#3135

[sleepsucks]

[manoelt-finisterrae]

ceo atlántico na Galiza

Outono

© Manoel T, 2022

[harveyphotography]

Acquapendente - (VT) La Gerusalemme Verde: un territorio dell’anima, un viaggio interiore, un posto dove ritrovarsi, una pausa rigenerante lungo il cammino della vita.

[dogstomp]

Dogstomp #3135 - August 1st

Patreon / Discord Server / Itaku / Bluesky

[taska-rokanh]

SHATTERED STARS CHAPTER ONE - INTRODUCTIONS

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: None

War! The Separatist Alliance has begun attacking the Galactic Republic, sparking a galaxy-wide conflict. In an attempt to keep the peace and protect the Republic, the Jedi Council has begun deploying their Knights and Masters to fight the droid army. Young Knight Taska Rokanh is waiting anxiously to receive her assignment. Unbeknownst to her, her new attaché of clone troopers is doing the same.

Breathe.

Breathe in. Breathe out. When you breathe out, you are entrusting your worries to the Force. And when you breathe in, you are accepting the strength It offers you.

Taska hoped that the Force was generous with strength today.

The extremely temporary quarters the Kaminoans had offered her for the few days she would be on the planet really weren’t that different from her quarters at home—in the Jedi Temple, that is. The floor was made of durasteel, and so colder than the polished terracotta floor there. She hadn’t had the time to bring her mat. Instead, she spread her robe out on the floor and sat cross-legged there for her morning meditations. 

This would be her last on Kamino for a while. This morning, she would be assigned troops and sent to whatever corner of the galaxy the Chancellor and the Council deemed necessary.

Her master had told her to stay planetside as she left to assist during the Battle of Geonosis, and despite her anxiety to help, she was grateful. She took the time to meditate, and, when she was ready, used the days before the Council would contact her to study the art of war. It was tedious, exhausting, nauseating, and wholly unpleasant. She was glad that her enemies would be battle droids—inanimate objects with no presence in the Force—but she was all too aware that the ones she would be directing were not. She didn’t know how she would react to the death of one of her own clones. She had been able to dimly feel the flickering-out of some of their presences during Geonosis, lightyears away, how it took away from the brightness of the massive combined glow of all the clones. 

She could only imagine how painful it was up close.

She continued her deep breaths and reflexive smoothing of her tunic under her new armor all the way to the hangar, where she was to meet her troops and then board her new ship. It didn’t feel right, to be put in charge of a war vessel as an agent of peace. She tried to push the thoughts out of her mind. A Jedi had no doubts, and if the Council knew what they were doing—of course they did—she should trust them.

---

“Yes, Master, thank you,” she nodded and bowed. Master Mundi flickered out of view, and Taska sucked in another breath. He had just confirmed their plans for the morning. Taska did the math in her head—they would have three days in hyperspace to get to know each other and learn how to work together before arriving at their first planet, Zarrebar.

Taska had never provided reinforcement for a Republic military base, much less commanded troops for that purpose. She was just glad that there would be established military personnel already there at the strategic base. Hopefully they were willing to cooperate with “new blood,” as she had already been called.

She sensed the discord inside the hangar before the doors opened, and braced herself for overload. The hangar was bustling, with long lines of clones going to and from, but mostly to, ships, whether fighters or transports, to take them to the seven Star Destroyers or various light cruisers waiting in the upper atmosphere.

“Force,” she whispered to herself. She checked her holopad again, a nervous habit, to make sure she was headed in the right direction. Bay 37, Gunship 12. On the other side of the hangar. She expected to be making close calls as she wove through the dense melee, but the clones recognized her presence almost instinctively and halted to clear a path. She tried her best to thank all of them. 

She got the sense that the clones thought the Jedi were quite far above them. 

She didn’t like it.

---

“Are we all here?” Ace asked, taking another breath through his nose. He wasn’t going to start shaking this time. He could take this. He could do this. 

“Yes, sir,” Lark answered. Ace could practically hear the laughter in his voice. Even after the past few years, it never felt natural for him to call his brother ‘sir’. “I think two headcounts is enough to prove that. We just have to wait for our general.”

“Bay thirty-seven… good, alright.” Ace would barely have been able to hear the muttering with his own ears, but the enhanced helmet picked it up clearly. A good thing, too, because it gave him time to straighten to proper attention.

“General Rokanh, sir!” He heard a small kriff before Lark clicked his heels and followed suit, followed by all the men in the gunship. He sighed and tried to focus on the general instead. She wore cream robes and tall dark brown boots, characteristic of the Jedi. The plates of armor on her chest and arms creased the fabric awkwardly, and the end of her long, slick braid was too close to getting caught in one of the junctions. She would have to get better armor soon. 

“Oh! Um, hello,” she said, moving her arm almost as if she wanted to salute before thinking better of it. She stuck her hand out instead. “Taska Rokanh. And you are?”

“CC-3135, Captain of Hail Company, sir,” he answered, hesitantly grasping her forearm in greeting. 

Her brows furrowed over her deep, dark eyes. “What’s your name? You must have something other than an ID number.”

“Right, it’s, um, Ace, sir,” he dropped his hand quickly to his side. “Nice to meet you,” he added as an afterthought.

She smiled warmly. “It’s good to meet you as well. Hello, I’m Taska Rokanh.”

“Lieutenant Lark,” his brother answered easily. “Excited to be working with you. Do you prefer sir or ma’am?”

I should’ve asked.

“Either is fine, whichever you like better,” Taska reassured him. 

She stepped onto the gunship, the men giving her more room than they could really afford, sandwiching themselves into the back of the ship. She carried on in the same friendly fashion, shaking hands and introducing herself to each clone, and by the end, the weight was so evenly distributed on Gunship 12 that they no longer had to worry about their landing capabilities.

The general smiled as they went through the energy field over the hangar, the blue light playing strangely on her slightly crowded teeth and bronzy skin.

Funny. In all of Ace’s imaginations of Jedi, none of them smiled, and she had just done it twice.

---

The light cruiser Silverhawk was much smaller than the Star Destroyers, to be sure, but no less impressive. At least, that was what Taska thought, as it loomed closer and closer in view. “I’ve never been on a ship this big,” she said to no one in particular, and regretted it almost instantly. She didn’t want to put her men ill at ease, thinking she was incapable. 

“This day is full of firsts, sir,” Lark added, and Taska smiled. At least he was being nice about her slip-up.

When they touched down in the hangar, Taska hopped out and stood to the side. It didn’t take long for the Captain to follow her lead. He looked at her as if he expected her to say something. “Give your orders, Captain, you know what you’re doing more than I do,” she lifted her hands. She had studied command, but she wanted an opportunity to check that her information was up-to-date.

“Right,” Ace said slowly. “Men, we have work to do. I want each ship that comes in after us arrayed, introduced to their superiors, and especially the general, before bunking up. We’ll have time to get bedding and kitchens set up after we leave atmosphere. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” The call was ringingly loud, even from only nineteen clones. 

“So I’ll stay here, then, get a chance to say hello to everyone,” Taska said, only half-questioning. It was a solid plan. Morale and unity depended on everyone knowing and trusting one another, and that meant introducing herself as soon as possible. 

“Yes, sir, I’m sure the rest of us are… eager to meet you,” Ace said, clearly trying his best to be polite.

She wrung her hands. “Right,” she echoed. “It looks like the first transport is coming in,” she nodded up to the open hangar doors, where three transports were lowering in in quick succession.

“There’ll be four more in a minute,” the clone told her. “There are 165 men in Hail company, including command. There’s probably about half of that just running this ship.”

“That’s a lot of people,” she muttered.

“Not really,” Ace disagreed. “There are at least four times that aboard each of those Star Destroyers.”

Taska smoothed the front of her robe. “Right. I know. It’s… it’s just good that I’m starting small, I suppose.”

Ace hummed almost imperceptibly in agreement.

---

The general and captain stood off to the side as the transports unloaded, all the men proceeding in mostly orderly lines to their sergeants and then the sergeants to their lieutenants. Hail Company was nothing if not efficient. “It looks like they’re about ready,” Ace said, though it was so quiet that Taska couldn’t be sure it was intended for her. She made her way in front of the crowd anyway.

“Attention!” Ace bellowed, voice ringing through the hangar. There was a loud crash as 164 feet stomped and 164 hands went to temples at once. “Our new general wants to speak!”

Taska thanked him and seemed to nearly float onto a nearby crate—one full of bedrolls, a glance at the label told—and went from being a foot shorter than the clones to a foot taller.

“Hello. My name is Taska Rokanh. I am a Jedi Knight. I am twenty-two years old, and I was knighted just about six standard months ago. I’ve lived most of my life on Coruscant, but I’ve studied cultures and environments from all over the galaxy, and been fortunate enough to visit several worlds. I’ve started to and will continue to intensely study the art of war so that I can be the best possible leader for you.” She tried her best to look at each individual clone. “I would like to get to know you all, so please don’t be… afraid to approach me. Don’t think that I will turn away your questions or dismiss your thoughts. Thank you. I will speak to you all again when we’re closer to Zarrebar.”

She hopped down on her own, and mentally, Ace scolded himself. He had seen shows and movies before. He should have thought to offer her his hand. It was the polite thing to do, something she would probably expect from a professional.

“Get to your assigned bunks and set up! There will be no trading, and there will be no pranks. I want us settled in before 0900 and ready to ship out!” He barked, and the hangar dissolved into a flurry of activity. 

“I suppose I should do the same,” Taska said. “I think I saw my bags over there. Walk with me? I prefer not to be all alone.”

Ace almost forgot to speak. She was… seeking out his company? But they had only just met. And she was his superior. “Of course, General.”

“And… would you mind removing your helmet? I haven’t had a chance to speak to you face-to-face.”

He silently obeyed.

“Hi,” she said with a smile before sobering a bit. “I hope that’s not intrusive of me. With the way I was raised, I like to make connections.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Actually, I had a question for you.” Ace calmed himself silently. He hoped it wasn’t a strange, intelligent Jedi question that he wouldn’t be able to answer. “Have you studied a lot of strategy?”

“Extensively, sir,” Ace answered easily. That was a question he knew the answer to.

“Naval strategy as well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” she breathed. “I wasn’t… I had my studies growing up, but they were mostly of the engineering, investigative, diplomatic sort. Nothing about commanding armies,” she chuckled nervously. “And I probably shouldn’t tell you that, what with me being in command and all, but I think you have a right to know that I will need your help.”

“Our first assignment is a good one to learn on, especially if you’re unfamiliar with army structure and protocol, sir,” Ace tried to provide some form of relief. “And that’s what I’m here for. To help you.”

Yeah, that sounded good.

“Thank you, Captain.”

“General Rokanh, sir!” A clone painted in green ran up before planting his feet and saluting. “I’ve been sent with a crate for you, sir!” As he spoke, another clone pushed the levitating package toward the group.

“Oh?” Taska said inquisitively. “Well, thank you. Ah, what is your name?”

“CT-1516, Sergeant in charge of  mechanics, sir!” The clone responded, not breaking attention.

“You can put your arm down, you know,” Taska said gently, and waited for him to do so. “What is your name, Sergeant?”

“Greaser, sir,” he responded, still looking unsure.

“Thank you, Greaser,” Taska smiled. “Now, do please open this crate, I wasn’t expecting a delivery.”

He did as he was asked, and pulled a stout cylindrical droid from its depths.

“Aree!” Taska said with a smile as the droid was booted up. The chromium-and-ice blue droid whirred and spun its head in greeting.

“Aree?” Ace asked timidly.

“Well, his full name is R2-E3, but I shortened it to R-E, or Aree, I just like the sound of it,” the Jedi explained with a shrug. “How are you, bud?”

The mech gave a couple of happy chirps, and Taska laughed. “Yeah, we’ll finally get to put all that training to good use,” she agreed. “If you haven’t guessed yet, Aree is my astromech,” she told Ace. “We’ve been flying together since my first sim when I was about fourteen. He’s very experienced with repairs, but neither of us has a lot of practice with weapons systems,” Taska’s face became more serious as she spoke. “That’s something we’ll have to brush up on, eh?”

Ace stood by silently, slowly realizing that this Jedi felt very similar to himself—entirely unprepared. 

He supposed they’d learn together.

---

Ace seemed worried. That was what kept Taska from sleeping as she lay in her new quarters. The floor was durasteel again, but this time, it vibrated. The light cruiser wasn’t as large as it seemed, and the dull thrum of the three powerful engines spread throughout the cruiser. Not that she minded. She could thrive in much more uncomfortable conditions. She had her meditation mat now, a few changes of clothes that she would put away in the morning, and a small folding table that she thought would probably fit best under the mirror someone had recently installed. That was all she needed. More than enough, really, so it wasn’t that that bothered her.

It was the ill feeling that rolled off of Captain Ace from the moment she met him. It wasn’t sinister by any means—he was clearly sincere and wanted to do a good job. But he was worried. For some reason, Taska wasn’t sure what. When she finally got a chance to look him in his honey-like eyes, they were just… uneasy. Wary. There was anxiety everywhere on the ship, but nothing like his.  She didn’t think she was the cause. She hoped she wasn’t the cause. The clones were battle-ready, but Ace taught her something that day—they were also still very young.

[usafphantom2]

NASA Flypast by Neil Brant Via Flickr: Oshkosh-Wittman Field - KOSH SR-71B Blackbird NKC-135 FA-18A Hornet

[goddessofvalyria]

GROUPIE LOVE | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: Aemond Targaryen, a famous rock star, notices a girl in the audience and when he waves to her backstage with a casual wave of his fingers, she follows him without thinking twice.

TW: 18+, MINORS DNI, SMUT, She/Her pronouns, oral (f and m receiving), fingering, masturbation (f and m receiving)squirting, sexual tension, sex.

English is not my first language, be kind <3

This is my Masterlist

Words: 3135

"You're in the bar, playing guitar I'm trying not to let the crowd next to me It's so hard sometimes with a star When you have to share him with everybody You're in the club, living it up I'm trying not to let the crowd notice me It's so sweet, swingin' to the beat When I know that you're doing it all for me"

— Groupie Love, Lana Del Rey & A$AP Rocky

The air inside the small backstage room is heavy with anticipation. The crowd outside roars as the band plays their final encore, the thumping beat of the drums reverberating through the walls. She waits, perched on the edge of a weathered leather couch, fingers tapping nervously against her knee. She knows she shouldn’t be here, but the pull is irresistible. The allure of the man who will soon walk through that door is too strong to ignore.

Aemond Targaryen.

The name is enough to send a shiver down her spine. He’s a legend, the frontman and the guitarist of the most iconic rock band of their generation, and she’s just another face in the sea of fans. But tonight, he noticed her. He spotted her in the crowd, his intense violet eyes locking onto hers, a smirk curling his lips as he sang. And when he beckoned her backstage with a casual flick of his fingers, she followed without a second thought.

The door swings open, and there he is, sweat-drenched and wild-eyed, electric energy still buzzing around him from the show. He’s everything she imagined he would be—tall, lean, with a striking face that’s both beautiful and fierce. His platinum hair falls in tangled waves around his shoulders, framing that captivating eye patch covering his left eye. His gaze lands on her, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across his lips.

“Hey” he drawls, voice low and husky from hours of singing, yet still dripping with charisma. He crosses the room in a few long strides, dropping onto the couch beside her, his thigh pressing against hers. The air between them crackles with tension, the kind that makes her heart race and her breath hitch.

“Hi” she manages to whisper, her voice barely audible over the pounding of her own heartbeat. She feels like she’s in a dream, every nerve in her body alive and humming. She can hardly believe she’s here, sitting next to Aemond Targaryen, close enough to touch.

He reaches out, a finger curling under her chin, tilting her head up so she’s looking directly into his eye. “You enjoyed the show?” he asks, his breath warm against her lips. The words are almost a purr, filled with an intimacy that sends a flush of heat through her body.

She nods, swallowing hard. “It was amazing. You were amazing.”

Aemond’s smirk deepens, his thumb brushing lightly over her bottom lip. “Glad to hear it. I like knowing my fans appreciate what I do.” His hand moves to cup her cheek, his thumb now stroking along her jawline, the touch sending shivers down her spine.

