#and no one even has to read my author notes

[girlsworldillusion]

Summary: Amid the severe consequences of war, Aemond finds himself alone, without the presence and support of his young and sweet wife, who insists on staying away from him, afraid of who he has become. He has been a respectful and patient husband. But tonight he feels like he has finally reached his limit.

Author's note: Please, pay attention to the tags. This story contains sensitive topics, such as: +18, SEX, SEVERE INTERNAL CONFLICT, DUB-CON/NON-CON, POSSESSIVE/OBSESSIVE BEHAVIOR, EMOTIONAL DEPENDENCY, TOXIC RELATIONSHIP AND MORE.

word count: 6k

There is no specific description of which house the reader belongs to, so feel free to fill this in as you wish.

English is not my native language, forgive me for any spelling mistakes.

Good reading!

He can taste vomit in his esophagus.

Aemond knows it wouldn't be too difficult to get out what little he ate. He coughs as discreetly as he can into the back of his hand before taking off his eye patch, wanting to splash some cold water on his face and throat. He pretends not to notice how his hands are a little shaky as he pulls the gloves off of them, cupping his fingers inside the basin left by the servants on the table. The cool water feels refreshing on his hot skin, and with a satisfied hiss, he looks up, staring directly at the reflection of his own face in the mirror.

The flickering flames of the fire near the wall provide no comprehensive illumination, and he is honestly relieved by that. What little he can see is disturbing enough. His single lilac eye is bloodshot, his silver hair is disheveled, so different from normal. Paleness in the face, sunken cheeks. The subtle glow of the blue stone in his other eye and the deep scars around it only add a dying touch to his ghostly visage.

Another deep tug wracks his stomach and he leans forward, gripping the sides of the table with abandon, preparing to actually throw up this time. But nothing comes, nothing but the painful, nauseating feeling in his body.

He can't forget.

It's all his doing, after all. It's all his fault.

The death of all those people, the desolation of the entire Riverlands. It's all his fault.

Any feeling of greatness and power that previously inhabited his body no longer existed. His superiority and confidence swept away by the tide until he was spat out on the shore with nothing but pain and trauma.

He is a hypocrite and he knows it.

Aemond is not a good person. He doesn't want to fool anyone with his anxiety attack, he definitely doesn't need to take on the role of the poor regretful guy. He doesn't regret what he did, he doesn't regret doing what was absolutely necessary for the good of his family. He could never regret this. And he knows that tomorrow, a week from now, or a month from now, he will do exactly the same thing again if necessary. There are no limits to what he is willing to do to and for those to whom he is loyal.

He can't even dare deny liking it all.

When he's on Vhagar's saddle, with the world in flames just beneath them and the addictive power to decide for good or ill for those poor, hopeless souls, he can swear he's never felt anything better. There's something disturbingly liberating about embracing the monster that resides in his chest. It's surprising to him how good it feels to be ruthless, to take on the role of the uncontrollable beast everyone says he is (rightfully so).

It wasn't always like this. But a series of violent and tragic actions that may or may not have been intentional earned Aemond more than just an ominous codename. They gave him respect; fear. Aemond One-Eye, the son without expectations, the child without any prominence. No more.

He feels ruthless when he is in the skies, dictating the fate of humanity. It gives him power. He is powerful now, he is no longer the boy forgotten by everyone. The feeling of being superior pumps hard through his veins until he goes wild, makes him feel like he's crushing people under the soles of his boots. He is more powerful. Their lives depend solely on the way his hand moves and it turns out that, to their misfortune and terror, his hands are wrapped around the saddle of the largest dragon in the world. It is difficult to be sensible and godly when there is so much power at his command. He is more powerful. There is nothing that can stop him. He feels invincible, unstoppable. He doesn't just enjoy it - he worships this feeling.

At least until it's all over.

When the dust settles and all that is left is the consequence of his actions, it is then that he quietly withers away.

He killed them. All of them. His hands are stained with blood and ash and it's all his fault. He has separated families forever, traumatized so many souls with insurmountable depression and pain and it is all his fault. Adults, elderly, children, babies. All dead. Because of him. Hoarse screams of terror and fear, all begging for a mercy that would never come - could never come. Not by his hands. Not when he had a family and a purpose he was so loyal to.

