you're hungry again, and where you're not welcome anywhere. Every vampire remembers who took their death from them.’

Agatha buried her face in his chest.

‘I couldn't let this happen to you,’ Dracula whispered, burying his hand in her hair.

Agatha smiled weakly.

‘But you just drank Portman and threw him overboard. He managed to survive and decided to take revenge.’

‘Yes. That's why me. That's why you.’

The resignation in his voice struck Agatha.

‘He didn't succeed,’ she said, raising her head and looking at Dracula. ‘He didn't catch you.’

‘Did he?’

Turning to the door to the terrace, Agatha stared at the skyscraper opposite Dracula's house for a moment. She absentmindedly rubbed the wound on her neck.

‘You bit me.’ She turned to Dracula.

‘At least you noticed this time.’

Agatha came closer.

‘The last time you tried to drink my blood, you poisoned yourself. What's different now?’ She frowned. ‘And if Portman was planning on using me to find you and maybe trap you, how could he be sure it would work?’

Dracula did not answer.

‘He could have thought up a thousand plans,’ said Agatha. ‘But how could he be sure that by the time you showed up, I would not be dead? Oh, no,’ she moaned, seeing the innocent expression on Dracula's face. ‘You bloody dirty, vile, lying –’

‘Language.’

‘Damn you!’

Dracula raised his hands.

I didn't deceive you. At least not completely,’ he admitted. ‘In that woman's house, when I bit you, I saw that you thought you were sick. But that didn't make sense. Your blood had no signs of any illness.’

‘And you dared –’

‘I realized that in front of me was a piece of cheese,’ Dracula interrupted her. ‘A mousetrap, then. No wonder. I'm used to it. What I didn’t expect was that you were not on their side.’

‘Otherwise, why would they lie to me?’ Agatha said slowly.

He nodded.

‘That explains why he was so sure he could do it. And they tricked you to tie you down. To paralyze you with fear of illness and imminent death. When did you get the news?..’

‘Shortly before we raised the Demeter. Maybe before a week. He'd been planning this for years,’ Agatha whispered.

‘I'm glad he had a good time.’

Dracula closed the door to the terrace and moved into the room.

‘You can’t leave,’ he said suddenly when they had settled back on the living room sofa.

‘What?’ Agatha asked in surprise.

‘Portman used you as bait,’ Dracula replied. ‘For the obvious reason, I'm harder to get to – ask Renfield. But then you missed me.’ He paused. ‘I suspect he'll want to… punish you.’

‘Damn you all,’ Agatha cursed. ‘What should I do?’

‘Oh, if only I could order you,’ Dracula said dreamily; his eyes glittered.

‘Concentrate.’

‘I'll contact Renfield,’ Dracula smiled. ‘Let him find Portman first. Let's try to talk.’ Dracula took out his phone and dialed a number. ‘Portman doesn't know you're back, so you're just a doll to him. I order you to lie in the box and wait.’

He reached up and kissed her forehead.

Agatha opened her mouth to speak, but Dracula pulled back and raised his hand. Renfield's voice crackled on the other end of the line.

‘And what will I do in your enchanted castle?’ Agatha asked when Dracula hung up.

‘Like all princesses,’ he said, ‘wait for news and be attacked by a monster.’

He grinned and threw the phone aside.

***

‘So my blood won't kill you?’

‘So it won't.’

‘What a pity.’

Getting out of bed, Agatha began to dress. ‘I'll go downstairs,’ she threw over her shoulder to the chuckling Dracula. ‘I need tea. Sandwiches... And a break!’ she snorted, dodging the fingers sliding up her spine.

‘The losing side.’

‘One must never rush a nun,’ Agatha grinned and left. A deafening laugh followed her.

In the kitchen, she made herself a large cup of tea. Looking into the fridge, she cast a critical eye over the bags of blood, closed it, and pulled a plate of half-dried crackers from the table towards her.

Agatha drank tea and absentmindedly tapped her hand on the table. Pictures of her reality overlapped one another. The evening before yesterday, yesterday, night, morning, day. Zoe Van Helsing's old blouse. Agatha's nun's dress.

Zoe Van Helsing grew up in the English countryside. Many years ago, her father, who was fond of all sorts of strange things, took her to a fair. There was a pavilion there, stylized at the beginning of the twentieth century. ‘Incredible Cinematography,’ said the gaudy sign above the entrance.

Inside, in addition to many old films, they were showing an attraction – a projector in which images from different slides were scrolled together. On the white big screen, African elephants roamed English parks, elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies swirled in underground caves with rock frescoes on the walls, and the giant chandelier of the London Opera illuminated the forest landscape.

She felt something similar now.

Agatha remembered her childhood in the Amsterdam suburbs. Her mother's lullaby in German – her father was Dutch, married late. The young German's parents came from Hanover. Angus Van Helsing took her in penniless. He adored her.

She remembered herself in a house in west London – adjusting a stepladder to a bookcase, balancing on the top step to get an encyclopedia of the animals and plants that inhabit England.

She remembered Uncle Gregorius and Aunt Julia, their stories about the fish market in the center of Amsterdam, and about her Great-grandmother Agatha, who went to a monastery before they were born.

The event projector twirled and twirled the slides, and like the images on the umbrella of Ole Lukøje, they revolved above her.

Ole Lukøje was Zoe's favorite fairy tale. As a child, she had reread it hundreds of times.

She remembered very well that there were two of them. A colored Ole Lukøje, with bright pictures on the umbrella, and a black one – on a horse and with two fairy tales, a happy one and a scary one.

Which one Ole Lukøje is for her, Agatha thought, when the doorbell rang. She put down her cup and, looking into the living room and seeing that Dracula was nowhere to be found, went to open it.

‘You are early, Mr. Renfield,’ Agatha said, throwing open the door, and choked on the stinging drizzle that splashed into her face.

The smells and sounds of the Demeter surrounded her again. The sea and flames raged around her, and there was someone else – on the shore, in the distance, and for some reason, Agatha could see and hear him. He stood and watched the ship burn, the fire die out, and the blackened hulk sink into the water.

‘Ich komme wieder,’** said the stranger. He turned and walked away.

***

‘He's nowhere to be found.’

‘It can't be. Keep looking.’

‘I'm trying, Dark Lord.’

Renfield leaned over his laptop, his face grey.

‘They're well hidden.’

‘I don't care.’

Dracula stood up from the table and walked around to Renfield.

‘Find him, or I'll tear you to pieces.’

Renfield's face went white, but there was no fear on it, only stubbornness.

‘The Harker Center's trail leads to Argentina,’ he said after a pause. ‘Most of the transactions over the last three months came from there.’

‘I don't care about the transactions,’ Dracula said. ‘I want to know where Portman is.’

He barely had time to finish speaking when his smartphone on the table came to life. Dracula reached for the phone, opened the message. He stared at the screen for a minute, then picked up his jacket from the chair and walked to the door.

‘Dark Lord!’ Renfield called out to him.

Dracula turned around.

Renfield bit his lips.

‘Dark Lord... Dracula... Don't rush. Wait for backup.’

Dracula shook his head.

‘It says I must be alone.’

The door slammed behind him.

***

Agatha woke up in a room that looked like a cell or a hospital ward. The walls were mirrored, and it was impossible to see anything behind them. As soon as Agatha got up from the bed she was sitting on, the narrow cot folded up like a book and disappeared into the hatch in the floor with a quiet hiss.

If they were watching, she couldn't show fear. However, Agatha didn't feel fear. More like curiosity and anger at herself. How could she have been so careless?