There’s something dark and dangerous in his gaze, a promise of what’s to come. He leans in closer, his lips ghosting over hers, teasing her with the barest hint of a kiss. “You want to show me just how much you appreciate it?” he murmurs, his breath mingling with hers.

Her breath catches in her throat. She’s never wanted anything more in her life. She nods, her lips parting in anticipation, and that’s all the encouragement Aemond needs. He kisses her, slow and sensual, his lips soft but demanding against hers. His hand tangles in her hair, pulling her closer as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting, exploring.

She melts into him, a soft moan escaping her lips as his hand slides down her body, tracing the curve of her waist, his fingers slipping under her leather bustier. His touch is electrifying, sending sparks of desire coursing through her veins. She arches into him, craving more, needing more.

Aemond pulls back slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his breath ragged. “You’re beautiful” he whispers, his hand moving to cup her breast, his thumb brushing over her hardened nipple through the fabric of her bra. “So fucking beautiful.”

She whimpers, her head falling back against the couch as his mouth moves to her neck, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin. His hands are everywhere, roaming her body with a hunger that leaves her breathless, her skin tingling with anticipation. She feels his lips curl into a grin against her throat as his fingers trail lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her skirt.

“Spread your legs for me, love” he murmurs against her skin, his voice a seductive growl that makes her shiver. She does as he asks, her body trembling with anticipation as his fingers find their way between her thighs, teasing her over the thin fabric of her panties.

He’s relentless, his touch both gentle and commanding, his fingers sliding against her, feeling how wet she is for him. “Fuck, you’re soaked” he groans, his lips returning to hers in a bruising kiss. He pushes her panties aside, his fingers slipping between her folds, finding her clit with practiced ease.

She gasps, her hips bucking against his hand, a desperate moan escaping her lips. He chuckles darkly, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, teasing her, driving her wild. “You like that, don’t you?” he purrs, his lips brushing against her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

“Yes” she breathes, her body arching into his touch, her hands clutching at his shoulders. “Please, Aemond… I need you…”

His eye darkens with lust, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Patience, love” he murmurs, his fingers slipping inside her, curling up to hit that sweet spot that makes her cry out in pleasure. “I’m going to make you feel so good… just relax and let me take care of you.”

She does as he says, her body surrendering to his touch, her mind lost in a haze of desire. His fingers work her expertly, building her up, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. She feels the tension coiling in her belly, the heat building, her breath coming in ragged gasps as he takes her higher, higher…

And then she’s falling, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave, her body shaking with pleasure, her moans filling the small room. Aemond doesn’t stop, his fingers still moving inside her, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until she’s completely spent, her body trembling against him.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his lips, his gaze locked on hers as he licks them clean, a satisfied grin on his face. “You taste so fucking sweet” he growls, his hand cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lips.

She leans into his touch, her breath still coming in shallow pants, her body still tingling from the intensity of her orgasm. “Aemond…” she whispers, her voice barely a breath, filled with longing.

He captures her lips in another searing kiss, his hand sliding up her thigh, pulling her closer. “Don’t worry, love” he murmurs against her mouth, his lips curving into a devilish smile. “We’re just getting started.”

And she knows, without a doubt, that she’s in for the ride of her life.

Aemond slides off her leather boots, starts a trail of kisses from her ankle to her knee, she arches her back and brings her hand to the zipper of her leather miniskirt. "Good girl" he praises her, she lifts her hips and slides the skirt down her legs. Aemond kisses her thighs, her skin so smooth and smelling of a strong woman's perfume maybe she's wearing "Poison" by Dior.

She gasps, his lips are so fucking devilish.

Aemond sits back down on the couch, she positions herself on his hips and starts to move slowly over the bulge in his pants. "If I'm a good girl, what are you?" she teases, then she reaches behind his bustier and pulls down the zipper. "My devil?" she throws her top on the floor, she's not wearing a bra. Aemond looks at her firm, round and full tits. She has a fucking piercing in her right nipple. "Is there something you like rockstar?"

She is only wearing her lace thong, he is still dressed. She notices the bulge in his pants and places her wetness right on top of it. She moves slowly and calculatedly, he is hard as a rock. Her breathing is heavy like an animal, her fingers dig into the couch cushion and he can feel her juices wetting the fly of his jeans.

"Mmmh" she moans rubbing herself on his covered cock. "Do you prefer my hands or my mouth on your cock?" she asks shamelessly. She moves her hands to his t-shirt and pulls it off revealing his toned and lean chest covered in a few black tattoos. Aemond is speechless, what seemed like such a good girl has actually turned out to be the devil.

"On your knees" he orders with heavy breathing. "Are you sure?" she asks. "I'm still wet thanks to you and your magic fingers" she whispers in his ear, kissing him just below. "But if you really want me to I'll kneel for you, rockstar"

She kneels between his legs, licks her lips and begins to undo his belt. She notices with pleasure that the fly of his pants is wet thanks to her, Aemond's erection is hard and aching. He raises his hips and allows her to pull down his jeans and boxers, revealing his big, hard, long cock, wet to the tip with pre-cum.

"Do girls who listen to your music turn you on that much?" she teases him looking at him. "Only if they are as evil as you" a smirk forms on her face. "Am I evil?" she murmurs taking his cock in her hands. "You don't know how much" she lowers her gaze and without shame she spits on his cock, lowers her head and licks it on his shaft. Aemond closes his eyes, barely feeling her lips around his cock. She takes it in her mouth, starts sucking it so hard that her cheeks go hollow, and keeps sucking it so hard that it touches the back of her throat.

That's probably the best blowjob of his life.

She sucks him devilishly and in the meantime she gets wet between her legs, the sensation of having to touch herself is too much. Aemond in her mouth is wonderful, he pants and moans, she is clearly sucking his soul out. "Good… good fucking girl" he whispers feeling close. He would like to come between those lips of hers, but at the same time dirty her with him. Aemond although immersed in pleasure, notices that she has a hand buried between her thighs and is torturing her clit.

She continues to suck, but he grabs her hair without hurting her and makes her look up. "You're touching yourself, aren't you, little brat?" Her eyes light up, her lips lick the tip of him and then up. "Do you think that your huge cock can fit in me?" she asks playfully, but Aemond grabs her and pins her to the couch. "Do you enjoy it?" he teases. "I used to enjoy sucking your cock, rockstar," he murmurs, his hands moving to the waistband of her thong. "But if I'm honest, I'd rather have your tongue between my thighs."

Aemond is aroused by the way she speaks: vulgar and direct, but sensual and provocative. He kneels in front of her, pulls off her soaking thong and spreads her legs, bringing them up to his shoulders. She arches her back, feels his fingers part her wet folds and shortly after his long tongue lick her slit. A pornographic moan escapes her lips, she starts playing with her nipple piercing while Aemond licks her between her thighs and goes deep with his tongue. His nose rubs against her clit, she moans, she is a mess of moans and sweat, her black makeup is running a little and she is so eager to be fucked by him.

"Aemond" she moans his name when she feels his tongue touching places where not even her fingers have ever reached. “Aemond” she repeats his name again, he grabs her by the thighs and luxuriates in that sweet, sticky taste, god, he can't wait to see her on top of him riding him.

Aemond adds his fingers, the pleasure is so much that she feels dizzy. His tongue, his fingers, her clit tortured repeatedly. Fuck, she feels so close to coming, but soon a strange feeling forms in her belly… it's strong, Aemond's movements are insistent, full of pleasure, her back arches, his face is buried in her things and soon she comes, but not like she has ever done before.

He pushes her higher and higher, pushes her closer and closer to the edge. She screams, her body contracting as her pussy squirts, the intense pleasure overwhelming her. She gasps, her body slick with sweat, her mind foggy with bliss. When she opens her eyes again, Aemond has two fingers between her lips.

"You're a devil, fuck the good girl" only she notices that he is wet from her face and chest. "You need to be fucked, huh?" he stands up, removes the last of her clothes from her body, leans down to kiss her in a dirty wet kiss with his tongue, she can taste him and then and Aemond sits on the couch. He grabs her by the hips and brings her on top of him.

"Mmmm, you like it don't you? Watching me take your cock" she whispers raising her hips and then slowly, she lets herself go down on him filling herself. "Fuck" she whispers feeling full. "You're so big" their hands intertwine, she knows how to do it: she moves, takes him, rides him. Her hands move to his chest, she scratches him, she grabs his hair to bring him closer to her lips and kisses him.

Aemond moans her name, he brings his hands to her breasts and between his lips he sucks her pierced nipple. "Fuck, fuck, fuck" he whispers feeling her pussy squeezing him deeper and deeper. She rides him, moving her hips, her pussy is hot, wet, tight. He wants to die in her.

"Look at me rockstar" she grabs his face and kisses him again, their kiss is a mess of tongue and saliva. "Ah" she moans feeling his cock hard almost all the way to her stomach. "Fuck, fuck" she pants, her nails digging into his back.

"My good boy" she pushes him against the sofa cushions, Aemond looks at her excitedly, fuck, this is so exciting. She rides him, her pussy buries his cock, her breasts move frantically, her skin is sweaty. She moans, he circles her hips with his hands and she comes around him again swallowing him.

Aemond is lost in pleasure, but he knows he can't come inside her. Reluctantly she realizes this and rises from his hips, looks at him and soon spits on his cock. She wraps her hand around him and lowers her head. She brings him between her lips and sucks him, over and over until he comes. Like a perfect bad good girl she swallows his seed and licks her lips. Aemond is breathless, she still naked grabs his pack of cigarettes from the table. "A cig?" she asks, placing a cigarette between her lipstick-smudged lips. "Y-yes" he murmurs with ragged breaths. She takes a drag, then passes him the cigarette.

"Listen Aemond…" she begins. "You're a rock band, do you have any groupies?" Aemond is confused and barely understands her words. "My…mates" she whispers, smoking, resting her head on the pillow. She moves closer to him, climbing into his arms. Skin against skin, it feels wonderful. Aemond puts an arm around her waist.

"What about you? Are you fucking them?" she asks boldly. "No," he replies. "It's the first rule of the group: each of us has his own"

"Great" she replies. "Because I just became yours" she gets up from his lap, shamelessly grabs her loincloth from the floor and puts it on. She turns to Aemond dressed only in it, her long curly hair making her beautiful and dangerous. "I'm bored here, I have no friends and I can play the guitar."

She grabs Aemond's shirt and puts it on, he puts a pillow on his hips covering his cock. "Do you play metal too?" she asks. "Do you like Black Sabbath?" Aemond asks. "Why do you ask?" she comes closer to him, sitting on the coffee table. "Before when you turned around… your tattoo on the small of your back" he replies. "The Paranoid tattoo, yeah..." she replies. "I would say so" Aemond comments. "Don't make fun of me, just because a song is famous doesn't mean it's bad" he takes the cigarette from his lips again.

"You are interesting" he admits honestly. "And that's why I noticed you" She raises an eyebrow. "Honored" she takes a drag of her cigarette. "And tell me rockstar, where is the next stop on the tour?" he asks. "The Riverlands" Aemond replies. She gets up from the coffee table. "Fuck yeah, that fucking bitch Alys Rivers is going to die of rage when she sees me" Aemond stops, fuck Alys was his ex-girlfriend. "She's a bitch, in high school she was a senior and she took it out on us freshmen" she replies.

"Do you know her?" he asks. "A bitch like that everyone knows" he looks at her. "What is it?" she asks. "She was my ex" Aemond admits. "But now you have me and fuck her" she whispers. "I'm beautiful, sexy, smart" her lips brush his. "And now the groupie of the most famous rock star in the world"

Aemond grabs her face with one hand. "Do you only care about my fame?" he asks, she denies. "If I only cared about your fame after I fucked you I would have left" she bites his lower lip. "I needed this, someone who understood my madness" she licks his lip.

"Fuck the rest, rockstar" she removes the pillow from above his hips. "Let's do another round" she kneels on him, moves her panties to the side and lets herself go on his cock, her hand tightens around Aemond's neck.

"A groupie love" she murmurs starting to move, kissing him passionately. "Strong, true and only yours" Aemond holds her in his arms.

"Only mine" Aemond let her consuming her.

That girl is the fucking demon he was looking for.

[mushies-stories]

Grimmjow: Fantasy come true

Grimmjow X FReader

SMUT18+

what happens when Grimmjow notices how flustered your get around him and he comes across you touching yourself and whining his name?

Warning: Smut, pnv, unprotected sex, creampie, oral (Freviving), no use of Y/N

This is my birthday fic to myself! I hope everyone enjoys!

Word count: 3135

Grimmjow’s new favorite thing was to tease you. He realized after only a few days of being at Kisukes that you couldn't keep your eyes off him. He loved finding little ways to watch you squirm. Reaching for something above you while standing too close, grabbing your hips to get by or calling you pet names he sees you respond too with a blush.

It was when he heard you from outside your door while you thought everyone was gone, your voice whiny with soft moans. Grimmjow however was asked to stay back as well. He was just going to bug you for entertainment but once he heard your sweet desperate moans echo from behind your door he was frozen in place. He listened for a moment and thought about what he was going to do, there was no way he was keeping it a secret and was going to just walk away, it was just too good. The face you'd made when he brought it up later, how bright red and flustered you'd be.

“Grimm-mhh Grimmjow~” you whimpered his name, breathless and needy.

A low growl made its way through his chest. You were thinking of him while you touched yourself, how… delicious he thought. A new desire rose in him as he listened to you beg for him, thinking of how you were pleasuring yourself to the thought of him. He wanted to see you, he needed to. 

Without a second thought he slid the door open and took a step into the room only to lock eyes with you. You lay at the edge of the bed with your legs spread and one hanging over the edge. For a moment you couldn't move, shocked that Grimmjow was looking at your naked body while your fingers were buried in your cunt and completely naked.

Grimmjow stared down at you with a wide grin, enjoying the sight he gets to witness. “Well, didn't know you were such a dirty little girl.” he chuckled and his words brought you out of your daze.

You quickly tried to cover yourself, sitting and turning around so your back was to him. “Grimmjow! What are you doing?!” you shouted.

Before you could manage to scoot any farther away or grab a blanket he was behind you, grabbing your hips and pulling you back enough so your ass was over the edge of the bed now. “What am I doing? Oh little human, I'm not the one touching myself so desperately while everyone is away.” he chuckled. 

He held you in place as you struggled to get out of his grasp. “It has nothing to do with you, now get out!” you whined. 

“Oh?” Grimmjow cocked a brow at your statement. “Sure about that? Because if i'm not mistaken that was my name i heard you calling out so wantonly a moment ago, right?” Your face was burning at his words. You shook your head and buried it in the sheet below you. Another chuckle came from behind you. “Oh little one, it's okay. I'll help make you feel good.” he cooed.

Before you could even look back at him to protest he was lowering himself before you and was face to face with your dripping core. He kept his hold on your hips as he stuck his tongue out and licked a path through your folds. You moaned involuntarily and jerked in his hold. “Grimmjow what-” you were cut off by a choked moan. Grimmjow’s tongue sliding along your clit and his teeth grazing your sensitive nub had your breath escaping you. 

“You taste sweet little human.” his hot breath fanned your thighs as he spoke. Again, before you could protest he was back to lapping at your cunt. Teasing your clit with his teeth and licking at your dripping core. Pressing his tongue flat against your heat he licked up to your sopping hole before sliding his lounge in as far as it could.

A desperately needy moan ripped out of you as you withered in his hold. “Grimmjow! No-not there!” you cried out. Your brain is still trying to catch up to everything happening and he has his tongue in your pussy, causing more fog to fill your head space. Grimmjow ignored you however, having already tasted you enough to fuel his own desires. Instead he brought a hand down to rub fast rough circles to your sensitive clit while his tongue insisted to see how deep it could reach inside your pussy. He was sending more jolts of pleasure ripping through your body than you could keep up with. “Wai-t! If you keep doing tha-'' you choked on a moan, his tongue hitting your sweet spot at the perfect pace with his thumb. 

Your eyes screwed shut as you felt your climax knotting up inside you, ready to release at any moment. Grimmjow could feel it, the way your pussy was throbbing and clenching around him. Pulling you back by the hip so he could reach just a bit deeper had you arching your back at the same time his tongue flickered across your bundle of nerves. 