Aemond worships the sense of power that comes with a reputation for being ruthless and regrets nothing he has done and will do for his duty. Unfortunately, this does not mean that he does not suffer the consequences in equal proportion.

Another sigh. He drops his head and presses his fingers against the edge of the table. He closes his eye so tightly that patches of white light explode into his vision, each labored breath makes him lean forward and clench his teeth. The pain is impossible to ignore – it shakes his insides, leaves his limbs trembling.

"Is this hurting you?" a soft voice asks, a small, fragile thing, almost impossible to hear - if it weren't for the fact that he lives to hear the sound of that voice. He knows this, and so does the owner of the voice, both fully aware of this dangerous dependence. “Pretending to be a God, I mean.”

Aemond feels his heart beat faster, the angelic sound of your voice rescuing him from the merciless depths of his own mind, making him slowly raise his head as he stares at the place where the voice came from. He almost can't believe what he heard. But there you are, sitting on your bed, surrounded by comfortable sheets and pillows, your wide doe eyes catching the moonlight and fire flames in the dark of night, shining like stars.

His sweet wife.

He simply looks at you, not offering any kind of response right away. Not because he doesn't want to. But because he's too surprised to hear your voice and see your face to form words at the moment. Aemond doesn't know how he ended up here, in your private chambers - the place he hasn't been welcome in for some time. He was supposed to go to his chambers. Was he that distraught and distracted? Could the confusion clouding his senses have unconsciously led him directly to the person he needs most at the moment?

He looks around quickly just to confirm that, yes, there is no doubt that he is in your chambers. He didn't intend to do that. He shouldn't be here, invading your privacy and ignoring your request that he keep distance. Of course, his longing and need for you made him consider such a thing countless times. Regardless of your wishes, he was your husband; he had a right to be here. But he never did that. You don't want him in your bed anymore and you've made that clear. And Aemond was not ignorant or even insensitive enough to pretend not to understand your reasons. You had a lot of them and he knows.

You were not made for cruelty. Your innocence and purity made you unable to be aware of the horrible things he did and still treat him the same way as before. You were afraid of him now, just like everyone else. The blood of many was on his hands and you knew it, just as you knew he regretted nothing, and that he would not stop this - not until victory was achieved.

You didn't agree with that, you never did, not even before the marriage. But what could a young woman do in the world they lived in? You were just a piece on a board game, an ace up his sleeve used by your father specifically to provide armies and loyalty to the crown in exchange for a marriage and a more than convenient name for your family.

Aemond knew from the beginning that you didn't want to marry him; how could you after all? You barely knew him beyond the questionable reputation that surrounded him, and a dangerous family clash was about to break out in the kingdom - this was definitely not the right environment for romance to blossom. But you did your duty. You had been an exemplary wife in the short two months of peace that followed your marriage. You treated him with respect and patience, slowly opening your heart to him with each passing day. He wasn't the most talkative or the most sensitive husband and yet you showed empathy for his limitations, accepting what he gave you with gentle smiles and rosy cheeks, without demanding anything more. So sweet. So inocent.

It was no surprise the feeling that welled up in his chest.

Aemond was obsessed before he even realized it. Needing your gentle attentions like a flower needs the sun. He clung to you as his only comfort in an almost bleak existence, he became more and more obsessed with you and you didn't notice. You read with him, walked through the gardens with him and talked to him as you always did, kind and polite. And every day he felt hungrier, pushing the limits of restraint. You welcomed him into your bed every night, welcoming him between your legs as if he belonged there - and he did, indeed. Aemond's appetite for you and you alone knew no bounds.

But he wasn't the man you married anymore, was he?

You fear him now, any and all advances he's made with you over the past few months have vanished into thin air like the ashes he's so used to seeing now. The feelings he was carefully cultivating in your chest now seem to have sunk so deep into your being that he thinks they no longer even exist. You no longer craved his attention; the touch of softness and affection, whenever “husband” dripped from your mouth, was absent. And now all he could do was want.

