#time to roll the roulette wheel

[vanillavengeance]

hmmm funny that donnie said “no touching mikey’s mystics” and you mentioned his grey hands… should i be looking for guns (chekhov’s guns reference)

There MAY be guns hiding in the bushes. I just need to decide how many and what caliber they are :)

[pedrito-friskito]

bloody knuckles - joel miller x fem!reader

summary: you come home injured, and Joel has something to say about it.

word count: 2.2k

warnings: MY BLOG IS 18+, MINORS DNI, swearing, mentions of injuries/canon-typical violence, spoilers for the show, heavily inspired by joel’s reaction to tess (iykyk), oral (f receiving), brief spanking, a bit of manhandling, unprotected p-in-v (WRAP UR SHIT IN THE APOCALYPSE FAM), I have joel miller brain rot and I regret nothing

(could be read as part of the fire + whiskey universe, but can still be enjoyed regardless)

✨I no longer have a taglist - please follow @friskito-library and turn on notifs to be notified of new fics!✨

He’s asleep, when your key hits the lock.

It depends on the day, lately, what you get when you manage to find your way back to the apartment. Every day is different, a roulette wheel that doesn’t seem to let up. Some days, he’s still awake, poring over his maps at the scratched kitchen table, the bottle of hooch not far from his grip. Other times he’s pacing by the window, the radio a quiet whine, his hair yanked in a million different directions. Sometimes he’s not even home, and you’re the one left to wait up, or pass out on the couch trying to.

But today, he’s asleep.

Silently, you’re grateful. If he saw the state of you, he’d barrel right through the fucking door the moment you let slip who had hurt you. That’s how it is, these days, and that’s how you have to be, you know. But you can’t risk it. You can’t risk him.

The pipes rattle when you flick on the faucet, try and rinse some of the blood from your hands, wincing at your sore knuckles. It’s just past curfew, and light from the too-bright street lamps filters through the living room window, and you scour for a painkiller, tossing half of something back with a sip from the hooch bottle still on the table.

He doesn’t move until you’re perched on the edge of the bed, wrapping your hand with some gauze you pilfered from the pharmacy on your way back. There’s no words, at first, just the rough drag of his hand across the small of your back, a low grunt as he rolls toward you. You pull the shirt off, feeling his fingers rove up your spine, tapping over your bones.

You’re reaching for a new shirt — one of his stashed in the pile of semi-clean clothes — when he curls his finger under your bra, pulls you back a little. “C’mere,” he mumbles, and you let yourself fall back. He lets out a low oomph when you hit his chest. He’s fully clothed, even his boots still on. “Where y’been?”

“Nowhere important,” you reply, keeping your face pointedly away from him. You pull your legs up onto the mattress, sinking down beside him, your back brushing against his chest as you sprawl on the mattress. Instantly, he slips a knee between yours, slings his arm around your waist, hauls you closer. “You been sleeping all day?”

“Don’t change the subject, girlie,” he murmurs, low in your ear, and you just shake your head, silencing your wince, burrowing deeper into his embrace. “Couple hours. Long day.”

“Talk in the morning,” you reply, covering his hand with your undamaged one. “I’m tired too.”

He grunts in response, and that’s that.

Joel doesn’t wait until morning.

The sky is still dark when he’s shaking your shoulder, rousing you just on the edge of roughly, heavy eyelids blinking open to see him gripping your bandaged hand, the camping lantern on the makeshift beside table the only bit of light.

“Who.” Not a question.

“It’s nothing,” you start to say, rolling towards him out of instinct, reaching up to rub the sleep from your eye but then biting back a quiet cry when your face flares with pain. “I fell and it just—”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he snaps, and drops your hand, fingers either side of your jaw a moment later, turning your face towards him, towards the light, gently. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Joel, don’t—”

“No,” he spits, springing up off the mattress, crossing to the kitchen, finding a rag, putting a bit of the hooch on it. The closest you’ll get to antiseptic. “You’ve got a black fuckin’ eye. Tell me who. Now.”

“Why?” you ask, sitting up as he returns to the bed, kneeling on the edge, taking your jaw in his hand again. “So you can break curfew and get charged for disturbing the peace? They’re hanging people for less these days, Joel. I won’t…” You wince as he touches the rag to your split skin, swiping at the dried blood you’d half-heartedly wiped at. “I won’t let you.”

He goes quiet, jaw working, his brow furrowed so hard you can’t resist reaching out and smoothing your thumb along the line it makes in his forehead. “I want to know.”

“If I tell you, you need to stay,” you say, moving your thumb back and forth along his skin. “I need you to remember that you taught me how to protect myself, too.” The corner of your mouth quirks. “And the assholes that did this to me look much worse.”

His face softens slightly, and his brow slowly raises. You let your hand move lower, dragging your knuckles down to his scruffy jaw. “How much worse?”

“Pretty sure I broke the one guy’s nose,” you say, unable to stifle your smug grin when his eyes widen slightly. “And the other, well, he definitely won’t be using his hand anytime soon.”

He lowers the rag, tossing it to the side as you move a little closer, pushing back the blanket he’d draped over you. He just watches, lips softly parted, nostrils flaring as you get closer still, lifting your leg and sliding into his lap.

“You’re not the only attack dog in Boston,” you say quietly, and Joel huffs, hands finding homes on your hips as you run yours along his shoulders, up the back of his head, tangling in his hair. “I’m well-trained.”

“Girlie,” he grumbles out, almost a warning in his tone.

“What?” you murmur, feigning innocence. “You taught me. Saved my life. Kept me going. Keep me going.” You lean in, press your lips softly to one of the bare patches in his beard, the perfect shape for your mouth. “You remember the day we found each other again?”

He tilts his head back slightly, peering at you down his nose, his eyes darkening as he slips his hands up the hem of your shirt, seeking out bare skin. “O’course I do.”

“And that night, when you fucked me so good in that—”

The rest of the sentence dies on your tongue. He surges upward, claims your mouth for his own. You let him, tugging at his hair as he devours you. He tastes like hooch — he must have stolen a sip — and you drink it down like it’s the finest whiskey you’ve ever had, your tongue tangling with his, hips rolling down, the friction between you two making you both gasp.

In one fluid movement, he’s lifting the shirt over your head, letting his mouth map a trail down your chest, while you’re pawing at his shirt, nails dragging against buttons, scratching lightly at the exposed patch of skin at his collar. You moan when he pulls your bra out of the way, mouths at your nipple, scruffy jaw scraping sensitive skin.

Your back hits the mattress a minute later, and you automatically reach for his belt, letting your fingers glance across the bulge in his jeans, but he pushes your hands away. “Nuh-uh,” he grunts, and pulls both your legs over one shoulder, reaching for the waist of your leggings. “Lift.”

You do as you’re told, and the bundle of fabric goes flying a moment later. He doesn’t waste any time, grabbing your ankles in his hands, peeling your legs apart. You gasp, the air cold as it hits your skin, but before you have a chance to shiver, your knees are hooked over both his shoulders, thighs around his ears. He’s got one strong arm banded around your waist, keeping you off the mattress, and his other hand roves beneath, grabbing handfuls of your ass, squeezing, smoothing along your spine.

His tongue feels like fire, flicking at every single one of your nerves. It turns your blood to flame, white-hot pleasure that sinks through your limbs as he buries his mouth between your legs. His hand moves back to cup your ass again, giving you a quick spank before he’s grabbing your cheek, flesh pinched between his knuckles.

You bury one hand at the crown of his head, those grey-streaked curls wrapping around your fingers. When you tug, he hums against you, the vibrations making sparks shoot across your vision, and you lock your ankles together between his shoulder blades, keeping him hostage to your pleasure. He’s more than willing, dropping his jaw slightly, dipping his tongue straight into your very core.

“Joel,” you groan out, back arching when he spanks you again, fingers soothing the hot spot instantly. “Fucking christ. Fuck me, please?”

“Cum,” he commands, his voice gruff as he speaks the word into your cunt, lips shiny with your slick. Your spine prickles with anticipation, the coil in your gut growing tight as he moves his mouth up, draws your throbbing clit between his lips and sucks hard. “Cum, and I’ll give you my cock.”

You nearly whine, but then his hand dips, following the curve of your ass, thumb pressing between your folds, stroking at your entrance. Everything goes tight, the edges of your vision tinged black with the intensity, and you do as you’re told, cumming with a shout muffled on the back of your hand. He licks you through it, dropping your hips back to the mattress when you push at him, legs going wide as they slide off his shoulders.

Joel shuffles back slightly, giving you room to stretch out. His belt is undone in one swift move, jeans pushed around his hips and his cock springing free, hard and heavy. You watch, chest heaving as he takes himself in hand, leans over you just enough to drag his tip through your wetness. Your hands curl into fists in the blankets, thighs twitching around his hips, and he plants one hand beside your head, leaning over you completely.

You lift your hips off the bed, catching his cock at your entrance, and he groans, his forehead pressed against your temple, carefully avoiding your black eye. You both exhale deeply as he pushes all the way in, filling you to the hilt, lips pressing a sloppy kiss to you cheek as his hips roll down. Your knees bend up around his ribs, both hands back in his hair.

He goes slow, slow enough that you can feel every inch, every twitch in his muscles, hear every word that falls from his lips, every soft grunt and quiet groan. “Always feels so fuckin’ good,” he rasps, and you cheat your hand down his back, pushing his jeans lower so you can grab a handful of his ass. “Jesus fuckin’ christ.”

You’re chasing his every move, hips lifting in tandem with his. You squeeze your thighs, palms flattening against his ribs, bearing down on him best you can. His pace falters, a grunted girlie meeting your ears, and you take it as an opening, pushing at his shoulder until he topples onto the mattress, using the momentum to land you in his lap.

It changes the angle, forcing his cock against something devastating inside you, your head tipping back on your shoulders. He puts both hands on your hips, guiding you as you drag yourself along him, knees planted either side of him. You wanted to take control, but it’s faltering in an instant, the feeling of him just too fucking good.

Joel bands his arm around your shoulders when you chest meets his, burying his face in your neck. You feel him shift, knees coming until his thighs are pressed to the backs of yours, and your attempt at control is completely out the window. He hammers into you, knotting his fingers in your hair, and you howl as your second orgasm hits, flooding his cock, all but clawing at his shoulders as the pleasure rocks you.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he grits, legs shaking as he drives up into you. There’s a quick pause, your body jolted slightly upwards as he pulls out, curling his fingers around the base of his cock, fucking his hand until he cums hot against your ass. You force your lips against his, kissing him through his own orgasm, taking his bottom lip between your teeth when he groans, returning your kiss as soon as the sound finishes.

The entire apartment seems quiet, in the after. There’s silent groans from each of you, Joel shuffling to find a rag, wiping at your skin, you going to steal a sip of the hooch while he buckles his belt. You both redress, sliding your boots back on before sprawling on the mattress beside him. It’s habit, now, sleeping in your clothes, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

He opens his arms to you when you slide close, and you fit yourself against him, your head fitting under his chin, hooking a knee over his hip. He drops his jaw, presses a kiss to your forehead, grumbling quietly as you settle into his grip.

“Girlie,” he mumbles, dragging his scruffy chin over your head.

“Yeah?”

“I still wanna beat the shit out of those guys.”

You let out a little chuckle, burrowing deeper into his embrace, rubbing your hand up his side. “I know you do, baby.”

[saiidahyunie]

red or black

kim dahyun x f!reader

synopsis: two colors, two instances, two sides.

warnings: smut ; thigh riding ; strap-on usage ; degrading ; some praise ; reader giving/receiving ; dahyun giving/receiving ; switch dynamic? ; some sub/dom discovery? ; mean dahyun ; sahyo pairing ; small datzu crumbs ; not proofread (latter half of this was written on my phone :P)

a/n: finally on spring break! more dahyun content from me as always :)

in vegas, they say the house always wins.

when it comes to rolling on the roulette wheel, there are only two outcomes: red or black. a winner and loser. you either win it all or walk away empty-handed. 

red and black however, can be applied to many things; in the context of opposites, a battle between two clashing egos, two different colors, contrasting ideals or philosophies. or better yet, 

a safe word or preference that’s used in the relationship between you and dahyun. 

it first started out to be more of an experiment of sorts. limit testing the possible theory of how one would handle the other. an interchangeable dynamic, the good ol’ switcheroo. dahyun was the one who was forward with the idea, you being hesitant because at the time you didn’t figure out what things you liked/not liked in the bed, turn ons/offs, or anything that wasn’t limited to a degree for that matter. 

“so? what do we think?!” dahyun asks you one night out of the blue, laying on your thigh while sitting on the couch. 

“what do i think?” you say, “i’m not sure, dubu. i don’t know how i feel about the whole…well…you know.” 

“but it’ll be interesting!” she beams, sitting upright on her knees and eyeing you like a little kid waiting for their toy. “besides, sana has been telling me to check out some of the different categories that she’s been experimenting with jihyo and momo.” 

“well dahyun,” you reply back at her enthusiasm for curiosity. “it’s still all new to me…” voice trailing off as you try to scan around the living room, not willing to meet dahyun’s eager eyes. “i would consider it but i’m just worried about how it’ll affect our relationship going forward.” 

dahyun presses a comforting kiss to your cheek, embracing you with her infectious bubbliness that even makes the other girls fall a little bit more in love with her when it comes to hanging out in a group setting. this side of her was more reserved for you, exclusively. 

“trust me,” she starts. “the sex that we’ve been having is good, amazing, just—you can probably describe it more better than i can.” you can’t help but laugh at the countless nights and endless times you found yourself sunk to your knees, kissing every single parts that you know all too well at this point, worshiping the wonderful body created on dahyun to your liking. 

“this won’t be any different, just a new approach to having fun!” 

“you and i have two very different definitions of having fun.” 

a brief pause hangs your tongue, pressed against the inside of your cheek while you’re staring at the simple (but deadly) smile dahyun offers. considering, and you might still ponder this at different times but until then, you say, 

“alright. i’m in.” 

dahyun lunges forward for a hug, nose nestled in the underside of your neck where your jaw meets and lips tickling the area below it, humming gleefully. 

“thank you, y/n. really.” she replies, giving you a quick peck before she swipes her laptop off of the coffee table, clicking on the keyboard and tapping to an open tab for you to see what she was talking about. “now i just want you to skim through this website for me, and answer this. what color would you like to be?” 

—

(so that’s how it begins, to some sort of extent. for anyone that’s curious enough to even bother ask about a backstory, here it is: 

the connection with dahyun really just came out of nowhere. you stumble into a new class that was heavily focused on group work. typically, momo was the first person that you would try to spot out to save yourself from the trouble of hitting the usual checklist of icebreakers that make you on the inside cringe from embarrassment. 

luckily, the social butterfly that minatozaki sana was, swooped you in before the professor could even say a word to you. 

she brings you to this small huddle of about 4-5 people, the list as follows: park jihyo (her girlfriend), miyeon (the day one bestie and also her other ‘girlfriend’), myoui mina (the rich, cool girl that appears used to being approached by all the top modeling agencies given with her appearance).

and lastly, dahyun. who was more of a wildcard in the grand scheme of things (or so you thought.) 

brief introductions are shared; getting to know the basics of favorite song, food place, boba order, and a superficial hint of what they like in a girl is all being bounced around while you catch yourself stealing glances between you and dahyun all throughout the class activity. small talk was the first wall, but once that was over, everything that followed seemed to come along as a breeze.

you’d have to give credit to sana though, playing the role of matchmaker to speed up the process. 

eventually, from moving through the ranks of acquaintances to friendship to calls and texts sent back and forth between each other. waiting after class and getting a quick bite at the nearest cafe cart brewed towards “something more.” few dates follow more frequently, and you have the courage to pop the golden question to dahyun one friday night before heading out to the club (we already know what the answer is so why bother telling it?) 

a month passes, then a few months after. which brings us up to now. that’s it, nothing more.) 

—

the first instance that comes is red. 

dahyun was finishing up her studies while living on campus in one of the nearby dorms. you lived in one of the nearby apartments that was only a few minute drive and around the corner, so distance wasn’t really a big problem for either of you. 

it’s nearing the end of the semester, and people are cramming everything into their books and laptops in the last corner of the academic year. cafe’s are being filled up, counselors are giving last bits of advice to students who need it, and dahyun has no issues with her classes whatsoever. 

speaking of issues, there was one slight problem: you were kinda banned from seeing your girlfriend. 

while jotting down notes on the desk, dahyun looks at her phone that had a few notifications from you that were images of smol cats doing random activities. the last message you sent was about what to eat for a study break. dahyun gave you a few options that were around campus and there was a nearby food spot close to her dorm, anything to get closer to her even if you were put on unnecessary suspension. 

she gets startled when there’s a sudden sound coming from outside of her fire escape on the second floor, opening the curtains to see a black silhouette squatting down to match the level of the window. the eerie presence puzzling her for just a moment before she sees a light shine on a face.  

you. 

without a moment’s hesitation, dahyun opens the window for you while the hood is unsheathed from your head. there's a shuffle around the small space in the middle lane with both ends occupied by two beds, but dahyun closes the window, raising the lamp upward facing the ceiling before returning her gaze to you. 

her eyes see you sitting on the edge of her bed, legs crossed over and both hands in the pocket of your hoodie. the thicker clothing on top of the hoodie was a leather aviator jacket that made it look like you were right straight out of that one top gun movie, but you lean back slightly, never changing your upright position. 

“sorry to scare you like that, hope you were on your study break.” you say with a low tone tilting your head towards her, patting down the open space next to you on her bed. 

“are you crazy?” dahyun asks you, ignoring the sudden heat flushing through her cheeks as she makes her way towards you, patting down her thigh to ease her bit of nervousness. “you know you’re not supposed to be here, even when yunjin said—” 

“she says that, but doesn’t mean it.” you reply, taking off your aviator jacket while dahyun sits next to you, putting a leg over and letting her arms fall on your shoulders. “besides, her and i just had a small…disagreement.” 

dahyun arches a brow while you’re flashing a gooey smile, smirking after when you’re tapping her knee cap over your leg. “uh huh.” she says, remembering the little bust up with your team captain yunjin at lacrosse practice at the beginning of the week. since she was dahyun’s roommate, it was more of a lenient punishment because of the overcompetitiveness almost affecting the team. so, you weren’t allowed to see dahyun until the whole ordeal blew over, knowing that you wouldn’t listen—here you were in her room. 

“well, i guess you can stay for a bit.” dahyun says, “i still have to review before yunjin—”

“she’s not coming back.” 

“what? why?!” 

“yunjin’s hanging out with kazuha and chaewon. my best guess is that they’re just talking about some lacrosse team stuff, nothing too serious.” 

you lean your head on dahyun’s shoulder, fingers tracing along the perfect skin on her thigh, just stopping right before her ass. giving a quick look with the eyes, you smack your lips, “don’t tell me you’ve been studying here all day, have you?” 

“well– i– i mean…” 

sighing out confirming the suspicion, you lift dahyun’s leg, shifting it over yours, and she’s straddling your lap—her arms never moving on your shoulders once she’s all settled in. “since you’ve been hitting the books while i’ve been napping, why don’t you tell me what you’ve been going over so far?” hand moving along the underside of her thigh, you take the hint that she’s not wearing any underwear beneath her shorts. “sleeping for a bit would be a perfect solution for you over that reading that you’re always doing.” 

“you don’t want to hear what i’ve read.” 

“just like, one thing. for me dubu?” you ask, hand on her hip, lightly moving dangerously close to the growing wet spot between her legs. 

dahyun knows that she’s being worked over with the amount of short, hitched breaths being let out in frequent succession. “i was just reading about– fuck, how w-we as humans are more prone t-to be more impatient in psycholog- baby that’s–” 

“hmm,” you hum with your moving hands on her hips, looking up at your flustered girlfriend riding you, dahyun trying to neglect the friction and growing heat very poorly. “patience huh. maybe you could teach me a thing or two about that more, right?” 

all you hear is a small whine being sounded while you’re smiling, dahyun’s face looking a little more out of it with her slacked jaw, eyes half-lidded and nearly closing. “think you can teach me some patience baby?” hands continuing to move at a consistent pace, dahyun’s clit rubbing against the fabric and your leg making her twitch slightly, the sensation now rising up throughout her body as time passes. 

“y-yes, but–” her words are jumbled up agaisnt her teeth. “i wanted to see you…” 

“i did miss you too, honey, and i'm right here, don't worry.”  your voice is a bit deeper now, continuing to roll dahyun’s hips on your leg while she clutches the hood of your jacket more tightly. “maybe you can shower me with a few compliments, to get your mind off of studying for a bit.” you whisper in her ear as you carry on moving her hips back and forth. 

dahyun’s moans coming out of her leaves you in pure adoration, sputtering different aspects of you that you’ve heard before, not while she’s rocking on your leg to the point where the sentences are sounding more run-on than usual. the small mumbles of god- please- more- yes- followed by more yeses. you can feel the wetness seeping past dahyun’s shorts and onto your sweatpants. 

“my baby’s working so hard in school, she deserves to have a nice break, hmm? all of the other girls wishing they were in my place with you riding my leg like this?” you say into her chest, leaving feathery kisses to the upper profile below her clavicle. 

“y/n– you’re– shit, so fucking– god– the way you speak to me like t-that,” she tries to say to you, head dipping down near your collarbone, speaking nonsense. “i love- everything about y-you baby. the way your hands– fucking fuck me up so good–” 

“there we go pretty.” you say, nicking her chin up so that you can meet her eyes, adjusting your leg slightly by lifting it higher to make it look like she’s sliding down. her pants are making you lackluster, dark, the struggling breath riling you up as well the more she’s trying to stay upright on your leg. 

“i can feel you close for me dubu, you wanna cum just like this? grinding on my thigh until you fucking get off?” you’re gripping the back of her neck with your left hand while the right one rolls her hips more into you. 

“s-so fucking close, god. y/n, baby—” 

“shhh,” you comfort her, “you’re gonna look so good cumming for me baby. let it go, i’ll take care of you. i always do.” 

dahyun lets out a whimper of appreciation when you’ve given the go-ahead, the grip on her ass becoming more tight as the slick coming out of her leaves your leg completely soaked. she has her arms around your neck now, closely, allowing your free reign to leave nibbles across the unmarked canvas of her throat while she’s moaning in your ear, causing you to grunt from the infectious lust growing between you two. 

“cum for me baby. i need to hear it, need to feel it.” you growl, bruising her skin. 

she hears your voice down her ear, and it’s all too much. your large hands clutching to her waist. dahyun lets you have your way with her body, riding out the chain reaction of whines and moans and all sounds of the pleasure that consumes her, the sensation of her cumming to the point where she’s reduced to whimpering into your hoodie. 

you steady the pace soon after, short exchanges of breaths are now filling the room as dahyun slowly grinds her sopped, worked core, still wanting more, but that’s for later. 

“stress relieved?” you ask, smiling against her warm face. you can feel her breath tickle your neck as she lets her hands roam across the plane of your back. sometimes you’re still in disbelief that this woman you love has a near perfect waist the way your hands just link around it so easily. 

“i-i should go back to studying,’ dahyun answers. “but i do feel better y/n, thank you. ” 

“i have a new idea.” 

dahyun is then flipped over the bed, shorts now discarded exposing her swollen pussy lips to you, taking off your hoodie that shows a sports bra that made your breasts appear even larger—and dahyun can’t help herself to stating, biting her lip at the potential site for more marks to be made. 

“we should study each other’s bodies again, deal?!” 

you wonder if you can hear dahyun swallow the moment you dive down for her again. 