It took only a moment for your orgasim to wash over you in a powerful wave.”Grimmjow, fu-uck.” you gasped out, becoming a quivering mess around his tongue as you panted and whimpered into sheets. He lapped at your pussy as you came, making sure to lick up all of your sweet slick onto his tongue. A low groan came from him when he pulled back and looked at your pulsing cunt, watching how slick still dripped from your needy hole.

Smirking he looked past your ass to see your eyes fighting to stay open as you catch your breath. “Fucked out already?” he boasted, proud of himself. 

You shook your head into the sheets before pushing yourself up. “I'm just fine!” you defend yourself. Not wanting to show him just how much of an affect he really had on you.

He smirked and came to stand behind you again, both hands gripping your ass to keep you in place. “That so? Looks like I didn't do my job correctly then.” he said, bringing a hand to the waistband of his pants and sliding them down agonizingly slowly as he watched your eyes widen at his implication. “Got to make sure I live up to your fantasies. What are those by the way?” he inquired, bringing the head of his cock to glide through your folds.

You almost let out a needy whimper but bite it back. His cock teases you and when he pushes the tip at your entrance you fall back to the bed and hide your face into the sheets as best you could. You were embarrassed Grimmjow had heard you and now he wanted to know what you thought about when you touched yourself to the thought of him? How could you say those dirt thoughts out loud?

This made Grimmjow tisk and pull back and released your hips. Before you could even move to see why you were being flipped around and onto your back. “None of that hiding shit sweet thing.” His legs caught your thighs and held them apart as he stood above you with his trademark smark. 

Your arms came up to cover your chest as his eyes seemed to take in your whole body at once. “Grimmjow…” you said. Your whole body felt like it was on fire under his stare. 

His grin turned into a softer kind of smile. Still holding his cockyness but much pleasester, more calming. He leaned now, letting his cock glide through your folds as he hovered above you, just a few inches from your face. His arms boxed you in on both sides as he rested them above you. “Tell me little one, do you imagine my cock filling your tight little pussy?” his voice was quieter, lower than before. “Dont be scared, tell me how much you think about me fucking you. Do you think about it at night while everyones asleep?” he pushed. When you struggled to get any words out Grimmjow frowned down at you. He pulled back and grabbed your arms, bringing them to hold his shoulders. “Hold on.” He commanded. 

You knit your browns together in confusion but do as he said and loosely grip his shoulder. All confusion was resolved when he hooked his hands around your thighs and hoisted you up. “Grimmjow!” you squealed, now clinging to him out of fear of falling back. He holds you with both legs at his hips and his cock nestled between your lips.

“Look at your dripping pussy, want my cock stretch you out and fuck you until you come?” He asked, smirking at you as his cock lined up with your waiting entrance. 

You couldn’t deny how wet you were and how this was really turning into a fantasy come true. His words were making you forget your own embarrassment over the situation bit by bit, allowing the cloud of need and desire to start swirling around in your head.

You looked at him through half lidded eyes and nod sheepishly. He smirked and slowly popped the head into your overly excited pussy. He hissed as your pussy gripped him, even with just the tip you could feel how big he was. You gasped at the stretch and clung tighter to his jacked.  “Watch sweet thing.” He said. “Watch my cock stretch you out and fill you up.” he cooed into your eyes. 

Your face flushed when you did as he said and glanced down at his cock slowly sinking into you. He just started and there was still so much of him left and he was thick. You gulped and let out a shaky moan when he got halfway in. “b-big, Grimmjow.” you squeaked out as his cock inches in slowly.

He leaned into your ear and coaxed you through the pain of him. Going slowly and allowing you to catch your breath and adjust when you made a particularly strangled sound. “That's it, little one, relax for me. You're taking my cock so well. Just a bit more. see, there we go.” he soothed attempted to sooth you as his cock felt like it was going to split you in two.

You watched the whole time, his massive cock pushing into you was a sight indeed and you almost couldn't believe it. Your forehead fell into the crook of his neck, just enough so you could still see his cock burying itself in your pussy. You clung to him, panting and gasping as he bottomed out in you. “So full.” you whimpered against him.

Grimmjow took a minute himself to adjust to your tight warm pussy clenching relentlessly around him. You were so tight and the slightest movement had your pussy gripping him like a vice. “Hey, relax please.” His voice was soothing in your ear, calming and low. “You pussy is so tight my cock cant move.” he said, trying to pull back but being met with resistance.

You took a few deep breaths and let your body relax, letting him pull back just enough to get some friction going. For a while that's how he stayed, slowly rocking you into his cock, not pulling out more than half way before sinking back in as deep as he could. Once your whimpers turned into moans of pleasure and he could feel your pussy flutter around him he picked up the pace. “Your doing so well, i think your ready for me to really fuck you now, dont you tink?” he asked, bringing your attention back to him. He grinned and gripped your thighs a little tighter. “I hope so because I can't hold back much longer.” he chimed. 

Youmoaned, feeling his thrust getting harder and faster slowly, working you up to just how much he wants to really ruin your pussy. “Please Grimmjow.” you said, ready for him to do whatever he wanted. He was making you feel so good already, your pussy was making the lewdest sounds in the quiet, dum lighting of your bedroom. 

He smirked and slowed his hips, now slowly rocking into you again. “Please? So needy now, why don't you answer my question from earlier. How much do you think about my cock, how much do you want it?”

You shake your head and hide it in the crook of his neck, a soft whimper leaving your lips. “Grimmjow, please!” you begged. 

He chuckled and stilled you on his cock, keeping himself fully pressed against you. you wiggled in his hold. “You know how to beg me, but you answer a simple question?” he teased. He held you tight as he brought himself to kneel on the bed. He laid you down on your back and came to hover over you, cock still fully buried in your pussy. “Tell me little human, and I'll give you what you need.” he husked, rolling his hips against you and hitting your sweet spot at the same time.

Your pussy fluttered around him as you let your dirty confessions out, no longer able to hold on to any embarrassment. His cock was just too much and it felt too good to deny. “Since the first day.” you felt his cock twitched at your words. “I think about you every night.” you tried to sound more confident but it still sounded like a whimper. 

He brought a hand up to cradle your cheek as he took in your disheveled appearance and rosy cheeks. “Oh sweet thing, should have told me sooner.” he grinned down at you. “I could have made your sweet little pussy feel so good a long time ago.” he said, now starting to thrust his hips back into you at a steady pace. “It’s okay, I got you now.” he cooed as his hips sped up, his hands came down to hold your hips so he could find the best angle and when he did your face contorted into one of pure pleasure. The longer he watched you wither under him and the loader your moans got the more he was fueled to fuck into you faster and harder, never stopping his assault on your sweet spot. The way your pussy pulled him in and strangled his cock was intoxicating and his only goal was to make you cum on his cock so he could feel your pussy around him when you came undone.

You had tears streaming down your face as you gripped his forearms for support as he pounded into you. You babbled nonsense, barely making out more than a few words at once. “Mo-ore, please. So fuu-Aahha~ Grim-mjow!” his breathy name falling from your parted lips was like music to his ears. 

He leaned down with one arm holding himself above you. His lips grazed yours before pushing against them and kissing you. Your eyes blinked shut as he deepened the kiss the same time his cock pressed impossibly deep. You let out a loud needy moan that he eagerly swallowed with his own mouth. Now with full access he slid his tongue past your lips in a claiming kiss.

Your fingers dig into his arms as you feel your pussy begin to spasm. Grimmjow pulls back at the same time with a hiss. “Fuck, gripping me so tight little one, need to come?” he asked, watching you attempt to focus back on his face as your chest heaved and your thighs wrapped around him, locking him in place and allowing him to hit just that little but deeper. He growled and came back down to the crook of your neck. He sucked and bit the skin in a frenzy, wanting to mark you but his own mind was focused on feeling your pussy and listening to your sweet sounds. “You can do it little one, come for me. Let me feel your little pussy squeeze me cock.” he groaned into your neck before sucking particularly hard on a mark he just made. 

Your eyes screwed shut, before you knew it your oragism was hitting you like a ton of bricks. “Grimmjow!” you couldn't help but cry out his name, he was the only thing in your mind as your pussy spasmed around his cock. 

Without slowing down he continued to pound into you. “Fuck, you can take me cum right little human? You’ll let me fill you up?” he practically growled, face still hidden in the crook of your neck. Truly he didn't want you to see just how pussy drunk you were making him.

You whined under him, feeling overstimulated as his cock continued to thrust into you, though his movements have become sloppier, more erratic. “Please, cum in me, want to feel it.” you managed to choke out.

“Fuck” he grit his teeth and slammed his hips into you a few times for you felt his hot seed coat you walls ins spurts. You clung to him, arms holding tight and legs locked firm as he rutted his hips against you, forcing his cum as deep as he could. “Fuck, so good. Taking all of me.” he praised. He ushed himself up with one arm and smirked down at your fucked out face. “Look at you, a mess on my cock.” he mocked but you could tell it wasn't meant to be mean.  

Your eyes focused and your head slowed down. You looked down between your bodies and almost whimpered at the sight of his cum leaking out around his cock. You did whimper when he began to drag his softening cock out of you slowly, letting it drag along your walls as his cum flowed out. He let out a low groan when you were finally empty, your fluids mixing and dripping out of you. 

“Fuck, i cant wait to do this again.” he said, eyes fixed on your glistening pussy. 

Your head snapped to full attention. “Again?” you asked quietly, not sure you heard him right. 

His eyes snapped to yours with a growing smirk before shifting back to your sopping cunt. “Mhhmm.” he almost growled. With two fingers he slid his dripping cum back up and stuffed back into your pussy, pushing in deep as you let out a soft sigh. “I want to see your pussy full of my cum every night.” he said, pulling his fingers out and bringing them to your lips, waiting for you to open them. “Would you like that pretty thing?” You parted your lips slightly and let him slide them between your lips and onto your tongue. 

Your only response was a needy moan around his thick fingers as you tasted your mixed climaxes. How could you say no? This was a fantasy come true.

[billlydear]

SUPERNOVA - BILLY HARGROVE X READER (PART ONE)

word count: 3135 // masterlist | inbox (please request) | WIP list

Summary: max's english tutor has a black eye and a shitty alibi. billy sees right through it.

Contents/Warnings: fem!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual happy ending, mentions of abuse, injuries mentioned (black eye), reader is abused by her mother just like billy is by his father

A/N: thank you for 300 followers!!! have this as a little gift from me to you <3 basic biology part three is in the works, don't worry! i just wrote this in a fit of sleep deprived passion the other night after thinking about it for a week or so and i wanted to share :) i hope you enjoy! the ending of this is pretty straightforward and, though i plan to write more parts, this can be read on its own for now.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

There’s never a good reason for Max to stomp into Billy’s room. It’s always either her demanding a ride somewhere, asking for money, or shouting at him to turn his music down. This time, though, there’s no music playing, and it’s nearing 11:00 PM, so he’s not sure why she’d need money or a ride.

He glances up at her, really more of a glare, through his eyelashes, reclined against the wall as he lounges on his bed. He’s got a magazine in hand and the pages are as boring as the cover was, but he’d rather stare at faded jet ski advertisements than read the book he’s supposed to be working on for English.

She stops just inside the doorway, jacket on and shoes laced. He narrows his eyes at her, something of a question, and she sounds just as venomous as he looks when she replies.

“I need to borrow your window.” She mutters, piercing eyes set on him.

He’s heard her say a lot of weird things since they started living together. Mom, I can’t find my left rollerskate, Why is my bra in the freezer?, and We’re not going in the theater, we’re going to sit outside and talk, have previously topped the list but this is off the charts.

“Sure, Max,” He drawls, fingers tightening against the waxy magazine paper, “Just haul it back in here when you’re done, okay?”

“You know what I mean,” She huffs, already lunging for his bed. She practically topples him in her overzealous attempt to reach the window, and he shoots a hand out to steady himself as the mattress rocks. He has half a mind to kick her onto the floor but he watches her click a flashlight open from her jacket pocket, and stares with suspicious intrigue instead.

“Come on, come on,” She huffs, clicking the light on, off, on, off, “Where is she?”

“Who?” Billy leans forwards, peering out the window into the blackened neighborhood, “Jesus, Max, don’t go shining lights into people’s windows at night, they’ll think you’re some creep trying to watch them change.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you know that from experience,” She grumbles, shoving his hand away when he tries grabbing the light.

“I’m not kidding,” Billy seethes, muscled arm coming to combat her defenses, nearly shoving her off of the end of the bed, “What are you even trying to do, anyways?”

“I’m trying to talk to my tutor,” She snaps, landing a sharp slap to his thigh that reddens the skin there, “Butt out, butthead.”

“Assface,” Billy grumbles, rubbing at the tender spot on his leg with half a mind to whack her upside the head. She ignores him completely, desperately flicking the light at a ground floor window.

“Do you really need tutoring help now?” Billy groans, the incessant clicking preventing him from what was supposed to be his before-bed relaxation.

“She wasn’t at school today,” Max explains in a huff, “Or- like, she didn’t show up at my school. She called this morning to say she was sick, but she sounded fine, and I heard someone in the parking lot say that they saw her outside her house, just sitting there, like, really late last night.”

“So she was getting some fresh air,” Billy deadpans, “Now get out of my room.”

“Would it kill you to cooperate?” Max turns to him with such a judgemental stare that Billy’s surprised he doesn’t wither away right on the spot. Hell hath no fury like a teenage girl scorned, he thinks, annoyance bubbling in his chest.

“She’s obviously not coming,” Billy reasons, his patience wearing thin after almost two minutes of flashlight nonsense, “She’s probably sleeping. She’s got the flu or something, and you’re gonna wake her up and make her even more sick. Just leave her alone, and leave me alone.”

“I’m not asking you to be a part of this!” She gushes, jaw set in a hard frown and eyes rolling when he props his elbow up on the windowsill, cheek smushed into a bored expression against his palm.

“I just want to see if she’s okay, because she doesn’t normally get sick, and I haven’t seen her window open all day, and I really think that something might be wrong, so-”

After a staggering two minutes and forty-six seconds of morse code from hell, your curtains part. Max practically lights up at the sliver of light that appears between the drapes, but when your face pops between it, her breath hitches in a gasp.

Your eye is bruised. It’s swollen shut and purple, an ugly stain that blooms down your cheek, like a rose that sticks its thorns straight into Billy’s chest. His posture, previously saggy and bored, stiffens until he’s nearly pressed against the glass, brows furrowed in horror as his lips part ever-so-slightly.

“Oh my god,” Max breathes, and you regard them both with a weary gaze.

Max lifts the lower half of Billy’s window, slipping out the gap with such agility and speed that Billy doesn’t have a chance to try to stop her before she’s already outside. He rushes to follow her, cringing as his bare feet land in damp piles of leaves.

“What happened to you?” Max runs to your window, bracing her hands on the sill.

“Nothing,” You try to smile, and it pulls at the skin around your eye, finishing the expression off with a wince, “I just- it’s silly, okay? I slipped and fell on the ice out front and I hit the stair rail on the way down. I was too embarrassed to go to school, ‘cause I knew everyone would ask, so I just called out sick. I’m sorry, Max, I know today was our day, but I’ll do double time once this heals.”

The more you ramble, the quicker you spew your pre-determined speech, the more the thorns lodge themselves in Billy’s gut. It’s familiar behavior, having an outlandish excuse at your disposal, reciting it like poetry, blaming the bruises on a misstep down the stairs rather than a rage-fueled fist. He’s done the same to countless teachers, all staring down at him with a condescending sneer, assuming he’d instigated another fight.

Max might not be well acquainted with different types of bruises - and god he hopes she never has to be - but Billy certainly is. And your black eye is not from a stair railing, he knows that. It looks the same as his does whenever Neil decides he’s in a fighting mood, and it doesn’t seem like you have the frozen peas that Billy usually medicates his marks with.

“It’s okay!” Max promises, and thankfully she commands enough of your attention to where you don’t notice Billy’s grief-stricken stare, looking for all the world like he’d been punched in the gut.

‘It’s okay, we can just meet up some other time. Or- or I can come over to your house! So you don’t have to show your face anywhere. And I won’t tell,” She insists, hands dug snugly into the pockets of her jacket, “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

So are you, Billy notes, just not to the people with the same ones.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” You frown slightly, biting the inside of your cheek, “This really hurts, and it’s kind of giving me a headache, so… might be best to just meet when it’s healed.”