The last thought made her smile. She was no better at being an investigator than a nun. Agatha closed her eyes and tried to remember how she ended up here. But the memory felt... crumpled and sticky, like raw dough, it had gathered into one uneven lump.

The problem was that Agatha still felt uncomfortable as if she hadn't fully returned. She looked around. Zoe Van Helsing knew this place – this room, the mechanics, and the strange walls – but Agatha's anxiety prevented her from fitting the familiar pieces together.

All Agatha could think of was that she was just a living bait, toyed with before being released onto the prey.

Something inside Agatha twitched at the thought. She sucked in a sharp breath, and a new memory crashed on her.

…

‘I fainted? My God, what a shame!’

‘To be fair, anyone would have fainted.’

Agatha looked up. Dracula was standing next to her, looming over the narrow bunk she was sitting on. She winced.

‘Move away. Unless you want me to faint again.’

‘You are no longer in danger of this.’ He smiled.

The floor beneath her feet swayed rhythmically. So he took her to the ship.

‘What if I get seasick?’

‘It would have manifested itself by now.’

Agatha stood up.

‘Why didn't you eat me right there?’

‘I don't know.’ He told the truth. She was sure of it – his voice sounded too surprised. As if he were asking himself the same question. ‘Maybe I…’ he grinned, ‘maybe I thought Jonathan wouldn't approve. All these people around. Killed. Torn apart, desecrated.’

‘It's my fault what happened to them,’ Agatha said.

‘I killed them.’

‘I let the beast in.’

Agatha bit her lip. Standing right in front of her, in Jonathan's bloody white shirt, his fangs bared, he seemed more terrifying than he had been completely naked at the monastery gates. As if the humanity stolen from another had made him more of a predator. He stood in front of her, and Agatha barely heard what he was saying to her. She saw only his face and only his fangs, and then everything went dark. How shameful.

She shuddered when she heard him calling her.

‘I deserve everything you can do.’ She raised her head and looked him in the eyes. ‘You took me on the ship, so you're going to –’

She didn't have time to finish. Nor did she have time to retreat, escaping the embrace Dracula had taken her into.

A new expression appeared on his face. Agatha caught his greedy gaze, cast at her skinny body. This strengthened her suspicions.

‘If you expect me to beg you –’

‘Agatha,’ Dracula interrupted her. ‘I'm sorry I frightened you.’

It seemed that these words surprised him. They were standing in the middle of the cabin... embracing, and it was so strange. Agatha bowed her head and put her hand on his shoulder.

‘How will it be?’ she blurted out.

The pause lasted a long time.

‘As you wish,’ Dracula answered.

‘I don't…’ she fell silent, licking her lips. ‘I only wanted to save this poor girl. I…’

He stood, his arms around Agatha, – and looked at her.

‘It will be as you wish,’ he said. ‘I will be there. And you will be there.’

Something sharp, bright boiled in Agatha's blood. Responding to the touch of his palm on her exposed neck.

She raised her hand and pulled the edge of her dress.

‘Come, boy. Suckle.’

***

Dracula pushed the door and walked through the corridor, illuminated in green. At this late hour, there was not a soul in the above-ground part of the complex. At first glance, the bunker was also deserted. The round lamps on the walls were out, the dim light of those under the ceiling was reflected in the edges of the glass chamber, inside which there was complete darkness. Dracula stopped.

‘You asked me out on a date. I thought it was dinner.’

No one answered him. Dracula moved on.

‘So many years have passed,’ he said, ‘I am impressed. I did not expect this from you.’

‘You thought I was an idiot.’

The voice echoed in the almost empty hall. Dracula turned around.

‘I think everyone is. Experience of life among people teaches that most of them are stupid and stubborn. That is why vampires from them turn out wild and useless.’ He took a few steps forward. ‘But you turned out to be different.’

‘I had to learn.’ A short man in a dark suit stepped away from the opposite wall. ‘If I wanted to survive.’

‘You're dead,’ Dracula smiled.

The man shrugged.

‘You get used to it.’

‘Really?’

‘You said it y-yourself, ‘You are what you eat.’

Dracula paused, looking at him.

‘I see that you have mastered the art of... good hunting,’ he said with exaggerated nonchalance. ‘However, I do not understand why you need such secrecy.’ He waved his hand around the room. ‘All this ceremony. A hundred and twenty years have passed. Morals are different now. You could have simply called me.’

Portman grinned slightly.

‘Perhaps I am old-fashioned. Or perhaps I have a g-g-good memory,’ he added.

Dracula was silent.

‘Maybe I remember being attacked on d-deck, having my throat ripped out and thrown out like a piece of shit,’ Portman grinned. ‘The water was cold. You know, that's the first thing I felt when I woke up. Cold, icy water. It was everywhere, filling me. It took me a while to realize that it wasn't cold outside, that the cold was inside.’

He fell silent.

‘I tried to drive away this cold for weeks. Food saved me. I ate. I ate everything, but as soon as I warmed up, the cold would start eating me up again. I ran from it, but the cold always caught up with me. I killed, killed, killed. I ate again, and I felt sick.’

‘But it didn't get any warmer.’

‘But I got smarter.’

Portman came closer to Dracula.

‘It's worst at night. You're f-free. Do what you want. You can hunt, eat, remember. The time when you weren't Bavarian bacon. When you were worth something. When it was warm.’

‘Portman –’ Dracula began.

‘I had a bride!’ Portman screamed. ‘Her name was Brigitte!’ His voice rang out and broke. ‘You turned me into a monster,’ he said; a foxy anger flashed across his puffy face. But it froze immediately, like a mask. ‘It was not easy to f-find the place where the Demeter sank,’ he said. ‘It took me years to find a way to raise your box from the bottom. But I was in no hurry.

Portman licked his lips. His face was wet, his eyes were shining. He walked along the wall, stopped. Dracula watched him without moving.

‘I have imagined this moment for so many years... I have dreamed of it for so long that I was almost disappointed when it came. But you gave me a gift,’ Portman said quietly. ‘I was there, on the shore.’

Dracula raised his eyebrows.

‘You were gorgeous when you came out of the water. Wet hair, shirt stuck to your body, oh, pure sex. I wanted to jump out and merge with you in an embrace. But then I saw the way she looked at you.’

Portman smiled happily.

‘And then I knew what I had to do.’

His smile was like a spill of black oil. Dracula ran his hand over his face.

‘Where is Agatha?’

‘Oh, are you changing the subject? Are you scared?’

‘Portman. Where is she?’

‘Still, he softened with time,’ grinning, Portman took a couple more steps. He stopped behind the glass triangle. ‘I can't understand why you call her by that name,’ he looked back. ‘Is this her pet name? Well, it doesn't matter. I don't care what you two play. Today I'm playing.’

The light flashed in the cell.

Agatha was sitting on the floor inside it. When the lamp lit above her head, she shuddered and hugged herself. Squinting in the bright light, she slowly rose.

‘You came for her,’ said Portman.

Dracula was silent.

‘So go and get her.’

The silence that followed was almost absolute.

Still a little confused, Agatha walked over to one of the glass walls. She watched as Dracula raised his head and looked at the hatch in the ceiling. He glanced in the direction of the control panel that Zoe used to control the camera.

Portman, who had been watching him, smirked and reached into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out something that looked like a magnetic car key and weighed it in his palm.

‘Modern technology is so convenient,’ he purred. ‘I can't get enough of it. Oh, sorry. Hands on top of the blanket.’ He raised his hand with the key and twirled it above his head. ‘Do you want to c-come with me?’