—

the second instance, black, comes a bit later and completely out of nowhere.

you’re not even prepared for what was about to occur.

to bring it up to speed: you’re shit-faced drunk. mumbling and humming noises that sound like a boxer in a comatose state. the pattern on the floor looks familiar—giving an indication that you were at your apartment (or at least on the way back).

dahyun was hobbling your wasted ass back into your apartment, hands and legs clearly uncoordinated, stumbling and propping up on anything that was in close proximity around the place with her carrying you back into your room, carelessly tossing you on the bed while she slammed the door harshly behind her.

you may or may not have had some -too many- shots in your system, the count already lost a while back—the more apparent elephant in the room is brought back to you when dahyun clutches your shoulders, eyes filled with rage, sitting you straight on the edge of the bed.

“what in the fuck were you thinking!?” she asks you, clutching the delts of your body with an iron grip, your neck keeling your head over causing dahyun to rake your hair in pulling back up, her hand now clutching the collar of your shirt that reeked of the booze you mindlessly spilled on you while drinking. “you’ve gotta be out of your mind for kissing my ex in front of me earlier.”

“who? oh! you mean tzuyu?!” you say, speech slurred, giggling at the sentence passing through your lips. “shit, i musta forgot, silly me—”

dahyun’s hand is quick around your neck, stopping your act and letting the proper thought of rationalization combating the effects of alcohol in your brain for a slight second, airflow halted with a harsh choke, tongue reeling back into your throat the more her fingers gripped around it.

“my fucking ex.” dahyun seethes out, grabbing your cheeks and leaning in closer against your cheek. “you crossed the line with that one.” she pushes you away, slipping off her jacket that revealed a black compression shirt underneath, the hints of muscles here and there from her arms to her shoulders.

she paces around in front of you, strategizing what to do with you while you sit there with hands fiddling with the end of the comforter below you. your heart is racing from the impending rage that was unraveling, wondering what dahyun will do next. the way she’s not even making eye contact from your lowered position makes you look up like a pleading child asking their parents for something.

keeping yourself together like this was near impossible, not when dahyun looked so good with this kind of attitude, something that momo and the others have said they were afraid of, but not you.

“where is it?”

“what!?”

“don’t make me repeat myself.” dahyun says sternly, pulling on the peak of your chin, “show me where she left it.”

“i don’t know what you’re—“

“the fucking hickey, y/n. show me where she marked you.” her tone sending a shiver down your skin while you tried to resist the urge to squirm under the touch. “you’ve already got me with your little stunt this morning, but you’re not getting away a second time.”

you and dahyun hardly fight over something in the relationship. most of your arguments are just disagreements that didn’t really spell anything too serious. this changed when dahyun turned down your imitations for sex three times because of a dumb mistake you did (not worth remembering what it was because the punishment was worse than the supposed crime).

after those failed attempts, this made you snap on the inside. satisfying the high sex drive you had was the only thing in your head, and you were gonna do whatever it takes, even if it has to make dahyun completely lose control. kissing her ex tzuyu that you saw at the party earlier was the last push that you needed, making eye contact with her in the crowd while you were smacking on the girl’s lips and letting her mark you front of dahyun.

the second reminder comes back, you edging out dahyun while she was getting ready this morning for an important meeting with one of the clubs that she was a high ranking board member in, the hushed curse of your name being moaned out while you relentlessly pounded and licked up her helpless cunt, her fingers raked around your head when you perched her on the bathroom sink. she didn’t want to give in to the pleasure, but she does, always does.

once you left her high with no release, you were sure that dahyun wouldn’t go throughout the day without having a single thought about you. in a doubled down effort, you sent her pictures of yourself in underwear at different times during her schedule to ensure that the thought would stay fresh in her mind. needless to say, it worked.

“clothes off.” dahyun says. “don’t make me repeat it a second time.”

all you did was just shake your head, dahyun lets out a ‘tsk’ slapping you in the face, forcing you to look away with one eye closed, cheek stinging from the contact of her hand.

“baby,” calling you while she soothes the light red mark on your cheek with her thumb. “show. me. the. mark.”

you comply, pulling the collar of your shirt to show a stark red hickey across your collarbone. dahyun sighs out while looking down, pressing the bridge of her nose before muttering something to herself. along the lines of what a fucking idiot you were.

dahyun’s strength surprised you at times and before you even knew it, your back was against the headboard of your bed, staring up to the ceiling while she slid off your pants. hers also came off, hand trailing up your leg to the seam of your panties, noticing a hint of wet in between the threads.

“you’re fucking wet? wanted to see me being rough with you? fucking little slut’s enjoying too much of this.”

you’re whimpering when she’s leaving more marks up your neck, holding both of your wrists. thighs rubbing together of built up sexual frustration that you were the catalyst in creating, but the thought and lust filled aura dahyun was possessing blinding you with delusion that you’d get what you want.

“dahyun…please—“

“now you’re begging?!” she scoffs out, snickering while she holding your face up again. “some audacity you have, bitch.”

you feel dahyun’s fingers hook on the elastic of your panties sliding off, then nails moving upward on your legs. in a futile attempt to wiggle out from dahyun’s touch, she stops herself, gets up from the bed and walks over to a corner in your room to grab something. she pulls out a box in her hand that makes your eyes roll at what she has.

the throbbing sensation rises between your thighs, closing your eyes again, brows knitting together from the euphoric false belief that dahyun would let you off easy.

a shift of weight in the bed presents itself when you open your eyes again after a few moments, the sight alone makes your cunt throb and your heart quicken.

she has a purple silicone strap-on. the one that you bought with your own money about two weeks ago to use on dahyun—-the first proper use of it being on you now.

dahyun shifts towards you on the bed. compression shirt now boldening with tense muscles and her underwear was off replaced with the plastic cock, unsure of what do with it, but clear of who to use it on, straddling your waist again before scorching up to your chest, the tip lightly poking your chin.

“spit.”

ever the good listener, you spit on the plastic tip, dahyun lightly stroking it lightly to get the saliva around the shaft more.

“suck.”

the commands are coming simple and easy, the only thing you’re able to do is just follow and submit, opening your mouth to let the purple tip in, lightly bobbing just past the tip while dahyun supported the back of your head with her hand, pushing you to go a bit deeper each time.

“so pretty with a cock in your mouth, even better when my slut is taking mine.” she laughs out, pulling away to slap her cock on your wet, pouty lips. you’re looking at her with pleading eyes, stroking your cheek again, dahyun drinking in the sight of you being like this for her.

she slaps it on your mouth a couple more times before moving off, leaving you harsh kisses from your lips down to your neck, to the chest, down to the waist, and—

“please, just fuck me. let me have— i just want you.”

dahyun seems to understand what your desires are, pulling you from the hips so that you’re laying on the bed now. parting your legs wider to put herself in the middle, teasing your folds with her cock slightly slapping it before slipping inside just past the head—the sound that leaves your lips is so low, breaking.

you’re clutching onto her wrists as she’s bruising your skin at the hips with her nails. the tightness too hard to bear when dahyun sinks deeper, flushing the whole plastic toy inside you.

“o-oh my fucking god.”

she pulls out and snaps her hips back in, leaving you no time adjust. a few locks of her hair falls over her forehead as she gets picks up her pace, the tempo gradually increasing until she couldn’t contain herself, going all the way—full send.

“w-wait babes, sta—nngh! fuck—it hurts…”

the slick sound of your fucked pussy on top of the symphonic tones of your breaths and moans combined fill up the room, fulfilling the fantasy that you’ve dreamed of doing to dahyun, almost.

“i don’t care if you’re in pain, not when i see a slut get frisky with my fucking ex.” she’s having fun with this also, taking out the frustrations and anger that you created throughout the day earlier.

dahyun puts in two deep strokes into your cunt, causing you to arch your back from the pleasure, before pulling out and flipping you over, raising your hips to match hers before inserting inside again.

the pace of thrusts pick up again, dahyun’s hips now meshing with your ass perfectly. holding at the right angle to as she continues to pound and pound and pound and pound—

“does it hurt, baby? the way my cock is taking your slutty pussy like you deserve it hm? wanting me to fuck you like this for so long?!”

from you, barely, “god, yes.”

she then pushes you deep into the comforter, mercilessly thirsting to no end at the new angle to take you deep. the throaty moans and fucked out sounds getting to the best of you, clamping down her strap more and more as dahyun runs a hand through her hair—you imagine her doing it the same way that’s just insanely hot from the simple action.

“i wanna hear you say it bitch. who am i to you?” she’s growling over the nape of your neck and into your ear, never letting up her speed.

you’re half-sobbing-half-growling into the sheets, gripping onto the pillows for dear life, brain too far gone to answer right away.

“ah—mmph y-yours, fuck i’m all for you.”

reveling in the vibration of skin to skin contact, the both of you are nearing exhaustion. the way that your hips are shaking beneath dahyun as she pounds all of the noises she likes out of your pretty little mouth.

“fuck-you’re so perfect like this. i can see you getting close—“

you’re yelling into the soft cushion of the pilllow, dahyun not amused at the act of playing it safe. she pulls you by the hair, lifting you upright with her, the strap becoming more and more difficult to move as you’re clenching hard around it.

“don’t shy away from me, slut.”

you liked the idea of being dominated, and that was the apparentness being brought clearly in this moment. dahyun had times where she got protective/possessive with certain things, but this was a brand new avenue that you probably prefer than previous occasions. to be fucked through with no remorse as she shoves your head back into the sheets, leaning over when you’re at the highest point of the night.

“da-fuck, please harder- fucking, ‘m gonna—cum—shit. baby god—don’t sto—“

“cum all over this cock baby. i’ll take care of you. i always do.”

the sentence alone was a silver-lining, and a daunting parallel.

“dahy—ah!” you cried out as dahyun fucked you through your (deserved?) orgasm. pleading and babbling and begging while you feel your body shut down, half drunk after being used.

dahyun slows her pace, hips bucking with every lethargic stroke, sliding the silicone cock out of your fucked cunt while she leaves light kisses down your back. she massages your red-marked ass while you just hum in satisfaction against the mattress.

you roll over on your back, the soft sounds and breaths matched with the simple movement of the lungs. in, out. in, and out. dahyun tosses off the wet slick strap, tending to your care with kisses and glances of love now shown—the possessive aura washed away completely.

just before your vision fades to black, she helps you lift your shirt up slightly, kissing down your body to the sensitive area between your legs. but before she does that, she goes back to your face one last time, planting a kiss to your cheek before whispering,

“my messy girl, let me clean you up.”

summarizing, we’ll leave it off with this: caught with a red flag at the party, blacked and fucked out by the end of it.

[berrygoodjob]

MDNI 18+

Wanna bet?

What happens when you bet your virginity with Taiga and lose….

Tokyo Debunkers smut

CW: taiga, mild dub-con, very brief mentions of torture, biting, fem-bodied reader, gambling, virginity loss, selling your body, blood, mild vore, creampies, debt payment through sex, rough sex, cunnilingus in the torture chair, Voyeurism

“Ha! I win again!! Sorry Taiga, looks like I’m up this time!” you laugh at another win for you while taiga grumbles on about a losing streak.

“Hm playing with you isn’t very interesting, you always take the safe bet.” Taiga groans in response.

“Well duh, I’ve seen what kind of treatment the debtors of Sinostra get, and I’m not all that interested in being hunted for sport….” A chill runs down your spine at the thought of you friend Kaito and how he’s constantly being chased and hunted by Romeo. “….your vice captain doesn’t mess around.”

“Gyahahaha! I guess he doesn’t!” Taiga laughs off his vice captains less than legal methods of debt collection. He smiles sinisterly. “hey I know, let’s make this next bet an interesting one.”

“Interesting how?”

“If you win, I’ll clear your little friends debt.” He smirks, knowing that this is gonna be hard to refuse.

“And if I lose?”

“You let me fuck you.” His smile never drops.

Your face goes bright red as you realize how deep shit you’re about to be in. On one hand, you have the chance to clear the massive debt your friend is always whining about, on the other, you stand to lose your viginity, and to Taiga of all people…. Not that he’s unattractive or anything, but he’s not necessarily known for his delicate nature.

“Whatdya say? Sound like a fair bet to you?”

“No way!!” You huff at even the mention, but it actually doesn’t sound too bad. Besides, you’ve been on a winning streak….. Taiga’s been losing at every play….

“Suit yourself, but I spy Romeo on his way to hunt for debtors.” Taiga grins and nods toward the casino entrance, where Romeo has his sniper rifle loaded and ready to go hunt some debtors and shake them down.

“….fine. You’re on.”

“Great! Let’s play roulette for it then.” He tosses his arm around your shoulder and leads you to the roulette wheels.

“Why the sudden change?”

“We’re leaving this one up to chance! That way if you lose you can’t say I fixed the match gyahaha!”

You look at the wheel in front of you. Taiga watches intently.

“Red or black? It’s your choice.” He nods toward the wheel.

“…..I choose black.”

“Hm, don’t think so. Red for me then.”

The reality of the situation is starting to hit you. The ball rolls around as you watch Taiga. He’s completely enthralled by the game. He really is nice to look at, but he’s kinda scary, and he’s always so harsh….. If you lose, you’re really going to be at his mercy…..

And just as you have that thought, the ball lands on red. You lose. He turns to you and smiles.

“Better luck next time~” his voice dripping with faux sympathy.

He wastes no time in tossing you up over his shoulder and walking away from the casino and towards his room. He tosses you down on the bed and climbs on top of you.

“H-hey hey wait!!” You put your hands between the two of you, trying to keep a bit of distance. Your face is starting to turn a bit red.

“Hm, not going back on your bet now, are you?” His smile drops.

“L-let’s at least make one rule okay? A safe word? Right…?”

Taiga considers for a moment. “Sure, what’s your word?”

“….cashmere. And if I say that you have to stop no matter what…. Okay?” You say a bit sheepishly now.

“Mhm, but this is gonna be fun, I promise….” He pushes you onto your back, straddling your hips, keeping you pinned beneath his weight.

He leans over. You look up at him, unsure what to expect from here, so you just nod, visibly nervous.

In a surprisingly gentle motion, he brushes some hair away from your face. Then in contrast, he presses his lips against yours in a hungry sort of kiss.

As the kiss gets more intense, his hands snake down your waist to a firm grip on your hips. Your own hands starting to feel more comfortable wrap around his neck to pull him closer. Having his body pressed against yours during the heated kiss doesn’t feel as bad as you’d thought…. Actually it feels good, really good.

His body is toned and extremely warm against your own. His hands rubbing small circles on your hips, gently raising them just enough for you to feel him getting hard down there.

He nips at your lip and upon your gasp, his tongue enters your mouth. You taste a bit of blood, but that’s the last thing on your mind now as he begins to dominate your mouth. One of his hands moves away from your hips and traces up your waist and under your shirt.

You inadvertently gasp slightly and arch your back as his hand feels around your breasts, roughly squeezing the soft flesh.

His mouth breaks away from the kiss and moves down to your neck. It starts out gentle, as light kisses, but it quickly progresses into soft nibbles, then a full on bite.

“Ow!” Your hands move to push him off, but he catches both your hands in one of his own, not even needing to look up. He pins your hands above your head.

“Be good.” He growls into your neck, fully taking in the scent of you. You feel a drop of blood drip from the bite. He licks it up and kisses the wound.

He begins to roll his clothed dick against your hips, grinding into you at a painfully slow pace. You buck your hips, desperate for just a little more friction, but with his free hand he keeps you pinned down. He continues to nibble and bite at your neck and shoulders. Making sure to lick up any blood that begins to flow.

The hand he has on your hips now is tugging at the waistband of your uniform skirt, slowly pulling it down. Your face heats up a bit. He releases your hands to remove your shirt, as well as his own. He’s lean, but undeniably muscular. There are a few scars littering his skin, likely from his own reckless behavior in the field…..

Your eyes wander his chest and torso, not even noticing your own exposure until he sits up, still on top of you, and lets out a low whistle.

“You sure keep your aces close, dontcha?” He grins, eyeing your chest. He removes your bra with skill and precision. “That’s a view I could get used to…”

You start to feel the embarrassment of being almost fully nude in front of him. You try to cover yourself with your hands a bit. He clicks his tongue and stands up.

“None of that.” He pulls you off the bed with him and shoves you down in his torture chair. He straps you down before you can even get a word in.

With your arms strapped into the chair he sits on the floor and pulls your hips toward his face, spreading your legs.

“Taiga what are-“

“Shut up. Not another word. Let me enjoy this.” His tone is dangerous, much more serious than you’re used to. He threads your underwear around his finger and pulls it to the side, taking in the sight of your pussy all exposed for him.

“You’re wet.” He grins.

“Well yeah but-“

“I said shut up.” He glares at you from the floor. Once again, dead serious. He plants his hand on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your hip and uses his thumb to brush your entrance open, collecting some of your slick onto his finger. He grins and tastes it.

“Fuck, princess, that tastes good….” Wasting no more time, he shoves his face into your pussy. He licks and sucks on your sensitive clit.

You gasp and squirm around at the unfamiliar sensation of pleasure down there. Your hands move against the restraints of the chair and you whine a bit.

Taiga continues to suck your clit, now playing with the entrance to your cunt with one of his fingers, but not going all that deep.

You feel a twisting sort of knot begin to form in your stomach as you start bucking your hips shamelessly into his face.

“That’s right, cum on my face pretty girl…..” he growls into your heat. The vibration of his words pushes you over the edge. You cry out as pleasure rips through your body. He speeds up, then pulls away.

The lower half of his face is dripping with your juices. He chuckles. “I didn’t take you for someone so eager.”

As you pant and start to come down from your high, he undoes the restraints. He pets your hair lovingly, leaning down so his breath hits your neck. “Now we can start for real.”

He tosses you back onto his bed, with no regard for how easy it is for him to completely manhandle you. He pushes himself between your legs and starts to position himself at your entrance.

“Such a good girl….” He leans down and kisses you. It’s a bit more gentle this time. He pushes his tip in, groaning a bit at how tight you are. “….fuck, I thought I prepped enough. Relax.”

You feel his girth starting to stretch out the entrance of your pussy. He rolls his hips a bit, trying to get a little bit further in. You can’t choke down the moan of pleasure that escapes your mouth. “Fuck taiga~”

And at that sound, he can’t help himself, he snaps his hips all the way against yours, plunging himself balls deep in a matter of seconds. You cry out in pain, but he wastes no time to let you adjust.

His mouth takes over yours and he draws his hips back just to snap them into yours again. He greedily sucks on your lower lip as he fucks himself up into you at a brutal pace. His movements as fast and rough, but he makes sure to hit that sweet spot inside you each time.

You can’t even keep track of the noises leaving your mouth. He lifts one of your legs up into your chest to hit even deeper inside you.

His mouth moves down to your neck, once again nipping and sucking as he rails into you. His pace still not even beginning to ease. You feel that same knot start to form in your gut.

You try your best to verbalize what’s about to happen but instead, Taiga snaps into you even rougher.

“That’s it doll, cum all over my dick. Fuck yoh feel so fucking good….”

You cry out again and do just that. Creaming all over his relentless cock. He doesn’t even bother to slow down as he rides you through your high.

“Shit, squeezing me so fucking tight…. Don’t know how much longer I can last like this….”

Without any more warning than that, he flips you over onto your stomach and drags you to the edge on the bed so your legs dangle over the edge. He stands up and begins to hit even deeper inside you, his cock now bullying at your cervix.

He has your hips lifted up off the bed and face pressed into the mattress. You’re practically drooling all over his sheets the way your jaw is hung slack from the intense pleasure. Incomprehensible sounds leaving your mouth.

“That’s right sweetheart, fuck, lemme hear it…”

His balls hitting your clit at each rut into you is sending you close to the edge again, he leans over you, pressing his hot sweaty chest against your bare back, wrapping his hand lightly around your throat. He bites into the nape of your neck hard.

His pace is starting to get even harsher, pulling you even closer to another orgasm as well as letting you know that he’s getting close too.

With a few more rough thrusts he clenches his jaw around the flesh of the back of your neck. And buries his cock as deep as he can inside you, ripping another orgasm from you. Then another thrust, and you feel him twitch inside you. He holds you in place, with the tip of his dick roughly pressed against your cervix as far as it can go. You feel his hot cum full your insides, starting as deep as it can. He lets out a few shaky breaths and releases his jaw.

“Fuck. s’good…..”

His hands give one more squeeze to your hips. He rolls his hips against yours just a few more times to milk all of his seed out into your throbbing cunt. Then he pulls out, leaving you feeling emptier than you thought possible. He lets out another shaky sigh and leans down. He watches his cum start to drip out of you. He slides his finger up your slit, gathering the cum and shoves it back into you.

Upon closer inspection, he notices small streaks of red along with the cum. He tilts his head.

“Were you a virgin….?”

His question catches you a bit off guard and drags you back to reality. “Huh? H-how’d you-?”

“Shit. Id have bet way more if i knew…. Sex is one thing but your virginity? Id’ve at least bet something important. More important than that whining brats debt.”

He stands up fully, stretches a bit and drops over you. Pinning you against him in a death grip. He nuzzles his face into your neck, taking in the smell of you. “Felt so fuckin good though…. I wanna keep you all to myself from now on…..”

you try to squirm a bit in embarrassment, but your body is too exhausted from being completely fucked out. “….yeah whatever.” You grumble a bit, still a bit embarrassed. “Can’t you at least clean up?”

Taiga groans but releases you. He gets up and cleans up for you. He lays on top of you again, this time keeping just enough distance to look at your face. It’s hard to read his expression, so you just stare back.

“You’re mine now, okay?”

You blink a few times. “….okay.”

“Good, also you’re staying here tonight, I’m not done with you yet.” He gives you another kiss.

BONUS:

Romeo, now done with his debt collecting for the day and looking for the captain, ready to give that BTH another good scolding about how he should be treating the casino patrons. He storms into Taiga’s room, only to be greeted by the sight of that BTH fucking right into the BB(basic bitch) who’s face is pressed into the mattress so much she didn’t even notice his entry. Taiga makes eye contact though, not even bothering to stop what he’s doing. He grins and opens his mouth like he’s about to say something. Romeo doesn’t give him the chance. His face twists in disgust and he immediately backs out of the room, shutting the door behind himself.

“Was he in there Fico?” One of his goons questions.

“Nope. He must be busy…..” Romeo clears his throat and walks away. He’s gonna try to forget he saw that.

[meyousing]

𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘬, 𝘍𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘑𝘰𝘣

𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵: shalnark x pro treasure hunter reader

𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: you and shalnark are working together to retrieve a special artifact. but this is your mission, he doesn’t bother giving you details for the one he has decided to set out on.

𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘴:  yandere shalnark x reader, nsfw, deception, manipulation (use of his nen), shalnark taking advantage of y/n, all sexual nsfw will be under the cut. 

The guy that you were partnered with for your next heist was… alright. To you, he seemed a bit soft; too soft for this line of work, but he wouldn’t have made it this far if that was true. You were always willing to give the benefit of the doubt, and it helped that you felt indifferent about him so you could focus on the job and just let him do his thing while you did yours, differences aside. At the very least, his seeming soft also meant that he was nicer than most of those you worked with, which was a pleasant change of pace…despite your general lack of care for that kind of thing.