“That’s fine,” Max nods, reaching up and through the window to sling her arms around your neck in a rushed hug, “Just- call me when it’s better, okay? My teacher set us this new essay, and it’s got some stupidly complicated prompt, so I need your help figuring out-”

Billy watches as your head ticks up, eyes widening slightly as you tune into the sounds of your house. He knows the look all too well, you’ve heard someone coming.

“That’s great Max,” You stammer, reaching for the window pane to close it, "I’ve gotta go!”

“-how to… write it.” She finishes, face wrinkling in confusion when you slam the window shut, yanking the curtains closed, “Feel better…”

“Go,” Billy jumps to action, hearing a raised voice from within your room, not your own, “Max, move!”

He pushes her along the side of their house, shoving her around the back until they’re out of the line of sight from your window. He peers around the corner from behind an overgrown trellis, one that lets him see you without you seeing him. He waits with bated breath, ignoring Max’s indignant protests and slamming a hand over her mouth.

She licks his palm, but he manages to stay calm and keep it there. He will smear it on her cheek later, though.

Sure enough, Billy watches your curtains fly open. There’s a woman in the window now, and you’re standing behind her, expression unreadable. Then you speak, and Billy can’t hear it. Your voice must be soft, gentle, calming. The woman barrely reacts, eyes scanning wildly for whoever you’d been talking to. But Billy keeps Max quiet, pinching her hard when she tries escaping his grip.

Billy watches the woman in your window with a hatred he’s only ever felt towards Neil. She acts the same, menacing glares and a puffed-up chest. You react just as he does, a personified tension-diffuser as you shrink in on yourself and give steady, slow answers. She’s shouting, you’re mumbling. She’s advancing, you’re backing away. She’s grabbing your wrist, forcing you close to her, and you’re squeezing your eyes shut.

Billy’s stomach churns; he can’t watch this any longer.

He herds Max to the other side of the house, keeps her restrained with one hand and pries at her window with the other. It opens smooth and easy, no squeaking that would alert their parents to their escapade.

Once they’re both inside, she flips.

“You asshole,” She huffs, “You manhandled me! You really couldn’t just let me have one nice conversation with my friend? You had to yank me away like some psychopath?”

“She wasn’t going to come back,” Billy murmurs, a glint in his eyes urging her to lower her own voice, “And she didn’t fall down the stairs. Go to sleep, Max.”

He feels a pillow hit him in the back as he strides out of her room, and each step down the hallway towards his own feels like he’s numbing from the inside out. The role reversal of his own life had been so mind-shattering, watching a scene from his household happen in real time in front of him instead of a torturous memory in his nightmares.

By the time he reaches his room, his fingers are too numb to shut the door. He kicks it closed instead, staring out of the still-opened window to watch your own. The curtains are drawn again, shutting you off from the world.

He stands there staring for what feels like seconds, but is probably minutes with the way his brain is warping his thoughts. Abuse felt so lonely, it was a soundproof room with padded walls, but they stung like hot coals when his dad came stomping in to shove him up against them. His family, his safe space, his padded room, came with the irony of only existing alongside pain, fear, and anxiety. And knowing there was an identical room beside his for god knows how long, thick layers of insulation drowning out each of your cries and blocking out each other’s existence, makes him sick.

His eye stings with the residual image of your own, a feeling he knows all too well. His hand, on instinct, tingles with a cold sort of sensation, the same that he got from grabbing the ice-covered peas out of the freezer.

He’s off to the kitchen in a hurry, feet padding carefully across the floor so as not to alert anyone of his presence. The biggest challenge is opening the freezer door quietly, but he’s a pro at it by now. He takes the peas back to his room, but this time he doesn’t curl up in his bed with them pressed to his eye, he clutches them tightly and heads for the window.

Max’s flashlight is discarded on the sill, and he wraps it in his free fist. He clicks it on cautiously, testing the sound to see how it echoes in the empty space between your house and his. It’s not obnoxiously loud, hopefully no one can hear it.

He flashes it against your window, only for a second, then ducks beneath the sill. He waits, expecting an explosion of sound as your mother reaches out to grab him. But nothing happens, so he straightens up to his full height. The wind nips at his bare arms, goosebumps erupting over the skin not covered by his muscle tank. He waves the flashlight once more at your window, covering it with his thumb to flash it instead of clicking the button rapidly. 

He hears shuffling from inside, then silence. Then shuffling again, a little closer, and silence. Then more shuffling, and the routine continues until he hears your fingers scrape at the window pane.

You duck under the curtains this time, easier to slip back inside and shut the window instead of drawing the curtains, “Max, I can’t-”

Billy doesn’t know what to say when your eye catches him. He blinks, once, twice, three times, watching as your anxious eyes rove over him. Only then does he register the chill in his hand, the peas.

“Here,” He murmurs, voice soft and slightly raspy, as he holds the package out to you, “Ten minutes, then turn the package around, then ten more minutes. And if it’s still icy, do it over again.”

You take the peas because you have to, because he’s pressing the cold package into your hand. Your fingers wrap around it and you peer curiously at the image on the front, only glancing back up at him when he shifts in his stance, leaves crushed beneath his feet.

“The package rustles,” He warns you, “Be careful. Don’t get caught.”

“I won’t,” You finally murmur, breaking your stunned silence, “I- Uh, thank you. It’s.. Billy, right?”

“Yeah,” He breathes, nodding once. He’s half aware that his curls aren’t exactly perfect like they typically are, because nodding sends one of them tumbling into his eyesight over his forehead, “That’s me.”

“Y/N,” You mumble, and this time even Billy hears the heavy footfalls in your hallway. They set you on edge again, and he yanks his fingers back from the windowsill so that you can snap it shut, “I gotta go.”

“Bye,” He whispers, voice lost to the night as he stands outside your window. He ducks beneath the sill again, where your mom can’t see him if she decides to search the premises. He doesn’t hear anything from your room, though, and he takes it as a good sign when the footsteps retreat. Then he hears the soft crunch of the package of peas, muffled beneath what he assumes is your blanket as bed springs creak from within.

His eyes snap shut at the sound, envisioning you curled up beneath your comforter, hugging the bag of peas to your bruise. It’s a position that feels so natural to him he almost replicates it, back slumped against the siding of your house. The rustling stops; you got yourself settled.

Only then does he move, climbing back through his window and shutting it for the night. He can’t sleep, though, eyes drifting towards your window from his seat on his bed. He watches, he waits, he stares until his eyes sting, every second that passes a blessing for the lack of commotion it causes. When he does fall asleep it’s after the upstairs lights of your house have shut off, because only then is it over, only then is it safe. He sleeps in solidarity with you, knowing that the click of the lightswitch puts you at ease just like it does him; if there's someone else awake, it’s not safe to sleep. He’ll wake up tomorrow morning with a stiff neck from sleeping up against the wall, but his eyes will flutter open and the first thing he’ll see is your window, hopefully open to showcase peace inside.

Never in his life has he felt connected to someone his age. That’s what abuse does, that’s what Neil does. He isolates Billy, keeping him under his thumb so the boy can’t escape his clutches. But now there’s a glimmer of hope right next door. Hope, he supposes, isn’t the right word. A muddy black eye isn’t hopeful. It is, though, when it’s matching his own, when your scars and bruises line up with each other’s to map out constellations of torture. He wants to chart them, find out where the patterns are, spit out the stories behind them.

He’s spent enough time stargazing his own past, picking a new ball of fire each night to examine. To pick apart, to wish he’d have acted differently in, to regret. Now there’s a whole other sky mere feet away from him, and he yearns to chart it, to explore its patterns in the desperate hope of finding companionship. Oh, that cluster? A missed curfew. That bright one? Backtalk.

He’s always felt like a potential supernova. Like one day, all of the hurt, rage, and despair inside of him is going to burst forth in an explosion of color, blood and guts paired with anguish and heartache. 

And now, knowing there’s another ticking time bomb beside him, two panes of glass separating the two dying stars, he has hope. Maybe it’s morbid, to want to explode in tandem. To seek connection in even destruction. All Billy knows is that if he can’t get out, he’ll die.

He thinks about it for a moment; getting out. Shooting across the galaxy, hurtling over the inky black sky until the swirling black hole that is Neil Hargrove can’t suck him in anymore. Landing somewhere where he burns bright without the threat of explosion. 

And for the first time since that vision began, he sees two stars. One yours and one his, twin flames, both rocketing towards a safe corner of the universe, one where no one else can dim your glow. 

Billy knows right then and there, he has to get to know you. He’s never tried making real friends, never wants to get close enough to have to reveal that Daddy hits him and Mommy - New Mommy - doesn’t care. But you’re the same as him, a dimming star puttering along with the desperate hope of migrating instead of exploding. And if you can feed off of each other’s light, merge into one, he knows you’ll be strong enough to escape together, to go out without a bang.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! your feedback motivates me to write more, so thank you for your support :-)

[syoish-aot]

"I Found You (too)" - EREN/READER - REINCARNATION AU (chapter 3)

eren/reader

reincarnation & memory loss

rating: M (16+)

cw: hospitalization, attempted nonconsensual drugging

word count: 3135

**I've got music in this part again (because I love writing scenes to music), so make sure you've got Please, Please, Please by Sabrina Carpenter at the ready because the scene is much better if you're listening along.

<- CH 2 | CH 4 ->

“Hey Armin.”

“What’s up?

“You know how you told me that she-... that she’s not from our first life?”

Even though the phone pressed to his ear, Eren could still hear Armin take a quick breath. “Y-Yeah.” His friend stuttered. 

“Well um-... Well, I think we were wrong…”

Your eyes finish slowly moving around the unfamiliar bedroom and, once you feel like you’ve properly taken it all in, you get out of bed.

You slowly walk towards the partly open bedroom door and peek your head out, curious to see what your home looks like in the light of day.

From your spot in the doorway, you can see a large couch. There’s a pillow on it and a blanket, messily thrown over the back. A coffee table with scattered pieces of paper and a chipped tea cup. One side of the wall has a large window and a balcony, which is the source of most of the light.

From another room, just across from the couch, you can hear shuffling.

Sizzling. 

Feet against tile and music playing. There’s a voice, just barely audible as he hums along to the melody on the radio.

(at least you assume it’s a radio)

You can’t help slowly creeping towards the kitchen so you can watch. It’s Mr. Kruger. He’s standing in front of the stove and holding a spatula in one hand, with a small black cat in the other. He flips a pancake, bouncing to the beat of the music as he rocks the cat back and forth in his arms.

A smile spreads across your face as he starts to mumble the words to the unfamiliar song:

I know I have good judgment, I know I have good taste.

It's funny and it's ironic that only I feel that way,

I promise 'em that you're different and everyone makes mistakes

But just don't-

The kitten reaches up to boop his nose, so Mr. Kruger looks down at it.

I heard that you're an actor, so act like a stand-up guy

Whatever devil's inside you, don't let him out tonight

I tell them it's just your culture and everyone rolls their eyes

Yeah, I know

All I'm asking, baby~

Suddenly, he holds the spatula like a microphone:

Please Please Please

Don't prove I'm right!

You notice that the cat he’s holding is missing an eye.

And please, please, please

Don't bring me to tears when I just did my makeup so nice

He kisses its forehead.

Heartbreak is one thing, my ego's another.

I beg you, don't embarrass me, motherfucker

oh~

Mr. Kruger places the cat on the counter and taps its nose along to the beat:

Please Please Please!

Next to the first cat is a second. This one is orange and white and almost triples the other one in size. Mr. Kruger scratches it under its chin before he continues to sing, this time slightly louder with more confidence, as if he’s completely oblivious to his surroundings and the fact that he’s being watched.

And we could live so happily if no one knows that you're with me I'm just kidding, but really, really, really-

The spatula becomes his microphone again.

Please, Please, Please

Don't prove I'm right~

The cat that had woken you up stumbles into the kitchen and rubs against Mr. Kruger’s leg.

And please, Please, Please,

Don't bring me to tears when I just did my makeup so nice!

He crouches down to pet the cat’s head. 

Heartbreak is one thing, my ego's another,

I beg you, don't embarrass me, Motherfucker, oh~

The cat lets out a happy ‘mrr’ as Mr. Kruger scoops it up into his arms and dramatically holds it up in the air. Its three limbs dangle uselessly at its side.

If you wanna go and be stupid Don't do it in front of me~

He lowers the cat to cuddle it to his chest.

If you don't wanna cry to my music Don't make me hate you prolifically~

“Mrr.” The cat says again before it looks across the room at you. 

Please, please, please,

Mr. Kruger sings.

Please, please, please,

He tilts his head to the side.

Please,

He follows the cat’s line of sight

Please,

He sees you.

please, pl-

“Ah!” Mr. Kruger jumps, dropping his spatula to the floor as his face suddenly burns bright red. The cat jumps from his arms and stumbles to land on account of its missing back leg.

It wobbles as it runs past you out of the kitchen while the last few notes of the song ring out. Mr. Kruger is left completely frozen.

You press your hand to your lips and hold back a laugh.

Then the fire alarm goes off and the kitchen fills with smoke.

“So it’s… a radio then?” You ask as you flip around the strange device that Mr. Kruger had been listening to his song. It’s smooth like glass but it isn’t heavy enough to be a solid piece. 

“That’s one thing you can use it for, yeah.” Mr. Kruger explains as he holds out his hand and you give him back the phone (which was a strange thing for him to call, considering it looked nothing like a phone). “It’s also a camera.” He explains as he clicks one of the buttons on the side and suddenly you’re looking right through the device to the floor.

“Woah!” You exclaim, excitedly grabbing it back from him as you flip it around in your hands again. “...this is such a strange dream…” You mumble to yourself.

“What?”

“Nothing!” You quickly say, worried that if you think too hard about the fact that this is a dream you’ll wake up.

You give him the device back, sure that he’ll have even more fascinating things to show you as the day goes on. 

On the coffee table in front of you are two empty plates from the breakfast Mr. Kruger had made for you. It was delicious, sweet pancakes with more syrup than you’d ever been allowed. You’d gotten so used to bland rations with no flavour whatsoever. Even your tea always had to be taken black because anything else would be a waste of the limited resources that you had. 

Sitting on the couch next to you is the brown cat that woke you up. He’s purring softly with his legs tucked under him. He occasionally nuzzles against your thigh to beg for attention, so you pat his head and give it to him.

Mr. Kruger has the black kitten on his lap. She’s completely asleep but her tail twitches every once and a while despite it.

Between the two of you is the big fat orange and white one. He’s grooming himself after he spent your whole meal begging for food (which Mr. Kruger said you weren’t allowed to give him because he was on a strict diet). 

You’d met a few cats before, street cats that were wary of humans and would only let you near them if you had the promise of food (which you never did). These cats are the exact opposite of that though and you couldn’t help but feel a twinge of affection as you watch Mr. Kruger idly scratch the kitten behind the ear as he taps away at the glass phone in his hands.

“There are some people coming over later.” Mr. Kruger tells you as he puts the phone down on the table.

“Some people?” You ask.

“Yeah. Our friends they um- they wanna talk to you.”

“Which friends?”

Mr. Kruger sounds hesitant to answer. “You probably don’t remember them.”

You scowl. “Why not.”

“I uh- it’s- they’ll explain it.”

“Why can’t you explain it?”

“I don’t wanna confuse you.”

“Why would you confuse me?”

“Just-” Suddenly he seems irritated and he’s more reminiscent of the Mr. Kruger that you know. Of the real Mr. Kruger that exists outside of this place. “I’m sorry.” He says, which isn’t something the real Mr. Kruger often says. “I don’t want to make this harder for you.”

You study his face.

His beautiful face.

You study the way his eyebrows tense and scrunch together in frustration before, with a sigh, they flatten again and he looks over at you with so much care in his eyes that it makes your heart feel like it might beat right out of your chest.

“Mr. Kruger?” You ask, just above a whisper.

“Yeah?” He answers, just as softly.

But you don’t really have anything to ask him. You want to ask him, of course. You want to ask him where you are, but you can’t risk that. 

Because if you ask him then-... then you might wake up.