Dracula turned away from him. He walked up to the wall of the cell and placed his palm on the glass.

‘Don't do this,’ Agatha said.

‘I'm to blame for everything that happened,’ Dracula said. ‘For the sinking of the Demeter, for the death of your sisters.’ He turned halfway around. ‘I'm to blame for the fact that this madman lived for decades, turning into me.’

Agatha was silent.

‘Didn't I deserve this?’ Dracula said.

He sank down, crouching in front of the cell, and pressed his forehead to the glass.

‘Don't do it,’ Agatha said barely audibly.

Dracula raised his head.

‘The rules of the beast,’ he said, looking at her. ‘The beast obeys, even if it doesn't understand their meaning.’

Agatha held back her tears.

‘Please help me,’ Dracula asked.

It took forever for Agatha to nod.

Dracula smiled briefly and nodded back. He turned.

‘Nicholas Portman,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘I accept your condition. I will enter the cell and take Agatha.’

He stood up.

Portman grinned happily.

‘But first, you will promise me that you will let her go.’ Dracula's face was stern and severe. ‘I will enter this cell, and you will let Agatha Van Helsing go.’

‘I agree.’

‘You will make a promise,’ Dracula continued, ‘the only one you cannot break. The vow given to the one who turned you.’

A shadow of doubt flickered across Portman's face. Agatha, who had never heard of such a promise before, straightened up in alarm. Dracula waited.

‘Breaking means death,’ Portman croaked.

‘Breaking means death.’

‘I agree,’ Portman said again.

Dracula stepped away from the wall of the cell.

‘I, Nicholas Portman,’ he said, looking at Portman.

‘I, Nicholas Portman,’ he repeated.

‘…I give my word to the one who turned me, Vladislav Basarab, Count Dracula.’

Agatha looked at them, standing opposite each other, and the words they spoke seemed visible, like lamps flashing in the darkness.

…to let go of Agatha Van Helsing, who is here before me.

...in this time, in the year of our Lord 2020, bearing the name Zoe Van Helsing...

...alive and unharmed, free...

...of sound mind and sober memory...

...not attempting to subject her to the action of sleeping, stupefying, or any other poisonous means, as well as to the action of bladed or firearms or any weapon unknown to her or Count Dracula...

...to allow her to go independently, without anyone's help, wherever she wishes, not to pursue her on land, water, or in the air, alone or accompanied by others, under her own name or someone else's...

...not to attempt to harm her directly or indirectly, independently or through third parties...

...not to attempt to induce her, directly or indirectly, independently or through third parties, to harm herself...

‘I promise before the face of the one who turned me,’ said Dracula.

‘I promise before the face of the one who turned me,’ Portman repeated.

Dracula turned and looked briefly at Agatha. The promise was exhaustive and left no loopholes. She was free.

‘I think you'll want to watch to the end,’ Dracula said, turning to Portman. ‘Don't turn on the toy. You might not have time to get aroused,’ he added, approaching the isolation cell and opening the door.’

Let it be quick, Agatha thought, taking a step toward him.

Let it be quick, she thought, touching his shoulder and running her palm over it.

Let it be quick, she thought, hugging him and burying her face in his shoulder, inhaling his scent and feeling how fear ran down Dracula's spine like a light shiver and how Dracula let it go.

The camera starts moving and spinning.

Agatha hugs him, closing her eyes, and stands still.

Until she realizes that nothing has happened.

Pulling away and breaking their embrace, she and Dracula look at each other.

The sun lashes through the hole in the roof, hitting their eyes.

Reaching out, Agatha places her palm on Dracula's forehead and feels the cool skin under her fingers. Taking her hand in his, Dracula brings it to his lips and kisses the center of the palm.

‘And there was light.’

A deafening ringing broke the silence.

‘Sumpfkreatur***, you're not going to leave like that!’

Having grabbed her with his arms and covered her with his body, Dracula pressed Agatha against the opposite wall.

‘Can you do that too?’ Agatha asked, looking over his shoulder at the shards of super-strong glass that littered the floor of the cell.

‘Of course I can,’ he answered irritably. ‘Do you think I talked to you in this cage because I was afraid of cutting myself?’

‘But the mercenaries –’

‘Agatha!’ Dracula roared. ‘For God's sake, step back!”

‘He promised not to touch me,’ Agatha said hesitantly, retreating.

‘I don't want to hurt you.’

Dracula stood there, staring at Portman.

‘Daddy finally realized this is serious,’ Portman said. ‘Okie-dokie. Not as cool as burning you alive, but it works for me,’ he added and lunged at Dracula.

Agatha had never seen wild animals fight. On her aunt and uncle's farm, she had watched the poultry fight; the worst was when the neighbors' goats started bucking.

Now the predators were locked in combat before her eyes, arms and legs entwined, growling, biting, and rolling on the floor.

Portman was strong. He was like a vicious bulldog, winning not so much by weight or skill as by mad tenacity and... training. Agatha frowned. She had never seen Portman before, but everything about him – his face, his figure, his mannerisms – seemed strangely familiar to her. And at the same time, wrong. Surprisingly... old-fashioned.

This strangeness seemed important, it pricked and irritated. Portman said that he was learning. He drank blood, choosing victims, learning... but learning what?

The opponents in front of her had separated and were standing in front of each other, breathing heavily. Dracula's suit was torn, Portman's arms and chest were all covered in blood. Agatha examined him, watching how he leaned his palm against the wall of the cell, leaving a scarlet mark on it. Even his gait was uneven, she suddenly realized. It happens to those who spend a lot of time at sea. And his shirt was too small for him, looking like it was cast-off clothes.

‘You are mistaken,’ Agatha said slowly.

Dracula turned to her. But she was looking at Portman.

‘Who were the people you ate?’

Portman wiped the blood pouring from his nose.

‘Who were you hunting?’

Agatha didn't wait for an answer. She turned to Dracula.

‘You are mistaken,’ she repeated. ‘He did not turn into you.’ She paused. ‘He would like to, and he would like you to think so.’ Agatha looked around the broken cell, at the darkened hall beyond. ‘He wanted to look like some kind of… criminal genius. But he is still the same as before.’

There was no evil plan, Agatha suddenly realized. Invoices and receipts and documents came flooding back from Zoe's memory. There was no mention of Dracula in any of the contracts, neither in the main paragraphs nor in the supplementary protocols. No hint that Zoe was supposed to do anything other than the medical research described there. Agatha closed her eyes and sighed. She had simply received the grant. Her own fear and depravity had made her think otherwise. Portman had simply used them. He must not have even been working for those people, but had simply tricked his way into the meeting and put on a little show. When Agatha opened her eyes, her head was buzzing and her cheeks were burning.

Dracula looked at Portman.

‘Your English,’ he said. ‘Primitive, almost childish. The German accent is still there. Comment vas-tu?’**** he asked experimentally. ‘Tu, mostro ignorante.’***** Have you learned nothing? All you know is how to fight?’

‘Oh, my God, of course! Fight!’

Agatha pushed herself away from the wall. She waved her hand at Dracula, who jerked.

‘That's who you were hunting. Wrestlers, murderers, and mercenaries.’ She looked at Dracula. ‘I couldn't remember where I'd seen it. It was at the fair. In the ultimate fighting pavilion.’

‘Comment vas-tu,’ Portman muttered. ‘No use in your science. Damn aristocrats. All talk, no use in it.’

He straightened up, taking out a gun.