“So, what’s your nen ability?” Shalnark questioned you casually, his hands leaving his pockets in favour of resting them behind his head as the two of you strode through the large Casino. You glanced at him briefly, seeing how his eyes were focused on yours, though the way he scanned over the rest of you did not go unnoticed. You sighed internally at his lack of professionalism, as the goal was for you two not to seem like you were here together. At the very least, the loud music, noisy rolling of roulette wheels, and shrill dings of slot machines were doing their jobs sufficiently in keeping the attention of the attendees. As far as you could tell no eyes were on you at all. You were still hesitant to say too much to your new coworker, but creating unnecessary conflict would only make this more complicated. Whatever. 

“I’m a conjurer. I’ll just show you later” with a subtle roll of your eyes you crossed your arms over your chest, continuing on to your destination without another word of your own. Shalnark gave an upbeat “okay!” in response which you ignored, hardly noticing the newfound speed in your pace as you increasingly wished to get this heist done and over with. Shalnark had no problem keeping up with you, and upon swiftly rounding a corner, you had never been more relieved to see a door in your life once catching sight of the large metal one that was a few feet away. The start of your first objective. Finally. 

The two of you walked up silently, and you looked over your shoulder to ensure there were no prying eyes while Shalnark tried the doorknob.

“Locked.”

Releasing your sigh this time, you shooed him out of the way with your hand and moved that same one to the doorknob. Enabling Gyo, you felt around at every inch of the handle for a short while before pulling back. Glancing over at Shalnark and watching as he raised an eyebrow, you then placed your hands on your hips triumphantly. He kept gazing in confusion.

“That’s it?” he asked, the lack of any visual change in the environment likely making him doubt your abilities. 

With a suppressed smirk, you raised one hand from your hip, opening your palm and showcasing a key. One created with your nen, to fit perfectly into the slot of this particular door. The sight of his eyes and grin widening was satisfying, and since he had a positive reaction you decided to be nice back to him. Maybe teamwork with someone so insufferably cheerful wouldn’t be so bad after all, it was nice to be praised even in a way as small as a change in expression. 

“All yours” you grabbed his hand and placed the key in it, making a curt gesture to the door and stepping back to let him do the honours. He stood for a moment, his eyes swapping between looking at his own hand and the one you had just touched him with. When you cleared your throat after he was still for too long, he blinked and moved the key into the slot quickly, twisting it and gazing with childlike wonder as the door opened right after. 

“That’s amazing! No wonder boss chose you for this job” he grinned, tossing the key back which you caught with ease. You thanked him, shoving it in your pocket and following as he strode into the room and shut the door once you two were inside, perfectly undetected. “As much as I would love to see more of that, this is where we go our separate ways. For now, at least.” He let out a soft chuckle, both of you were already aware of what was next. You simply nodded your agreement, gazing around the dim space and the only other door, which was across from the first. 

Now comes the more crucial part of your mission. This room was only the start, but thankfully a key was no longer required from here on out. Disguised behind this casino was an opposing gang’s money laundering operation; more specifically, a gang that had started to clash with the Phantom Troupe as of late. You were commissioned by Chrollo Lucilfer to find a way inside and work with Shalnark to steal one of their most valuable items, just to send them a message. Your nen specifically was only useful for getting into restricted areas, so you were surprised that the troupe summoned you for one locked door, unsure of how a group of so many strong and abled people had such a hard time with it. Either way, the gig would pay well, so you decided to keep your ridicule to yourself and just get it done. 

The next few doors would be unlocked but guarded, which neither you nor Shalnark would be physically strong enough to deal with presently together or by yourselves (you doubted Shalnark’s inability to fight since the few times you had witnessed the combative side of Phantom Troupe in the past he held his own quite well, if not as one of the best). It was decided by Chrollo that Shalnark would use his nen on you and control your body when combat came into play since he explained that he would be able to do that with ease in comparison to just taking a guard head-on (“It’ll be like I’m playing a first-person fighter game!” he had said with immense anticipation). Of course, you were incredibly hesitant to allow a manipulator to take control of you, especially since you had already seen Shalnark’s strength and speed before, but that damned paycheque looked too handsome to question them further. So with audible reluctance, you agreed to the plan, hardly noticing how much more elated Shalnark looked once you did. 

“Ow! hey, you could’ve at least told me you were about to do it” you winced, fingers tightening in your hair as you held it up for him to press the first antennae into the skin on the back of your neck. 

“Sorry! Just trying to work quickly here, we’re already making such good time, after all. Would be a shame to slow down now.” He punctuated the last part of his sentence by sticking the second one in, catching you by surprise once more as you let your hair down and spun around to glare at him. He looked awfully smug, a soft smirk playing at his lips as you grit your teeth and squinted your eyes at him. That was enough for you to become royally pissed off, preparing to wind up your hand for a cute little slap to his cheek. But your hand wasn’t moving. Shalnark’s smirk widened at your visible show of confusion, the flinchy back-and-forth movements of your body showing him just how hard you were trying to raise your limb. 

“Just messing around with you, Y/N. No need for such hostility” he tilted his head with a full-on, sunny smile, lifting a hand to show you how he was keeping you in place with the push of a button on his cell. 

You just decided to drop it, knowing you’d gain nothing from inflicting harm on a coworker anyway. Moving on, you watched him release his thumb from the button and began walking over to the second door by your own merit, managing to open it just a crack, when a hand on your other wrist prevented you from going any further. 

“There’s something else I need you to do first.” 

Your eyelids drooped in displeasure, annoyed by his apparent want to work quickly but his current presentation of a hold-up. With puzzlement, you observed as he began walking backward, his eyes staying on you even as he crouched down to seat himself against the wall. Your body acted on its own (under Shalnark’s command) as you approached him shortly after he was situated, sauntering over slowly with an awkward swivel of your hips accompanying every step. Your cheeks began to burn in embarrassment, completely unsure but not liking the possible idea of where he was going with this. 

Your pain was audible when you dropped to your knees suddenly, cringing from the sharp pain before crawling closer to him on all fours. You could see his shoulders slumping as he made himself more comfortable, his hand that wasn’t controlling you with his phone moved to hover over his crotch. 

He was not being serious. There was no way.

“Shalnark” you spoke his name firmly, wanting to give him a look that expressed your disdain at what he was planning, and how awful he was for it. You stopped moving when your hands landed in front of him, dangerously close to his own which began stroking himself idly as you inched closer. You forced your eyes down to watch as his head knocked back against the wall before he reached to pull his cock out of his pants, continuing on with stroking it ever so casually, stifling a sound of pleasure as he did. You, on the other hand, were mortified, trying to use everything inside of you to tear away from his control and run the hell out of there. Of course, that would not happen.

Your eyes widened impossibly as you lurched forward and spit on his cock, creating a lubricant for him as he began to stroke a little hastier before letting go, keeping his hand upturned against his thigh as he sighed contentedly, his dick twitching against the air. 

“Time to get to work” he simpered playfully, and before you knew it you were grasping him with your own hand and kissing at his reddened tip. Your breath shook as you exhaled through your nose, straining your eyes up as well as you were able so you could glare daggers at the complacent man before you. You felt your eyelids lower and your eyebrows relax, knowing this was his doing so the look that you gave him was more suggestive. How you wished to tighten your grip so painfully that–

 With puckered lips you took him into your mouth, pulling your hand down his shaft to grab at his balls as your lips began sliding up and down sensually. A soft rumble came from his chest, which rose and fell heavily from every deep breath he took each time you repeated your motions. He was in complete control, from the speed to how hard you sucked, although you didn’t expect him to let you take your mouth off of him so soon, both of your hands replacing where it once was with firm strokes. 

You could feel something forming inside of you that was trying to get out, you couldn’t tell if it was words or a physical jab, but you knew that if you tried hard enough you could get some semblance of sway. You exerted what was left of your internal energy into this feeling, noting how your tongue and throat began moving in a way that was readying for speech, so thankful that you were able to utter your next words. You did so quickly, and it sounded a bit mumbly and slurred, but at least you could get something from your own mind to interject for a fleeting moment. 

“You could’ve come to this heist and done it all by yourself, couldn’t you?”

“Absolutely” he laughed breathlessly, gritting his teeth with a suppressed groan as he forced you to resume your ministrations, seemingly unbothered by your ability to temporarily rebel against his dominance. Your throat and tongue moved in a different way this time as he pushed your head down further than before, making you gag and clench around his tip once it hit the back of your throat. “We’re still gonna finish the job, but now that I have you here, like this, why should I wait any longer?”

You couldn’t respond for obvious reasons, wishing you could have control over your jaw and clamp your teeth down in revenge. But of course, that could not happen, your cheeks hollowed as you sucked up to his tip once more, massaging it with your tongue before popping off and bringing your fingers over it instead, your other hand moving to his balls again so you could fondle them.  

Shalnark must have really liked you because he seemed to be getting close to his orgasm very rapidly, soft heaves of his chest and little whines escaping him as he forced your hand to jerk him faster and faster. What must have only been five minutes felt like five hours, being completely restricted in your own body and using it to perform for someone else who you didn’t even like that much was infuriating, made even worse by the way he looked at you with glassy eyes and pinkened cheeks which stirred something in your guts and made your core throb involuntarily (was it involuntary?). You did not like him, from the start you did not like him, yet the way that he looked at you with such eagerness to come made your heart pick up its pace and thrum a little quicker against your ribcage. It was almost as if you wanted it just as badly as he did. 

Without control, your mouth opened with your tongue splayed out, your hand tilting his cock closer to your face. You barely had time to process these movements before he was coming on you, warm spurts of it landing mostly on your tongue but some went on the corners of your lips and cheek. His hips were rocking as he did and his free hand clutched a death grip on the material of his pants, the other on his cell was trembling as he struggled to maintain the fluidity of your movements, making your own hand start faltering and your jaw slowly begin to shut. His breaths were shaky and only one guttural whimper left him as he started to calm down, his cock softening within your loosening grip. 

It took him and his muscles a while to fully mellow out, his eyes were closed as he slowed his breathing, and his thumb stilled, so unfortunately that left you stuck with your mouth partially closed and your hand barely holding onto his manhood, the strings of his cum that didn’t make it into your mouth now dribbling off of your face and approaching the ground between you two. When his eyes peered open he took notice, a puerile laugh leaving him as he used the thumb of his freehand to swipe it off your jaw and push it into your now fully opened mouth, displaying his return to earth from elation when he made your lips close so you would suck on his thumb. 

“Ah, you were so good, better than I imagined” he spoke contentedly, his finger playing around pushing and prodding at your tongue for a bit before he pulled it out and finally moved to clothe himself. When he was situated he used his free hand to support himself on the wall behind him as he stood, and you stood up promptly too. 

You could tell that your expression was unhappy, or at the very least that you were trying to look unhappy so he could know that no, you were not good, you were angry and now miserable. He raised his eyebrows at your attempt of showing attitude.

“How cute” he smiled brightly, daringly reaching out to pat your head. Your eyes followed his hand, squinting in a flinch as he petted you like an animal. “Come on, we’ve got some treasure to steal now.” He caressed your hair briefly before walking past you, and you followed behind shortly, saying nothing else since he didn’t allow you to. Inside you were revolted as he made you catch up to be right at his side and reach for his hand, fingers intertwining in a horribly tender way. 

“Don’t worry, Y/N, we aren’t done just yet. Once we finish this job, I’ll make sure to take care of your needs too.”

You hated the way that the butterfly in your stomach thrummed at the prospect. 

© meyousing 2023. do not share/export my work on to any other platforms. do not translate my work. 

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

North To The Future [Chapter 15: Drive] [Series Finale]

The year is now 2000. You are just beginning your veterinary practice in Juneau, Alaska. Aegon is a mysterious, troubled newcomer to town. You kind of hate him. You are also kind of obsessed with him. Falling for him might legitimately ruin your life…but can you help it? Oh, and there’s a serial killer on the loose known only as the Ice Fisher.

Chapter warnings: Language, alcoholism, addiction, murder, violence, character deaths.

Word count: 7.3k.

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

Taglist: @elsolario​ @ladylannisterxo​ @doingfondue​ @tclegane​ @quartzs-posts​ @liathelioness​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @thelittleswanao3​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @poohxlove​ @borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @travelingmypassion​ @graykageyama​ @skythighs​ @lauraneedstochill​ @darlingimafangirl​ @charenlie​ @thewew​ @eddies-bat-tattoos​ @minttea07​ @joliettes​ @trifoliumviridi​ @bornbetter​ @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess​ 

A/N: This is the fic I almost never wrote because I didn’t think anyone would be interested in some random, angsty, 1990s, Alaskan, crime-thriller AU. Thank you for proving me wrong. I hope you enjoy the ending. 💜

Almost everything about your existence is pure chance; it’s the most freeing and horrifying truth imaginable. There’s the genetic lottery and corporate downsizing, revolutions and hurricanes, plagues, asteroids, famines, faulty airplanes and malignant blooms of cells and drunk drivers. There are 100 billion planets in this galaxy and your atoms ended up on the one called Earth. After all that, do you really think what you want matters? So make all the choices you like, all the nail-biting deliberations and promises and vows, weigh costs and benefits, do research, roll dice, ask astrologers and palm readers, start over every New Year because that’s something we tell ourselves is possible. The fact that you exist at all is one big cosmic coin flip. If you think you’re the one driving, you’re dead fucking wrong. You’re the speck of dust on a windshield, the spin of a roulette wheel. You’re a flash of silver in the universe’s pinball machine.

I spend a lot of my time thinking about chance, okay? My family is one of the wealthiest in the Western Hemisphere, and I didn’t do anything to earn that. I was born first, and I definitely didn’t do anything to earn that, Jesus Christ, what a chromosomal fuckup. I inherited an affliction that others get to live without. I can’t imagine what it feels like to wake up and not be horrified by myself, my shortcomings, my failures: too small, too stupid, too wild, too weak. And the first time someone says something like that to you, you want to apologize, you want to drop to your knees and cling to them and beg for absolution, maybe even the first hundred times, the first thousand. And then it just starts to piss you off. Yeah, I know, I’ve heard it all before, why would you expect anything different? Isn’t this getting old, Mom? Maybe you’re the stupid one, Dad, if you think you could cut me and anything but disappointments would fall out. I’m not horrified by the fact that I’m an addict. The horror came first. The horror is what led to all the rest of it.

One day when I was in 10th Grade—I was slumped way down in my chair and drinking vodka out of an Evian water bottle—my American History teacher, purely by chance, assigned me to make a poster about Juneau, Alaska. Some other kid got Los Angeles (Hollywood! The Whisky a Go Go!) and another got Chicago (the Mob!) and another got Nashville (Johnny Cash!) and some jock moron I hated got Baltimore (um, crabs? the War of 1812…?), but I got fucking Juneau, Alaska. I thought this was so unjust that I never forgot it, the fact that I had to get up in front of the class with my pathetic Crayolas-and-magazine-cutouts poster and pretend that Juneau was a place that mattered, that microscopic cloud-covered relic of a late-1800s gold mining settlement on the shores of the Gastineau Channel. Juneau was never on my list of cities to run to. It just wasn’t. It didn’t have anything I wanted. But when I started thinking about places where I could really disappear, where no one would ever bother looking, where days are short and dark and incurious and irrelevant…well, that sounds like Juneau, right?

Let me tell you something about the night I left. I’ve been more messed up, yeah, and I’ve hurt people worse, and I’ve been closer to death, I’ve been one more powder-white gram on the scale away from oblivion; but I’ve never felt that fucking low. I can’t decide if I wish I’d never gone to Juneau at all. I can’t decide if it was a blessing or a curse.

My flight is a red-eye with a layover in Ketchikan, American Airlines, bound for Seattle. Sunfyre has the window seat. He’s wearing the bright red Service Dog vest that I once stole for him specifically for such occasions. My dog fly with the cargo? My dog?! Bill Clinton will be elected pope first. Sunfyre is chewing contently on Milk-Bones and watching the sun rise over the Pacific Ocean. He knows the drill. We’ll touchdown and deplane, and then…and then…

And then we’ll start over again somewhere new. I’ll find a flight board and pick a destination; Seattle is a hub, with spokes leading everywhere. I could go south, to Galveston, Lafayette, Biloxi, someplace where it gets hot, someplace where I can sweat her out of me, purge every cell that still remembers what she felt like. I could go west, fading into mountains or cornfields, vapid infinitesimal towns in Montana, Iowa, Idaho, Nebraska. I could go to New England or the Great Lakes or freaking Hawaii, sleep in hammocks, swim with sea turtles, drink my rum and Cokes out of coconut shells. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that nowhere really sounds good to me. My legs are suddenly tired of running. There’s an ache that rattles down to the bone.

I don’t have to tell you that I love her, right? It’s not so easy for me to say. But it’s true, and it’s beautiful, and it’s torture, and it’s a dream. It’s pain that flays you alive and then builds you back again, layers of fresh muscle and tendons and veins growing over ribs and vertebrae like a trellis thick with ivy. It’s not a high. It’s just the best life can get down here on earth. It’s the ocean, it’s the Northern Lights.

I’m swimming in a black hoodie that is three sizes too big; I haven’t slept and I’m pale and raccoon-eyed, looking like death, feeling worse. When the stewardess rolls by with her clattering cart just slim enough to fit through the aisle, I order a cup of water for Sunfyre and a double rum and Coke for myself. It arrives with two blood-red cherries bobbing in a caramel-dark carbonated sea. The guy in the next seat over gives me a judgmental little eyebrow raise.

“That doesn’t look like breakfast,” he says.

I bite off both cherries—juice dribbling down my chin, wiped away with a sleeve—and throw the stems over my shoulder. The lady sitting behind me yelps in disgust. “Because it’s dessert.”

The man smiles and shakes his head, one of those I shouldn’t find it funny but I do sort of looks. I inspire a lot of those. He’s maybe mid-thirties, long hair and ripped jeans, very punk rock, cool as hell. There is a constellation of pins on his denim jacket. One of them has a roman numeral 10 on it, a stark X nestled inside a triangle. Unity, Service, Recovery, the gold letters say. To Thine Own Self Be True. It’s an Alcoholics Anonymous pin. What are the chances?

He catches me staring, and I ask: “Does it really make you a better man?”

“It doesn’t make you better. It just makes you real.” He smiles again, patient and kind. “It makes your emotions and experiences real, your relationships real. And so you become whatever version of yourself you were always supposed to be. But you have to want it. Not your wife, not your parents or your kids, not your pastor, not your friends, not your parole officer. You.”

I speak without knowing what I’m going to say. “I want it.”

“Yes, I think you do.”

He sees a lot, I think, as the plane descends into the grey fogbank of Seattle. 20/20.

When we land, the man squeezes into a cab with me and Sunfyre—he sniffles into a Kleenex for a while before reluctantly admitting that he’s allergic to dogs—and pays the fare. The cab’s worn brakes squeal to a stop outside a residential treatment center on the banks of the Puget Sound. When we step out onto the sidewalk, I ask the man if he’s going to take me to get one last drink first. He laughs in my face. Fucking jerk.

He pulls out a black Sharpie and rummages through his pockets, his wallet. He can’t find a scrap of paper. He writes his phone number on the underside of my arm instead. “You call me, okay?” he says. “Call me when you get out. Call me before you get out, if you need to. I don’t care if it’s in five minutes, I don’t care if it’s at 2 a.m. You just make sure you call.”

“Why would you do this? I mean, you don’t even know me. You have no idea who I am.”

“Because once, years ago, someone did the same thing for me, and someone did it for her too. Maybe one day you’ll be able to pay it forward. I don’t care who you are or where you’ve been. It doesn’t matter to me. I’d like to think that we’re all more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”

And then he waits for me to go inside. He doesn’t leave until he watches me check in at reception on the other side of the rain-flecked glass. Outside, a brand new day is beginning. A misty sun rises as pieces of the sky fall.

Sunfyre trots into the lobby alongside me, panting cheerfully, shaking the perpetual Seattle drizzle from his fur. There’s a girl at the front desk, just a girl, and that’s the other thing that’s different now. She’s not a maybe-future-one-of-my-girls. She’s just like anyone else. I already have a girl. I mean, I don’t anymore, not really. But I still do.

I throw my things onto the counter: my single suitcase, my tattered wallet, my bundle of cash held together with rubber bands, my scraped-up electric guitar.

“Checking in?” the girl asks.

“Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes, I guess.”

She opens my wallet, reads my license, blinks in bewilderment. “Aegon…?”

I sigh dramatically. “It’s Greek.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You dream of him; and when you do, he’s always smiling. He’s reading your palm in an empty Taco Bell, he’s kissing you under the Northern Lights, he’s regaling your parents with stories—of lobster fishing in Portland, of cattle ranching in Denver—all through Thanksgiving dinner, he’s undressing you in his moonlit apartment, he’s climbing into your bed. He’s not angry, he’s not ruined, he’s not running away. He’s exactly as you remember him in his best moments. He’s all chaotic white-blond hair and weightless light, sharp laughter and bright eyes. And each morning there’s a splinter-thin moment before you remember that he’s gone. That’s the worst part, really. You always knew it would be. You can’t even begin to forget him.

Your friends want to help you, but they don’t know how. Neither do your parents. Your dad gets an atlas from the study, throws it down on the dining room table, and opens it to a map of the world. “Pick anyplace and we’ll go there,” he says. “We’ll close the vet clinic for two weeks and we’ll all go.” But you can’t give him a single name: not Athens, or Paris, or Buenos Ares, or Cairo, or New York City, or Rome, or Tokyo, or anywhere else for that matter. It’s the strangest thing. All your life you’ve been waiting to get out of Juneau, but now nowhere sounds good to you. And maybe that’s a lesson you wish you’d never learned: sometimes freedom is less about places than it is about people.

The blood on the equipment recovered from Trent’s apartment matches DNA from the first three victims. He is charged with eight counts of first-degree murder and held awaiting trial in the Lemon Creek Correctional Center. His family visits him faithfully each week. His lawyer is exasperated that he won’t plead guilty and spare his parents the humiliation and expense of a protracted court battle. But Trent’s story never changes: he’s innocent, he’s never killed anybody, he doesn’t understand how the blood could have been found on his belongings. He wants to know exactly what items the police tested; he and his lawyer are still waiting for the prosecutor to turn over all the details during discovery. In the midst of the scandal, the upheaval, you fade into the backdrop like the stars behind fog. People talk around you and through you. They offer gaps that you don’t care enough to fill in. Drinks clink, whispers fly, conspiracies are exchanged between pool shots. You watch the days grow longer and wait for the future to arrive. You don’t know what it will look like, you can’t even begin to fathom it. But surely there must be a future. Life goes on. It did for your mom after Jesse. It will for you too.

A week after Aegon leaves, there is a knock at your parents’ front door. You open it to find Aemond standing there in the muted amber-pink afternoon light. His hair is long and loose, his Armani suit immaculately tailored, his BlackBerry nestled in his right hand. He glances up from it at you and his jaw falls open. And only then do you realize how awful you must look.

You tell Aemond, your voice hushed and heavy, ankles in quick-drying cement: “I don’t know where he is.”

“No, I can see that,” Aemond replies, dull horror in his blue eye. Then he turns around and strides halfway down the driveway towards the street, where a cab idles as it waits for him, engine exhaust pouring into the air like smoke from a firepit.

“How’s your dad?” you call after him when you get your bearings.

He pauses under the dwindling light. “Alive. For now.” And then Aemond considers you for a while. “I suppose if I ever want to find you again, I know where to look.”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

I’ll always be here.