His hand moves to the couch between you and you feel his fingers gently brush against it. It sends an electric rush of heat up your arm that radiates through your entire body.

“It’ll make more sense eventually.” Mr. Kruger tells you.

“...okay.” You say.

But you don’t want it to make sense.

It’s so much more peaceful if it doesn’t.

Mr. Kruger is frustrated today.

You don’t know why he is, but one of the doctors sent you in to “deal with him”. Since, apparently, you’re the one he’s the most reasonable with. 

You’re not sure what you’ve done to earn Mr. Kruger’s favour over the last few weeks, but if his favour is what gets you praised by the higher-ups you aren’t going to complain.

Briefly, you think back to Myra’s comment. Her little: “He probably has a crush on you.” But you immediately brush that thought away. He was probably just the type to respond better to positive reinforcement. Lord knows enough of the hospital staff leaned towards using the opposite method with patients.

So that’s why you’re there, knocking lightly on Mr. Kruger’s door an hour after you normally head home for the day.

There’s no answer, so you push it open.

“Mr. Kruger?” You ask softly.

He’s sitting on his bed, staring out the window and completely lost in thought.

He must not even notice that you’re there, so you’re cautious as you approach him, all too familiar with how violent some patients can be if they’re surprised.

“Mr. Kruger?” You ask for the second time, hoping that he’ll respond now that you’re closer.

He doesn’t. 

You move towards the window, careful to put enough space between yourself and him that you could move away if he lunged for you. Once you’re at the far end of the room, you can finally see his face. 

He’s in a daze, just like you thought he would be, trapped between his world and another as he stares out at the horizon.

You know exactly how it feels to be that far away.

“Mr. Kruger.” You say for the third time. This time it’s softer, barely above a whisper as if you’re politely asking for his attention instead of demanding it.

He blinks.

And then he looks over at you for half a second before looking down at his lap.

“Oh.” He says. “It’s you.”

You smile softly. “Yeah, it’s me.” Now that he’s aware of his surroundings, you step closer to him. “Dr. Rall said you didn’t want to take your medication this evening.” You point out. The paper cup is sitting empty on his bedside table, but you know it isn’t because he’d taken them, but because he’d hidden the pills under his tongue. You had a replacement in your pocket, but you wouldn’t give it to him until you were sure he’d accept it.

You’d never taken the time to check if Mr. Kruger was taking his medications before, always trusting that he had (especially with how often he complained about wanting his painkillers), but this evening you’d been wrapped up with another patient so Dr. Rall had come in to give Mr. Kruger his medications instead.

Dr. Rall was the type to demand proof that they’d been swallowed.

And they hadn’t been.

You could see a deep purple bruise forming against Mr. Kruger’s cheek in the shape of a thumb. You didn’t need to ask to know that it was where Dr. Rall had grabbed him as he tried to force the pills down his throat. 

Mr. Kruger had bitten him in defiance, nearly chomping his thumb clean off. 

The blood splattered across the front of his shirt was proof enough of that. 

“He wouldn’t tell me what the green one was.” Mr. Kruger explained simply, with no emotion behind his tone to indicate anything about his mood.

“Oh.” You answer softly.

“So, what is it?” Mr. Kruger asks you, slowly meeting your eyes again after he’d spent the last few seconds avoiding your gaze.

Your chest suddenly felt tight as your palms became damp.

You normally avoided making eye contact with him. Making eye contact it-... it felt strange.

Confusing.

Because staring into his eyes sometimes felt like it brought you to a different plane of existence. Their deep blues and greens were so beautiful almost- almost out of place against the bags beneath them and his unshaven face.

It made you wonder what his eyes would look like on someone else or maybe on- on a different version of him. A happier version. A version that hadn’t been surrounded by war and pain and death. A version of him that existed somewhere-

…somewhere nice.

You wondered how his eyes would light up the rest of his face somewhere like that.

Mr. Kruger sighs at your lack of answer and pushes himself out of bed. He stumbles as he reaches for his crutch, but you’re immediately at his side, holding him up so he won't fall.

“Gotta change-” he mumbles as he tries to step towards the shelf on the other side of the room that housed a single change of clean clothes.

“I’ll help you.” You say.

“I don’t need your help.” He pushes you away.

“You can’t walk,” you tell him as you try to guide him back to the bed, “just sit down and I’ll-”

“I SAID I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP!!”

You don’t want it to affect you. It shouldn’t affect you.

You’d been yelled at by plenty of patients. Doctors. Fellow nurses. Being screamed at was in your job description and it was something that happened to you every single day so it shouldn’t affect you, it shouldn’t but-

But you can feel heat form in the back of your eyes.

Your vision blurs.

His words rattle in your ear.

Mr. Kruger had always been so quiet. So wrapped up in his head that you couldn’t imagine him raising his voice. 

That’s why he was your favourite. Because he was. Mr. Kruger was your favourite and he had a habit of slipping away to spend time somewhere else, just like you did.

He was your favourite.

“Th- The green pills are a sedative.” You tell Mr. Kruger as you blink back your tears and hand him his crutch. You don’t pull away from him until you’re confident he’s stable enough to stand on his own. Then you take a step back. “We give them to the patients that become violent. I don’t know why Dr. Rall wants to start you on them.”

Mr. Kruger doesn’t say anything as he hobbles to the other side of the room. He grabs a shirt, a clean shirt, with no blood stains mucking up the front.

He leans his crutch against the wall as he pulls his old shirt off and tosses it to the floor.

He stumbles.

He catches himself on the wall.

He can’t lift his hand away to pull the shirt over his head without risking falling over again.

So, he grabs his crutch and staggers back to the bed where he sits down.

“I haven’t been violent.” He mutters.

“I know.”

“Then why are they drugging me?”

“I-... I don’t know.”

And you don’t. Truly you don’t. You were the nurse that tended to Mr. Kruger the most and you’d never indicated on your reports that he was anywhere close to even mildly uncooperative. He’d always taken his medications. Always changed when you asked him to, bathed when it was his day for that, asked softly to be escorted to the washroom, the courtyard, or just for a walk down the hall.

He was a model patient, really.

“...guess they’ve a got reason to now.” Mr. Kruger mumbles as he pulls his shirt over his head now that he’s seated and wouldn’t risk falling over.

“Yeah I-... I guess they do.” 

Mr. Kruger finishes getting changed. His arms fall to his sides once his new shirt is on. He’ll still need a bath though. There’s dried blood on his chest.

You brush that thought aside: “But I-... um…”

“What?”

“I could… I could not give them to you…”

Your eyes meet again and it’s the same as it always is- your heart hammers in your chest as his blue-green eyes, eyes that are so beautiful and don’t belong on such a depressed face, light up.

For an instant, it takes you somewhere else.

For an instant, everything is so warm.

“And why would you do that?” Mr. Kruger asks, still maintaining eye contact.

“Because I… I have no reason to believe that you need them.”

“Hm.” Mr. Kruger hums before he breaks away from your stare and looks back out the window, regaining the position he’d been in when you’d come to find him. “I’ll make sure to keep it that way.”

Then he’s gone again and you’re not sure where he’s drifted off to.

But, as he stares out at the horizon, you have a feeling it’s somewhere nice.

You have a feeling it’s somewhere warm.

You leave Mr. Kruger’s room and reach for the clipboard hanging in front of the door. 

It details his entire treatment plan. His daily vitals. When he gets his meals and when he’s given free time outside of his room.

And it lists his medications:

Morphine - checked off for body daily doses Penicillin - checked off for both daily doses Nutrilite  - checked off for both daily doses

And finally:

Zolpidem - newly added to Mr. Kruger’s chart and currently not checked off.

You pat your pocket and you can feel the cylindrical green pill against the fabric. You twirl it between your fingers and recall the way Mr. Kruger had stared out the window, blissfully unaware that you’d even entered the room.

He’d bitten Dr. Rall, but only because the doctor hadn’t answered his question.

Only because the doctor had become violent first.

You can’t blame him for it. You would have done the same. 

So, you pull your hand away from your pocket and grab the pencil tied to the clipboard in your hands.

Zolpidem - ✓

TAG LIST - [like this post to be added]

@janneeeexdxc @dumdxm @ebubeu

@merrygo14 @gojojang @maluvilela

@shmaptainbonky @fvckingeetar @hyunsbaby

@vlsquuu @f4irygard3n @yhrgh

@xngelsau @venus1224idkpleaze @dahliawarner

[hotchs-bitch]

Fluffy Feb Day 12- Jewel

Warnings: established relationship, sugar daddy hotch, mentions of sex, feelings of guilt (aka I addressed my main issue with sugar daddy fics thx)

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 923

A/N: you can find a visual for the watch here, if you want it. If I do say so myself, it is an incredibly sexy watch and it makes me want to write a pt 2 to my watch blurb

Having a sugar daddy is completely new to you. It’s new to Aaron too, but after meeting on a sugar daddy site the two of you had agreed to give it a try together.

All these handbooks and websites and Tiktoks about how to get money from an older, well-off man, and not one of them had warned you about the guilt. He wants to give you his money, wants to buy you things, but there’s still a twinge in your stomach every time Aaron pays for dinner or gifts you a new dress.

“Do you just feel like you’re buying me?” You ask bluntly one night when the two of you are lying in bed. You’ve just had sex- very good sex, for the record; Aaron totally knows what he’s doing for someone who hasn’t fucked since he was married- spurred on by the lingerie you’d bought with his money today. You’re spent, breathing heavily and trying to come back down to earth, and you’ve totally ruined the mood.

You can feel Aaron’s frown before you can see it, and he pulls his face out of the crook of his neck where he’s been laving you with kisses. “What? Princess, what are you talking about?”

The crease between his eyebrows begs you to smooth it, so you do just that with your thumb before letting your hand rest on his cheek. “I don’t know,” you say, but that’s not true so you try again. “Do you think I’m just here for money? Like you’re just buying my company, or sex?”

Understanding dawns in Aaron’s eyes. “Am I?” He brushes a chaste kiss to your jaw.

“No.” The question feels more like an accusation, and your answer is as quick as it is firm. “I like spending time with you. I like you.”

“Then we’re okay,” he promises, “because I don’t think you’re just here for my money. And even if you are…” he averts his gaze, and you run your fingers through your hair twice in the time it takes him to figure out his thoughts before speaking. “The money is just what brought you to me. I’d do anything for you to stay, and if that’s using money, then so be it.”

The money is just what brought you to me.

It’s a sentence that bounces around your mind and lets you spend several days ruminating on it. You didn’t quite know what to say to that in the moment- you still don’t, to be honest- but it’s a perfect way to summarize how you feel, too.

At some point, it clicks for you; the way to show Aaron that you aren’t with him for his money is to spend money on him, isn’t it? 

That’s how you wind up at a local jeweller, looking through different necklaces and rings and a few anklets geared towards men. You end up settling on a watch, a Submariner Date Rolex with a sapphire faceband and diamond hour markers. 

It’s nothing you could ever afford on your own, but Aaron spoils you so much; it’s going to feel so good to repay the favour. The saleswoman talks about the watch, gives you stats about it you can’t hope to understand- 18k gold? Swiss made? Rolex calibre of 3135? You hardly understand a thing she’s saying, but you understand ‘31 jewels’ well enough, so you swipe your credit card and try to act like you know what you’re doing.

Aaron comes over that night around the same time he normally does. Instead of getting dressed up and going out, the two of you have decided to spend the night in, cook dinner together, and watch a movie.

Sometime between your second glass of white wine and watching Aaron sing along to classic rock into a whisk while he makes spaghetti sauce, your heart starts to ache. Even if his question the other night was rhetorical, how could he ever believe that you would give up this if he didn’t have money?

Your plan to wait until after dinner is thrown out the window. Instead, you replace the whisk in his hand with a Rolex box and place a kiss to his cheek. It’s almost comical, the way Aaron’s eyes widen when he reads the box. “Princess, you really didn’t need to,” he protests. “You should save your money, you don’t need to waste it on me.”

“The money,” you remind him, bringing up his other hand to help him open the box, “Is just what brought you to me. Take a look.”

Aaron’s face flushes as he takes in the watch, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he presumably tries to figure out what to say. “I love you,” is what he settles on, and he says it in a voice that’s as thick with emotion as it is hoarse.

“I love you more.” You laugh aloud when he pulls you into his arms, discarding the box on the counter as he kisses you deeply.

“That’s an expensive watch,” he says when you finally break apart, and you beam at him.

“It’s worth it. I don’t regret it.”

“I know you don’t.” He chucks your chin gently, smiling broadly as he shakes his head. “But I’m going to be paying your rent for months now.”

“I’d take you, money or not,” you tell him, and you mean it. Your face splits into an even wider grin, and you wrap your arms around his neck. “This is just a really great side bonus.”

Fluffy Feb masterlist | < Prev Day | Next Day >

Fluffy Feb tags: @doctorsteths-fluffyfeb @iammirrorball @hausofwhores @allthefandomstogether @myweepingangel @hotched @spacecowboyhotch @chibsytelford @honeybrowne @formulapierre @nd264 @hotchnerxnegan1017 (send me a dm or ask to be tagged!)

[joezworld]

Traintober day 25

Hey guys,

I know I said I wasn't going to really participate in this year's traintober, but I ended up writing something over the last few weeks and figured I'd post it here. I'm a freelance contributor to Trains.com, the web arm of Trains Magazine, (you can read my IRL work here) and I wrote this for that. However, they have a maximum of about 4,000 words for print and 600-1,000 words for web, and this is past 7,000. So even if it makes it into print, it's not going to in its original form. So I'm giving it to you guys. Everything you're about to read is real. There's even an NTSB report on it.

Negligence and Gravity: The Story of a Train Wreck

Prologue

November 17, 1980

Cima, California - a barely inhabited place on a barely used road. A one horse town where the horse had run off. It sits at the intersection of two empty roads, with nothing to show for it but a general store-slash-post office. A true speck on the map, it likely would have been abandoned long ago had it not been for the presence of the Union Pacific Railroad, which sent dozens of trains each day past the ramshackle post office. Many trains rolled right on by, but more and more stopped, checking their brakes, cooling their wheels, or manually setting air brake retainers on each car of their trains.

They did so with good reason; stretching out beyond the post office towards the west, and paralleling the only main road, was a railroad line some twenty miles long. Part of the UP California subdivision that stretches from Las Vegas to Yermo, and then on to Los Angeles, it descends two thousand and six feet between Cima and Kelso, another barely-there town in the California desert. It was and still is one of the steepest portions of the Union Pacific system - accounting for curves and uneven geography, the UP considered the line to be a sustained 2.20% gradient. Any train that exceeded certain weight, braking force, or locomotive limitations was required to stop at Cima, and manually set brake retainers, before continuing down the hill.

As the clock ticked towards 1:50 in the afternoon, three trains entered this tale much like characters in a Shakespearean tragedy.

On the southern passing track is a long grain train, Extra 3135 West. 73 hoppers trail behind a lashup of SD40s, with dash-2 model 3135 on point. The air above the locomotives shimmers and ripples as heat from the motors, exhaust vents, and dynamic brake blisters radiates off into the mild November air.

In the center, a van train rolls past. The train, officially known as both 2-VAN-16 and Extra 8044 West, slows but doesn’t stop as it reaches the summit. Union Pacific has deemed this train capable of descending the grade with no extra precaution, and with good reason. Five locomotives are leashed to the front of this 49 car merchandise train, four SD40-2s trailing behind UP 6946 - the youngest member of the road’s 47-strong class of beastly 6,600 horsepower DDA40Xs. It’s an 8-axle titan in its last months of regular operation, with almost two million miles under its belt. The hot air from Extra 3135 mixes and whirls with the exhaust from the van train as it rolls by, the slab sides of the hoppers amplifying the bangs and squeals from 49 autoracks and piggyback flats. The noise increases as the train nears the end of the yard, the dynamic brakes already coming online as the train crests the summit. The engineer gives a blast from the horn as he passes the head end of the stopped trains, and then the van train is on its way down the hill. The caboose clears the track circuit at the far end of the passing sidings, and recedes into the distance. Within a few minutes the train is a distant shimmer as it snakes its way down the hill, an 8 million dollar steel serpent, bound for the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles.