‘I hated you and wanted to punch you in the face,’ he said. ‘That's what I was preparing for. A couple of good fists are always better than all this play.’ He spat out blood. ‘All the best fighters in England, France, and Germany are here in me. The toughest, the ones who didn't shy away from anything. The only thing better than them is a couple of silver bullets.’

He raised the gun and aimed it at Dracula.

Agatha stepped between them.

‘That's clever, that's really clever,’ she said. ‘You could fight him all day,’ she said to Dracula. ‘It's no use. He'll anticipate every undercut, block every blow.’

Portman looked at her with a satisfied grin.

‘You're right,’ he said, ‘a human woman. He can't defeat me.’

Agatha nodded.

‘And if I'm right,’ she said, ‘then you still don't know how dangerous it is to rely solely on reflexes.’

And she stepped forward.

A shot rang out. Agatha was thrown back, right into Dracula's arms. She watched as Portman, still holding the gun, crumbled into ashes, and as these ashes floated in the light pouring through the hatch in the ceiling.

Dracula picked her up and laid her on the floor.

‘Well, that's it,’ Agatha said quietly.

Dracula leaned over her.

‘Why?..’

‘If you don't have enough strength, use your weakness,’ Agatha said. ‘It was the only way.’

‘I wanted to show you all the happiness in the world,’ he said, confused.

‘As always, grandiosely,’ Agatha smiled. ‘And as always, life flicked you... on the nose.’

She was choking.

Dracula's pale face was blurring above her, slipping away into the fog.

Agatha grabbed the sleeve of his bloody, crumpled shirt.

‘I don't know about all the happiness... But what happened in cabin number nine was wonderful... Despite everything,’ she whispered, already losing consciousness.

And fell into the darkness.

…

The darkness accepted Agatha ingratiatingly, softly, as if it had been waiting for her.

Agatha was not surprised.

Black Ole Lukøje.

For naughty children.

For lost sheep.

It was understandable. Not surprising. What was surprising was the pleasure.

‘Dracula,’ said Agatha, watching the golden rays disperse the darkness.

‘I have experienced a lot in my long life,’ Dracula chuckled, ‘but I have never been confused with death before.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘I am making love to you.’

‘You are drinking my blood.’

‘Captain Obvious.’

‘You said you did not want to turn me.’

‘Yes. Not today.’

‘I am dying.’

He smiled.

‘Think, Agatha.’

‘Portman shot me. He hit me in the chest.’

‘Yes. And the bullet?..’

It was starting to dawn on her.

‘...still there. If it had been different…’

‘...he would have hit me. I was standing behind you.’

In her youth, Zoe had worked as an ambulance attendant. They often brought in patients with gunshot wounds.

‘The bleeding should have killed me,’ Agatha said, ‘but the bullet inside stopped the bleeding; or it should have been the shock of pain.’

Dracula leaned toward her lips.

‘After all this time, did you think I'd let it hurt?’

The sun blew around them. It washed away the anger and grief, the rage and fear of poor Portman. Agatha thought that if it hadn't been for his stubbornness and anger, none of this would have happened. She would have been Zoe, half of half, or Agatha, far away, lost to herself. And there would have been no blinding light in the cell. And Portman would not have been able to leave.

‘I should be grateful to him,’ Agatha said.

‘As am I,’ Dracula smiled.

She felt him again, all over her. His strength, his sadness, and hope.

Black Ole Lukøje or colored, Agatha thought, it doesn't matter. Anyone can be a savior.

She looked at Dracula.

‘A fairy tale stops being scary when you're ready.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Notes

* Luke 15:4, New Revised Standard Version of the Bible.

** ‘Ich komme wieder’– I will return (Germ.)

*** Sumpfkreatur – swamp creature (Germ.)

**** Comment vas-tu? – How are you? (French)

***** Tu, mostro ignorante. – You uneducated monster (Italian)

#bbc dracula #dracula 2020 #count dracula #dracula bbc #agatha van helsing #dragatha #zoe van helsing #dracula netflix

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girlcrushart · 5 months ago

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I've been fretting for a few weeks over Taylor's silence and the growing online frustration—even among Swifties! It has all been especially difficult as I fall deeper and deeper in love with The Tortured Poets Department, which I listen to daily and is most definitely my current musical happy place like a warm blanket that protects me from all the crap going on in the world. I was really starting to worry that my hero wasn't going to be properly heroic and then BOOM! She just knocked it out of the park. The debate was so painful to watch (because 2 hours of listening to that moron is not good for my soul), but Kamala did an amazing job, and then for it to wrap up with Taylor's endorsement was just wonderful. I watched the debate with my Dad, and it was actually him who showed me Taylor had endorsed her (I think he got a NYT alert about it on his phone!) and when I expressed how relieved I was, and how I felt it had come a little late, he cleverly pointed out that he thought the timing was perfect. Kamala has been riding the wave of excitement since Biden dropped out, and Taylor's endorsement is definitely something that can have an impact, so her saving it until a little later to give Harris a bit of a boost as the initial wave dies down was honestly perfect. She also used the opportunity to address the gross AI stuff Trump did a few weeks ago, promote responsible voting thru being informed, and remind young voters about getting registered. AND to top it all off she even used the Childless Cat Lady thing like a total boss. I'm gonna listen to TPD even more today! Today's girlcrushart guardian is Taylor Swift.

#taylor swift

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yautjalover · 7 months ago

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Sometimes I think about a Yautja raised by humans meeting another Yautja for the first time.

Like let's say in the 1950s a 20 year old couple found a baby Yautja and decided to raise them. Cause idk they're childless farmers in the middle of nowhere. I once saw somewhere it takes like 67 years for a Yautja to reach adulthood (I may be wrong).

So the year is 2024 and our farmer couple is in their 90s when their now adult alien child meets an injured yautja hunter.

(Also the human raised yautja would probably have human values and beliefs along with wearing human clothes. Plus we all know they'd have the most basic human name like Bobby, Tomas, Elijah, Judy, Martha, Tonya etc.)

The the sadness Yautja Judy would feel along with the misunderstandings that would happen when she meets another of her kind would be funny. Especially when they talk and both realize neither speaks eachothers language.

Judy isn't surprised cause she knows she's an alien and of course her race has its own language. (She is sad though cause they can't communicate) Meanwhile normal yautja (let's call him hunter) is confused and a little terrified cause why is she wearing ooman clothes and speaking perfect English.

Judy would definitely give Hunter uncanny valley like what do you mean you were raised on earth and think hunting oomans is wrong?! What do you mean eating raw meat is nasty, and the predator dogs are ugly?!

It's even worse when Hunter sees her now elderly foster parents and the farm. Cause why would you keep perfectly good prey locked up behind fences? There's no fun in hunting already trapped prey?! Also why are you letting that ooman TOUCH your dreads!?!?!? WTF is braiding?!?!?

Hunters like:

So after Hunter is all healed up he leaves without saying goodbye. Judy is left to believe she'll never see another Yautja again. (Not like she cares dude was always staring at her and hissing at her parents.)

Hunter actually went back to the clanship to get a better translator and told everyone about Judy. No one believes him though....Till he shows his mask recording and everyone's like:

Now everyone is trying to figure out whose Judy's real parents and how to deal with the situation.

Meanwhile weeks later Judy's living her best life never realizing that her real parents just entered earths orbit. And they want her back cause she's literally their ONLY child.

Also this is Judy's childhood always getting jumped on by the family cat. And wearing like 10 layers in fall and winter cause her human parents thought she'd freeze to death.