A month crawls by like a wounded animal, dead leaves snared in the fur of its belly. The flesh on your thigh knits back together. The things that Aegon ordered show up in Juneau, packages left on the front porch and stuffed into the moose-shaped mailbox like Christmas gifts in a stocking. You pack these remnants of him—Zoobooks and cooking accessories, knives and Chia Pets—into a cardboard box and tuck it away in a dusty, cobwebbed corner of the attic, and you’re aware the entire time that this has happened before, almost exactly twenty years ago. When your dad puts a Third Eye Blind or Red Hot Chili Peppers or Oasis album on his record player, you find some excuse to leave the room. When you tack magazine cutouts of beaches and cityscapes to your bedroom walls, all you can think about is where Aegon might be now. You wonder where he works during the day, a surf shop or a construction site or a farm or a fishing boat; you wonder who he spends his nights with.

I’ll always be here. Even if I leave, I’ll always be here.

~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty years ago to the day, almost to the hour, a man fell into the Gastineau Channel and drowned. They found water in his lungs, though the autopsy was only a formality, an afterthought; Jesse had a reputation in Juneau, and no one was particularly surprised to see how his story ended. There were abrasions on his back and shoulders, contusions on his wrists, but so what? He probably tripped half a dozen times before he tumbled over some guardrail and into the frigid black water. There was a bloody mess of an impact wound on the side of his face, but who cares? The blood alcohol concentration doesn’t lie. The man was wasted, and more than that he was a waste. If his premature demise hadn’t been then, it would have been later, in a week or a month or a year. And when someone like that goes, there’s a sigh of relief that accompanies the misery, isn’t there? There’s the sense of a weight being lifted from a scale.

You’re sitting in Ursa Minor at the usual booth, but the bar is practically empty. It’s Valentine’s Day. Joyce is with Rob, Kimmie is with Brad; Heather’s parents have spirited her away on a short vacation to Sitka to try to take their minds off Trent’s imminent lifelong incarceration. Your mom and dad’s February 14th tradition is cooking a homemade Italian dinner together—pasta, bread with herbs and olive oil, caprese salad, tiramisu—and then settling in for a romantic Blockbuster rental. This year, it’s Runaway Bride. Your mom loves Julia Roberts. They didn’t ask for privacy, but you gave it to them anyway. Kimmie offered to drop you off at Ursa Minor and then drive you home after her date with Brad so you could drink away your sorrows without having to worry about calling a ride. So now Kimmie is getting wined, dined, and plied with boxed chocolates at the Red Dog Saloon while you drain appletinis and flip through one of Jesse’s journals, not knowing what you’re looking for.

Dale is washing pint glasses in the sink behind the bar and humming cheerfully along to a Cake CD. It’s just you and him tonight; evidently, Dale doesn’t have a hot date either. It was nice of him to eschew the usual Shania Twain or Sheryl Crow soundtrack. He’s trying to spare you from any crooning love songs. He must have forgotten that Cake has its own little slice of relevance in your memories of Aegon, those memories that refuse to fade, ink in your skin as dark as night.

Your fingerprints trace Jesse’s scrawling, handwritten letters. It’s his very last journal, the last words he ever wrote. His final entry is unremarkable, a lucid recollection of his latest woodcarving project: it’s a family of tiny bears, three of them. He says he wants the cub to have the same slope of your cheeks, the shape of your eyes. And it’s just like your mom said. It really did seem like he was getting better.

You flip to the next page, blank. The heading reads: Thursday, February 14th, 1980.

You go back a few days. And your gaze catches on words that you’ve read before, months ago, back when the journals were a new discovery like striking oil. The entry is from Saturday the 9th. It ends with an unceremonious bullet point of a reminder: dinner w/ Dale on Thursday.

You leaf forward to Thursday, to the blank page that tells you nothing. Back to the 9th, forward to the 14th, again, again. Valentine’s Day 1980, before Dale had married his wife, after your mom had stopped trying to make plans with Jesse, maybe even rebelled against them; just two unromantic, discarded men with a vacant slot in their calendars and troubles to drink into submission. Except that Jesse never came home.

Dinner with Dale, you think dizzily. Dinner with Dale on the night he died.

The opening notes of The Distance shout from the stereo. Everything suddenly feels very loud.

Reluctantly crouched at the starting line,

Engines pumping and thumping in time…

What had Aegon said about that song before you sang it together, stomping and staggering across the hardwood floor? It’s not about NASCAR, it’s about a journey!

Outside, it’s a rare clear night in Juneau. The Northern Lights are a kaleidoscopic ribbon against indigo night, the sky a mausoleum of stars. And you remember when Aegon sang Everlong, when he grabbed your hand, led you upstairs to the roof, kissed you for the first time under the ethereal, shimmering curtain of green and purple and blue…before Heather had interrupted to tell you that Dale was closing the bar. He was irritable, he was tired; he wanted to go home.

The arena is empty except for one man,

Still driving and striving as fast as he can…

And then they found a body, didn’t they? Yes, you can remember being in Aegon’s apartment and hearing the police cars zoom by. You remember the red-and-blue flashes on his face. You remember thinking they looked like sapphires and rubies, the ocean and blood.

The sun has gone down and the moon has come up

And long ago somebody left with the cup,

But he’s driving and striving and hugging the turns

And thinking of someone for whom he still burns…

Icy claws glide down the length of your spine. Memories play back with a focused clarity that you didn’t have before: Dale groggy and yawning just before they found the fifth victim at Christmas, and again before they found the eighth the same night Trent dragged you—shrieking, bleeding, virtually naked—out of your Jeep. You remember Dale at your parents’ New Year’s Eve party talking about how maybe the killer was an athlete with brain damage from CTE. You remember him offering to give Trent a box of his old equipment from when he was a park ranger. You remember him watching as Trent towered over you here in Ursa Minor with a cue stick clenched in his fist, demanding to know where you had been the night before, Dale’s eyes gleaming with disapproval and fascination and…and…oh god, opportunity.

He’s going the distance,

He’s going for speed,

She’s all alone (all alone)

All alone in her time of need…

And now Aegon’s long gone, but you’re still here. And so is the Ice Fisher.

You’re staring at Dale, eyes huge and glossy with terror. He glances up, gives you a brief casual smile, looks down at the pint glasses again. And then his eyes come back to you. He sees you and you see him, really see him, and it’s the first time in your life that you can recall him being a centerpiece instead of an ornament for gazes to skate over like ice, wallpaper or taxidermy deer heads or a mirror. And you watch as the thing that lives inside Dale stirs awake. It is a shadow with fangs, talons, barbs down its spine, a weblike scribble of a brain loud with the echoes of screams; and it unfurls and fills him completely, all the way to his fingerprints. It possesses him, it eclipses him.

It’s Dale, you realize like a bullet slicing through an aorta, spilling an ocean of hot blood. It was him twenty years ago and it’s him now.

You gasp and fumble for the cannister of bear mace still clipped to your purse. Dale crosses the room with staggering swiftness, like a wolf, like a storm, one pint glass still gripped in his hand. He reaches you just as your thumb presses down on the cannister’s release tab. The rust-colored mist spews not directly into his face but into the room; Dale is hacking and rasping, you both are, but he isn’t in too much pain to haul you out of the booth and onto the floor. You’re screaming, you’re clawing at him, your eyes feel like they’re on fire, tiny pinpoint infernos that drill down to the bone. You can feel the ice-cold juice and schnapps and vodka of your appletini, knocked off the table when you fell, soaking through the back of your sweater. You can feel pebbles of glass as they burrow into your flesh. You are dimly aware of a barstool tumbling over as you struggle with Dale.

“No!” you cry into the monstrous hand that he clamps over your mouth. “No—!”

Dale brings the bottom of the pint glass down on your head. The Distance lyrics—she’s hoping in time that her memories will fade—swirl around inside your fractured skull.