Finally, there is the train on the northern passing siding. Extra 3119 West is not like the other two - there aren’t four or five locomotives hitched to a gargantuan train, one that stretches into the distance for a thousand feet or more. Instead, there’s a short consist of twenty cars, sandwiched between a single locomotive and a caboose. The cars are piled high with crossties, almost 11,000 of them, urgently needed by a tie gang at Yermo. So urgently, in fact, that if it hadn’t needed to stop and pin down its brakes, this lowly work train would’ve been rolling down the hill ahead of the high-priority van train.

Extra 3119 West, headed by the SD40 of the same number, has been in Cima for just under half an hour. In that time the crew had applied all the brake retainers, checked for defects, and otherwise readied their train for the descent into Kelso. Stopping meant that they’d be following the van train the whole way down, and so once the van train had gotten sufficiently small in the distance, the radio crackles. It’s dispatch, asking quite insistently if they were ready to go. They were, the engineer replies, and without any more to-do, the switch clunks into place, and the signal goes green. A double blast on the horn heralds the train’s departure, followed by the quiet squeal of brake shoes on steel wheels. There is no increased engine noise from the dynamic brakes. The train slips onto the main line, speed increasing slowly. By the time the caboose enters the main line, things are already going disastrously wrong.

Shortly thereafter, Extra 3135 powers up its train and descends the hill in a much more controlled fashion. Silence falls over Cima.

-

Negligence

November 13, 1980

The tale of negligence started three days earlier, at the Union Pacific tie plant in The Dalles, Oregon. Nestled in the valley of the Columbia River, The Dalles is nowadays best known for being the site of the worst bioterrorism attack in the United States, when members of the Rajneeshee religious organization poisoned several local restaurants with Salmonella in an attempt to influence local election turnout. However, that event is still four years into the future at this point, and the big news items in town are the May renumbering of Interstate 80N to I-84, and the March eruption of Mount St. Helens, some 65 miles away.

The Union Pacific tie plant, located between the west side of town and the newly-renumbered I-84, received an urgent order: 20 cars of 9-foot ties, urgently needed in Yermo, California. A mechanized tie gang working in the high desert is running low. Any delay will mean millions of dollars in wasted man-hours. The ties, estimated to number between 10 and 11 thousand, were hurriedly loaded into a series of F-70-1 bulkhead flatcars, modified for crosstie carriage with the addition of steel stakes down each side to prevent shifting. In addition to the 20 cars for Yermo, another group of 5 F-70-1s were being loaded with lighter 8-foot yard ties for renewal elsewhere on the California Subdivision. Inside the plant office, waybills for the 25 cars are being filled out, by hand. One of the most routine and mundane portions of loading railcars, the staff at the tie plant had made strides to simplify their workload; each waybill had been pre-filled with a seemingly appropriate weight figure: “about 60,000 pounds,” done in neat typewritten letters. This saved time, as it meant that tie cars didn’t have to be weighed, and exact quantities of loaded ties did not have to be known. Simple addition of this number to the known light weight of an F-70-1 flatcar (80,000 pounds), gave an estimated weight of 140,000 pounds per car. To the staff of the tie plant, complacent and ignorant, this seemed reasonable. They couldn’t know, because they didn’t want to, that the average per car weight of the 20 cars for Yermo was over 200,000 pounds.

-

November 17, 1980

“Urgent” might have been an understatement, when describing the journey these cars took. It took three days for the 25 flatbeds and their thousands of crossties to travel 1,260 miles across the Union Pacific system. They rolled into Las Vegas just before 1 AM on a manifest train; somehow, despite leaving The Dalles as a single block, a car containing beer had been inserted into the middle, with fifteen cars on one side and ten on the other. The how and why did not matter to the Las Vegas yard crews, who had been informed of the expedited nature of this train. Within minutes, the 26 cars had been taken off the manifest and were being shoved against a caboose that was already waiting. A third shift yard crew made quick work of the beer car and the five cars containing yard ties, but “disaster” struck when it was discovered that the caboose’s electrical system was non-functional. Somehow, despite having a major rail yard at their disposal, no other caboose could be found, and the issue could not be remedied. UP regulations forbade trains from running without rear lights between sundown and sun-up, so the highly expedited train was suddenly forced to cool its heels in the yard until lighting conditions improved.

With the delay, the new crew was scheduled to go on-duty at 8:05 AM, but just twenty minutes before, at 7:45, the Terminal Superintendent was informed that actually, the third shift crew had accidentally cut out the wrong cars - five cars of the 9-foot ties, not the five cars of 8-foot ties - and Extra 3119 West was about to set off with the wrong load. He responded with the unbelievable phrase of “Ties are ties”, and refused to have the incorrect cars set out, before reversing his decision some minutes later. While no other quotes are attributed to him in the subsequent NTSB report, his insistence on having the nearest yard crew drop what they were doing and fix the issue while he personally inspected the re-switching of the train speaks volumes on his mood at the time.

Not that he was of any help. During this frenzied switching, one car of 8-foot ties remained in the train. Its number - UP 913035 - was confused with another flatcar in the train - UP 913015. While minor in the overall sense, this slip-up shows exactly how quickly Las Vegas yard was working to get Extra 3119 West to its destination. When the train was finally ready, there were 19 cars of 9-foot ties behind locomotive 3119, and one car of 8-foot ties. As a car inspector was found, the final lading documents and waybills were presented to the engineer and conductor. Based on the flawed math of the tie plant, the train should have weighed 1,421.25 tons, however the final waybill read 1,495 tons exactly. Aside from being incorrect even against the tie plant’s figures, this weight was exactly five tons less than an internal UP tonnage/horsepower ratio that would determine whether or not the train would have to stop at Cima to apply brake retainers - with a 3,000 HP SD40, the train could not exceed 1,500 tons without incurring serious delays.

Based on the actual weight of a standard crosstie, and estimating how many were on the train, it’s likely that the train exceeded 2,000 tons.

It was customary for two car inspectors to check each departing train for defects and perform a brake test, however on the morning of the 17th, only one was available. Allegedly, he did his job and applied all due diligence, however it must be noted that no one who saw him conduct the test or the inspection lived to tell about it. Considering the haste in which the train was switched, the almost 8 hour delay due to the electrical problems in the caboose, and the close attention from the Las Vegas terminal superintendent, it’s possible that he rushed the job.

Actually, it’s certain that he rushed the job. Investigation of the wreckage would show that over half of the F-70-1 flatcars on Extra 3119 West had brakes that either only partially functioned, or did not function at all. At least three had their brakes cut out altogether. A proper inspection would have revealed that these cars were in a deplorable state of repair, with braking systems that could only be relied on for moral support, and in some cases not even that. But that would have taken time, time that the Union Pacific did not have, or rather, time that the UP did not want to spend.

Since 1979, the railroad had been pushing yards to decrease dwell times on through trains - Las Vegas yard had been given explicit instructions in writing that many high priority trains were to be given a minimal inspection, and were to be on their way again in 15 minutes. Later in the day when 2-VAN-16 arrived in Las Vegas, the head end crew noted that the train had been subject to an abbreviated inspection and air test, essentially rubber-stamping their train, and every other train that came through the yard.

So the inspector cleared Extra 3119 West, because he did know - he knew how much work would need to be done, how long it would take, how long it was supposed to take, and how much trouble he’d likely be in if he brought up the train’s condition.

-

Finally, at 10:00 AM, over 8 hours since it was supposed to depart, Extra 3119 left Las Vegas. Being technically a maintenance of way train, its crew was pulled from the extra board. While these men weren’t inept, one would be hard-pressed to find a less experienced crew on any road train that day:

David Totten, the engineer, had been with the railroad since 1974, but he had only been qualified as an engineer since January of 1979. Noted as a stickler for rules, and a capable railroader, he completed the relevant tests with a 96% score. However his road experience was limited - he’d only descended the grade from Cima 27 times in the last four and a half months.

Alan Branson, the conductor, had been with the company since 1973, but as a switchman in Los Angeles. He’d only been at his current position since April, at which time he was transferred to the Las Vegas extra board.

Cecil Faucett, the rear brakeman, had been with Union Pacific since June of 1978. He’d spent most of his time as a switchman in Los Angeles, and had only transferred to Las Vegas road service in February.

Wallace Dastrup, the head brakeman, had been with Union Pacific since May of 1979. After being briefly furloughed and transferred to Los Angeles, he was sent back to Las Vegas in late October of that year.

The oldest man on this crew was Engineer Totten, who was 31. Head brakeman Dastrup was the youngest, at just 22 years old.

-

Leaving Las Vegas, the trip proceeded normally, with the 3119 providing enough power to bring the train up the 1.00% grade that led from Las Vegas to Erie, Nevada at a steady 20-25 miles per hour. Behind them, separated by time and distance, were Extras 3135 and 8044 West. 3135, with a top speed of 50, left at 10:20, while 8044 (2-VAN-16), left at 12:05. It had a top speed of 70, and would easily catch up to the slower grain train at Cima. If Extra 3119 West had been any other train, it would likely have been profiled to wait in Cima as well, but on this day, the Van train would be following Alan Branson’s caboose all the way to Yermo.

Meanwhile, onboard the 3119, engineer Totten was discovering that his day was not going to go as planned. As the train descended the 1.00% grade outside of Erie, he discovered that the locomotive’s dynamic brakes were not functioning. This meant that the train would have to rely solely on its air brakes for the entire journey to Yermo - a daunting task considering the grade at Cima.

Union Pacific regulations explicitly ordered trains without dynamic brakes to stop at Cima and apply retainers, to maintain a speed of no more than 15 miles per hour, and to stop at the passing siding at Dawes - another speck on the map halfway down the hill - to cool not just the brakes, but the train wheels themselves.

Totten was known to be a stickler for the rules, and so he informed dispatch as he descended the grade out of Erie. Without comment, the Salt Lake City based dispatcher encoded the traffic control computer to put Extra 3119 West into the siding at Cima. At no point was there any mention of finding another engine for the train, or any other means of fixing the situation en-route.

The dispatcher, who wanted to know as little as possible, didn’t care.

-

The train rattled into Cima at 1:29, and Totten balanced it atop the summit, a location about 1,100 feet from the end of the siding. Boots were on the ground as soon as the train stopped moving, with Faucett and Branson moving up the train from the caboose, manually setting the brake retainers on the F-70-1 flatbeds to the high pressure position one at a time. The air was cool, only 62 degrees, and it was slightly overcast - a far cry from the soaring summertime temperatures this part of the state could reach.

As they worked, Extra 3135 arrived. It didn’t rattle so much as it rumbled - 75 loaded grain hoppers slightly shaking the earth as the two men worked. They probably didn’t envy the crew on that train; setting 75 retainer valves, and the long walk from each end of the train to reach them, was a daunting task.

It didn’t take long to set the retainers - at the halfway point of the train, they met head end brakeman Dastrup, who had been working his way down the train as they worked up it. He reported no defects on the head end of the train, and neither did the rear crew. They didn’t know - couldn’t have known - about the abysmal state of the flatcars; they were looking for dragging objects and hissing air leaks, and found none. Their portion of the job done, Faucett and Branson moved back down the train, leaving Dastrup to work his way back to the locomotive. It would be the last time that he was ever seen alive.

Shortly thereafter, the train began to move, engineer Totten moving the train onto the downgrade at the end of the siding to wait for the clear signal. At this point, they were waiting on the Van train coming up behind them, and then they’d be home free. In the caboose, Faucett glanced at the brake line pressures and observed nothing unusual. In the cab of the 3119, Totten was likely readying himself for the downgrade. Without dynamics, it would be a challenging descent, but the air brakes should be able to hold the train without much difficulty.

He had no idea that half his cars had non-functional brakes.

He had no idea that the train was overloaded.

He had no idea what was about to happen to him.

-

Inside the cab of Extra 3135 West, the engineer watched as 2-VAN-16 slipped by with muted alacrity. Across the main line from him, the short work train got ready to depart as soon as the switch aligned. He’d be next, and he readied himself as the other train rolled onto the main line. It built speed quickly, and soon entered the main as his watch clicked over to 1:59 PM. A few minutes later, his turn came, and the signal flashed to green. He powered up his lashup of SD40s, and the train slowly began to descend the grade in full dynamic.

-

“I keep setting air and it won’t slow down!”

-

Inside 2-VAN-16, the engineer began paying less and less attention to the tracks in front of him, and more attention to the radio beside him. 3119 West was having some difficulties with its braking - already a concern for any railroader, but considering that this was the train directly behind him, an elevated level of concern was prudent.

-

In the caboose of Extra 3119 West, the brakes applied as the train rolled past 17 MPH, and were not released again.

-

2.9 miles behind Extra 3119 West, in the cab of UP 3135, the engineer of the grain train could see both trains ahead of him: the distant speck of 2-VAN-16, some 7 miles away, and the work train in front of him. “That looks like it’s smoking,” he remarked to his brakeman. The two men looked into the distance; as the work train passed Chase, another former town on the UP line, it appeared to be smoking heavily - far too heavily for the short distance from the summit it had traveled.

-

On the few F-70-1 flatbeds that possessed functioning brakes, the wheelsets began to heat up dramatically. The brake shoes began to abrade from 2,000 tons of train pushing against them.

-

The Van train had cleared the passing track at Dawes, and was about 5 miles ahead of Extra 3119.

-

Inside the caboose of Extra 3119, the speedometer needle swung past 19 MPH. It was rising at a rate of 1.6 MPH every minute.

-

Things began to happen very quickly. The time was 2:14 PM

-

Following behind the smoking train, the head end crew of Extra 3135 West watched as the signal light at the east end of Chase went red-yellow-green like a slot machine. The only way for that to happen was for a train to pass through both the western home signal, and the western intermediate signal, at a rapid clip.

-

“I have 30 pounds of engine brakes!”

-

Inside the caboose, Faucett and Branson looked at the radio in horror as the speed continued to increase. They’d driven faster than this on their way into work, but now 20 MPH felt terrifying. As they flew through Chase, Branson remembered his training, still fresh in his mind, grabbed hold of the caboose air valve, and put the train into emergency. He heard the brakes come on under his feet and assumed, naively, that they’d just applied throughout the entire train. He had no idea that the brakes would only apply across the entire train if Engineer Totten had the train in emergency as well. He had no idea that by putting the train into emergency while a substantial service brake application was being made, he was causing a pressure relief valve inside the 3119 to continuously open, to try and restore pressure in the train. He had no idea that Union Pacific, in a cost-saving measure, had elected not to equip its SD40s with a brake pressure warning light that could have alerted Totten to what had just happened. He had no idea that UP’s driver training called for engineers to continue to make service brake applications in the event of a loss of braking, instead of immediately putting the train into emergency from the locomotive. He had no idea that putting the locomotive into emergency was the only way to override the pressure relief system.

He had no idea that by trying to save the train, he’d sealed its fate.

Union Pacific rules required the conductor to put the train into emergency if a situation like this occurred. They did not require the conductor to call the head end and inform the engineer. In his panic, and going off of instinct, Alan Branson frantically ran to the front of the caboose to try and uncouple it. He would not make a radio call for the rest of the trip down the mountain.

-

With half the train in emergency, and the relief valve drawing air away from the few brakes that worked, Extra 3119 West began falling down the mountain.

-

Gravity

The story of gravity begins in the cab of the van train, still some five miles ahead. As the engineer kept his attention on keeping his train in line, the radio issued forth the latest news on the disaster unfolding behind them. “I’ve made a full service application, and it’s not slowing down. We’re going about 25 and still speeding up!”

In the cab of an eastbound train, waiting for its chance to climb the grade out of Kelso, the dispatcher’s lackadaisical response could be heard easily. “So you’re not going to be able to stop at Dawes?”

“No. I don’t think we can stop at all.”

The dispatcher said nothing in response.

In the cab of the Van train, the engineer realized exactly what was going to happen. He began notching back the train brakes, and slowly throttling down the dynamics to idle. With one hand on the radio and one on the throttle, he slowly began advancing the throttle even as he called for permission to exceed his 25 MPH speed limit.

The permission he was given would be the last time that the dispatcher offered any meaningful help during the runaway. There was no talk of programming the switches at Dawes to allow the Van train shelter, to offer the four men aboard their one chance at safety. Instead, the dispatcher, hundreds of miles away in Salt Lake City, sat back to watch the chaos unfold, seemingly believing there was nothing he could do to help.