Ya know this is quite great, because I have a WIP fanfic about this exact scenario. It’s called Kira, that being the human-raised Yautja’s name. Her real name is K1RA, but eventually she was just called Kira.

She’s raised by a secretive arm of the US military and trained to be their defense when a predator visits Earth again. Their own Predator on their side. They of course have her participate in secretive missions for the military.

It’s got a meddlesome goddess, a grumpy Yautja raised by his own people, an adult coming of age and finding one’s place in the world, and finding love in all of that. Despite my life being hectic lately, I’m still working on the eighth chapter. ☺️

You should write that down as a fic! We need more unique Yautja like this. I’d definitely give it a read. 😁 There are so many opportunities for humor and awkward scenarios!

Link to my fic on Ao3 here.

You can also find it on WattPad here.

#yautjalover #your asks #yautja #predator #avp #alien vs predator #fanfic #predator franchise

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 2 years ago

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Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 5: Bells Each Hour]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 5.7k.

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

Taglist: @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @ipostwhatifeel @teenagecriminalmastermind @quartzs-posts @tclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @chainsawsangel @itsabby15 @serrhaewin @padfooteyes @arcielee @travelingmypassion @what-is-originality @burningcoffeetimetravel @blackdreamspeaks @anditsmywholeheart @aemcndtargaryen @jvpit3rs @sarcastic-halfling-princess @flowerpotmage @ladylannisterxo @thelittleswanao3 @elsolario @tinykryptonitewerewolf @girlwith-thepearlearring @minttea07 @trifoliumviridi @deltamoon666 @mariahossain @darkenchantress @doingfondue @atherverybest @namelesslosers @skythighs

Let me know if you’d like to be added! 💜

You’re waiting for Aemond under the hundred-year-old cedar tree at the edge of the forest, Alonzo’s most recent letter in your hands. Midnight is grazing not far away, dewy April grass trampled flat beneath her hooves, silky black tail swishing. She won’t tolerate a lead chain, so she travels the woods unimpeded; but you know she won’t run. She never does. The slender pink ivory wood box is open on the ground, your sword propped against the tree trunk. Weeks ago, you carved four dates there in Roman numerals, infinitesimal inscriptions that you periodically trace back over so they never fade. They’re the days when you lost your children. You were permitted to keep no remnants of them, no stained cloths or recorded names. They belonged less to you than to the kingdom, and you were never allowed to forget this. All you have left are these shallow marks on a cedar tree as the world wakes up again: blossoms unraveling in the palace gardens, sprigs of jade-colored herbs piercing through cool rich earth.

Mother is possessed by conspiracies, Alonzo writes, forever a touch hyperbolic; you can picture his familiar wry smile as you drink up his words like roots swallow rain. He’s your oldest brother and thus the Crown Prince of Navarre. He’s been married for six years to Ippolita of Ferrara, three healthy children so far, one a boy named for your father. She swears there is something wrong with the water there, or the air, or the wheat, the culprit changes by the day. She frets, you know. As she always has. She wonders if we should dispatch one of our own bishops to bless you, or if you should undertake a pilgrimage to some holy site to beg the Virgin Mary for healing. More than anything, I think, she misses you. Her other daughters have found happiness in their marriages, and so it is easier for her to let them go and imagine it was for the best, but you…it is a different circumstance entirely, don’t you agree? Even Father has begun reassessing the illustrious English alliance he was once so proud of. He mutters that if you are to be childless either way, you might as well be home with your family, not trapped in some far-off, gloomy, turbulent land with a degenerate husband. We’ve heard things about Prince Aegon. Father says he never would have sent you across the Bay of Biscay if he knew what waited for you there.

I suppose what I’m trying to ask is…if the Pope would grant an annulment…if Father could work out an arrangement with King Viserys and the Duke of Hightower for you to come home again…would you want to?

All my love (and plenty more from Lita and the children),

Alonzo

You shred his letter so no one else will find it, looking up at a turquoise sky cluttered with fleecy white clouds, the same sky that stretches eastward to Navarre and beyond. You can’t go home; it would be a surrender, it would mean giving up any hope of a grander future. And it would mean giving up Aemond too. He’s not yours, but you can’t lose him. You feel like you can’t breathe every time you think of it. And there’s another reason why you can’t consider trying to dissolve your marriage. Not yet, anyway.

You rest your palms on your belly, vulnerable flesh beneath emerald-green silk, still at least a month away from starting to show. It’s early, very early, but by now you know the signs as well as the sounds of horses, the feel of the hilt of a sword in your grasp. It is your fifth attempt in less than two years. You have no reason to believe that this time will be different, that it will end in joy and triumph instead of ruin. Still, you suppose that anything is possible. It would be traitorous not to hope, wouldn’t it?

At last Aemond and Vhagar appear, galloping across the field to meet you at the edge of the forest. He’s in the saddle with his hair flying like a white banner, the buckles on his tunic glinting in the sun. You smile until he is close enough for you to read his face: tension, vexation, thinly-veiled ire. He dismounts in one fluid motion and Vhagar moseys away to graze beside Midnight, her enormous hooves clomping, dandelions and clovers leveled like fields at harvest.

“When were you going to tell me?” Aemond demands. He comes so close he fills your vision, your air; your lungs draw in smoke and leather, work and skill, every thread of muscle fought for. “After everything, I had to overhear it from the gossip of servants?”

Oh. Oh. “I hadn’t decided how yet. I was trying not to hurt you.”

“I’m hurt that you kept it from me.”

“Aemond…” You hesitate. There’s no delicate way to say this. “I didn’t want you to have to think about that part.” His brother on top of you, inside of you, melding with you to create a new heartbeat.

“I already think about it,” Aemond replies, sharp and stabbing like thorns. “I think about it all the goddamn time.”

Now your voice is bitter too. “Well, soon it will be my turn to be so afflicted, right?”

He quiets and retreats a few steps, rubbing his face with his hands. You try to remember if you’ve ever seen him do that before. He looks genuinely rattled, pained, remorseful. Kunigunde, the lone surviving daughter of Frederick III, will arrive in London any day now. Sometimes you find yourself wishing that her ship would sink to the bottom of the ocean or that some last-minute diplomatic squabble would go unresolved and she would be returned untouched to the Continent…but to what avail? Aemond will have to marry somebody. You cannot seem to produce a son, Nico won’t even be able to start trying until her wedding in August. The Greens need more heirs, more allies. And no ally could be more beneficial to their cause than the Holy Roman Empire. You should recognize the momentous advantage in this match. Instead, all you can think about is Aemond lying with another woman and memorizing the secrets of her body until they begin showing up in his poems, hips and wrists and the bumps of her spine.

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says gently. “I don’t want to argue with you. You’re not at fault for any of this. You’re not who I’m really mad at.”

“It’s alright. I understand.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A bit tired, a bit nauseous. Nothing new.”

“Good. But that’s not what I meant.”

You look at him as you stand in the shade together under the vast cedar tree. “I don’t feel anything,” you confess, words you could not share with anyone else. They would think you were in need of an elixir or a prayer or an exorcism. “I don’t feel happy, I don’t feel anxious, I don’t feel excited or afraid or hopeful. I want to be hopeful, it is my obligation to be hopeful, but I’m not. I don’t feel anything anymore. This has happened too many times already. Or maybe I’m just broken in spirit as well as in body.”

“You aren’t broken at all.”

You smile bleakly. “That’s kind, but I don’t think it’s true.”