Silence descends like a curtain, shadows in, lights out.

~~~~~~~~~~

I knock, and he opens the door. The house smells like fresh bread and alfredo sauce, rosemary and crushed garlic. My rental—a Toyota 4Runner, I remember what she said about the Nova being a bad idea in Alaska—is parked in the driveway behind her Jeep. Sunfyre is standing beside me, eyes sparkling, smiling with that unburdened-by-intellect innocence that dogs have. There’s a bouquet of blue-dyed roses in my left hand, cool melancholy blooms of life like seawater, like bruises.

“Hi,” I say to her dad as he stands in the doorway. “It’s good to see you again.”

“It’s good to see you too, Aegon.” He’s not just staring at me in the artificial front porch light; he’s gawking, he’s damn near speechless. “Wow. Wow. It’s really good to see you.”

Yeah, I know I look different. The dark rings around my eyes have vanished, my face is less puffy, my hair is trimmed and healthy and mostly out of my face, I stand taller. I’m wearing a white turtleneck sweater and a leather jacket, black skinny jeans, my combat boots. I have a red chip in my pocket that I can’t fucking wait to show her: 1 month sober. On the first day, you think you’re going to die, and on the second day you wish you would. But you don’t. You live, and that starts out as a grisly inconvenience, and then you get a taste for it. “You can probably guess who I’m looking for.”

“Yeah, I reckon I can,” her dad says. “But she’s not here right now. She went to Ursa Minor.”

I grin, a crooked little curl of the lips. “I think I remember how to get there.”

I hop back into the 4Runner with Sunfyre and pull out into the street, snow and ice chomping under the tires. I had missed driving, I realize now. I got so used to almost never being able to do it that I forgot how good it feels to turn the wheel yourself, to watch the speedometer ramp up when you decide you want to fly. Ten minutes later, I swerve into Ursa Minor’s deserted parking lot and screech to a stop across three separate spaces.

“Oh, what the fuck!” I choke out as I step into the bar, coughing into my sleeve. The blue roses tumble out of my hand. Ursa Minor is empty, but there’s something in the air, something invisible that drives scorching, stinging needles into my eyes and my sinuses. Tears stream down my face; my exposed skin prickles and burns. Sunfyre sneezes over and over again and lingers in the doorway, gulping in fresh night wind from outside. There’s shattered glass and green liquid on the hardwood floor. There’s an upturned barstool. The stereo is playing Cake’s cover of Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps.

What the hell happened here—?

And then I see it: the cannister of bear mace that had rolled under the booth, the same one she and her friends always sat in.

She used the bear mace. She finally used it. But why?

There’s blood on the floor. There’s blood on the table too. There’s a tattered, olive-green journal opened to a blank page. The pieces slide closer and closer and then link together, an explosion in my mind like fireworks.

I bolt outside and study the snow-covered parking lot. There are fresh tire tracks there under the murky luminescence of the streetlights; they lead out to the main road and then north towards the lakes.

“No,” I whisper to no one but the fierce wind, the sky threaded with the opalescent Northern Lights. “No, no, no…”

I sprint back inside Ursa Minor, get the phone Dale keeps behind the bar, and call the cops. “Stay where you are,” the 911 dispatcher instructs me sternly. “Wait for the police, do not attempt to investigate yourself, do not attempt to intervene—”

“Yeah, fuck that,” I say, and slam the receiver into the cradle. Then I swipe the black 8 ball off the pool table.

I load Sunfyre into the 4Runner and spin out of the parking lot, following the parallel lines of tire tracks like the etching of veins beneath skin.

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s a sound, rough and grating; and then you realize that it’s you being dragged across the ice. When your eyes flutter open, you see the uninterrupted sky: indigo night, distant stars, the Northern Lights. Your clothes are wet with snow; it’s so cold that the fabric is freezing, stiff and crackling when you try to move. Dale is lugging you over the frozen lake by the collar of your sweater. It’s choking you, but of course that doesn’t matter much. He’s about to kill you anyway.

“It’s not right,” Dale mutters, and you’re aware through the disorientation and the fog-like cloud of pain that he’s not really talking to you. “Your mom’s a nice lady. It’s not right that she had to lose two people this way, she doesn’t deserve that. Oh well. It can’t be helped now, can it?”

You whimper something, disjointed helpless words. Please, hurts, don’t, please.

“It’s not me,” Dale says, as if it’s perfectly logical. “I mean, not really. It’s this part of me that I can’t cut out. I can only feed it so it goes away for a while. It quiets down sometimes, it hibernates like a bear in the winter…but it always comes back. And my god, is it hungry.”

You smack clumsily, futilely at his hands as he hauls you over the ice. Dale doesn’t seem to notice.

“You have to make it look like an accident. That’s the ticket, if you don’t want anybody to know. You shove a hiker from a ledge, a drunk into the ocean. I did that for a long time, never raised suspicion. Never pinged on anyone’s radar. Jesse was the hardest, though. Good lord, did he fight. Had to pour a bottle of Everclear down his throat. Had to make it look like he was drinking that night. He wasn’t, which was unusual. Kept saying he wanted to turn things around. I think you had something to do with that. Now this? You were never supposed to be here, ladybug. What a shame. What a goddamn shame.”

Consciousness is a river that you dip in and out of; blackness crumbles around the edges of your vision, collapses in, recedes, swells again like a wave. You moan, you beg, you struggle as much as you can. It’s not much. It might as well be nothing.

“Things were easier after I got married,” Dale continues. He has a large hiking backpack slung over his broad shoulders, you see now. It jostles from side to side as he drags you. You know what’s in there: a chisel to break the ice, fishing line to strangle you. “Having someone else there all the time, it was a distraction. And it kept that thing inside me…not tame, no, I wouldn’t say that. But chained up down in the basement, maybe. Now I’m alone again. And when the chains start rattling, there’s nothing to stop me from hearing them.”

You get your feet under you, twist around, and slam your fists into Dale’s chest as hard as you can. He laughs in a baritone rumble and shoves you back down onto the ice; your head hits the ground, and you can feel yourself fading again, the last wisps of sunlight at dusk.

“Sometimes you want to hide,” Dale says. “And sometimes you don’t. I was ready to stop hiding. I can’t tell you what a high it was every time they found a body. The news, the ceaseless chattering around town, the name they gave me…incredible. Exhilarating. I couldn’t sleep for days after each kill. I’d toss and turn all night imagining what the headlines would be. Let me tell you, ladybug. I’ve never tried heroin, and I never need to. It can’t possibly be better than this.”

What will happen to my parents? you think, heartbreak gutting you, dull knifes rearranging your organs. What will happen to Heather and Kimmie and Joyce? What will happen when Aegon finds out he left too soon?

“I knew I needed someone to pin it on,” Dale informs you calmly. “Didn’t take anyone who went to the bar, didn’t take anyone who could be traced back to me. And still, I knew they’d figure it out eventually if I didn’t give them another suspect. At first, I was thinking I might use Aegon. He was a little small, sure, but he showed up around the right time and he was an outsider. Then I saw the way Trent was with you…aggressive, menacing…and I knew it had to be him. It was almost too easy. I planted the seeds, and good lord did they grow.”

“They’ll know,” you croak. “If you kill me, the police will find my body and they’ll know Trent’s not the Ice Fisher.”

Hideously, horribly, Dale smiles down at you. “Oh, ladybug, I don’t think they’ll ever find you. They found the others because I wanted them to. And no one is looking for victims anymore. Once you sink, I’ll cover up the hole with ice and snow. No blood, no signs. People will assume you’re a runaway. It was just too much, wasn’t it? Trent getting arrested, Aegon leaving town. Maybe you ran off after him. Maybe you threw yourself in the channel. Who could say? No, your bones will become silt, your name will slowly disappear from Juneau. And in ten or twenty years, your parents will have you declared dead in absentia. That’s my best guess. That’s how it will go.”

“No,” you sob, battling against the hands knotted into the collar of your sweater. “No—!”

His knuckles bash the side of your head, and a black silence rolls in like high tide, engulfs you, drowns you. When you swim back up into consciousness again, Dale is a few yards from you and drilling a hole in the ice with his chisel. You try to crawl away and promptly collapse, frail and boneless. He glances over at you, chuckles pleasantly, and then begins using a hatchet to widen the opening.

No, you think, hooking your fingers into the snow and dragging yourself towards the forest. No, no, no…

Dale’s ready for you. He walks over, grabs both of your ankles, tugs you with terrifying ease to the hole in the ice. Then he has a length of fishing line in his hands, and he’s looping it around your throat again and again, and he’s tightening it until the needle-thin nylon wire bites into your flesh, spilling tendrils of blood. You know you don’t have a chance, but you try; you owe it to your parents to try. You claw at the fishing line and you struggle and you cry out in hoarse, useless screams—

And then you hear something that doesn’t make any sense. Through the darkness, through the wind, there are the barks of a dog. Sunfyre rockets into your dimming field of vision and jumps on Dale, snarling and growling and snapping at his hands, his face. Dale flings the dog away, and as he’s distracted, Aegon arrives. He’s holding—ludicrously—a black 8 ball from a pool table, and he smashes it into Dale’s head. A sick, wet, crushing sound ricochets, cracked bone cushioned by flesh, and Dale howls as he rolls onto his side and covers his head with his hands.

He peers up at Aegon, furious and pained and stunned. “You?!”

“Me.” Aegon’s voice is dark and low like thunder, like the iron gale of storms over the ocean. “And I’m a killer.”

He lunges at Dale, still wielding the 8 ball. Dale’s massive hand juts out and closes around Aegon’s wrist, and then he yanks him to the ground. They’re grappling on the snow and ice, they’re striking out with knuckles and elbows, they’re ripping at each other with their bare hands. You’re trying to unravel the fishing line still coiled around your throat, panting in deep, frantic breaths so you can see and think clearly, so you can scramble to your feet, so you can help Aegon. And then Dale gets away from him just long enough to grab you again, to wrap the ends of the fishing line around his fingers. He delivers one last macerating blow to your skull, pulls you by your throat to the gaping hole in the ice, and shoves you through.

The water is so cold it’s paralyzing. There is a thought that seizes you—so overwhelming, so strangely rational—that says all you have to do is stay where you are, to wait a little longer, and then you’ll never hurt again, you’ll never be disappointed or caged, you’ll never be anything. And you think of all the lives you could have lived, all the places you could have gone: cities and beaches and deserts and valleys, gardens and rivers, ruins and glass. You were always so afraid of really going after them. What the hell were you so afraid of? Everything worth fearing is right here in Juneau.

I can still do those things. I can still live. And I can still help Aegon.

You jolt out of your inertia and clamber madly for the surface. But you don’t hit frigid open air; you hit ice, ice too thick to break through, ice too thick for more than a murmur of light to penetrate. Your palms press against the semitransparent wall; bubbles of carbon dioxide spurt from your nose and mouth. You feel for the opening that Dale made, but you don’t know where it is. You are lost beneath the ice, running out of air, fading rapidly. Then you hear Jesse—and you aren’t sure how you know what his voice sounds like, but you do—speaking softly and kindly to you, comforting you, telling you which way to go.

I’m sorry that no one knows the truth, you say without speaking. I’m sorry we thought you destroyed yourself. I’m sorry you never got the chance to truly live.

You were all better off without me anyway, he answers, without any bitterness at all. And that’s true, isn’t it?

There is a great disruption that rocks through the water. New currents stir into existence, fresh waves spring out of the darkness. And then someone takes your hand and draws you towards a noise, muffled through the ice and water: a dog barking, you realize. Then your palms find the opening and you inhale brutally cold air into your aching lungs, the best you’ve ever tasted. Aegon helps pull you through the hole and out of the lake, out of the jaws of oblivion.

You lie together on the ice, breathing in gasps that turn to mist in the night wind. Dale’s body is sprawled several yards away. The hatchet he’d used to break up the ice is buried in his neck, spine severed, eyes slick and vacant. You can see reflections of the Northern Lights flickering in them.

“You came back,” you whisper to Aegon as whirling police sirens approach, the lights dancing on his face: blue like the ocean, red like fire and blood.

“Of course I came back, Appletini,” he says, laughing with frenzied relief, kissing your cheeks and forehead over and over again, lake water dripping from his hair. Sunfyre jumps around you both, yapping ecstatically, his tail wagging. “I couldn’t leave without my Juneau girl.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There’s wind, but it isn’t sharp like a blade. There’s a sky, but it isn’t cloaked in cloud cover or fog. The boats that bob in the surf are sailboats and cruisers, not fishing vessels. Dolphins crest out of the sun-speckled waves like someone coming up from a dream.

It’s June 9th, and you’re soaring down the Pacific Coast Highway in the red Ford Mustang convertible you rented after the plane touched down in Seattle. Aegon is in the driver’s seat, black sunglasses and white T-shirt, his hair whipping in the breeze. He has one hand on the wheel and the other behind your headrest. Sunfyre is in the backseat, grinning like only dogs can. You turn up the song on the radio: Drive by Incubus.

You and Aegon had stayed in Juneau long enough for your skull to heal, and for your parents to find someone else to take over the vet clinic. They settled on a 32-year-old from Detroit: Justin McNair, a former Marine like your dad, and he either has no family or a bad one because he never wants to talk about them. Perhaps it doesn’t really matter which it is; perhaps sometimes they’re just about the same thing. Your parents have already basically adopted him. He eats dinner with them three times a week and calls your dad when he needs help with house maintenance or scaring a moose away from his truck. And just before you went south, Aegon showed him how to make the world’s best hot chocolate.

You send postcards back to Juneau from each town you stop in. Heather’s bon voyage gift to you had been an indecently revealing swimsuit. Joyce appeared with—what else?—a stack of books fit for leisurely beach reading. And Kimmie gave you, however bizarrely, a compass. So you don’t get lost, she had said with an innocuous little smile. You honestly couldn’t tell if she was joking.

During his one month in jail, Trent learned how to meditate and do yoga. He’s still kind of a dumbass, but he’s also a supposedly devout vegan Buddhist, and he had the decency to leave you alone aside from an apology letter that he slid into the moose-shaped mailbox: handwritten, six pages, lots of spelling and grammatical errors. Oh, and he finally got that job with the Forest Service, probably mostly due to his high-profile wrongful detainment. Now hikers get to swoon over his muscles and hair flips.

You’ll go back to Juneau, of course. Maybe just for visits, maybe for more than that someday. But it will never feel like a cage again.

Aegon calls Aemond every two or three days, a habit he started when he was in rehab. At first it was by necessity—he needed someone to pay the $30,000 bill—but now you think he secretly looks forward to it. He updates Aemond about how the road trip is going and reassures him that the plan hasn’t changed: south to San Diego, and then cutting east across the country to Miami. You don’t know what exactly life will look like there, and neither does Aegon. That’s not the important thing about going. Part of AA is making amends, and Aegon has a lot of work to do in that respect. He wants to go back to Miami, he says. He’s ready to go back.

San Diego is exactly like Aegon once told you it would be. You weave through the rust-colored peaks of the Laguna Mountains and there’s the Pacific Ocean, glittering and sapphire-blue, peppered with surfers and sea lions. It’s hot and it’s beautiful beyond words and everything grows there: ivy, cactuses, palm trees, calla lilies, roses. And for the first time that you can remember, the world feels breathtakingly, impossibly big. You get carryout from an unassuming restaurant called The Taco Stand, and then Aegon parks the convertible in La Jolla. You walk down the steps carved into the cliffside, paper bags in your hands full of tacos and churros, Aegon carrying Sunfyre so the dog won’t slip.

You sit together on the golden sand and watch the 8:00 p.m. sun sink into the waves, Aegon’s arm around your waist, your fingers tucking his lock of silvery hair behind his ear. And then he takes your hand, kneads it until it’s sinuous and relaxed, and reads the lines of your palm in the amber dusk like firelight.

“It says you’re happy,” he tells you. “And that you’re free.”

“I am,” you reply, smiling as the ocean stretches out like the arm of a galaxy: the ancient past, the infinite future.

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

Congrats on the followers, Mimi! You deserve every single one for being such a sweetheart and a great storyteller! 🧡

Time to spin the wheel for Echo... Looks like it's landed on 21 and 34! 😀

Hello love @eclec-tech

Thank you for spinning the wheel.

I hope you enjoy this Echo fic, I wrote with a F!reader. Love oo.

Misunderstanding

Warnings: Anxiety, not understanding feelings, pushing someone away, confrontation, confessions of feelings (somewhat), clueless Echo, I think that's it. Let me know if I missing any.

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Echo laid against his bunk as his mind drifted back to the briefing they had; they were going to be leaving for the Citadel in a day and a half. It bothered him that you’d be coming. Not that he didn’t think you could handle yourself. He’d seen you plenty of times on the battlefield able to handle some pretty narrow escapes. No, what bothered him was the high chance of either of you dying and you still thinking he hated you. 

He’s not even sure when that notion first popped into your head, if it was something he said or did; or maybe a rumour you heard? 

Fives always told him that he was being too critical of you, could that be what made you think he didn’t like you? He rubbed his forehead as he let out another sigh. 

“UGH! Just go talk to her already,” Fives leaned over his bunk and berated Echo, “if you keep sighing like that you’ll have to deal with me, and my irritation.”

“It’s not like I don’t want to talk to her…”

“Then what’s the problem. Walk up to her and say, ‘Baby, I don’t hate you. I love you.’ Then pull her into a tight hug and kiss her. End of discussion, moving onwards.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I don’t love her.”

“Right, and I’m not the best looking vod in the GAR.” Fives rolled his eyes, focusing back on his brother and narrowing his eyes at him, “Either go talk to her now or I’ll make sure it take forever for you to fall asleep and stay that way.”

Echo closed his eyes and let out another sigh, “Okay, okay. I’ll go.” He stood from his bunk and stepped out into the hallway only to feel the cool breeze against his legs. He looked down shaking his head, walking back in to put on some pants over his boxers. Now that he was somewhat decent, he headed back out and made it to your room. 

He took a breath and knocked on the door. The moment you opened it, you stole his breath away. You were in a long sleeve shirt and shorts, somehow with the messy hair you had an almost ethereal look, like you were floating in zero gravity. He shook his head, “Um, sorry to disturb you.”

“What do you want, Echo? It’s late and we have to get up early to train for the mission.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You looked taken aback by that statement, your head even shifted further away from him, “Excuse me?”

“What I mean is…” he let out a sigh rubbing his forehead, Maker! Why was it always so difficult to talk to you? “Could I come in?” He looked at you with pleading eyes.

“I don’t …” your voice trailed off as you looked at him.

As you took in his expression, you couldn’t help wonder why he was at your door. You simply nodded and moved out of his way, as he walked in keeping his hands behind his back. He turned to look at you, trying to ignore how cozy and comfortable your quarters felt compared to the barracks he had been used to living in. 

“You know, for being someone you hate, I’m sure on your mind a lot.” 

You stated, annoyed that your sleep was being stolen away by Echo. After all, it had been no secret to you, how Echo disliked you. He always avoided talking to you or being around you. The times he did talk, it was less of a conversation and more of blunted statements thrown at you, like he couldn’t wait to get away from you. You never knew exactly what it was you did to cause him to dislike you so vehemently, and frankly you learned to deal with it, because regardless of how he felt about you, you respected and admired him. He was good at his job, and if he wasn’t so prickly, you could’ve even imagined you two being friends. 

At least according to Fives, he believed you two could be the best of friends, as he felt compelled to tell you over and over again. 

Echo let out a sigh as he rubbed his forehead again, “That’s actually why I came to talk to you.”

“Because I’m on your mind a lot?” You asked confused.

“No … yes … well, somewhat. What I mean is…” he cleared his throat, “I … I haven’t exactly been the nicest to you, and I know I’ve been pushing your buttons and your patience.” He stood a little taller, he was proud he’d been able to say this much. “I guess what I’m trying to say is sorry. I wanted to clear the air before we headed to the Citadel. General Skywalker was pretty adamant about how dangerous this mission could be, and I don’t want to go in knowing there’s issues between us.”

You rubbed your eyes as you slowly moved your hands through your hair, “Why do you dislike me?”

“Well, it’s not that I dislike you… really. It’s just …” he let out a sigh as he rubbed the back of his neck, “I just don’t know how to act around you. Every time I’m near you, my heart feels like it’s going to jump out of my chest, my stomach feels queasy and nervous, like I’m about to enter a battle. My hands feel like there’s ice running through them, and I can’t help but pay attention to everything you do. It’s overwhelming.”

You tried to fight the smile that wanted to fight through, “I see. Then maybe we should get to know each other better.”

Echo looked shocked, “Are you sure that’s wise? I mean after what I put you through?”

“Echo, are you sorry about that?”

“Of course.”

“Do you want us to be friends?”

His cheeks tinted, “Yes”

“Then, I don’t care. I’m not leaving you to wallow, especially since as you said you find it overwhelming to be around me, the best thing to do then is to spend more time with me. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He nodded smiling, “I guess you have a point.”

“I do. Now seeing as I’m more awake feel like joining me in the caf for a late night caf or tea?”

“Sure, I’d like that.”

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[zaebeecee]

Untitled CasinoBomb one-shot •

TW: ADDICTION, ALCOHOL

Husk was a gambler.

This was not new information to anyone who had known Husk for more than an hour. It wouldn’t surprise anyone, either, to learn that he’d played his first hand of poker before he was seven years old. Cards and dice had followed him his entire life, both to his benefit and to his detriment, as he followed the call of illicit games in the back rooms of speakeasies through the streets of Atlantic City to the shiny new casinos popping up all over the Las Vegas strip. He had won and lost more money, he thought, than Rockefeller had ever had in his accounts.

He wasn’t proud of his habit—he wouldn’t call it an addiction, not out loud, not to anyone else, not even to himself—but he wasn’t really ashamed, either. What was there to be ashamed of, really? It was a vice. He was in Hell. Everyone had at least one vice in Hell.

It’s funny, Alastor had once said, his eyes creased with mirth and his smile stretched near to the corners of his eyes, his usual malicious cruelty sharpened with intent as he stared at Husk without blinking.

Husk didn’t want to know, so he didn’t want to ask, but he knew the Radio Demon wouldn’t leave until he did. What is? he asked, putting every iota of how little he cared into those two words.

A gambling addict who works as a croupier, Alastor had answered with a laugh in his voice that was echoed by the distant ghosts of the live studio audience he carried with him everywhere. I have it on good authority that a drug dealer is expected not to rely so heavily on his own product.

Husk had snarled, which had done nothing, but he couldn’t have answered if he had wanted to. It was correct, after all, and Husk didn’t need Alastor to remind him of yet another way in which he was an idiot.

Because he knew. He had known when he was alive, and he had known after his death, too. It had been his entire existence, so much so that his body even took on attributes of the casino, and wasn’t that a reminder he didn’t need every time he looked in a mirror.

Everyone thought gambling was about winning. Whether it was Charlie trying to sus out if he was open to the group therapy sessions, or Angel Dust asking him why the hell he had kept playing after he lost, they all thought that winning was the point of gambling. You bet your money, you put it on red, the roulette favors you, and you walk away richer than you were when you sat down.

It wasn’t about winning. If it was, it wouldn’t have been so difficult to stop. It wasn’t about losing, either, though Husk had wondered if that was part of the problem in some of his lower and more pessimistic moments. No, gambling was about the moments that existed in between.

It lived in the way the dice rolled across the felt tabletop.

It lived in every tell of another player, every call and every raise, every new card dealt and every hand revealed.

It lived in the moments of the roulette wheel’s slowing momentum and the little ball searching for the pocket that would tell you if you won or if you lost.

Risk. That was what gambling was for: the thrill of the unknown, of taking a chance, of betting your rent or your food for the next week or even your fucking house on a game that could set you up for life and ruin you and you would never know which one it would be until you played. Husk had won, and he had lost, but every victory and every defeat was nothing but a little change in the long road that was the risk.

If Husk was honest with himself, he would have admitted that gambling was the only way he felt anything anymore.

Of course, Husk was never honest with himself.

The Hazbin Hotel was, for a multitude of reasons, somewhere safe for a sinner like him to set up shop. Vices were discouraged, and Charlie didn’t permit gambling for money, so the only gambling they ever did was to pawn their chores off on each other. It was almost like Alastor had done him a favor, dragging him through the ether by the throat and lashing him to the bar, even though Husk would chew his own wings off before admitting that. And the residents, too, were safe for one reason: they were predictable.

Alastor was volatile, of course, but Husk had known him for years and was fairly sure of the things that would set him off. He liked his creature comforts, he liked his schedules, and he didn’t like people disturbing his routines. Predictable.

Niffty, too, liked her routines, though they more manifested in the form of a regular rotation of cleaning duties and a fairly strict mealtime schedule that only grew erratic when someone else wanted to use her kitchen. Aside from inappropriate comments that could come from nowhere, she didn’t shift much, and she could usually be found stabbing bugs or cooking. Predictable.

Charlie made schedules for everyone constantly, always wanting to try new group building exercises and never springing unexpected surprises on them. She took everything in stride as best she could, and her meltdowns were always private and controlled. Predictable.

Vaggie was measured, strict, and always adhered to her own moral code. If something happened and it involved Charlie, she would be by the princess’s side throughout. If it did not involve Charlie, Vaggie probably didn’t care. Predictable.

Angel Dust was also volatile, of course, but it was always in the same way. He would get angry at any insult to his profession or anyone removing his indulgences, and everything else would be met with either vulgarity, sarcasm, or some combination of the two. Predictable.

Sir Pentious was paranoid and enthusiastic, quick to anger and always taking it out on his Egg Bois. He cried at the drop of a hat and seemed, even now, to really want to be an overlord despite the fact that he didn’t have the stomach for it and would always opt for a less violent option unless he was trying to impress someone. Predictable.

But the hotel had more foot traffic than simply the staff and their two residents, though most didn’t come through very often and few stayed for any length of time. Of course, among those few was Angel Dust’s best friend and supposed partner in crime, who was stopping by the hotel with increased frequency to check up on the spider demon and get into whatever else she could find while she was there.

Cherri Bomb.

Cherri Bomb was not predictable. Or, rather, she could be relied on to be unpredictable, if that made any kind of sense at all. No one, not even Angel Dust, seemed to have any sort of idea how her mood would hold up from minute to minute and what sort of erratic change might follow. She might stab someone over an insult one day and shrug the same words off the next. She might agree with you one minute and shout at you the next, even if you hadn’t changed what you said. If she stared at you with a stony gaze and invited you to keep making your point—always a threat, in Husk’s experience—you had no idea if she was furious, or if she would start laughing and inform you she was just fucking with you.

Husk had learned more about how they cussed in New Zealand in the past month than he had in the century he had existed, all of it from sarcastically calling Cherri Australian.

At first, he hadn’t known what to expect from her. She was hardly the first one to introduce herself to the hotel’s residents by blowing up a wall, so that wasn’t even notable, but everything else made her complicated in a way that Husk hadn’t let himself contemplate in a long time. For a while he was convinced that the issue, where she was concerned, was ensuring that no one did anything to set her off and create a chain reaction that would inevitably lead to more damage to the hotel. It wasn’t long before he realized the problem was that they couldn’t make that assurance.

Cherri’s presence in the hotel was unpredictable. It was a risk. And that made it exciting. The first time Husk had that realization, he had drunk an entire bottle of Alastor’s rye to drown the thought without care for the inevitable consequences.