-

Two minutes later, at 2:17 PM, the two trains were still separated by five miles. 2-VAN-16 was just clearing the west end of the passing track at Dawes.

Four minutes later, and Extra 3119 was screaming through Dawes at 62.5 MPH.

5 miles ahead, 2-VAN-16 was running for its life, all five locomotives running flat out in full throttle. For now they had the edge, but they were trying to outrun gravity. All they could hope for was that the rolling resistance of the runaway would eventually cause it to stop accelerating.

-

Three minutes later, and false hope reared its ugly head. Accelerating at a “phenomenal” rate, the speedometer inside the 3119 reached 80 miles an hour and pegged itself there. David Totten, who had been broadcasting his train’s terrifying plunge down the hill over the open radio channel, had no idea that the needle was incapable of indicating a number higher than that.

As his train raced towards destiny, Engineer Totten kept relaying the same false information: “80! We’re doing 80!”

Inside the cab of the 6946, this incorrect information alleviated some worry - if 3119 was topping out at 80, it was possible to use the Van train’s nearly 19,000 horsepower to simply outrun the runaway - once they got past Kelso, at this point a short distance away, the grade lessened to 1%, and the force of gravity decreased.

Then there was an alarm blaring in the cab, and the train began to slow down as they roared into Kelso, the engine RPMs dropping suddenly, horrifyingly. They’d tripped the DDA40X’s overspeed sensor as they passed 75 MPH, and the entire train began to shut down on them. Chaos reigned in the cab for a minute, as the engineer frantically canceled the alert, managed to avoid the penalty brake application, and brought the train back up to full power. Their speed dipped all the way down to 68 before they began accelerating again.

It’s not known what was going on inside the caboose of the Van train, but the 3119, smoke and sparks flying from its wheels, must have been visible behind them.

--

Kelso

The station at Kelso was a tired, yet gorgeous, Spanish Colonial Revival structure located on the north side of the tracks. For a generation it had been a bustling hive of UP crews; a locomotive watering hole and a depot for eastbound helpers. The advent of diesel locomotives, and the elimination of manned helpers on Cima hill had resulted in the station becoming a shell of its former self. The only ties to its former past was the lunch counter, which still served hot meals and cool drinks to the town’s few dozen residents, and the skeleton UP crews stationed at this depot, so far into the desert that not even TV signals could reach it.

On the lunch counter, a cup of coffee cooled, its drinker nowhere in sight. Anyone and everyone who had been in the station were now outside, standing under the trees that lined the old platform, obscuring the station from sight. A few more were on the other side, standing near the MoW sidings on the south side. Further west, beyond the Kelbaker road level crossing, the crew of an eastbound freight waited in “the hole”, their eyes transfixed on the spot in the middle distance where the rails gently curved into view from behind the trees.

The radio continued to issue David Totten’s cool, calm, and collected reports of 80 MPH. With the train out of sight, it sounded like things may end with everyone walking away, but those listening closely heard his reports of an ever-shrinking distance between his locomotive and the caboose of the Van train and shivered.

The blare of a horn sounded, echoing across the desert. A second horn, almost as loud as the first, soon followed, a long continuous noise that would continue for some time, like the seventh trumpet of the apocalypse.

The broad nose of the DDA40X came first, the Van train rocking and rolling behind it as it charged forward. All five locomotives were in notch 8, the sextet of EMD 645 prime movers throwing up huge clouds of exhaust as they ran for everything they were worth. The horn sounded for the crossing, and then the train was past them, 49 high sided autoracks and TOFC cars whipping past with an almighty roar that was over almost as soon as it began.

The caboose zipped past the eastbound in a flash of Armor Yellow, and was gone into the distance. The blaring horn kept sounding, and heads that had turned to follow the Van train turned back to face the east.

They waited ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty.

It’s entirely possible that nobody in the crowd had ever seen a train move as fast as Extra 3119 West.

It’s entirely possible that Extra 3119 West was at that moment the fastest train in North America.

With a thunderous roar not unlike a building collapse, the train streaked through the station, horn blaring continuously. It trailed a cloud of dust in its wake like a comet; the wind its passage created roared through the lineside trees, sending dead branches and leaves flying.

In the cab of the eastbound, the head end crew became the last people to see David Totten alive. He was sitting upright in his seat, calm and collected as though he wasn’t moments away from death, his radio handset in front of his face. He disappeared from sight almost as soon as he’d appeared, and the rest of the train followed. The F-70-1 flatbeds came and went in a flash, and the caboose followed, a barely visible blur of yellow and red.

Heads turned so quickly that they strained necks. The horn echoed off the station building and the waiting eastbound, a receding roar as the train very rapidly got smaller and smaller in the distance. Within moments the only trace of the runaway train was David Totten’s voice, issuing from the radio his final reports. He became a ghost who hasn’t realized that he’s dead.

-

Less than one minute later, the train screamed past the hotbox detector at milepost 233.9, less than two miles distant. It isn’t known whether or not the detector actually found a defect with the train. It could have passed by so quickly that a proper reading couldn’t be taken, it could have still been calling out the speed and condition of the fleeing van train, or possibly it couldn’t handle a number that high; when the train eventually came to a stop, investigators found that the wheels on the flatcars with functioning brakes had reached anywhere from 400 to 800 degrees fahrenheit. The wheels on the locomotive had reached almost one thousand.

What was detected though, was the train’s speed. As the caboose ripped past the steel box mounted on the lineside, the warbling call of the detector - voiced by Majel Barrett-Roddenberry of Star Trek fame - gave a chilling indication of just how wrong David Totten was.

“… TRAIN SPEED: ONE ONE TWO …”

-

Inside the cab of engine 6946, madness was in full swing. A terrible cacophony of noises filled the cabin: All five locomotives were in notch 8, the wind whistled into the cab from worn seals, and the 50 cars behind them banged and rocked as they exceeded their designed top speeds. They were approaching 75 again as they leaned into the curve just outside of Kelso. The big Centennial didn’t like that - its huge, single cast 4-axle trucks groaned and popped in horrifying fashion as it screeched through the curve, wheels just fractions of an inch from leaping over the top of the rail. The rigid wheelsets clung to the tracks by just a hair - ironically, if the overspeed warning hadn’t tripped when it did, the 6946 would’ve likely leapt from the rails here, going into the hole at 80 plus, killing everyone in the locomotive, while leaving the rear-end crew exposed to the runaway, traveling at well over 110 into a stationary target.

On the topic of the overspeed alarm, it was being dealt with - the head end brakeman was waging war against the locomotive’s internals, prying open the cabinet holding the speed recorder, before physically interrupting the travel of the needle, breaking the instrument in the process.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, and there was not a more desperate time than this; as the train rounded the curve, the Extra 3119 West could be seen clearly, moving faster than should have been possible. Their only hope for survival would be if they derailed on the curve that almost took out the Centennial, but it was not to be; the train screamed round the corner with less than thirty seconds of time separating the pilot of the engine from the back porch of the caboose.

-

Inside the caboose of 2-VAN-16, the rear end crew frantically tore cushions off of seats and wrapped them around themselves, as if that might hold off a rampaging locomotive. Hopefully they had time to make their peace with God.

-

The van train kept going. If the overspeed alarm hadn’t cut off the power when it did, and if they then didn’t derail on the curve west of Kelso, it’s possible that they could have outrun it. Extra 3119 West could have derailed, slowed, or perhaps just melted its wheels off, bringing the chase to an end.

But the overspeed alarm had cut in, and so the meeting of the two trains was made destiny by the forces of gravity, and the laws of physics. It was inevitable.

-

At 2:29 PM, 30 minutes and 23.2 miles since they set off from Cima, and 14 minutes and 18.5 miles since Conductor Branson had put the train into emergency, Extra 3119 West collided with 2-VAN-16. The runaway was traveling at approximately 118 miles per hour, while the van train was doing 80 to 85.

This 38 mph closing speed was disastrous to those in the caboose of the Van train. Both porches were crushed in immediately, and the 3119 shoved the rear bulkhead in significantly. The impact then threw the caboose from the track, separating it from its trucks and sending it tumbling down the embankment. It eventually landed on its left side and slid to a stop in the shadow of the disaster. Inside, it was carnage - both men had been thrown about the car before landing on the floor. The rear brakeman would survive with what were assuredly life-altering injuries to his face and back, but the conductor was not as fortunate, suffering mortal wounds to most of his body as he was tossed about the cabin. He would die inside the caboose within minutes.

On the train, the first collision was probably weathered by the 3119. The next three, less so. The rear three freight cars on 2-VAN-16 were triple level autoracks, each fully loaded with 15 or more automobiles. After impacting the caboose and throwing it from the rails, the locomotive continued forward, colliding again with the van train, and throwing the first autorack off the rails. After that, the process repeated for the second one, sending it flying down the embankment.

It was the third autorack that struck home. With the closing speed lowering with each successive crash, and without an anti-climber on the 3119, the autorack rode over the frame of the SD40, stripping the carbody from the frame like a filet knife.

David Totten and Wallace Dastrup were thrown from the cab as their locomotive ceased to exist around them. They landed on the desert floor, already dead from massive internal injuries. The 3119 would remain upright, and eventually came to a stop the quarters of a mile down the track, with everything missing above the frame except the prime mover and alternator.

The F-70-1s were thrown around like toys, flying off the tracks like they’d been cast aside by an angry god. Their wheel assemblies were disassembled into their component parts by the force of the derailment, followed by the cars themselves. The ties were next, flying through the air like javelins, before landing on the ground in clouds of dust, dirt, and splinters.

Finally, the caboose came to a stop. It and the last three cars remained upright, albeit derailed. Inside, Alan Branson and Cecil Faucett patted themselves down, unbelieving that they’d lived through the day.

-

The incredible speeds the runaway reached, and the tragic deaths of three men, triggered a full NTSB investigation. Swarming over the wreckage like flies on a corpse, they recovered a trove of evidence - the locomotive, its brakes abraded and wheels metallurgically altered after reaching almost a thousand degrees. On the ground they found throttle levers, brake controls, the locomotive data recorder, and the air brake valve, all normal in function. The destruction among the flat cars was so total that only 32 of 160 brake shoes, and 78 wheels were recovered. Of both of these, well over half showed no signs of overheating or abrasion, as if they’d never been applied. The rest showed evidence of extreme over-use, as they tried and failed to hold back the train.

The evidence thus far was concerning, to say the least. A train with no dynamics should have been able to make it down the hill… if it had working brakes. If it truly weighed what the waybill said it did.

The NTSB organized a test train shortly thereafter. They salvaged portions of the ill-fated train, including the last three flatbeds and 9,695 of the ties that had been scattered along the lineside. They gathered 17 more F-70-1 flatbeds - between this test train and the wreck, most of the railroad’s 55-strong fleet was involved in the investigation - and loaded them up, before hauling the train back up the long hill to Las Vegas. There, Union Pacific did everything they didn’t do for Extra 3119 West:

They weighed the train on the yard’s scale, and found that even with 1,000 fewer ties, the train still clocked in at a gargantuan 1,948.25 tons.

They inspected the train, and found that of the 20 cars, 16 of them had some kind of brake malfunction. Ten had partial brake function, while six had none at all. The three cars salvaged from the wreck train were included in the former group.

For two whole days, with NTSB investigators watching on, crews from the Las Vegas car department labored frantically in the winter sun to remedy the train's numerous faults. Remember that the single inspector on November 17th had been given scarcely 15 minutes.

When the test train was finally made operable, Union Pacific sent it down the mountain using only the train’s air brakes. They probably thought quite highly of themselves when the train reached Kelso safely, however the specifics of that test were dramatically different than the events of the 17th. To start, the 20 F-70-1s were probably in the best mechanical condition they’d been in for years, thanks to the train being properly inspected. This meant that when the test train descended the hill, it did so with all 160 brake shoes pressing against the wheels.

Furthering the point, the brake shoes were aided by a skilled hand at the controls - Union Pacific, so eager to prove that a train could make it to the bottom of the Cima grade entirely under air brakes, had pulled a highly experienced road supervisor out of retirement to run the test train. Again, remember that David Totten had been an engineer for just shy of two years.

As the investigation dragged on, further evidence came to light: UP’s training for engineers prioritized the use of dynamic brakes, and paid comparatively little attention to running a train with only air brakes down a grade. In fact, the railroad paid so little attention to air brakes that it was found that the UP’s rules regarding steep grades such as the one in Cima were laxer than any other railroad in the country, and were so lax that they fell afoul of the FRA’s minimum requirements for air brake regulations.

With this in mind, the fact that the railroad’s own rules had created a series of unsafe situations for crews seems totally unsurprising: applying the emergency brake from the caboose, not informing the head end if the emergency brakes are applied, and having engineers keep making service brake applications instead of applying emergency braking, were all the wrong moves to make in a situation like the one that happened to Extra 3119 West. A new crew like David Totten, Alan Branson, Wallace Dastrup, and Cecil Faucett, all fairly fresh from their training and relatively inexperienced, followed that training all the way to the end, because they thought it would save them.

-

In the end, the NTSB found that the accident was caused by a variety of factors: UP’s poor maintenance and inspection practices, inadequate training of train crews for hill duties, the underestimation of loads at The Dalles tie plant, and the improper actions of the dispatcher on that day.

Poor maintenance, bad management, a nonexistent culture of safety, and lax training. These are all things that have plagued the railroad industry from day one. The NTSB can only recommend changes, not enforce them; they must rely on the railroads to make the fixes. Change training practices, create better rules, enforce higher maintenance standards - all basic tenets of safe railroading, yet still sorely needed.

So, has Union Pacific made those changes? Has this happened again?

In a very real sense, the answers can be yes, and no, spending on your outlook:

Since 1980 there have been two more runaways on the Cima grade, the most recent one in 2023, and the other in 1997. The circumstances of the two runaways differ - and in the case of the 2023 crash, haven’t yet been fully investigated - but the fact remains that Union Pacific once again allowed a 100+ MPH runaway down the hill not once, but twice. Furthermore, severe under-estimation of railcar loads has caused several other fatal accidents just within the LA Basin, most notably the 1989 Duffy Street wreck, when inaccurate knowledge of the weight of bulk trona and failing dynamic brakes sent a Southern Pacific freight train hurtling down Cajon Pass, and into a residential neighborhood.

However, on the Union Pacific at least, a greater respect for life and safety has been given in the years and decades since the accident. Neither inadequate dynamic brakes, nor improperly maintained brakes, have sent a train flying off the rails on the Cima Grade. The two subsequent accidents, while catastrophic, occurred without loss of life, making the 1980 runaway the last fatal crash on the hill.

Did David Totten, Wallace Dastrup, and the unidentified brakeman of 2-VAN-16 die in vain? Will their story be forgotten to the annals of railroading? Only time will tell.

[messysketchyobeyme]

A Minor Lapse

Lucifer/Reader

Summary: What's a better excuse to take a break from work than an impromptu movie night with the love of your life?

A/N: This was written for @lavenderafterglow for the OM Secret Santa event by @omsecretsanta2022. This was fun :) Happy holidays!

By the way, MC was written with She/Her pronouns in mind! However, this fic was written in such a way that I happened to not use any gendered language to refer to the MC. Oops. Anyway, I just thought this might be something to keep in mind if someone other than the person I am gifting this fic to wants to read it.

Word Count: 3135

AO3 Link: [Here]

---

Lucifer prided himself on rarely making mistakes. His actions were cold, calculated, and made in the best interest of his brothers. Aside from a few notable exceptions, the important decisions in his life were made devoid of emotion. That was, until you came along, and flipped his entire world–and sense of self–upside down.

Falling in love with you was a mistake, but it was one of the few that Lucifer was glad to have made. He sat at one end of the couch with you curled up into his side. Your eyes were glued to the television, fixated on the black-and-white movie playing on the screen. Although Lucifer was the one who suggested the movie in the first place, he could hardly pay attention to it with you so near. He drank in your features. Even in the dark, he could make out the way your eyes lit up at every dramatic twist or how your lips would curve up at the jokes.