“Believe me, I’d know. Brokenness and I are well-acquainted.”

And you wonder before you can stop yourself: What does he look like under his eyepatch? How exactly did it happen? Does it still pain him, does it enrage him? Does it make his hands ache for vengeance?

He asks: “What can I do?”

You get your sword from where it’s propped against the tree and twirl it once. “Distract me.”

“Gladly.” Aemond glides his blade out of its scabbard and lunges. You parry and strike him lightly across the back. Then you swiftly retreat, waiting for his riposte, on guard.

“I always wanted children, you know,” you say. “Not just because it was required of me. I grew up in a castle that was loud and full of footsteps. My mother was eternally playing with us, reading to us, tending to us. I imagined the same for myself. I craved it.”

“You’ll have children,” Aemond insists, forever so sure of something that feels impossible.

“You should have been the heir. Maybe this is how it happens. I’ll remain childless and Aegon will drink himself to death, and then you and your sons with Kunigunde will inherit the throne.”

He swings and you block, his blade clashing with yours once, twice, again, driving you backwards until you are pinned against the cedar tree. “I don’t want it that way,” Aemond pants from the effort, your swords locked together above your heads. “Not if it requires your sacrifice.”

You gaze up at him as his eye rakes over you; you’re close enough to kiss if you dared to. But you want much more than that. You want his long hair knotted in your fists, you want his hands on your bare skin, you want his tongue and his heat and his moans. But you have to be careful, so very careful. To be discovered sparring would be bad, but to be branded as adulterers would be far, far worse. For Aemond it would likely mean banishment. For you it would mean death by beheading or burning; only the king could commute the sentence. Rhaenyra would not persuade him to have mercy. And hers is the only voice you are confident Viserys would hear.

“Ivy,” Aemond whispers, a name that only he will ever call you. For a second, and only one, his palm skates weightlessly down your belly. You hear the distant chimes of the Tower of London, bells each hour, and it’s strange how so much time can pass without changing the heart at all. “I wish everything was different. I wish it was mine and you were too.”

And then he retreats in several long strides and waits for you to collect yourself so you can thrust at him with your blade again.

An hour later, Aemond helps you to rebury your sword—you’ve taken to keeping the pink ivory box in a shallow grave under the cedar tree so no one spies you ferrying it to and from Westminster Palace—and then accompanies you back inside once the horses are returned to the royal stables. He is mindful not to appear too familiar within sight of the court, but there are small gestures that he cannot seem to purge himself of: a hand on the curve of your back as you ascend stairs, shoulders and elbows that push others away if they inadvertently jostle you, glances to decipher the mood of your face. He signals to a servant and they scuttle over to bring you a cup of apple cider, cool and crisp and sweet.

“Where in God’s name have you been?!” the Duke of Hightower scolds you from across the hall, departing from a conversation with the Montford patriarchs. They wear serene, confident smiles. They’ve named Joanna’s white-haired bastard Aegon—not very subtle—and are basking in their recent procurement of titles, land, and influence. Already you’ve overheard the idea proposed, more than once and by various nobles: your marriage could be annulled, Joanna wed to Prince Aegon in your place, her son retroactively legitimized. The plan is certainly not without its own obstacles, but the Duke seems to be intrigued by it. Your husband will not entertain putting you aside. When the notion surfaces in his presence—like a shimmering fish from the depths of a pond—Aegon walks right out of the room.

You reply, with practiced innocence: “Just outside strolling through the gardens, Your Grace. The weather is lovely—”

“You shouldn’t be strolling anywhere. Not inside, not outside, not even to the chapel to beg God for the long-overdue deliverance of a son. You should be in bed.”

“Grandsire,” Aemond says. “Surely she cannot be expected to live as a prisoner.”

“She will live in whatever manner gives us the greatest chance of an heir. She may not be a prisoner, but she is a princess and a wife, and sometimes the requirements of these stations are not as divergent as you might believe.”

Aemond’s face goes dark, goes defiant. “You cannot put it all on her shoulders.”

The Duke of Hightower grins arrogantly; he’s caught him in the perfect trap. “But it’s not all on her, Prince Aemond. Within a week you’ll be sharing that burden. Making it lighter, even.”

Aemond glares at the Duke and says nothing.

“You will be married as soon as Kunigunde arrives. Within two days, mark my words. You’ll begin trying for a son in April, Nico in August. Now we have no heirs. But by this time next year we could have three! Isn’t that a happy thought?” And he marches away to resume his scheming, still smiling about it.

Aemond walks you to your rooms and stays there with you. You embroider pillows as he reads to you—a book about Aegon I’s Conquest in 1066—in a voice that is soft and low and secretive. Nico and Daeron join you both for dinner, and then you and Aemond are alone again. It’s wonderous and yet excruciatingly painful, profoundly unwise and yet necessary. You never speak of the night when he touched you beneath your nightgown, but it’s always there between you, a ghost that flutters curtains and creaks open doors trying to get your attention. You’re playing Tric-Trac on the bearskin rug, the fire dying down, when your husband reels drunkenly into your bedchamber.

“Aegon?” you say, startled. Aemond immediately moves away from you, at first just withdrawing to the other end of the rug and then rising to his feet as his brother continues to approach. You aren’t sure what he could want; it is recommended that pregnant women not lie with their husbands, and you’ll gladly take any excuse available to you. He must have forgotten at some point during his fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth cup of wine. “While I’m with child, I can’t—”

“I know, I know. I remember.” Aegon falls down onto the bearskin rug and slings his arms around your waist, burrowing into you. He rests his head on your chest, white-blond hair unruly and tangled. After a moment—long enough to recover from the shock of it—you hold him, tolerantly and sympathetically, like a wife should. Aemond leaves the room, river-blue eye downcast. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice. He sighs contently as you run your fingers through his hair, as your palms trace his back over his plain white shirt. There are red splotches on it, some of them wine, some blood; there are tacky streaks of it around his nose. He’s never done this before. He’s never sought you out for contact that was pure like this, without directives, without prizes to be won.

“Aegon?” you ask after a while.

“Yes, wife?”

“What exactly happened to Aemond’s eye?”

“My fault,” he murmurs drowsily. “He and I were supposed to be practicing our sword fighting with Sir Criston. Aemond was in the courtyard, exactly where he was supposed to be, and I was hiding in a stairwell somewhere guzzling wine, trying to forget who I was. Sir Criston went looking for me and while he was gone, they found Aemond. Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena. Four against one. I don’t know much about math, but that doesn’t sound even to me. Aemond was a lot smaller then. He hadn’t gotten tough and mean yet. I’ve never been clear on who said what first, but eventually he was calling Rhaenyra’s sons bastards and they were calling him a worthless spare, unnecessary and unloved, at least in the king’s eyes. Neither of them were wrong, by the way. Aemond grabbed a rock. Luke had a knife. By the time Sir Criston returned with me in tow, it was over. I remember watching the physicians stitch up Aemond’s face, using tweezers and spoons to clean out the pieces of gelatinous flesh from his eye socket. Father did nothing about it. He cared more about Aemond calling Jace and Luke bastards than the fact that he was half-blinded for life. Aemond started wearing a sapphire in the socket once it finally healed. He still does, as far as I know, though I haven’t seen him without his eyepatch in years. It’s a reference to some folktale about a warrior with two sapphire eyes. Some metaphor I couldn’t appreciate. I think my tutors once tried to make me read that story and I never did.”