It hadn’t worked, because the next morning, he had a headache that rivaled those from his youth and he was still just as confused and frustrated as he had been before.

Even though Cherri had declared that she was not, in any way, interested in redemption, that didn’t stop her from coming to the hotel with increased frequency. She would often leave to Angel Dust’s room and spend hours up there with the spider demon, but sometimes, the two of them would hang out at the bar. Husk served them drinks—Angel Dust his martinis according to the extremely strict regimen Charlie had set, Cherri vodka blushes and dishes of lime that she ate down to the rind—and listened to them as they talked about their nights out and Angel bitched about his job and Cherri occasionally mentioned someone named Izzi that she never dwelled on and neither of them seemed to like. Sometimes, Sir Pentious would discover that Cherri was in the hotel, and would proceed to make an ass out of himself before retreating into his basement to hide until she was gone.

Husk wondered if he should talk Pentious through a method of actually seducing Cherri, if he was that set on it. Maybe then Husk could stop thinking about… well. Anything else. Of course, Husk barely knew anything about actual seduction himself. He hadn’t been with anyone in decades, and before that, there had been less courting and more blunt sentences that led to one night stands with people whose names he didn’t remember because he hadn’t known them in the first place. Pentious was probably better off with his fumbling on his own than taking advice from Husk, because he was likely to get the snake slapped or worse.

The air was heavy with acid rain one evening as Husk took inventory at the bar. Even with so few residents, he found himself needing to take stock and submit orders to Charlie almost as much as he would have at an actual club; these sinners were clearly taking advantage of the fact that their livers couldn’t give out, and the princess wasn’t any better with her straight Mephistophelian absinthe shots. He was almost done when he heard someone pull out a bar stool, his left ear twitching when that someone sat and began patting their hands on the bar top. “Hold your horses,” he grumbled, doing math in his head as he wrote out the whisky order.

“Look at you, so responsible,” a familiar Kiwi-accented voice said, and Husk’s ears twitched again, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, he simply tried to gauge Cherri’s mood without looking at her face. “You’re not closed?”

Husk shook his head. “Nah. I just do inventory while these assholes are otherwise engaged before Angel Dust can come along and start saying numbers at random. That wasn’t a suggestion,” he added firmly.

Cherri laughed, just a little. “Wouldn’t dream of throwin’ you off,” she said, so innocently that she wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that she was full of shit. After that, she went quiet, tapping away on her phone while waiting for Husk to finish his work.

The cat demon signed off on the order and ripped the page from the notepad, pinning it up for Vaggie to grab the next time she passed by. Husk then turned to Cherri, taking up a glass, some vodka, and a bottle of grenadine. “Angel snubbing you? I was pretty sure he came back from work.”

“Oh, he’s in his room,” Cherri said. “But he’s busy. Said I could either wait down here for him or go home.”

“Busy?” Husk echoed, frowning at her, before the light went off in his head. It didn’t help his frown. “Oh. Alastor.”

“Do you have any idea what they’re doing in there?”

“No idea,” Husk confessed, slicing up a large lime and making sure it hadn’t dried out. “Angel told me to mind my business, but I think they’re plotting something. At least, I hope they are, because anything else isn’t worth considering.”

“I don’t like him,” Cherri grumbled.

Husk smirked. “Get in line. Nobody does.” He pushed the drink and a plate of lime slices towards her. “I’m guessing you decided to wait.”

“Have you seen the weather?” Cherri snapped, gesturing sharply towards the nearest window. “You think I wanna melt my skin off?”

Husk felt the fur along his neck and the backs of his arms standing up a little. He didn’t know if that was a reflex on his part, or a response to the way the air began to smell like nitrate when Cherri got worked up. “I think you do whatever you feel like doing no matter what the weather is like.”

She stared at him for a moment before she smirked and picked up a lime slice. “Thanks,” she said, before biting into it and stripping the fruit cleanly from the rind. Her wince looked satisfied. “What do you do when the weather’s shit?”

“What I always do,” Husk said, returning to cleaning the outsides of all the liquor bottles, just in case of any alcohol on the necks. “Fuck all.”

“Do you ever leave?”

“Only under extreme duress.”

“That’s not healthy, Captain Buzzkill.” Cherri leaned on one elbow and twirled a bare lime rind between her fingers, her x-shaped pupil watching Husk contemplatively. He didn’t rise to the bait, just continuing his work and waiting her out. Finally, she said, “You should come out with me sometime.”

Husk snorted in mild amusement. “What would you want to hang out with an old curmudgeon for?”

Cherri shrugged one shoulder. “I dunno, because you could stand to loosen up and I have to deal with you every time I come here, so you might as well remember how to have some fun.”

“I don’t do fun.”

“You’re gonna.”

Husk raised an eyebrow at her and leaned one hand on the bar. “You plan to make me?”

Cherri grinned, all sharp teeth, but Husk wouldn’t have defined it as a smile. “If I have to.”

It was a surprise to both of them when Husk actually chuckled, the sound as low and rusty and unused as it was on every occasion he laughed, rare as they were. “I’d love to see that.”

Suddenly, Cherri’s expression turned serious. Suspicious, almost. “Are you hitting on me, Husk?”

Once again, the air immediately felt dangerous, and once again, Husk felt the fur on his neck standing up. Cherri wasn’t blinking, and she wasn’t speaking. Any answer he could give had the potential to offend her. Husk felt oddly exhilarated, hesitating long enough to savor the feeling that he was gambling something more vital than money. Finally, he admitted, “…frankly, I got no idea.”

Cherri’s brow furrowed over her eye, her lips pursing, before she burst into laughter that instantly destroyed the tension and told him he had won that hand. “Fuck, you’re funny,” she said in a voice that was almost fond. “Come on. Come out with me some night.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Come on,” she wheedled.

“It’s the best you’re gonna get,” Husk warned, and she rolled her eye dramatically but seemed to drop it as she took up her drink. “You gonna drag me to some of those seedy dives you and Angel haunt?”

“Maybe,” Cherri said. If Husk was being generous to himself, he would call her tone flirtatious. “You’ll just have to take a chance.”

Husk found himself smiling, though why, he had no idea. “…well. That happens to be my specialty.”

-fin-

[applesharonfiction]

the final victor (and the creation of a fledgling language)

Fandom: Honkai Star Rail

Pairing: Dr. Ratio/Aventurine

Rating: Explicit

Ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52725556

Status: Complete

Carefully and deliberately, Aventurine places the revolver into the palm of Veritas’ hand and strokes the inside of his palm.

This time, Veritas is unable to suppress his shudder and Aventurine licks his lips again wolfishly.

Grip tightening around Veritas’ fingers, Aventurine moves the barrel of the gun until it presses into his lapel, making an indent in the fabric just over Aventurine’s heart. Veritas watches, mouth dry, as Aventurine spins the cylinder casually and carelessly like a roulette wheel at a casino rather than something that can and will kill him if he lacks fortune’s favour.

When Veritas tries to pull away — he wants no part in any of this, especially if he suddenly becomes the party responsible for cleaning up Aventurine’s bloody corpse — Aventurine squeezes the trigger with Veritas’ hand, warmth seeping in past the roughness of Aventurine’s gloves.

It clicks three times in rapid succession, one for each squeeze of Aventurine’s fingers around his.

Empty.

Empty.

Empty.

Veritas gasps loudly — an embarrassing wheezing sound that he immediately abhors and cannot believe is coming out of his own mouth.

“Life is just one grand bet, and I'm always the final victor,” Aventurine says silkily. Giving Veritas’ hand one final squeeze without pulling on the trigger, Aventurine releases him, sending the revolver clattering onto the desk. It knocks over one of the stacks of chips, which roll loudly across the desk until they fall off of the edge onto the red IPC-issued executive carpet.

“Es stultior asino,” Veritas whispers harshly in a language long vanished and nearly lost completely. “Fututus et mori in igni.”

Prior to a collaborative project, Dr. Veritas Ratio visits IPC Strategist Aventurine. Their meeting does not go as he had planned. (Yes this is pure smut based on their homoerotic light cone art for The Final Victor.)

[insideliascrazyhead]

OYA HIGH HEADCANONS

Fujio:

-Fujio force adopted them all into his found family and not even death will change that

-has a nickname for literally everybody even if he uses their normal names on occasion,you don´t have a nickname?then he doesn´t like you

-the most loving and caring out of all of them

-chaotic and clumsy as fuck

-bisexual,loves to flirt

-total playboy (not in any negative way,he´s totally open about it too)

-sings horribly in the shower and sounds like a dying hyiena on purpose because it´s fun to annoy others even tho he can sing

-extroverted as fuck

-chronical hugger

-Mommas boy and makes sure the all chug their respect woman juice

-overprotective mother hen

-loves to talk a lot

-probably listens to girly pop songs

-enthusiast of the group

Tsukasa

-heavily codependent on Fujio as we saw

-an antisocial creature

-don´t interact before coffee

-chronically sleepy because he´s night active

-Jamuo is his little brother by now and death to anyone who hurts him

-he and Cobra would get along great

-doesn´t see any kinda appeal in social media whatsoever

-sucker for romance

-loves to read

-when he´s bored he daydreams about punching Yasushi in the face.With a chair.

-nosy as fuck

-tried to spy on Todoroki and Odajima fishing once to see that with his own eyes

Jamuo

-drama/theater kid

-draws comics in his spare time like in is delinquent trivia

-always has the tea on everyone

-cinnamon roll

-sarcastic as fuck

-also very sassy and could roast the shit out of the others

-sees Tsukasa and meanwhile Fujio as older brothers

-regular gossip sessions with Sabakan are a must

Yasushi

-death metal is the one thing that can scream louder then him and Kiyoshi

-moral compass is a fucking roulette wheel

-everything that entertains him is crazy,loud,violent or borderlining on life threatening and illigal

-violence towards Kiyoshi is his love language

-there´s a story between him,Kiyoshi and Gandhi long before Amagai

-legends say Gandhi still runs from Yasushi´s revenge

-we all know he´s a little version of Hyuga at heart and it´s a miserable shame they never met

-punch on each others scar after a fight means dumbass I was worried sick about you

-probably not the brightest crayon in the box in school smarts,street smarts tho is a different story,he would beat them all in that

-no sense for danger whatsover (dark alley,great let´s go in there,yeah Yasushi great idea.Oh guys ganging up there great let´s stop?!)

-looves bloody and brutal horror movies

-seems like the friend who eats the craziest combos on food and them makes a suprised Pikachu face that he feels shitty

-probably a self destructive streak with his anger

-doesn´t give a shit about Kiyoshi´s woman issues because he fears he´s gonna leave him for a girl one day

-idk why but i got a feeling hes good at drawing or art in general it´s probably creepy and dark art but art    

-antention loving whore (in a affectionate way because damn I love this crazy feral raccoon.)

Kiyoshi

-protective and possesive,jealous kinda like a spoiled guard dog

-especially since Yasushi´s head injury,he would rather die sacrificing himself then let Yasushi get hurt like that again

-the violent mom friend at least in his faction in a very violent way to

-wants to be a beautician

-his soft voice is for Yasushi only

-prentends he doesn´t care,but does,a lot.

-secretly a romantic

-completly different person when he´s with Yasushi,he´s more vulnearble

-probably has a deadbeat loser dad,divorced from his mom and that´s why it´s so important to him to be loved by a woman to not end like his old man

Todoroki

-the thing that makes him the angriest after his friends getting hurt is bullying

-games at night

-he and Odajima do talk when they fish,ok mostly Odajima but he loves the calmness in the others voice

-I also think Odajima names the fishes he´s catching

-sometimes on the rooftop he pretends to read,just to easier eavesdrop on the others

-very intelligent and probably one of the not so many Oya High members that have a plan for the future

-meanwhile can easily ignore the others and interpret it as backround noise when they argue with each other

-meditates against his anger issues doesn´t work that great tho

Shibaman

-has all the tea about Sannoh because of his sister

-his sister pratically raised him so they´re very close

-he and Tsuji have a regular hair coloring session together

-you find him and Tsuji together nearly 24/7 anyways

-when he get´s scolded by his sister the whole gang chimes in just like Yamato

-probably had a buzzcut because a crazy hair experiment went wrong

Tsuji

-crisis?he´s gonna color his hair or change it

-doesn´t like to be told what to do (Todoroki is an exeption) otherwise he will do the opposite

-he and Shibaman have a little betting game going on about the other Oya High students,for example will Tsukasa strangle Yasushi or not and occasionally Todoroki joins in too

-loves to tease his friends

-chaotic good

Nakagoshi

-popular with girls

-loves a good party 

-also has no issues speaking to girls either

-has probably one or two sisters

-kinda feels bad about Kiyoshi´s stab wound even after all that time

-so after the stabbing he kicks out anyone fighting with a knife

-also has the tea around S.W.O.R.D

-not necessarily idolizes Cobra but is like mega impressed by him anyways

Nakaoka

-the two forgot that they wanna fight the Yasu-Kiyo faction meanwhile

-where he was the time when each one exept him started Oya High?

Nobody nows but he states it´s a crazy story no ones gonna believe anyways

-does kickboxxing

-loves to spray grafitti

[rinbowaman]

help now I can't stop imagining about reader piercing heelels nipples that would be so daring like-girlie-ur actually about to arouse the devil 😭😫

Rough smut implied, there is some serious masochist stuff here, and a small reference at the end to the originally story (heelels most infamous phrase).

“you want me to get my nipples pierced to match the ones I gave you?”

You nod. He rolls his eyes to the side as he crosses his arms, a mischievous smirk forms on his lips. “I don’t think my brother would dig that.”

“Can I pierce them?”

He’ll look at you for a second and smile widely. “Of course you can.”

He then around and stars to uniform his jacket and the white blouse, and you’ll witness all of this while staring at his broad shoulders and back muscles. He slings his jacket aside and keeps the white under shirt on but completely open at the front. Laying down, he locks his fingers together and raises them to a natural bed as he rests his head against the palms, while also crossing his feet. Man is super relaxed. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m all yours.”

You pierce them, having to redo the session a couple times since you weren’t as skillful as his brother. But heelel didn’t seem to mind since he felt no pain. Not even wince committed, he merely laid there and gazed at your face while watching you do the deed. God you are so beautiful. To him, there was nothing more illuminating than your face. “I promise this is the last one.” You sigh out in frustration and nervously.

“Take your time. I’m not in a hurry.” He’ll say in a very mellow voice, without ever breaking his sight away from your eyes and lips.

Finally done, you look and admire your work. It wasn’t too bad. It may have taken you a handful of attempts, but you finally got it down. “All done.”

“No you’re not.”

He pulls your wrist and rumbles you over, rolling you underneath as he shifts and changes the position. He hovers on top of you, placing your hand on his bare chest, palm flat. “Touch me some more.” He says in a deep and dangerous tone.

Your breathing pauses and you witness his iris shrinking as he grows a menacing wild look in his face. Taking your hand, he places a small claw-blade in your fingers and holds your wrist steady. “Where did this come from?” You inquire with a panicked tone. He does not respond, only smirks as he holds your hand in place and leans in, subtly piercing his pectoral muscle at will. The curved edge of the claw goes in only about an inch or so, just enough for the tip to disappear into flesh. He expresses no sign of pain, instead, an amused look of adoration takes place as his blood drips and decorates your cheek. “Red looks good on you.” He mumbles. Leaning in, he places a soft kiss against your ear before whispering…

“Let’s see if it looks as good…on me.”

A sharp sting on your neck hits your nerves, followed by the sensual comfort of his tongue caressing the wound he caused you scream and yelp out his name, begging for him to stop. Another sharp sensation, hits, and another, and another. Each jolt of pain is quickly followed by softness. An insane mixture of pain and pleasure taking turns, hitting you out of nowhere. He lifts his head after the fifth bite, forcing you to witness the display of the mad Devil. Lips stained blood red, dripping down his chin. “Tell me baby…is red my color?” A game of Russian roulette. If you answer ‘no’, he’d scoff and smirk, tweezing more screams out of you as he digs in and ravishes you, finding your reluctance adorable. If you answer affirmatively, he’d be so pleased and would take you anyhow. The wild emotions of your affection and surrender drives him wild, and hard.

You stay silent and turn your face away. Of course red looked good on him. As did every other color that exists on the wheel. You remain indifferent and shallow. Big mistake.

“It is, isn’t it?” He smiles against your ear, chuckling darkly as he squeezes soft kisses against your cheek. “Wonder if we both look good in it…together.”

You raise a brow, curious as to how he possibly intended on satisfying his curiosity. When suddenly he pulls you by the tip of your chin and absorbs your gasps. A rough and passionate kiss ends with a hard bite on your lip. It hurt. He made sure it would.

The pain stung, causing you to rains your hands and dig into his shoulders. The rusty taste of blood hits your tongue, and his. You burrow your nails into skin until it finally breaks and bright red streaks appear. Lifting his head, he admires the bloody wound on your bottom lip, while you view the red coating that smeared outside his own lip line, along with the red marks near his collar bone. “Oh yeah baby, make me bleed. Do it. And I’ll fuck you till you’re red and blue.” He swipes his tongue over your lip. “You know you love it when I do that.”

He wasn’t lying. You knew what his statement entailed. When he did it to you in that way, it was the most intense pleasurable pain you’ve ever felt, and it was addicting. Nothing could ever cure you of that raging knot and yearning pulse deep in your gut, except him. Yeah, you loved it when he fucked you till you were red and blue. It didn’t matter that the bruising near your womanhood became sore afterwards, it was all a beautiful result of the constant slamming of skin on skin contact whenever he thrust into you. The squelching sounds of your fluids mixing together as he stuffed it inside, pulling out, then thrusting it back in, all of it nearly made you faint from raging desire.

“You want it, don’t you?”

You don’t respond. Not a single movement from head or mouth. But he’s not fooled.

“I can see it in your eyes, y/n.”

Caught red handed.

“You want me?” He asks rather playfully but calmly.

“Yes…”

He closes the distance. The tenderness in your voice softens him just a tiny bit. His eyelids grow heavy and fall halfway through, leaving a little bit of his iris to stared down as he tells you…

“Come here…sit on it.”

[thelioncourts]

@iwtvfanevents ❤

Like every evening at The Azalea, the sounds of Jelly Roll Morton’s jazz band overpowered the combined sounds of everything else. A mere human would only be able to discern the playful and talented way Mr. Morton’s fingers danced over the keys of his piano, a sound that paired beautifully with the rhythmic display coming from the drums and the balance-bearing bass of the cello. But Lestat was no mere human and, with a focus now second nature, he could hear everything occurring within The Azalea's walls.

Ice hitting against the sides of glass. Raucous laughter. A hiss from between teeth when alcohol burned the throat. The slap of a man’s hand against the ass of one of the girls. A cry from another girl as a man jackrabbited into her with no consideration. The rolling of a marble on the roulette wheel. The cheers and bang against a table as a man wins a tense game of poker.

Sometimes there were more interesting things to listen to, like Mr. Anderson’s adorable political ploys or a man confessing his sins tearfully to the whore he just fucked because he can’t stomach the thought of his wife finding out.

And sometimes, the best of times, Lestat could listen to Louis.

Long gone was the ability to hear his Louis’s thoughts, a travesty Lestat did his best not to lament upon often as thinking too much on such a subject could send even him spiraling. But he could listen to Louis speak, could hear him even if he was away in his office, even if he was out front greeting clientele.

There was a simple joy to be had in listening to Louis speak to others, listening to the easy way words rolled off of his tongue, listening to the sound of the smile on his face, listening to the honeyed-richness of his voice when something pleased him so. Lestat could sit at their table and be utterly content the entire night as long as he had music flowing over him and Louis’s voice in his ears.

Tonight, Lestat was utterly content.

Jelly Roll Morton was putting on a spectacular show up on the stage and Louis, in his office, was talking to Ms. Bricktop about the holiday bonuses he wanted to roll out for the girls given all of The Azalea’s successes.

“I wanna keep it a secret though,” Louis was saying, the words floating dreamily on the air as Lestat focused in. “They deserve a nice surprise.”

“I’ll make sure not a word is breathed about it, Mr. du Lac,” Ms. Bricktop replied. Like he so often could when it came to Louis, Lestat could hear the smile in Ms. Bricktop’s voice too.

For the next several minutes, Lestat sat at their table and listened to Louis and Ms. Bricktop swap ideas on how to properly go about Louis’s generous gift while staring at the stage and taking in each musician’s fluid movements with their instrument. When the conversation in the office took a turn toward its end, however, Lestat had no qualms about leaving while Mr. Morton was performing an intricate piano solo.

He stood from their table, pulled a cigarette and lighter from his pocket, and watched the end of the cigarette light up with flame before meandering his way to the nearest staircase.

Not even one foot was on the first step before he was greeted with a flirtatious, “Evening, Mr. Lioncourt,” from a lovely little thing with long brown hair and dark eyes so like Louis’s before he turned that Lestat couldn’t not kiss her hand and bask in her blatant desire for him. But whatever loveliness she held was dimmed by the knowledge of Louis, so close now, that Lestat didn’t dally.

Well, didn’t dally too long anyway.

Others gave him their hellos and nods of acknowledgment, but Lestat only truly heard the scrape of Louis’s office chair on the carpet and the muffled sound of his footsteps as he, no doubt, walked around the desk to show Ms. Bricktop out, as appropriate. By the time Lestat arrived, they were exchanging goodbyes, Louis saying, “I think I’m gonna head out soon and —” as he was opening the door.

The sight of Lestat stopped his mouth momentarily.

“Mr. Lioncourt,” Ms. Bricktop said, sounding not at all surprised. “Always good to see you.”

“A mutual sentiment,” Lestat replied with amused sincerity and a brief glance at her before his eyes found Louis.

Louis.

He hadn’t had a chance to see Louis yet tonight. Lestat had woken up long before his love, readied himself, and headed off for a quick meal, leaving Louis to laze in the warmth of his coffin a bit longer.

They had eaten early the evening before, having to get something in their bellies before seeing Tosca at the opera house on Bourbon Street, and Louis had been in such a mood afterward that they didn’t even steal an aperitivo from the patrons present. They had only gone home, Louis’s unhappiness a dark cloud that followed them up to coffin, a dark cloud that only slightly shifted to allow in the brightness of the moon when Lestat cozied up behind him and kissed at his neck, murmuring apologies — though Lestat didn’t know what he was apologizing for — into his hair.

Luckily for Lestat, whatever had soured Louis’s feelings last night seemed to have been deemed irrelevant for now because his Louis was now looking at him, eyes dancing with an eagerness to leave, as he did that beautiful thing with his mouth that he so often did when trying to repress a smile.

“I was just telling Bricks that we were going to head out soon,” Louis said. “Have to get on back to the townhouse.”

Lestat hummed, feeling the scar by his mouth deepen as he too repressed a smile. Unlike Louis though, Lestat was not a fan of repressing any part of himself and the smile won out, opening on his face and causing Louis to flush.

“Oh, yes, we do have something to prepare for, non? How could I have almost forgotten?” Lestat asked, playing the part, his hand up to his forehead as though plucking the fake-memory from inside. Louis’s flush deepened.

“Right, so we should —” and Louis gestured at the hall, their exit, with a movement of his hand, a movement just harsh enough that the jacket of his slightly too-big suit slid down and hid his hand for a moment.

“Yes, we should,” Lestat agreed, and he looked back at Ms. Bricktop who was wearing her signature high-eyebrowed look as her eyes flitted between the two of them. “Have a good rest of your evening.”

“Mmm-hmm. You two as well.”

Louis gave her his own goodbye, telling her to ring if anything was needed before he locked eyes with Lestat again and allowed Lestat to lead them out.

Good mood radiating, Louis immediately began telling Lestat about the holiday bonuses for the girls and Lestat listened with one ear, giving proper responses when deemed time.

The other ear was listening to the thoughts of the people of The Azalea, from Ms. Bricktop to the simplest patron there for an evening of fun. Lestat found himself wondering, briefly, if Louis ever heard the litany of assumptions, innuendos, and desires that always followed them when they left together. There were men that wanted to be Louis, men that wanted to be Lestat, whores and patrons alike that pictured what they looked like together in the privacy of their shared home. Lestat particularly enjoyed when Mr. Anderson was present and Lestat could witness the war that raged inside the man’s head when he thought, with disgust, about their activities while also getting hard in his pants at the idea of Louis spread out on a bed like the one’s upstairs. One could almost feel sorry for him, Lestat thought sometimes.

But Lestat squashed down that wonderment of what Louis knew, taking the opportunity to allow his hand to brush against Louis’s instead as they made their way to the front doors, giving Louis both of his ears now.

“— and given that our numbers are quadrupled from where they was last year, it’d be crazy not to,” Louis was saying, as though numbers and money really meant anything with Lestat’s accumulation of wealth. But Lestat knew that, for whatever phantasmal reason, The Azalea’s success was important to Louis and so he nodded, agreeing, and allowed his hand to brush against Louis’s again.

“Excitement looks magnificent on you,” Lestat said in response, stopping on the top step outside The Azalea and reaching into his pocket again, procuring his cigarettes and lighter. Louis rolled his eyes, the blue from The Azalea’s neon signage shifting the brilliant green of them to the color of the ocean, but he was smiling wide as he did so. Lestat handed him a cigarette, watched raptly as Louis placed it between his full lips, and flicked on the flame of the lighter. He used one hand to shield away the wind as he brought the flame to Louis’s cigarette and he continued with, “You did seem in quite a hurry to go despite all the good news.”

Louis took a long drag from his cigarette. “Didn’t want to be there anymore.”

He looked up at Lestat as he said it. The smoke he blew out danced across his face, drawing attention to the heaviness of his gaze and the weight of his lashes.

Lestat knew that look. Lestat had been lucky enough in the last years to have become very well acquainted with that look, had been the only recipient of that look since that fateful autumn of 1910. Everything in that look was unsaid, would be unsaid until they were locked away, until Louis was safe in the confines of their home together, until he was so awash with pleasure that “I wanted to be with you” didn’t have to stay locked within his sensual mouth.

Yes, it was time to go.

[Continue Reading on AO3]

It was only a mile’s walk to their house on Rue Royal and whenever they walked together, they took their time. Louis’s good mood was infectious and all-consuming, and he was so agreeable then that Lestat couldn’t not propose another visit to the opera house, this time to see La fille du régiment, another Donizetti masterpiece.

“La fille du régiment premiered three years before Don Pasquale and, I may be biased, but it is even better. Perhaps because it is French,” Lestat told Louis as they began to walk down Toulouse.

“Oh, you may be biased?” Louis asked rhetorically, turning his head to look at Lestat with amusement.

“Un peu.”

Louis snorted. “Well, if it’s even better then we must go.”

“If we do, let us hope that they have a better lead tenor than they did in Paris,” Lestat said, unable to repress a shudder. “That opening night was a barely averted disaster. Off-pitch and wrecking the stage, fils de pute.”

“I’m sure they’ve improved in the last century, Les,” Louis said. Lestat could’ve gasped.

“It has not been a century!”

“Close enough, old man!”

“Old man?” Lestat felt his eyes widening, felt the way words began to sputter incomplete and incoherent from his tongue. Never had Lestat been so scandalized, so disrespected, so —

And Louis was laughing. Not just any laugh, but the kind of laugh that forced his eyes to close, that sent him doubled-over, the kind of laugh that, to any passerby, made him look like any other drunkard leaving Storyville. It was the most beautiful thing Lestat ever heard.

Lestat laughed too, his own laughter joyful and unobstructed, though his eyes never left Louis.

They looked like fools, no doubt, two men laughing in the street in the middle of the night.

Though vampires needn’t breathe really, Louis, still a fledgling, was but learning the wonders of his newfound power and hadn’t quite grasped vampiric breathing. As such, he was laughing without sound now, breath trying its best to enter into his lungs, but he was laughing too hard for it to do so. Lestat was still laughing too, shoulders shaking with it, as he watched Louis step closer to him, felt his fingers grasp onto Lestat’s arm as though holding something could provide him the stability he needed to breathe again.