Aemond doesn't look away from you, not wanting to miss this moment for anything, not after being deprived of it for so long. And you look back at him from where you sit on the bed, chin lifted in false courage. You looks at him with your bright eyes and high cheekbones, which seem even more highlighted in the warm lighting around your bodies.

He may have entered your chambers out of pure unconscious instinct, out of nothing but silent desperation. His body guiding him when his mind no longer could. But now that he's here, he doesn't know how he didn't realize it from the beginning. It's impossible to think about anything other than you. You, you, you.

At this point, deaths at his hands no longer existed. Not his pains or the weights he carries, not revenge, not duty. Anything. Absolutely nothing. There is only this moment, between him, a boy who so wanted to be enough for those he loves and the young girl who is illuminated by the light of the flames.

He feels it. It's not new. That strange impulse that draws all the attention of the environment around him to you and you alone; an almost painful need between his teeth to take a bite and not let go, to have it with all your heart and nothing less.

"Nothing to say?" You press and he's not even embarrassed by the fact that he doesn't remember what you said before. He should leave. It's all he thinks, even as he takes an uncertain step closer to your bed. And that's enough for you to immediately tense up, wrapping your small hands in the sheets to subtly pull them towards you. You are hiding yourself. Hiding yourself from him.

Aemond should leave, continue respecting your limits.

If this had been another night, maybe he would have done it. If the smell of smoke and dragon scales hadn't been trapped in the leather of his war clothes, as well as the dust of ash, then perhaps he could have left. If he couldn't smell the insistent scent of charred bodies and decimated land in his nostrils, taking permanent root in his lungs, perhaps he could respect your innocence.

Not even Aemond knew how on edge he already was. Your refusal of his proximity was just the final push to his downfall.

He adores you. He worships the ground you walk on. He respected your decisions and stayed away much longer than any other husband would have done. And this is how you repay him?

Aemond narrows the only functional eye he has left. You don't react, nothing more than another protective grip on the sheets and a slow swallow of saliva. He wants you so much and the thought enrages him. Why? Why does he feel this way? He desperately wants to punish you for making him feel this way. He wants to punish himself for even thinking about doing this to you.

You left him like this; nothing but a mess. When would you finally accept him for who he is? When would you understand that some cruelties were necessary for the final goal to be achieved? When would you see that everything he did and would do was solely for his family? For you. To keep you safe. When would he be enough?

He grits his teeth and feels his entire body tense with thoughts. He hates it; he hates the way you confuse him and make him feel all these terrible emotions. It makes he feels weak. The temptation of the slightest chance of your affection suffocates his common sense. He feels his hands shaking. He'd been so blinded by the hopeful, innocent vision he constantly saw you through that he fooled himself into thinking he was on your mind as much as you were on his all this time.

"Aemond?" You whisper, sounding more uncertain than before, disturbed by his extended silence as he slowly approaches the bed. He keeps looking at you the whole time, letting you glimpse the flames of fire reflected in the icy sapphire in his eye. He adores you, with every fiber of his being. But the flash of fear that shines in your eyes in response makes him stretch the corner of his lip in a malicious smile. He couldn't help it, there's something sweet and pure about you that makes him constantly waver between wanting to protect you and wanting to destroy you.

You try not to weaken before him, but Aemond immediately notices the way your body is a little trembling when his hand, that same hand that drags the musk of leather and death, passes through the fabric of the sheets, spreading lightning over your legs. You don't stop him, but your eyes flash with a frightened warning, a warning he ignores tonight. His palm flattens against your ribs, daring to caress, to feel the linen of the sheets beneath his fingers, the softness of your flesh beneath it, and you squeak an off-key sound, pulling the cocoon of blankets and furs up to hide you.

A small annoyed growl leaves his lips and his other hand quickly covers yours, stopping you from continuing.

"No. Enough of that." He says in a low but firm tone, looking sternly into your eyes. You part your lips, surprised by his behavior, and try to pull the hand still trapped by his, but he doesn't let you go. "That's enough, wife."