You are sickened by grief, revulsion, fury. He was just a boy. A boy who had been neglected and ignored and brutalized, and his own father couldn’t care less. A boy who learned to idolize fictional heroes in the absence of real ones. “Yes,” you reply weakly. “That sounds like something Aemond would do.”

“All my fault,” Aegon says again, clutching you tighter.

“I’m sure he knows you didn’t mean him any harm.”

“He’s disgusted by me. They all are. Because I’m not suited to be king and never will be.” His voice is clotted with wine, shame, self-loathing. “I never asked to be built of disappointments. I didn’t choose to be this way.”

“You’ll make a fine king, Aegon,” you tell him, because you’re supposed to.

“Do you think I’m the cause of our losses?” he asks suddenly, and you think: Our losses, not mine. He called them ours. “You conceive easily. I can have children with others. Neither of us seem to be defective in body. But perhaps I have inflicted great stress upon you with my indiscretions. My drinking, my sloth, my affairs. I did not think I was hurting you. I did not think of much beyond myself at all, to be perfectly honest. But it was horrible to see you that way. At Christmas. So bereft, so wounded. You’ve suffered so much here. You deserve the consolation that children would bring you.”

You comb your fingers through his hair, shorter than any other grown Targaryen’s; he doesn’t want their name, their legacy, their looming war. “I don’t think you had anything to do with the miscarriages. I think there’s something wrong with me.”

“I want to be better this time,” he says, peering hazily up at you and placing one hand protectively over your belly. “A better husband, a better man. For both of you.”

You wish you could feel relief, feel joy, even a whisper of it. Instead, all you can think about is Aemond: his face, his voice, his hands. If I have to watch him touch another woman, I’ll never be able to get it out of my mind. If I have to watch him fall in love with her, it will kill me.

“Maybe it would have been different if we had met somewhere else,” Aegon says dreamily.

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere very far away.”

His eyes dip shut and you stare into the dying embers of the fireplace: red like lust, like blood, like the flag of Navarre.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the next morning, and you’ve escaped as far as Nico’s rooms. She has what seems like hundreds of swatches of fabric strewn across a table, silk and velvet and linen.

“What do you think of this one?” she asks nervously, holding a scrap of butter-yellow silk to the bare skin of her upper chest. “It’s not really my best color. But the Duke of Hightower suggested I wear a yellow wedding dress. The flag of Milan has a great deal of yellow, you know. I don’t think he wants anyone to forget where I’m from. Or all the wealth and soldiers I’m bringing to his side.”

“How romantic,” you tease, smiling. “Doesn’t your flag also have a giant, murderous blue snake on it? Perhaps you could dress as one of those. We’ll sew you a nice long tail.”

Nico bursts out laughing, far too boisterously, as usual. “That would certainly get Daeron’s blood running hot, wouldn’t it?” Now she frowns down at the table fretfully. “I so want him to be pleased with me. I want him to remember how I looked that day for the rest of his life.”

How did you look on the day you married Aegon? Miserable, probably. Lonely. Empty. Nico will never have to feel that way. You’re happy for her; but it makes your own predicament louder somehow. “It’s your wedding day,” you tell her. “Wear what you like. What you feel most beautiful in. You can dress in yellow for Aemond’s wedding. The Emperor’s flag is yellow. I’m sure Kunigunde would appreciate that. You’ll make a marvelous first impression.”

“Brilliant!” Nico grins, assuaged. Then her eyes flick to the doorway. “Oh, hello there, Prince Aemond. Have you come to help with the wedding planning? We’re choosing flowers next.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much acumen in that realm. But do let me know when you begin discussing cakes.” He stares at you expectedly, arms crossed, lurking like a shadow. There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

“Go on,” Nico prompts you, tittering anxiously. “We can continue this later. I’m supposed to be meeting Daeron for lunch soon anyway.”

You bid some goodbye to Nico that you’re barely aware of. Then you meet Aemond in the doorway, feeling very much like someone caught in a mistake, a lie, a trap. He turns away without a word and you follow him through the winding halls, colored by aisles of midday light and the tolling of distant bells. “Aemond…?”

“I’m thrilled to hear how well you’re getting along with your husband. He stayed all night, from what I gather. The servants are buzzing with it. The Montfords are licking their wounds.”

“Are you delusional enough to believe that I have any say at all in where he spends his time—?”

“I saw you,” Aemond snaps viciously. “You weren’t just being civil. You comforted him, you had your hands all over him—”

You grab Aemond by the front of his tunic and yank him in close so you can hiss: “And where are your hands going to be once you marry the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter? I have a few ideas. Would you like to confirm them? And things besides your hands as well, I imagine.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he flings, ripping away from you. You dash after him through empty hallways; he’s headed to your rooms, to a place where you will have relative privacy.

“What do you want from me?!” you whisper fiercely, burying it in him like a knife. “You expect me to sabotage my entire life, to reject my husband and neglect my responsibilities so that you never have to be inconvenienced, so that you never have to experience any pain—!”

“Pain?! That’s a kind word for it, it’s agony, it’s fucking impossible—”

Aemond throws open the door to your rooms. Inside, a servant is fixing you a cup of apple cider…and sprinkling the contents of a tiny silk pouch into it. When he sees you and Aemond, he shoves the pouch into his shirt and scurries away.

“Wait!” Aemond commands. The servant starts sprinting. “Don’t drink that,” Aemond tells you, pointing at the cup, then takes off after the servant. He catches him in your bedchamber, hurls him against a wall, and snatches the pouch from inside his shirt. “What the hell is this?”

“Nothing, Your Royal Highness. Just spices from the kitchen.” But his words spill out in a stammer and sweat pours from his reddening face.

Keeping the servant pinned to the wall with one hand, Aemond pitches the silk pouch to you. A servant shouldn’t have anything silk at all; it’s too expensive, too rare. “Do you recognize that?” he asks you.

Inside is a fine, powdery dust of a dried herb, dotted with shriveled purple blossoms. It smells vaguely of mint. “I don’t.”

Aemond drags the servant out of your rooms and into the hallways. The man is openly struggling now, mewing and slapping at his jailer’s face and hands. Aemond takes no notice of this. He is calling for guards, for physicians. A pack of inquiring spectators materialize around him: Nico, Daeron, Alicent, Sir Criston Cole, many other supporters of the Greens. Aemond does not stop until he reaches the Great Hall, where King Viserys is holding an audience with Rhaenyra, Daemon, and their children, bouncing little Visenya on his knee as she giggles. The violins screech to a halt when you and Aemond enter the room. He throws the servant violently to the floor.

“Good afternoon, Aemond,” the king says with moderate interest, still looking at Visenya.

The Duke of Hightower storms into the Great Hall. “What is going on in here?!” His steely eyes flit from Aemond to the servant sprawled on the floor to the king, back to Aemond. “What’s happened?”

“This man was putting something in the princess’s cider. An herb of some sort. I want it identified.”

“An herb?” King Viserys says blandly. “Have you asked the servant himself? Surely there is a logical explanation—”

“I want it identified,” Aemond repeats. “Now.”

There is chatter from the observers, which is exactly what Aemond needs. They serve as witnesses, as assurance that his accusations will be heard. You wonder where Aegon is; drunk and oblivious somewhere, probably.

“Very well,” the king relents, and waves to a guard. “Fetch a physician.” Then he barks at the crowd: “Out, vultures! All of you! Everyone except family!” The Green-affiliated courtiers reluctantly disperse; Nico goes to leave with them, but Daeron grasps her hand. Alicent clings to Sir Criston. Rhaenyra has Visenya, Viserys II, Aegon III, and Joffrey taken back to the nursery.