Lestat was too busy relishing in this moment, enjoying it for its gorgeous simplicity, that he didn’t hear the man approaching them.

“Louis? Little Louis du Lac, that you?”

It was sobering, the new voice interrupting such a moment, and Lestat turned sharply at the sound. Louis’s fingers on his sleeve stiffened.

There was a man standing behind them a ways away. He was older, in his fifties no doubt, with dark skin and matching dark eyes, eyes that were distorted behind thick-framed glasses. He was clutching a flimsy hat to his chest as though he had taken it off to help him see clearer in the night.

Louis stood up straight and adjusted his coat as he greeted, “Bernard Fontenelle! When did you get back into town?”

Bernard Fontenelle immediately brightened at being recognized and being correct in his own recognition, and his mind flared to life with memories that Lestat quickly and succinctly drank up.

Louis, young, so so young, standing inside of St. Augustine with his Daddy and Mamaw on one side, littler Grace and Paul on the other. A younger Bernard Fontenelle, more than a decade older than Louis though, dressed in his altar-boy robes and greeting the Pointe du Lacs, meeting little Louis’s altar-boy-awestruck look with a smile. Later in life, the Pointe du Lacs, all slightly older, showing up at Bernard Fontenelle’s farewell party as he prepared to leave New Orleans for Berks County, Pennsylvania, and Louis, in the midst of his teen years and so sweet and shy, telling Bernard Fontenelle that he’d pray for his safe travels and his success at his new job on the railroad lines every night.

Ah. More human connection.

“I just got in. Took the last trains I could, wanted to get more shifts in before getting down here,” Bernard said to Louis, moving closer to them. “Was on my way to my marraine’s house so I can try to fix up the damage on her front porch to surprise her with it in the mornin’ when I heard you over here having a time.”

Up close, Lestat could see that Bernard’s face was incredibly kind, his expressions open, but his shoulders betrayed that softness, the strength of them prominent in the way his coat strained across the breadth of his back.

Bernard turned that kind face of his to Lestat.

“I’m —”

“Bernard Fontenelle, yes, I heard,” Lestat finished for him, already beyond pleasantries. “I am Lestat de Lioncourt. I —”

“He’s my business partner here in the district,” Louis finished for him.

Lestat only looked, briefly, at Louis out of the corner of his eye, and he could see the trepidation, the trepidation that always reared its ugly head when Louis was hit with his past.

Lestat wanted to rear back too, wanted to dig his fangs in and death-shake the moment like a dog with a bone.

But tonight had been going so well, was going so well. And so he refrained.

“Oui,” he agreed through clenched teeth. “We were merely laughing at what good fortune we have. It is difficult not to find joy in success, non?”

“Most definitely, Mr. Lioncourt, sir,” Bernard said. He looked like he was going to say something else, flashes of long days working on the railroad playing across his mind in vivid memory, but Louis asked, “What’re you in town for, Bernard?” instead.

“My cousin’s wedding.”

“Aimee?” Louis asked incredulously.

“Aimee,” Bernard confirmed, eyebrows high as if adding on, “Can you believe that?”

“I swear she was just turning ten, running around church, screaming about –”

“Screaming about how she was grown now and we all better start acting like it,” Bernard added in, beginning to laugh at the memory of a little Aimee Fontenelle, her braids tied off with bows, running up and down the pews and looking everyone in the eye, telling them what she expected now that she was double-digits-old and getting indignant and pouty when not a one took her seriously.

“Time flies,” Louis said.

“Not for you, it seems,” Bernard said, leaning forward to slap Louis on the shoulder. “I know it’s been a while since I’ve seen you, but you don’t look like you’ve changed at all in the last decade.”

Lestat looked over at Louis with such pride, watching as Louis got flustered, fumbling over excuses for his vampiric hold on time.

He was Lestat’s finest and most wonderful discovery and creation.

It was difficult to imagine what a human saw when they looked at Louis, for Louis’s beauty sent even Lestat and his preternatural sight reeling, and Lestat knew that, to humans, they looked magnificent and otherworldly at times. Looking at Louis must be like looking at the gods of old come to life.

“— heard Grace got married a couple years ago,” Bernard was saying as Lestat returned to the conversation.

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis said. “Levi Freniere managed to steal her away. She’s doing real good though.”

“Any kids?”

“Just enough to keep them on their toes.” Louis held up a hand, three fingers up high. Bernard whistled a low sound. And then —

“I heard about Paul. I wanted to come down for the funeral, but…”

Louis shrugged, shoulders rising high and falling hard, eyes suddenly looking anywhere but at Lestat or Bernard. “Nah, it was…You knew Paul.”

“I did.”

Bernard sucked in a breath, clicked his tongue, and his face transformed from the sudden solemness back to its kind smile.

“But Grace’s made you an uncle and that must be something!”

“It is. She had twins first so it was, y’know, double the excitement for everyone.” He shifted on his feet. “I haven’t had a chance to meet the newest nephew. He was just born a couple weeks ago, but I know she named him Benjamin. Benny.”

“You gonna be returning the favor and giving her some nieces and nephews of her own?” Bernard asked, eyes flicking down to Louis’s left hand. “I don’t see a ring.”

“Look who’s talking!” Louis said, gesturing at Bernard’s own bare finger.

“I’m holding out for a hometown girl. Them girls up north are a different breed, and I don’t know how I feel giving my mamaw grandbabies from a northern girl. But you’re already home, what’s your excuse?”

Lestat waited for Louis to fluster and fumble again, to get caught over words as he attempted to explain this, explain them. Lestat watched expectantly, wanting to see the blood color Louis’s cheeks, something Lestat could tease him about later, could tell Louis, “This blush is even prettier on you,” as Louis was buried in his pleasure, color high on his face and across the bridge of his nose, his lips already having long been kiss-swollen.

“I’m too busy for any of that married stuff,” Louis said easily, scoffing and grinning. “I got too much sitting on my work here in Storyville, still running the Pointe du Lac trust, and all that other mess. What would I do with being married anyhow?”

Oh.

Oh.

“How old’re you now? You ain’t got forever, Louis.”

“I am none-of-your-business years old and I got plenty of time.”

The two of them went back and forth like that for a handful of minutes, laughing and joking like old friends, poking and prodding at each other in the way people who have known each other in childhood can.

And Lestat stayed silent.

He felt the tensing of his jaw, his shoulders, the tightening of the muscles in his arms as his fingers flexed and strained where they hung restlessly at his side against the outer seam of his pants.

“I’m too busy for any of that married stuff.”

“What would I do with being married anyhow?”

Oh.

The way Louis had said it rang in a repetitive circle within Lestat’s head, the nonchalantlessness of his tone striking. The smile on his face played like a hallucination in front of Lestat’s eyes.

When Bernard finally bid them farewell, wandering down toward the opposite end of Toulouse and turning on Burgundy, Louis fell back into his good mood from earlier, so busy talking about those holiday bonuses that he didn’t notice the oddity of Lestat’s silence.

They arrived at their home on Rue Royal, Lestat pushing open the iron gate with a hard shove, and Louis was quick to discard his shoes, hang up his coat and his hat, and turn his face up, catching a quick kiss on Lestat’s jaw as he said, “I’m gonna go change,” before bounding up the stairs toward their bedroom.

And wasn’t that the damndest thing? Their bedroom.

Lestat found himself stuck motionless at the bottom of the stairs.

Their bedroom.

Their bedroom.

Their bedroom.

‘Was it?’ Lestat found himself thinking, staring up at where Louis had disappeared.

“Is anything ours?” he voiced aloud then, the words barely a whisper, but still —

“You say something, Les?” Louis called.

Louis asked it with the same tone he’d said, “What would I do with being married anyhow?” and it was simply too much.

It was overwhelming.

“Les?” Louis asked again, now returned to the top of the stairs. He had changed, his slate-gray suit traded out for a comfortable pajama set, the royal purple ones Lestat had bought him last winter when Louis had mentioned how nice the silk felt after bathing in the hottest water, after the cold winter air hit his skin, after the fire rewarmed him back up, after sliding into coffin together.

Overwhelming.

“I’m going out,” Lestat said quickly then, turning on a heel. He hadn’t bothered to take his coat off or his shoes yet. He just had to get out the door.

“Going out? Going out where?”

But Lestat was hardly listening. His hand found the doorknob and turned it quickly, letting in a gust of cool night air as he called out over his shoulder, “To eat.”

Within only minutes, thanks to vampiric speed, he was across Lake Pontchartrain at Madisonville, hunting and hunting and looking and —

The man was handsome, in an unconventional way, and young and strong. And he put up a fight. But Lestat grabbed him easily, slammed his head against the brick of a building, pressed against him tight, sinking his fangs in to the hilt and pulling steady drinks, one after the other after the other, until the man slumped lifeless in Lestat’s arms. Lestat let him fall in a messy heap at his feet, swiping along the brick of the wall and licking clean his fingers.

The man’s blood was potent and heady.

It brought with it a sudden clarity too.

When Lestat finally decided to return home to Rue Royale, the moon seemed brighter. It filtered in through the windows of their parlor, white and illuminating, and bouncing off of the stained glass lamps decorating the tables, servers, and shelves littered about. Lestat loved the way it danced any time a car drove by, or even when it was blocked, however briefly, by a passerby or carriage.

He also loved how the moonlight looked on Louis.

Louis, who was sitting on the sofa, still in his royal purple pajamas, legs covered by a soft muslin blanket. Louis, who had one of his damned books in his hands, eyes scanning the pages as though searching for purpose. Louis, who didn’t believe he was married, who thought that they —

Louis’s eyes were on him as he came through the front door, eyebrows furrowed together, the corners of his mouth turned down.

“Les? What’s wrong? Where’d you go? You bolted out of here like —”

With the same vampiric speed he’d used to get across Lake Pontchartrain, Lestat moved forward.

He had Louis pressed against the sofa, using his entire body to cage him in. They were nose to nose, Lestat’s intense stare boring into Louis’s more startled one. Those wide, green eyes matched the sudden hummingbird’s wing-fast thump-thump-thump of Louis’s heart hammering away within his chest.

The book he’d been holding had been snatched and tossed haphazardly onto one of the tables. He didn’t need it any longer.

“Not married?”

The words, the question, felt heavy as they left Lestat’s mouth.

And when Louis’s eyebrows furrowed together again, when the startled look in his eyes melted away to confusion, the words repeated, this time with an edge.

“Not married?”

“What’re you talking about?” Louis asked.

Lestat pulled back, just slightly, enough that he could see the entirety of Louis’s face.

Beautiful.

The thought that the world didn’t know, couldn’t know, that he was Lestat’s was unthinkable. And the thought that Louis couldn’t even find it within himself to want that just as much as Lestat was even moreso.

“You told Bernard Fontenelle that you didn’t have time to be married. You told him that marriage was of no use for you.”

The expression on Louis’s face melted into a new one once again, this time of annoyance, of exasperation.

“Really? That’s what all this is about?” He was trying to wriggle free, shimmying down as though Lestat was just going to let him slip out and away.

“You couldn’t have meant that, Louis.”

If Lestat had been in a different mindset, a better mindset, he wouldn’t have allowed his voice to have softened, quieted, when he said that. But it did. Louis mimicked the action with his face, his mouth parting ever so slightly, his jaw untightening, his eyes searching.

“Lestat…” and that was all Louis said, voice trailing off as he failed to give any explanation.

The muscle in Lestat’s jaw ticked.

Lestat pulled back all the way now, but only so he could use the space to lean down and scoop Louis — who made a sound of surprise followed by an indignant “Lestat!” — into his arms.

For the last time of the evening, as Lestat intended to make his point very clear, Lestat used his vampiric speed to take them up the stairs, pausing at the top of the steps. Louis’s right arm was trapped between their bodies, but his left was clutching at the jacket of Lestat’s fine suit, nails digging in. Lestat’s own arms, full of Louis, pulled him closer as he asked, “Did I not carry you over the threshold of our home together? Did I not hold you in my arms as I do now?”

“You’re being insane,” was Louis’s response. He made no effort to scramble away though, fingers digging in even harder as Lestat began to walk toward their bedroom.

Gently, with more care than he could ever hope to voice, Lestat placed Louis on the bed.

That indignancy was on Louis’s face now as he leaned back on his hands, mouth pulled in a petulant pout. Lestat crowded him again, bracing his own hands on the bed so he could hold his body over Louis’s, so he could press Louis back onto the comforter and put his face into the space between Louis’s neck and shoulder. The silk of the pajamas brushed against his jaw as he said in almost a whisper, “Have I not been a good husband?”

Lestat was sure he wasn’t meant to hear the hitch of Louis’s breathing.

He kissed Louis’s neck, then pulled back to look at him again.

“Have I not upheld my husbandly duties?” Shifting his weight, adjusting, he pressed more of his body atop Louis’s, holding himself up now with only one hand as he brought the other to Louis’s face, stroking down his soft cheek with the pads of his fingers. “What else does one have to do to prove his love?”

His fingers pressed tighter, just so the tips of his sharp nails could tease at the skin of Louis’s face, moving down over his jaw, sliding across the prominent tendon of his neck, down to the neckline of his pajama shirt.

There were buttons holding the shirt closed. Lestat toyed with the one button closest to the top, the one settled over Louis’s sternum.

“Perhaps I haven’t done enough,” Lestat tsked at himself. He moved down to the second button, leaving the first intact. “Perhaps I should make up, to you, my shortcomings in our marriage.”

“Lestat, there’s no shortcomings to be talking about,” Louis said. His voice was breathy, but he was trying to push himself up onto his hands once more, struggling against the weight of Lestat.

“But there must be,” Lestat disagreed. The third button now. “I must have not done something right.”

Louis was trying to sneak a hand up to push at Lestat’s shoulder. It took very little to keep that hand away and Louis huffed as he was denied three times over.

“Bernard doesn’t need to know anything about us. No one does. It’s us, not them.”

This time when Lestat looked at Louis, he really looked. That same trepidation from earlier, from childhood, was there rearing its ugliness at Louis, and it was in a battle, a constant battle, with the part of Louis that caused his breath to hitch at the word ‘husband.’

“But what if I want to scream it?” Lestat asked, his hand now fiddling with the fourth, and final, button. “What if I want the world to know that I love you? What if I want the world to know that you’re mine?”

This time Lestat wasn’t sure if the hitch of Louis’s breath was because of what he said or because he chose that moment to slice a nail quickly down the front of Louis’s shirt, popping off every button so that the silk slid away from Louis’s torso, exposing him to the cool air of the bedroom.

“We can’t do any of that, Les,” Louis said. “We don’t get to scream it. We don’t get to tell the world. There are a million reasons as to why.”

It was true, Lestat knew. The human world and all of its problems were why humans were so simultaneously fascinating and frustrating. It was why Louis’s voice still got sad, as it was now, when reminded of the human setbacks he still held within himself, would hold until his family was no longer present to remind him of what once was.

But they weren’t human. They had a future. They had a future where the world would be far different than it currently was. Lestat had seen so many things change during his walk in the Savage Garden.

So Lestat hummed instead, the vibration of it low in his chest. “Then let us think about our actual wedding.”

“What?” Louis blinked at him.

“One day,” Lestat trailed, fingers toying with Louis’s open shirt, “we will be able to get married. It will happen. And when that day comes, I will give you a proper wedding.” He pushed the shirt away from Louis’s shoulders, watching with a devouring gaze as more skin was put on display. “I will give you a ring of emerald to match the gems that are your eyes. I will announce to all my vow to stay by your side. I will tell them how I love you and I will kiss you in front of them so they can see the truth behind it all.”

With the same gentleness he had placed Louis upon the bed with, Lestat entirely removed Louis’s shirt, allowing him to witness the quickened heave of Louis’s chest, the way his nipples had hardened in the cold of the room, the way his fingers twitched helplessly against the cover.

That gentleness vanished at the sight. Lestat could feel his smile turn wolfish.

It only took two moves to return them to their earlier position, Lestat atop Louis, body blanketing his, but this time Lestat didn’t delay.

He kissed Louis. It started off simple, almost sweet, but it quickly developed into something more, deeper and languid. It was almost syrupy in its quality, like the blood of a wine-drunk or that of a particularly beautiful young woman.

When the tip of Lestat’s tongue found the seam of Louis’s lips, Louis opened for him, let him lick his way inside, mapping teeth and taste and cementing the taste of himself right there.

Louis shifted underneath him and this time Lestat allowed Louis to bring his hands up, allowed Louis to settle one around the back of his neck and the other in his hair. Pulling, Louis tried to bring Lestat closer, tilting his head just so in order to return the favor, licking into Lestat’s mouth with an equal kind of enthusiasm.

Then he purposefully sliced his tongue along one of Lestat’s fangs.

Immediately blood flowed into Lestat’s mouth, overtaking everything else, almost whiting out his vision. It was Louis’s blood. Louis, his Louis, who kept kissing him for some time, every passing second of the kiss wetter. It made Lestat hard, his cock already beginning to strain against the confines of his pants.

But so was Louis, his hardness pressed against Lestat’s thigh.

There was blood trickling down Louis’s chin when they separated and Lestat lurched forward, his tongue flat to gather it all on his tongue before pressing it back into Louis’s own mouth with a quick kiss.

“You minx,” Lestat scolded. “That was devilish.”

Louis smiled. It would have almost been a shy thing, done while looking up through dark lashes, a flush on his face as though realizing he was half-naked whilst Lestat was still in his full suit.

It would have succeeded in being a shy thing had it not been for the blood staining his teeth.

Oh, Lestat loved him so.

“Get out of that ridiculous suit and tell me more,” Louis said. He was settling himself further up the bed, eyes watching raptly as Lestat slowly stood up to full height, standing at the foot of the bed to begin fiddling with his cufflinks.

Lestat almost lost the back of one when Louis trailed a hand down to toy with the waist of his pajama pants.

“Tell you more of what?” Lestat asked, sliding off his jacket and throwing it somewhere to be gathered up tomorrow.

“Of our wedding.”

Louis’s eagerness from earlier in the evening had returned full force. Lestat was more than happy to oblige him.

“Well,” he started, moving to take off his tie, “the wedding would be whatever you want. Big affair, small affair, it matters none to me. In a church, in New Orleans, across the world in China, on an island far away from everyone else.” His hands moved down to his belt. “All that I know, all that is guaranteed, is that your ring would be an emerald and that, by the end of the night, no one would be able to question us. The entire world would know that I was the one to put that ring on your finger.”

He toed off his shoes, leaving them where they were, and began to unbutton his shirt. His had many more buttons than Louis’s pajama shirt and it was a thrill, a stroke of Lestat’s ego, to witness the way desire burned in Louis’s eyes as each button came undone.

As he slid it off his shoulders, letting it join his shoes on the floor at his feet, he began to crawl back onto the bed. Louis’s breath immediately quickened again, ever so, and Lestat found the hand that was toying with the waist of his pajama pants and intertwined their fingers, leaving feather-like touches with his thumb across the thin skin stretched over Louis’s hipbone.

“I also know that, despite everything, you could still wear white.”

Reflexively, Louis’s fingers tightened around Lestat’s own. The way his face reddened more would have almost been startling had Lestat not known exactly what he was doing, what he was aiming for. His wolfish smile returned.

“Yes, because even though you’ve long been defiled, taken apart and put back together all on my cock, you can still wear white. After all, I was your first, non?”

Lestat pulled his hand away from Louis’s, letting it fall to the same place Louis had been fiddling with earlier, his fingers sliding underneath the fabric of those pajama pants and beginning to pull. Louis’s breathing was shallow now, eyes never leaving Lestat’s face, trained on his mouth as Lestat said, “Such a good wife you are. You saved yourself for me, for your husband. You didn’t allow anybody else inside.”

The silk slid easily down Louis’s legs, bunching up around his ankles for a brief moment before Lestat pulled it away, and now Louis was naked, a vision against the gold of the comforter, its warmth complimentary and stunning next to the brown of his skin.

Finding it impossible not to do so, Lestat leaned down and kissed Louis again. He resumed their languid, syrupy kiss, utterly claiming Louis with it. But now that there was so much skin to touch, so much more to stake claim upon as well, his hands couldn’t stay still.

Louis was so soft, his skin made to give and take with whatever direction Lestat pushed. His back arched and bowed as Lestat’s hands danced over the expanse of his ribs, his shoulders dropped when Lestat slid a hand underneath him to the small of his back, his neck tilted to expose himself more when Lestat’s other hand cupped and held at his jaw.

When Louis tilted his neck, it moved the position of his mouth underneath Lestat’s, and Lestat took the opportunity to shift his kisses, to move them to that skin Louis so graciously offered him. It freed up Louis’s mouth so he could sigh aloud, so Lestat could hear him say, “Lestat. Les, honey, I’m so —” and “Oh, oh” followed by a gasp as Lestat bit down, just a hint of what he could do, wanted to do.

“I’m the only one that knows what you feel like,” Lestat mumbled against Louis’s collarbone, kissing the area over his heart and moaning as Louis’s hands moved to his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. The hand that had slipped under the small of Louis’s back moved down, gripping at the plush give of Louis’s ass as he hoisted his hips up to grind them together, as he said, “I’m the only one that knows the depth of your warmth. I’m the only one that knows how you tighten around me when I touch you here.”

Louis whimpered, the sound high and needy, pressing his now-weeping cock against the fabric of Lestat’s pants, movement stuttering at the friction

Lestat allowed Louis to maintain that friction, to rut against him as he moved further down, lips and teeth skating across Louis’s chest. Louis’s hips made a particularly pointed movement when Lestat took one of his nipples into his mouth, blunt human teeth worrying at the supple flesh. Experience told him he could stay here forever, could switch from breast to breast for hours; Louis would enter a space of pure bliss at it, would cradle Lestat closer to him, would pepper kisses along Lestat’s hairline. But Lestat had other things to do, other plans to see through, and so he kept moving downward, hands following his mouth, each one resting on either side of Louis’s tiny waist, holding him down as he kissed at the space just below his belly button, as he nosed at the thin skin of his groin.

“We could pretend,” he started, settling his elbows across Louis’s thighs to hold those down too, “when we get married, that you’re still pure. That you’ve followed all of your Catholic teachings thoroughly.”

A kiss, just at the base of Louis’s cock, made him whimper again.

“Shh,” Lestat scolded, no heat behind it at all. “Your dear father won’t be there to give you away, but, as you will have been mine far longer than you were ever his, it won’t matter.”

And still Lestat moved downward, foregoing giving Louis’s cock any more attention, nose first finding the soft skin of his inner thigh, nuzzling at it.

His fangs elongated in his mouth and the taste, the scent, of Louis made saliva pool on his tongue.

Without any more precedence, Lestat bit down.

Louis cried out at the sensation of the bite, a pleasure-pained “Lestat!” leaving him as his back bowed off the bed, as his eyes shot open, pupils dilated beyond measure.

Everything about Louis was better than anyone else. Others were beautiful, but none compared to Louis. Others had green eyes, but none as green as Louis’s. Others were fierce, but none as fierce as Louis.

Others had delicious blood, but none as delicious as Louis’s.

It was ambrosia, nectar of the gods, and it came from one source. It flowed within Louis. It flooded out of the wounds Lestat created, and it sent Lestat’s senses wild with fire.

It made his cock even harder.

He pulled long draws of it, moaning with abandon as it went down his throat, and when he wanted a different kind of connection, wanted his cock inside of Louis in place of his fangs, he dislodged them, heaving out a breath.

This time, it was his smile that was bloody.

Above him, Louis looked wrecked. His mouth was open, parted to allow his tongue to wet at his lips, moans and gasps and whines leaving him one after the other. His hands were balled up in the comforter of the bed, nails having ripped at the stitching of the sewed design, and his chest was heaving. Lestat could see where his saliva was still wet against Louis’s nipples given the lighting of the room, but that was nothing in comparison to the dark head of Louis’s cock, so hard and so desperate where it twitched against the divet next to his right hip.

The bite marks in Louis’s thigh were still there, but the blood was already beginning to lessen as the skin healed. Lestat wasted no time, swiping two of his fingers through the blood there, coating them with it and fighting off the temptation to lick them clean.

Instead, he brought them to Louis’s hole, grinning as Louis gasped at the touch, legs instinctively widening further and further.

“You’re always so tight,” Lestat started, pushing both fingers in slowly, blood slicking the way. “Anyone would believe you to be a virgin.”

“Don’t,” Louis all but begged, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Don’t what?” Lestat asked, pressing his fingers in even deeper. Louis whined. “Don’t tease you about it? Can it really be called teasing if it’s the truth?”

Louis was going to bite his lip bloody too, Lestat mused, watching as Louis fought a losing battle within himself, his body already giving in to Lestat’s ministrations, opening up for him beautifully.

Lestat pressed in a third finger.

Just the pressure of it, the initial push and give, was enough; Louis came, the suddenness of it debilitating to him, and thrilling, completely enrapturing, to Lestat.

He worked Louis through it, fingers never slowing, grinning when Louis’s thighs began to shake.

“Someone likes being reminded what a good Catholic he is.”

“Don’t,” Louis tried again. It would have been much more serious of a command if his come wasn’t already cooling against his skin.

Lestat ran a hand down Louis’s trembling thighs, soothing them as Louis took in gulps of air. But — once again, from experience — Lestat knew it was best to not let Louis think too long. Sometimes he was fine, basking in their pleasure and love, and other times that ugly trepidation of his former selfhood got into his head.

So Lestat did what he did best: he quickly got rid of his own pants, the nuisance that they were, and he bit into Louis’s thigh again, just long enough for Louis to get hard a second time, just long enough to satiate his thirst, just long enough so that when he dislodged himself once more, there was enough blood for him to slick his cock fully.

Louis’s legs were open and inviting, his eyes kitten-wide and yearning as he followed the movement of Lestat’s reddened hand on his own cock, of the way he moved his hand to the base, holding it as he shifted closer, as he pushed the head teasingly at Louis’s blood-wet hole.

Lestat sighed in pleasure as he pressed his cock inside of Louis, as he felt Louis open to him fully now, loose-limbed and pleasure-drunk.

Lestat kept pushing, driving his cock home, going as deep as he possibly could, wishing he could make Louis choke on it, and when he was flush with Louis, his balls pressed against the soft flesh of Louis’s ass, he pulled all the way back, leaving in just the tip, and then drove forward again.

Louis all but sobbed into his shoulder.

He found a rhythm, his thrusts becoming more powerful as he chased their pleasure, as he sought to bring Louis to the brink of insanity with it. Looking down, he watched with rapt fascination where they were joined, watching his cock disappear inside of Louis then reveal itself, inch by inch, before doing so again and again and again.

And, somewhere in the haze of their coupling, a realization struck him, one so insane, one that set a fire deep within Lestat, that he couldn’t help but laugh, an almost cruel sound from somewhere in his chest.

He kissed Louis as he laughed, leaning down so the very air he breathed was the air leaving Louis, and vice versa, and when he broke the kiss he was still laughing, hips beginning to slow ever so slightly as he said, “You do look like a virgin. Blood-soaked sheets and all.” Then, “Perhaps I should take the sheets, hang them on the balcony for all of New Orleans to see, to show them what a good wife you are.”

He laughed again, laughed at the way Louis’s eyes fluttered down to try to see the sheets, to see the proof of what Lestat said, laughed when he moved Louis’s legs to his shoulders so Louis could see better, so he could dig in deeper.

Louis was nearly folded in half when Lestat thrust all the way back in, when he covered Louis’s body with his own again, when he allowed the laughter to die out, to be replaced by their moans once more.

There was no more speaking for some time after that. Whatever energy Lestat had was spent making Louis feel as good as possible. It was spent holding Louis’s legs, kissing at his neck, his chest, at wherever Lestat’s mouth could reach, and burying himself in Louis’s tightness, in the home that was his body.

It didn’t take long for Louis to come after that either, already so overstimulated and desperate. He came untouched, crying out at a particularly hard thrust, one that pressed the head of Lestat’s cock against his prostate, one that shook him down to his bones.