The movie was a Devildom cult classic that he and Diavolo would enjoy with a glass of wine during their younger years. It had been so long since then that Lucifer found he could hardly remember any of the plot or the characters. However, he wouldn’t dare to forget the set design with its elaborate outdoor scenes lined with hellish fauna or extravagant palace decorations. Despite the lack of color, the set glittered and gleamed with each shot. It was no wonder you were so mesmerized.

An imaginary weight dragged Lucifer’s eyelids down, so he reached toward the side table and grabbed the cup of coffee that you had specially brewed for him in his favorite mug. According to you, it served as an apology for dragging him away from his work. Lucifer suggested the movie, but you were the one who forced him to take a break in the first place. You were so insistent with your sweet words and pleading eyes that he couldn’t help but agree to pause his student council duties for a few hours to spend some time with his beloved. 

He didn’t need, nor want any sort of apology. Lucifer was more than willing to throw any task away at your bidding, but he had accepted your coffee graciously. He needed the caffeine to prevent him from conking out in the middle of the movie. Lucifer took a long sip and immediately winced at the bitter taste. He normally enjoyed his coffee as bitter as possible, but this was a little too much, even for him. 

Ah, it was hell coffee. He should have known. He drank some more, allowing the bitterness to overwhelm his senses.

You had only served him hell coffee once before you had started dating him. It was purely by accident, but the drink was as bitter now as it was back then, maybe even more so. Lucifer’s body warmed up as he traced the thinnest of cracks etched along the side of the mug. 

He wondered if you had brewed him hell coffee on purpose this time as a way to show your feelings. He set the cup back on the side table and glanced over at you. There was no knowing smirk or mischievous eyebrow raise evident anywhere on your face. Instead, you continued to watch the movie with an earnest grin, blissfully unaware of his longing gaze.

His arm was lazily draped around your shoulders, but there was a sliver of space between the two of you. That sliver could have easily been miles for what he was concerned about. 

You tucked your hands underneath your underarms and leaned into the crook in his arm. After a minute, you repositioned yourself, and, after another minute, you did it again. You were trying to be discreet about it, but Lucifer could feel you shiver from a mile away. He silently pulled you closer to him. 

For the first time since the movie started, you tore your eyes from the screen to smile sheepishly.

Lucifer said, "I want you to be comfortable."

You mumbled something that sounded similar to 'thank you' before resting your head against his chest. You were now so close that he could feel your body's steady rise and fall with every breath you took. It comforted him. He pressed his lips on the crown of your head, and you hummed in response. 

He was about to kiss you again when a song started blaring on the television. It was laden with static and just a tad too slow to be considered pleasant to human ears. However, the soft tinkling of the piano in the background never failed to tug on Lucifer’s blackened heartstrings. 

He did not have to look up to know that this was the ballroom scene where the demon and their lover danced their hearts out in front of a crowd of guests. Although Lucifer had always appreciated the movie’s soundtrack (he had a weakness for the classics), he had always made sure to take an extra long sip of wine whenever this scene had come on in the past. It was too cheesy for his taste with the gaudy dresses and overacting. He could never understand the appeal of dancing while everybody else does nothing but watch. Wasn’t there a better use of their time?

But now–

Lucifer caught himself staring at you again. He usually did it unabashedly, but now he was starting to get embarrassed. He took another sip of his coffee, allowing the bitter aftertaste to burn in the back of his throat.

He felt you speak rather than hear it. "That's so pretty," you said. Your cheek was squished against his chest, which muffled your words.

"It truly is." Lucifer wasn't referring to the movie.

…When did he get so cheesy? It was a mistake to watch this with you.

You nodded, "Yeah, I wish I could do that." You drummed your fingers against Lucifer's knee.

He frowned. "Do what?" The characters weren't doing anything of note to be envious of. They were just…dancing. The demon's dress flourished and swished with every step they took, and their lover was not far behind with their outfit sparkling under the light. Lucifer pressed his lips together. 

"Oh, you know…" you sat up, but you stared bashfully at the floor, instead of at him, "...dance." You scratched at the back of your neck when you finished your sentence, turning your head away from him.

"You don't know how to dance?" He asked. There was a hint of a chuckle in his tone, and he had already given up on hiding his smile. Lucifer hadn't meant to sound so amused at that tidbit, but you had caught him off guard. As he had gotten to know you over the years, you had become stronger and more talented than he thought any human was capable of being. During your time here, you learned how to wield your pacts, how to use magic, and, most audaciously, how to wrap one of Devildom's most powerful demons around your finger. He had never imagined that you didn't know how to dance of all things.

"No," you answered, "That's why I always hung out at the beverage table during Diavolo's parties." You picked at a stray thread on your shirt. Instead of snapping, it elongated, and you clicked your tongue.

"You told me you liked the punch."

"That too."

Lucifer laughed but had the grace to cover his mouth with the back of his wrist. You shot him an unamused look with a stiffened frown. That only made Lucifer want to laugh harder, but he maintained his composure after that initial moment of weakness. Lucifer stood up and held his hand out.

You recoiled into yourself, hunching over and bringing your knees together. "What are you doing?" You asked after a brief second of hesitation. Lucifer didn't miss the way your gaze shot over to the television.

"What do you think? I'm asking you to dance." He kept his hand stretched out in front of him.

You glanced back and forth between his eyes and his hand before shaking your head. "Oh, no, no," you said, "I could never. I'd probably just trip or trample over your feet or–" you let out a dry chuckle, "or do something else embarrassing." You were smiling, but it was half-hearted and wistful, utterly different from the blissful expression plastered on your face five minutes ago.

"You won't."

Your breath hitched. One side of your face was illuminated by the low light of the screen. He could see the demon and their lover reflected across your dewy eyes. The haunting music lulled in the background, filling the silence between you two. "Okay," you said, your voice was quiet, holding that vulnerability that captivated him. 

You tentatively placed your hand in Lucifer's. He wasn't wearing his gloves, so he was well aware of the warmth of your skin against his. Your palm brushed against his. Your touch was so light that you were practically hovering above his skin. Lucifer's fingers curled around your hand. You tensed under his grip as a reflex before allowing yourself to relax. Slowly, you stood up and held your other hand out toward him. Before he could react, you drew your arm back into yourself. Your eyebrows were furrowed in silent uncertainty. Lucifer placed his free hand along your upper back, near your shoulder. You stepped closer on instinct, shortening the space that separated you two. Maintaining eye contact, you hovered your hand over Lucifer's shoulder. The look in your eye silently asked him if you were doing the right thing.

Lucifer gave you a reassuring smile and nod. He trailed his hand from your shoulder to your wrist and guided your hand to its rightful place. You squeezed his shoulder for reassurance, and Lucifer held your back again.

"Follow my lead," Lucifer said as he began dancing to the music. He stepped forward, but you kept your feet awkwardly planted on the ground. He nudged you slightly. "Hurry," he tilted his head toward the television, "The song is about to end." He kept the sound of his voice scarcely above the macabre music emanating from the movie.

You bobbed your head and stepped backward, taking care to follow Lucifer's footsteps. He matched his steps in time with every note.  Lucifer led you around the room, dancing in circles. You kept your head down, and he wondered why you suddenly seemed so uninterested until he noticed you mouthing numbers. He raised an eyebrow. Were you keeping count of each step? How…cute.

He leaned in closer to say, "You have to look at me, dear."

You didn't move your head, but Lucifer noticed that you were now peering at him through your eyelashes. "I know," you responded, "I just don't want to step on your feet and trip you up." Lucifer spun you around, and you yelped.

With a small stumble, you landed back in his arms. "What did I say earlier? You won't," Lucifer said. You gulped in lieu of a reply. It was barely audible, but Lucifer could hear the way you sucked in a short inhale as he led you up and down the room. 

And then, you tripped.

Lucifer had taken a step forward, but you, mistiming the music, also stepped forward. You stomped on his toes, and Lucifer barely staggered back before regaining his footing. He quickly steadied himself and was about to grab your shoulders to steady you, too, when you slammed into his chest, sending him tumbling down. 

Seemingly by instinct, you jutted out your hands and grabbed him by the waist. Lucifer took a sharp, but imperceptible, breath once you caught him. He allowed himself time to blink once before smirking. You had dipped him. It was inadvertent, of course, but still shocking.

Lucifer brushed his thumb against your forehead to wipe the bead of sweat that threatened to trickle down the side of your temple. “And you said you didn’t know how to dance.” He hoped his smug aura would mask the sudden onset of tachycardia. 

Your face was pinched up into a tight grimace, which only worsened at his remark. Upon catching wind of your expression, Lucifer immediately stood up. That seemed to break you out of your stupor. 

“I’m so sorry,” with shaky hands, you smoothed down his collar that had partially popped up after the kerfuffle, “I didn’t mean to bump into you like that.” You began to dust off his shirt.

Lucifer tenderly grabbed your hands and pulled them off of him. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said. He was speaking softly but not quietly enough for his words to be classified as a whisper. 

“Alright, but I really am sorry.” You took a deep breath to, presumably, calm yourself down. After a beat, you chuckled faintly, “You should have seen your face.”

“What about my face?”

“Nothing!” you laughed out loud, “I mean, there was nothing. Your expression was completely blank, even as you fell.” You rocked back on your heels, “Though, I did hear you gasp when I caught you. What was that about, huh?” You beamed at him in such a way that Lucifer could only describe as endearing. 

Any retort he might have had died on his tongue. Instead, Lucifer gave you a helpless look. “You are far too perceptive...much to my detriment.” He let go of your hands in favor of cupping your cheeks, “But, I must admit that it’s one of the many things I adore about you.”

He felt you flush at the sudden compliment. 

The music shifted, and Lucifer took the opportunity to loosely wrap his arms around your lower back. “Shall we continue where we left off?” he asked. 

Your arms awkwardly hung in the air before finding their way around his neck. “I’d love to,” you said with a certain lilt that was absent before.

Instead of guiding you around the sofa and back, Lucifer swayed in place in time with the now even slower song coming from the television. You rested the side of your cheek against his shoulder. The sudden intimacy made Lucifer hold you tighter against him. He took note of the scent of your shampoo, searing it to memory.

"We should do this every night." When you merely hummed, Lucifer elaborated, "I mean, I can teach you how to dance. If you would like, the next lesson can be conducted in the privacy of my own room." 

You buried your face in his shirt. After a beat longer than he would have liked, you answered, “Yeah, I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” You bit your lip. It was evident that something else was on your mind, but Lucifer didn’t pry. He kept holding you in his arms until you pulled away slightly to look him directly in the eyes. He tilted his head quizzically, which is what made you sigh. “Lucifer, are–” you paused, seemingly thinking about the best way to word your next sentence, “are you going back to work after this?”

Lucifer peered over at the forgotten, half-empty cup of hell coffee he had left on the table. It hadn’t been long enough for the drink to be cold, yet, but it was probably lukewarm at this point. If someone did not know where to look, they would hardly notice the crack that ran up and down the mug. He had no idea how it broke: he took the mug out of the cabinet one day, and the crack was there. Not that he was expecting anyone else to, but nobody had dared to confess to the crime. Lucifer supposed that was due to the fear of the punishment that may arise, which he fully intended to dole out, until he realized the cup was still usable. 

That mug was his favorite for a reason: it was one of the first gifts you had gotten him as a couple. He could hardly throw it out, so he continued to use it for his breakfast coffee, late nights in the office, and pick-me-ups on especially emotionally taxing days. You never commented on the sudden crack, but he did catch you throwing a few curious glances in his direction whenever he would drink from that cup. You stopped after a few weeks and even started to use the same cracked mug to surprise him with a midnight brew in his office, just like you did tonight.

He turned his attention back toward you. “No, I changed my mind,” he pressed his forehead against yours, “I would rather spend the rest of the night with you.” 

“I’m glad,” you said, “You’ve been working hard lately. You deserve a break.”

You took advantage of the proximity to give Lucifer a chaste peck on the lips. He was hardly satisfied with how short it was. Lucifer caressed the sides of your face and pulled you in for a kiss. Although he was the one that initiated, you still stole his breath away. You ran your hands through his hair and sighed in contentment. 

A tinkling of laughter echoed behind you, causing you to jump back. You whipped your body around in the direction of the sound. It took a second before your eyes settled on the television. The ballroom scene was long over, now replaced by the characters, still in their gowns, drinking tea in the garden. 

You rub your upper arm and let out a small, sheepish laugh of your own. “Oh, I completely forgot about that movie,” you shook your head.

“That’s surprising. You were so enthralled by it earlier that you could hardly take your eyes off of the TV.”

“I suppose I got distracted by something a bit more interesting.”

Lucifer gestured toward the sofa. “Would you like to continue our little movie night?” he asked. As much as he enjoyed dancing with you, he couldn’t forget why you were here in the first place.

Without further prompting, you flopped back down in the spot he was pointing at. “Of course,” you said, “Hey, after this movie is over, can I play one of my favorites?”

He pretended to contemplate your request, “Hmm, a movie from the human world.” He sat down next to you, “Sounds fascinating.”

“Oh, it’s so good. You’ll love it!” You scooted over so that you were practically sitting on top of him. 

Lucifer smiled involuntarily, which was something he always did when you got excited. “Alright, alright.” He wrapped his arm securely around your waist. You leaned your entire body weight against him, resting your hand on his thigh as if it belonged there. Warmth radiated throughout his chest, causing his heart to swell. Lucifer needed to make mistakes more often.

[taska-rokanh]

SHATTERED STARS PROLOGUE - NEW KNIGHT

Jedi Knight Taska Rokanh has only just been knighted, six months prior to the discovery of a large army of clones on the planet Kamino. What will this discovery mean for the young knight, and the Jedi Order as a whole?

What fate does this bode for the clones now being used in battle?

Breathe in, breathe out. Her exhale coincided with the ignition of the short green saber behind her head. She slowed her pulse as much as she could control.

Breathe in, breathe out.

This is what you’ve been waiting for your whole life. 

Don’t shift, keep your heels under your hips and your knees next to each other on the mat.

You can’t just let it go to waste.

Breathe in. Breathe out. It all had a purpose.

The lightsaber sliced quickly and easily through the braid at the back of her head, the heat tickling her neck. She inhaled with the buzz as it moved through the air.

“Thank you, Master,” Taska said, bowing to Master Yoda as she stood. 

Turning around, she nodded to all of the masters and fellow students around her, who kindly nodded back.

“Welcome to the Knighthood, Master Rokanh,” Master Windu said.

And they sent her on her way.

* * *

She thought by then, she had matured. She had achieved knighthood, sure that the trials were the most harrowing thing she could have faced. 

Of course, the 22-year-old never imagined she would have ended up here.

“It’s… you can feel it too, I imagine,” she breathed, restraining herself from standing from her seat to gaze out the transparisteel. 

“It’s quite something,” her former master, Shaak Ti, agreed with a small smile. 

“There’s so many of them,” she said with a similar look on her face. “And yet… they almost seem to be one? I’ve never felt anything like it,” she shook her head. “It’s incredible.” The heat coming off of the planet from the Force rivalled the gentle shine of a young star.

“Yes,” her master agreed, unable to share her enthusiasm. 

Through that one word, Taska could follow her master’s train of thought. This was incredible, to be sure. But who had commissioned this clone army? Who were each of these clones? And—more importantly—when were they going to need them?

* * *

Tipoca City swarmed with more activity than any of the clones, and most likely the scientists as well, had ever seen. This was the largest cloning effort in centuries, and it was finally time to make use of it.

In the midst of all the chaos stood a clone, frozen in the corner of the armory. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

This was not supposed to happen. Oh, this was definitely the exact opposite of what was supposed to happen.

He remembered what Nala Se had told him three weeks ago. The choice is yours.

The choice. Clones never got many of those.

A snap broke his stupor.

“You have to make the choice now, vod, there’s no more time! We’re shipping out in ten minutes, we’ve gotta make it to Geonosis before it’s too late!”

The clone couldn’t let his brother see the anxiety settling in the pit of his stomach, traveling up his esophagus, and spreading into his lungs. Making the nerves in his arms burn. Damn his trigger finger—when he needed it most, it wouldn’t work.

“Tell them to send Rex instead,” he commanded when he was sure he could speak without shaking. “Tell them to send Rex, he’s been waiting for this chance.”

He’ll do better than I could.