The Duke of Hightower glowers at the silk pouch. “Let me see.” You give it to him, and he opens it and sniffs. His forehead crinkles. “I can’t discern this.”

Daemon drifts close to you, clipping by like a comet. “Do you think wearing Green all the time now will miraculously make you one of them? Not until you’ve paid your debts, I think. And women have been known to die in childbirth. Just ask our dear Alicent over there. She owes all her…” His mouth twists cruelly around the word. “Fortune to the late Queen Aemma.”

“It is so wise of you to always dress for a funeral, Prince Daemon,” you say. “You’ll be prepared for your own when it imminently arrives.”

Daemon’s grin doesn’t disappear, but it turns harder, more jagged.

“This is terribly overblown, I’m sure,” the king says, then pauses to cough into his sleeve. He’s been nursing the same chill since January, one that ebbs and flows but never dies. “It’s all just a misunderstanding…”

Queen Alicent gestures to the pouch. “Might I see that, Father?” The Duke passes it to her. She opens the pouch and shakes some of its contents into her cupped palm.

“This is utter paranoia,” Rhaenyra complains, keeping Jace and Luke close to her; but she steals an uneasy glimpse of Daemon.

“They’re always so eager to cast themselves as victims, aren’t they, Mother?” Jace says.

Daeron shouts back: “And you’re always eager to cast yourselves as people who would happily stab someone’s eye out!”

“He slandered us!” Jace cries. “It was self-defense!”

“It was inches away from being murder!”

“And isn’t that the proper punishment for treason?” Baela says smugly. “To lose one’s life?”

“You’re about to lose your fucking life!” Daeron dives for her. Baela howls and scratches at him as Sir Criston leaps in to try to untangle them. Daemon grabs Daeron by the throat and lifts him off the ground; Daeron’s feet kick wildly, his face turning blue. Sir Criston draws his sword. Nico races into the melee, slamming both palms into Daemon’s chest with such force that she stuns him enough to drop Daeron, who falls gasping to the floor. Sir Criston drags him to safety. People are yelling, launching accusations and swears. The king is doubled over hacking.

“You bitch,” Daemon growls at Nico, and rips his sword from its scabbard as he towers over her.

Without thinking, you rush to defend Nico. Aemond’s arms close around you and pull you back. He murmurs through your hair as you battle him: “No, no, no, no.” And then you remember. The baby. I can’t do anything to hurt the baby. And you feel a sudden, overwhelming longing to protect this life, to meet this child, an attachment you didn’t think you were capable of experiencing again.

“I know what this is,” Alicent says softly, and everyone quiets and turns to her. Her face is dazed, appalled. Her hand holding the crumble of dried herbs is trembling. “It’s pennyroyal.”

No one moves, no one speaks. The silence is deafening. And it’s no wonder why none of the men could identify it in its medicinal state, why you couldn’t. You’ve never had need of a plant known to encourage a woman’s monthly blood. Since you’ve arrived in England, you’ve bled far too much. All those months of longing, hope, loss. All those taunts and whispers and rebukes and pieces of fruitless advice.

When the words finally tumble from your lips, they are faint and very small, almost childlike. “It wasn’t my fault?”

Aemond releases you and tears his sword free, holding it to the petrified servant’s throat. “I want him dead,” Aemond seethes, wrath like wildfire, like Plague. “I want him drawn and quartered, I want him awake when they disembowel him, I want him to feel everything. But first I want him racked until he reveals who paid him to commit this barbarism. I want to listen as his bones rip from their sockets.” He turns to Daemon, his blue eye blazing, manic. “And I suspect I know whose name he’ll scream at the end.”

“This is a baseless accusation!” Daemon snarls derisively.

“Dear God,” the Duke of Hightower says, gazing at you in guilt-laden horror. His hands come up to cover his gaping mouth.

“Do you have any proof that Daemon is responsible?” the king asks Aemond.

“Viserys,” the Duke says incredulously. “Prince Daemon has threatened her more times than I could ever count, he has incessantly abused and provoked her, he is her most notorious enemy—”

“There’s no proof,” Rhaenyra says, looking to the king. “You hear them, don’t you, Father? They have insults but no proof. They mean to use this treachery as an opportunity to destroy us.”

“He’s been paid by someone!” Aemond explodes, jabbing the tip of his blade against the whimpering man’s throat until he bleeds. “He’s been recruited! Why would a servant take it upon himself to poison a princess, to risk his livelihood, his life? Why would he have a pouch made of silk to carry his lethal herbs around in? He’s been roped into a conspiracy, and who else would have cause to murder her children in the womb, who else would dare?!”

“There’s no proof,” Daemon says again, and they all join him in a chorus, Rhaenyra, Jace, Luke, Baela, Rhaena: no proof, no proof, no proof.

The king shakes his head at Aemond. “Your lifelong hatred for Rhaenyra’s branch of the family has blinded you—”

“They could have killed her!” Aemond thunders, and there are tears of raw fury gleaming in his eyes. “Don’t you understand?! It wasn’t just the pregnancies, she could have hemorrhaged, she could have died, they risked her life to try to keep Aegon from the throne—”

“The throne will never be Aegon’s.”

“God Almighty, Viserys, that’s not the point,” the Duke says. “If this is true…it would be a most unforgiveable sin. It would be treason. It must be investigated.”

“I simply cannot see any proof being offered here.” The king dissolves into another coughing fit.

“You had no wrath when my eye was taken from me, Father,” Aemond says. “You felt no obligation to protect your son or your wife from the bloody consequences of Rhaenyra’s pride. All those years ago you let her believe she was invincible and now we are all forced to reap the aftermath. Surely you must feel outrage for the grandchildren this has cost you, for the inhuman crimes committed against the princess. She is your family, Father. Aegon is your family. I am your family. Don’t you recognize us at all?”

Daemon stalks towards him like a wolf, each step slow and calculated. “She’s your brother’s wife, Aemond. Not yours.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“Oh, haven’t you?” A hellish grin lights up Daemon’s face like the red flush of fever. “Tell me, how did it feel lying awake all those nights, staring up at the ceiling in your cold, lonely bed, knowing that your worthless brother was sinking himself into her again, and again, and again, and all that time he didn’t…even…appreciate it?”

Something breaks in Aemond, something cracks his atmosphere in two like lightning. He lunges at Daemon with his sword, roaring, swinging, stabbing. Their blades clang over and over again, shrieks of metal that echo through the Great Hall. The Duke of Hightower is bellowing, and Rhaenyra is screaming, and Alicent and Nico and all the children are too, everyone understanding that this could just as easily kill one as the other; Sir Criston is trying to help Aemond beat back Daemon, but the blows are so ferocious and swift that he has trouble keeping up with them. The Duke shouts for the guards and they flood in, a dozen men in full armor at last separating the two warriors like continents splitting apart. The king is rasping as he struggles to catch his breath. You are the only one who doesn’t make a sound. In your skull circles the same refrain like the ring of a full moon, like the cyclic chiming of bells: They did this to me. They did this to me. They did this to me.

In the midst of the chaos, the king lurches off his throne and collapses to the floor. Blacks and Greens alike descend upon him. Daemon cradles him in his arms, Alicent is sobbing, the Duke of Hightower is feeling the temperature of the king’s face and neck, Daeron is franticly trying to rouse him.

And even as he plummets into unconsciousness from which he will never recover, the king reaches only for Rhaenyra.

#aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x you #aemond x reader

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