His spend was hot between them, spreading on the skin of their stomachs as Lestat continued to thrust, as he chased now only his pleasure.

When he was close, when his hips faltered in their rhythm, Louis carded a hand through his hair, pulled him closer by the shoulders, encouraging him to somehow get closer, to eliminate the centimeters still separating them.

Then, voice like a dream, Louis broke their spoken-silence, said, “Come inside of me. Please, honey. Be a good husband and come inside of me. Let me have it.”

Lestat shattered.

For several moments, nothing but the overwhelming love Lestat held within himself felt real. The world around him, around them, faded to nothingness. It was all Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis, Louis.

When the world did return, it did so in pieces. First was the acknowledgment of Louis’s heavy breathing in his ears, the feel of Louis’s skin against his. Second was the coolness of the room against his damp skin. Third was the sound of his own breathing, heavy and mirrored in the fast beating of his heart in his chest. Fourth, and finally, was the realization that his entire bodyweight was holding Louis down into the bed.

“Stay inside,” Louis whispered, begged, when Lestat tried to rise. He urged Lestat to stay with his hands, one hand curled around the breadth of Lestat’s shoulders, the other playing with the blood-sweat wet strands of his hair. And Lestat, having no actual desire to go, settled into the feeling of surrounding Louis entirely, into the feeling of Louis warm and sated and pressed against him.

They stayed like that for some time, breath falling in sync. Their hearts too. They would have fallen asleep there if it wasn’t for Lestat’s awareness of the sun, only an hour away from rising, and if it wasn’t for Louis, his sudden still-whisper, saying, “You really think there’s gonna be a day when you and me can get married? Like how other couples do?”

Lestat blinked open heavy eyes and found Louis had turned to look at him. They were so close, Lestat having tucked his head into Louis’s neck as they lay there, so the action of Louis turning put them eye to eye. That trepidation wasn’t there this time, wasn’t present in the sanctuary of their bedroom. Louis’s gaze was searching, hope brimming in the endless green.

“I have seen the world go through many changes,” Lestat started, propping himself up a little. “One day, humanity will catch up with how we vampires feel. They always do eventually. And when that day comes, I will give you a wedding and we can scream our love from every rooftop, project it to every being that walks this planet.”

Louis laughed at that, muttering something about always taking things too far, but he sobered up quickly, bringing a hand to Lestat’s face, fingers settling under the defined line of Lestat’s jaw, holding him like it was all that mattered right then. Lestat leaned into the touch, relished in it, as Louis asked, in that same hopeful voice, “And for now?”

“And for now we are wed in all the ways that matter.” He covered Louis's hand with his own, holding it, turning to kiss at the soft palm. “You are mine, for all of eternity. My companion. My Louis.”

After a couple more minutes of basking in each other’s arms, they moved, cleaning up and putting on new pajamas, ones perfect for settling into coffin for the morning. Lestat did not even pretend pretense of going to his own coffin, settling immediately into Louis’s, arms open and wide to accept Louis in too.

The dark brought forth by the shutting of the coffin always made Lestat sleepy, something that would be called Pavlovian after a Russian scientist’s publication just in 1904, and so he was nearly asleep when Louis, still awake, and mind apparently reeling, said, “I know we’re gonna have to wait on that wedding and all, but I am interested in what kind of emerald ring you’ve got in mind.”

It was Lestat’s turn to laugh, and he kissed Louis’s forehead.

“I assure you, it will only be the best. I’ll only ever get the best for you.”

[kiwioala]

not sure if it matters at all but 2/3 messages received today that are presumably from the eggs have had their corresponding number from egg statistics rolled on the roulette wheel

tallulah is the odd one out here w/ her number not having been rolled yet, however it makes sense lore wise for her message to go through at the same times as chayannes

[shark-myths]

where there is love there is god !!!!

okay okay bear with me here

in this one, patrick is a catholic priest (!!!) in las vegas (!!!!!) and pete's a fallen aaaaaaangel

it isn't very long because it's more insane than i usually am, but i would really love to see what i can do with it someday. here's an excerpt:

"

Father Patrick is alone in the church. Usually is at this time of night, when he’s sent everyone else home but keeps himself in his office on thinner and thinner pretenses of reviewing old sermons and new budget proposals. Eventually, he’s going to have to confront the fact he has nothing to go home to; but not tonight. 

Tonight he putters around, sorting broken candles out of the bins, until the doors bang open like thunder from heaven. Patrick’s so startled he flings the candles he’s holding, breaking a few more. There on the threshold of the sanctuary, backlit by the near-neon bleed of streetlights, stands an angel. Okay, stumbles. Okay, also, if he’s an angel, he’s clearly fallen. But just look at him.

Eye enormous in their rings of smudged cosmetics; bright red button-down printed with roulette wheels, poker hands, casino lights, and wicked dice; pants tight as paint and concealing less; rings on every finger and nails black enough to match his slicked-back hair. Smelling like last night, or the last several nights, a thick humid wave of booze and not-quite-brimstone rolling off him into the nave."

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel

Viego: Pt 4, finale

League of Legends | Viego x F!Reader

Chapters: Prologue | Viego: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4

Read the whole thing on AO3 here

NSFW: Oral (f!receiving), fingering, penetrative sex, overstim

Summary: Turns out that Runeterra isn't the only place that has a Void. Plucked from your world into one of a video game with nothing but stolen time powers, an inability to die and a middling recollection of lore, you're prepared to do just about anything to get back home again. You just have to find the right Champion to help.

The restorations get more tiring. Viego is careful with who he brings you, though you have no idea how he can tell how old the souls are. You don't complain, but he seems to notice how drained you are after. You think you're doing well to pace yourself, until one day after the newly restored souls have been sent off, Viego goes very still.

“The mist is rolling in over Bilgewater,” he says tensely, his eyes focused on something very far off. “There will be a Harrowing.”

You straighten, concerned. “Can't we do anything? I mean, before anyone dies?”

He glances at you, brow pinched. “I will go,” he decides. “Every wraith banished back to the Isles is one that cannot hurt anyone for a time.”

“You know I'm coming with you,” you say. He gets a very pinched look on his face, and your tone steels. “Viego, I know you're worried about me, but I am not staying here while people are getting hurt. I'm going, and you know you can't stop me, so you may as well watch my back.”

He searches your eyes for a moment, then sighs and holds out his hand. “Very well. Let us go.”

You take it, and mist envelops you. You've never traveled through his mist awake before, and it feels a mix of diving into ice cold water and walking through a car wash. You can't see anything for a moment, not even your own hand.

The mist clears just enough for you to make out Viego's form just ahead of you. He raises a hand, and as he waves it the mist curls back in on itself, creating a bubble of clear but filmy air around you. You recognize Bilgewater by the rickety dock-streets under your feet, and more than that, the man in a trifold hat who runs full tilt past you swearing at the top of his lungs. Viego immediately strides in the direction he ran from, releasing your hand to pull his sword from nowhere. He spares you a single worried look, before the first wraith breaches the mist and he grimly turns to the task ahead.

The wraiths don't target Viego at first–he’s one of them, after all, and has no precious life force to siphon. You, however, are a different story. A dozen wraiths spills from the mist, and you raise your hand to freeze them mid-leap scant seconds before Viego cleaves through three in one swing. He spares you an appreciative look before he dissolves into mist himself, and then is behind you, running through another you hadn't seen. You finish the rest in front of you with a fan of thrown knives, instantly teleported to their destination by force of habit.

You work your way through the streets like this, you controlling the crowds and him dispatching them with quick and brutal swings of his blade. Pretty quickly, the wraiths start to target him too, and he seems to have much less concern for his own health than making sure nothing touches a hair on your head.

“If you die on me, I'm gonna kick your ass,” you say tersely, catching him by the elbow as he appears close to you, a wraith already impaled in his blade. He blinks as the gashes left by the wraith's claws close, the dark mist that was leaking from the wounds vanishing.

“I will endeavor not to disappoint you,” he says dryly, and effortlessly swings his zwei with one hand to catch two leaping wraiths at once. Inappropriately, you get the sudden urge to pin him to a wall and kiss him senseless, but you're going to ignore that. Effortless displays of force did something for you, noted, moving on.

“It's him! It's the King!” Someone yells, and you turn to see someone standing at the edge of the mist looking strongly like he doesn't know which way to run. “He's here to kill us all!”

Out from behind him stumbles a stocky woman desperately trying to support a bleeding man. “Oh, shut your fucking trap, Harold,” she seethes, turning to look at the both of you. “You ain't here to kill us, right? You brought me auntie Sash back, so do me a favor and fix this lug up ‘fore you gotta pop him back out the mist too, yeah?” She gestures at the bleeding man. Viego looks vaguely appalled, and she clears her throat. “Uh. If’n you please, your majesties.”

You stifle a laugh, and walk up to touch the man's shoulder. His wounds vanish, and he slurs what you think is a thank you. The woman nods sharply. “Many thanks, milady. Now, if I could suggest you bring that murder machine you call a husband up to the slaughter docks, he’d have a right fine time killing all the mist beasties there,” she offers you a sailors salute and proceeds to march out the way you came, her companions scrambling in her wake.

“Why does everyone assume we're married?” You say aloud. When you look back at Viego, he's scraping some spectral wolf thing off his blade. Murder machine you can't deny, but husband? You're not even wearing a ring.

“Can we please focus on the task at hand, dearest?” He says. That was probably why. You make a face and march towards the docks.

—

It is a long, long time before the wraiths begin to thin. With them out of the way, Viego corals the worst of the mist away, pushing it back out towards sea with his mouth set in a grim line of concentration.

The citizenry begins to emerge from their hiding holes as he does, and the murmurs echo around you so loudly they become completely indecipherable. Viego sends the rolling wall of mist away, creeping slowly back out over the water, and lets out a harsh breath of exertion.

“Are you okay?” You ask, touching his elbow. There's nothing to rewind, though–whatever effort he's expended isn't the physical kind.

He nods tightly. “It was still hungry. Difficult to control, after we interrupted its meal.”

“Your majesties!” A familiar voice calls. You turn to see your ferryman, no worse for wear save for a gash across his arm. “On behalf of Bilgewater, thank you for your assistance.”

“You know I'm not actually a queen, right?” You point out, reaching out to heal his wound.

“Legal particulars ain't never mattered much to me, my lady,” he says smartly, completely missing or deliberately ignoring your point. “I'd invite you to the post ‘hooray for not dying’ celebrations, but from the look on milords face and the way you're swaying on your feet, I reckon he'll be wanting to take you home shortly.”

“I'm not swaying–” you protest. Viego catches your shoulder to steady you before you overbalance. “Alright, yeah, I spoke too soon,” you relent. He leaves his arm around your shoulders, you notice.

Viego inclines his head at the man. “We will require your services the day after tomorrow, Captain Brigg. I'm sure there are those we could not help, and Iso will want to return them as soon as she is able.”

“The day after?” You ask. “I can–” he casts you a look that brooks no argument, and you resist the urge to pout.

“I'll be seeing you then, milord,” Brigg agrees amicably. “Have a good evening, your majesties.” Viego nods, and as the last fleeting tendril of mist curls around you, you disappear.

He takes you directly to your bedroom, and you really do hate to admit it, but he's right–now that the adrenaline has passed, you can barely stay on your feet. Viego gently lowers you onto your bed, and then kneels to take your boots off.

“You don't have to–” you begin, flustered.

“I know,” he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. “But I want to.”

You're too tired to argue. Instead, you sigh and struggle out of your bodice and skirts, until you're just in your chemise. Viego stands as you shuffle under your covers, and on the very brink of unconsciousness, you feel him press a kiss to your hairline. “Rest well, my heart,” he murmurs into your hair. You want to sit up and ask what exactly the fuck this thing between you is, but you can't help but sleep.

—

In your dream, Viego is on his throne. He hasn't seen you yet as you walk around it, but when he does he smiles so warmly it makes your heart jump. You get that insatiable urge to be closer, to touch that perfect porcelain skin, and you can't think of any reason not to. His hands settle on your thighs as you climb into his lap, and he kisses you like it's the most natural thing in the world. He's warm, despite the plumes of mist leaking from his heart, and when you mouth along the column of his neck his skin feels as alive as any others. He gasps, rolling his hips up into you, as you grind down into that delicious friction–

You wake with a start.

“Viego, if I took you to a bar, would you wingman for me?” You ask the ceiling muzzily. Predictably, he is indeed in the room.

“What does that mean?” he asks, puzzled.

You open your mouth to explain, then immediately think better of it. He'd make you look bad by comparison, with a face like his. “Nevermind.”

“Are you well?” He asks, tone considerably more concerned.

“Yeah,” you sit up, rubbing your face. “How long was I out for?”

“All night and most of the day. It is around sunset now, I believe.” Viego says. He sits on the bed next to you and hands you a plate. “Here, eat.”

You stare down at the sandwiches for a moment before taking them from him. You can tell he made them himself–he still sucks at cutting tomatoes. “The ferryman came by,” he explains casually as you eat. “Some of the citizens wanted to send their regards, which apparently in Bilgewater consists of a vast array of gold and alcohol. They're holding a vigil over the bodies, instead of burying them at sea.”

“I suppose you'd better find those souls then,” you muse. “I imagine we'll get some strongly worded letters if we're late.”

“No need,” he says. “They've all found their way to the castle already. I suppose nothing can stop the Bilgewater rumormill, not even death.”

You start to get up, putting the plate on your bedside table. “They're here? I should–”

Viego pushes you back down against the bed with a hand flat against your collarbone, right over where his triangle of mist would be on him. You hit the soft pillows with a faint whuff. “You should rest.”

“Viego–” you begin to argue.

“Iso,” he shoots back in a tone that clearly brooks no arguments. “You only just awoke. I will not have you putting yourself back into a coma. We said we would return them tomorrow, they will wait until tomorrow.”

You stare each other down for a long moment, but Viego holds resolute. You sigh. “Y'know, the last man who pinned me down in bed was a lot more fun.”

A flash of something dark flashes across Viego's face. He leans in, putting one hand on the pillow next to your head to support his weight, while the hand still on your chest comes up to stroke the column of your throat. His gaze, already so piercing in its uncanny glow, bores into yours. “I do not expect you to reciprocate my affections, but that does not permit you to make light of them,” Viego says dangerously. His hand reaches your jaw, his thumb just barely brushing over your parted bottom lip. “I am a greedy man, and one day you will have me wanting more than you are willing to give.” You let out a trembling breath, and he’s so close–

And then he sits back, stands up, and vanishes into mist.

“What the fuck?” You ask the empty room, dumbfounded.

—

It's not so much that you avoid Viego for the rest of the night. You're not sure you could avoid him, if he was particularly set on finding you. It's just that you're so fucking confused you have no desire to do anything but pace around your room.

You'll admit, you've been avoiding so much as considering the idea that Viego has feelings for you. Most likely because it's pretty obvious that you have feelings for Viego, which absolutely was a horrible idea, because Viego's defining character trait was being irrevocably, obsessively, head-over-heels in love with a dead woman.

…Except the Viego you know has done his grieving. The Viego you know came to terms with his wife's death and found other things in his past and future to live for. The Viego you know didn't have his story end in the Hallowed Mist, pinned to the scene of his wife's last true death for all eternity. No, he's changed and grown and remembered who he used to be, before death robbed him of everything but the thing he held most dear. The Viego you know has, now that you think about it, been pretty straightforward about his feelings, and you just deflected every time because you were staunchly refusing to address the possibility out of…what? Fear of rejection? That you were reading him wrong, and he would be disgusted by the thought of anyone who wasn't Isolde, thereby ruining your friendship forever?

Your eyes catch on the music box, still on your dresser. In the drawer in the bottom of that dresser sit the notes you wrote, detailing your every foiled attempt to get home. Somewhere deep inside, you still held out hope that you'd find something, anything that could take you back. If you said yes to him, you'd be saying yes to staying in this world. Forever, probably. Neither of you can die or age. The only thing that could take you from him is if you left of your own will, and the thought of having him and then being forced to choose between him and home petrifies you.

You groan, throwing yourself back onto your bed. God, you just had to uncan these particular worms, didn't you? You couldn't have just…fucking repressed all of your feelings forever. Not that that's fair to Viego. Who you've been flirting with and then immediately brushing off when he reciprocates. No wonder he got fed up with your shit. You're stricken with the urge to rewind yourself back to Ionia and disappear into the woods forever, but then again, he'd probably follow you.

He doesn't show up when you pad down to the kitchen to make dinner. The solitude makes you antsy–it’s the longest you've been truly alone for months now. Viego has practically been your shadow, and having him gone for so long makes you uneasy in a way you didn't expect. You make yourself something quick and easy, and leave a portion out for him in case he decides he wants any, before quickly making your way back to your room. You do not sleep well.

---

The next day, Viego is waiting outside your door. You give him a slightly stilted hello, incredibly aware of yourself in his presence in a way you never had been before, and you walk in awkward silence to the Great Hall where the shades gather. The clamoring of the dead is preferable to whatever the fuck this is, and you're glad for the distraction just as much as you are that you can help. The ferryman even makes the trip up to the castle this time instead of meeting you at the docks, and about an hour later he departs with the grateful newly not-dead of Bilgewater in tow. Leaving you back in the awkward silence hell.

“I apologize,” Viego says before you can figure out what the hell you’re supposed to say to him. You give him a questioning look. “For yesterday. I was agitated and got…carried away.”

You stare at him, even more thrown off than before. “I…” Fuck it. You couldn't avoid it forever, and this is killing you. “Viego, how do you feel about me?”

His brow furrows as if you're asking a very strange question. He hesitates a long moment before answering, searching your face for some indication of what you're actually asking. “I love you,” he finally says. “You saved me from myself, and I hope to one day become a man worthy of your affections.”

That confession, delivered as if he was stating an obvious and self-evident fact of the world, floors you. “But why?” You insist, flabbergasted. “Because I just…happened to be the person who freed you?”

He frowns. “Of course not. You taught me a different way to live, and gave me back parts of myself I did not even know I had lost. You treated me with kindness and honesty, and every day you drive me to be better just by existing.” He looks at you earnestly, as if willing you to believe him.

“I–” your voice trembles. Fuck, are you crying? You are. Viego's entire counternance softens, and he steps up to cup your face.

“Oh, my heart, what troubles you?” He asks softly, wiping your tears away.

“I love you,” you hiccup. His eyes widen in shock. “But if I love you, then I can't–I couldn't bring myself to leave, Viego, I couldn't–”

“Then don't leave,” he says softly, urgently. “Stay with me.”

You shake your head. “You don't understand, I can't…I can't give up on them. What kind of person does that make me, if I give up on them?”

“My heart, my love,” Viego croons. “Moving on is not a betrayal. You taught me that. You have fought so hard and for so long, and now they would want you to rest, to find peace and happiness where you are.”

You dissolve into sobs against his chest. He holds you tight, stroking your hair and whispering soft assurances into your hair, until you're so exhausted from everything that you can't help but sleep.

—

Viego is beside you when you wake up. You know, because he's toying with your hair. You open your eyes to find him laying on his side on top of the covers, head pillowed on his arm.

“How often do you watch me sleep?” You ask. “Be honest.”

He thinks about it for a moment. "Do you remember the first night I brought you back here, and you told me to focus on something in the room?” He asks. You nod. “I chose your breathing. I found it comforting, and I still do.”

“Is that your way of saying ‘a lot' while not technically answering the question?” You ask.

His lips quirk in a smile, and he shrugs noncommittally. You're struck with the urge to kiss him, so you do. It's a simple press of lips, but when you pulls back Viego looks stunned.

And then he's on you, devouring your mouth like it's the first water he's seen in years of drought. He pulls you closer with one hand and cards the other through your hair and tilts your head at an angle just so, and, god, he really was a heartbreaker, wasn't he? He had to be, if he could kiss like this.

“Iso,” he breathes against your lips. “My heart, my beloved.” His lips move along your jaw, down your neck, and you gasp. His mouth latches on your pulse and you have no doubt you'll have a mark there tomorrow.

“Viego–” you gasp, only for your voice to trail off into a needy whine as his teeth scrape along the junction of your neck and shoulder. You grab onto his hair for stability, and he moans when you accidentally tug. The sound goes straight between your legs. “Fuck,” you breathe.

“That can be arranged,” he murmurs, looking up at you from beneath those pretty lashes. You nod frantically, and the grin he gives you is absolutely wolfish. He levers himself up so he can pull the covers off you, and you’ve never been so angry at how many layers women's clothing in this world has. Still, Viego is amazing at multitasking–he nips at your throat as he unlaces your bodice, leaving open mouth kisses down your chest as he pushes your chemise down to free your breasts. You gasp as his mouth closes around a nipple, and he slips an arm under your back as it arches, pulling you ever closer to him. You take the opportunity to wrap your legs around him, and he makes a needy little noise against your skin.

His free hand slides up the outside of your leg, rucking your skirts up, and for one delicious second he rolls his hips into yours and good lord, he was packing. Then he’s between your legs, slithering down the length of your body so quickly you're half certain he becomes mist to do it. You yelp as he snaps off your garters with his teeth, and obligingly raise your hips so he can slide your underwear off. You get the impression he would be remorseless about tearing them off you, and you like this pair–

He laps at your clit and moans like it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted, and thoughts evaporate from your head. You grab his hair again, this time to hold on for dear life, and you swear he whimpers as you fist your hands in it. You'd be worried you were hurting him, if he wasn't still going down on you like his life depended on it. You roll your hips up against his face demandingly, gasping yes right there–

Viego isn't satisfied with making you cum once. He gives you barely enough time to come down before he's easing those long fingers into your drenched pussy. He sucks on your clit and curls his fingers ruthlessly up into you, noting what makes you twitch and cry out with pinpoint accuracy, until he's reduced you to a trembling mess.

“Viego–” you gasp, tugging his hair. He doesn't even seem to register the motion, so you do it again but harder. He comes up, mouth glistening with your juices and eyes glazed, looking somewhere between indulgent and lust-addled and vaguely annoyed you're interrupting him.

“Yes, my love?” He purrs, curling his fingers up in you again. You moan, rolling your hips, and his eyes track your face intently.

“Get up here,” you order as soon as you can form coherent sentences, beckoning him with one finger. He complies immediately, and oh, that's kind of nice, isn't it? You kiss your taste out of his mouth, and he whimpers, rolling his hips against the mattress. “And get this off,” you continue, pulling at his coat. He sits back on his heels to comply, and from this angle you can see his cock pressed painfully up against his pants, neglected save for whatever friction he got against the bed. You sit up and palm him through his pants, feeling him throb, and his hips jump against your hand as he lets out the most desperate noise you've ever heard a man make.

He leans back over you, kissing you desperately as he undoes his belts with one hand. His cock springs free as he shoves his pants halfway down his thighs, and he buries his face in your neck and moans as he drags his length through your folds, once, twice, then finally, he pushes his cock into you. Even with his relentless preparation earlier, the stretch almost burns, and just when you think there can't be more his hips jump and there is. His grip on your hips is almost bruising, and when he finally hilts himself in you, you're both trembling.

Then he begins to move, almost like he can't help himself, dragging his cock out in one slow movement before slamming back in with a moan. You're not sure Viego is even capable of getting tired, because he fucks like he isn't, furiously pistoning his hips like he isn't making an absolute mess out of both of you. He's noisy, too, moans and bitten-off pleas and slurred praises, you're so tight and wet and perfect, my love, my heart, come for me, yes, just like that–

He moans gutterally into your ear as you clench around him, thrusting into you as deeply as he can before he cums. His hips don't still, and with a start you realize he's still hard. “Forgive me, I need m–mhh, more,” he slurs, already starting up another brutal tempo even as his cum leaks out of you. “You–ah, you feel so good, please, let me–” his speech dissolves into needy incoherency. He grips your knees and pulls them up and together, practically folding you in half, and it changes the angle of his thrusts in such a way that has you whimpering. When you cum, it's to a stream of praises and an absolute lack of any noticeable change in his pace.

Perhaps it's to be expected for breaking a century long dry spell, but Viego is insatiable. His thrusts turn sloppy as he chases his own release and he practically sobs as he cums in you again. He sits back, and he's a mess, hair stuck to his face and cock still dripping with your combined fluids. You think he's done, but apparently the sight of your abused hole dripping with his cum does it for him. “One more?” He pleads, and those puppy dog eyes do not belong on a man whose cock is twitching against his stomach.

Ah, fuck it. You roll onto your knees and and give him your best come hither look, aided by the no doubt completely fucked out look you must be sporting. He almost growls, and then he's on you.

—

“I…apologize,” he says sheepishly. “I may have gotten carried away.”

You crack open an eye, and he's looking at the bruises he's left on your hips. “You know I could fix those, right? I'm not doing that because I like them.”

He blinks at you, except his eyes are glazed in such a way that tells you he's thinking of something dirty. “You will be the death of me,” he muses.

You snuggle back against his chest, and he wraps his arms around you. “Been there, done that, dying is overrated. You're stuck with me.”

He kisses the spot underneath your ear, and he sounds utterly sincere when he says, “And how lucky I am.”

[pwnyta]

Downloaded the new Cookie Run spin-off game (Witch's Castle) because the video was pretty cool, but dang does this game suck.

The gacha is an absolute rip-off, they've rolled all the gachas into one (so you can get cookies, furniture, civilians?, and a treasure chest in the same gacha) but you have to roll 3 of the same type to immediately get something from that category or you just have to roll repeatedly until a meter for it is filled (so you go from rolling dice to a roulette wheel, where you could get a cookie, but you're more likely to get the little soul gem things instead) and it feels very much like a slap in the face, because like, my luck in Ovenbreak and Kingdom sucks but at least I get SOMETHING useful from each roll (like I may not get the cookie I want, but I might still get a cookie I don't have, or gems to get closer to getting that cookie.)

There are also no 10 rolls. So it's not like you can increase your chances of getting anything good.

I also don't understand why every Cookie Run game has to start the exact same way, which GingerBrave being created and making the run to leave the castle? Like, are these alternate universes? I guess they need to do the whole intro if Witch's Castle or Kingdom was someone's FIRST game, but it still feels weird that they reset to the beginning so often.

This isn't really a complaint but I do find it VERY funny how like, detailed, the cookies are getting over time? Like, you look at Vampire Cookie compared to any of the newest cookies and they're like, crazy detailed.

I havent seen much of the new game but Im happy to know I dont seem to be missing out LOL

Yeah I guess its just context... after all the original game being an infinite runner makes sense pretty much like with the pretty well known fairy tale with the gingerbread man character running around... so i mean I guess I kinda get why theyd need some context to justify the weird world theyve created??

AND YES! Its very funny how detailed they got. Love that. Its especially funny when old cookies get costumes that are more suited to the newer style.