He thinks you might try to deny it, but you fall silent, slowly relaxing against his grip on your hand. Aemond wants to purr at this, wants to praise you and spoil you, because you are so good, so good. His good girl. Even when you're crushing his heart between your delicate hands.

It's not your fault, he tells himself. It's not your fault that he's obsessed with you, driven crazy by the idea of you. Aemond can't even focus properly, even when you're in front of him, defenseless and at the mercy of his whims. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest from pure ecstasy and excitement at the same time. And he can feel, on top of it all, the blood flowing to his hard cock, making it swell beneath his black riding pants. He feels embarrassed by his actions, but at the same time excited, just by the little things you do, by everything you are to him.

“Something is wrong with me...” He says, more to himself than to you, gently pushing a strand of your soft hair behind your ear, sliding his thumb in a gentle caress across your delicate earlobe. “You're in my house. You're in my house and I don't want you to leave. Never." He approaches your face, sliding his fingers from your ear to the side of your face, until he holds your small chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I need you." He continues, ignoring how honest and frank he looks - weak. “I keep thinking of ways to make this happen,” the more he talks, the faster you breathe, sweet little sighs near his lips, calling to him like a siren’s song… “I want to ruin you. Because I think that's the only way you won't leave me."

The intensity of his words scares you, he realizes, he sees how your eyes fill with tears and your eyebrows twitch. But even in the dim lighting of the flames, he can see how the tops of your cheeks turn red, how your chest trembles with the breath that catches there...you want him.

It's a shame you're so willing to keep him away.

But he can't stop.

Aemond closes the distance in an instant, pushing you down until he traps your body beneath his, feeling the contours of your soft, supple curves against him; he shudders. He caresses your face one last time before moving down, ignoring your hesitation and your useless efforts to push him away. Quick as a viper, he grabs the hand that moves to push against his chest, wrapping it with the other still attached to his, holding your wrists tightly above your head.

You cry out at the pressure on his wrists, the long lashes over your eyes fluttering, pleading. "A-Aemond, what are you doing?" you stutter. "Please, please... I said I needed it - please give me some more-"

"Time? Oh yes, you said it." He hums thoughtfully, placing a thigh between your legs, dipping his face into the crook of your neck to breathe in the fresh fragrance of your shower, snoring contentedly with your naturally sweet scent. Intoxicated by your scent, he trails his lips along the slender column of your neck before stopping at the shell of your ear. “I’m so sorry, dear, I’ve waited too long. We’ve both waited too long.” He intones, intoxicated by your presence. You sob once but don't say anything else, choosing to turn your face away from him. Aemond snorts a laugh at that, but doesn't stop you, preferring to leave a tender, wet kiss on your cheek.

Squeezing your wrists with one hand, he allows the other to slide slowly down your body, almost reverentially. He paused at the delicate laces holding the front of your nightdress before untying them with deft fingers. The front opens, exposing your silky, flushed skin to his hungry gaze. He doesn't have the patience to remove the fabric completely from your body, so he just lowers it enough so that your breasts are exposed. He bites his lip, holding a curse between his clenched teeth. When he presses his bare palm to your perky breasts, he tastes your trembling innocence, your soft flesh.

So beautiful.

So pure.

From the beginning you were his opposite, your delicate hands, as irritatingly clean as his are stained with blood and ash.

As much as he truly suffers from the consequences of his actions, he never regrets them, because he knows they are right - necessary. There was only the future to shape, the past should stay where it belongs; behind him. Something he had learned through much pain, but unfortunately, his sweet wife had not yet. But as he runs his greedy fingers down your body, feeling the goosebumps on your soft skin with each touch, Aemond knows he scares you as much as he excites you. You can't hide it from him. Your obviously involuntary response to him only makes him fiercer, hungrier. He wants to ruin you from the inside, until you can't bear to live a single day without his touch.

He allows you to continue your theatrics, still stubbornly staring at the wall while pretending his actions don't affect you. There's something almost too tempting about it, in fact; It's a matter of honor for him. He will break your masks and he will take pleasure in doing so.

Letting his fingers slide down your sides, Aemond's lips wander. He kisses the hole in your throat, moving down with wet, licked breaths to your breasts, tasting you. You gasp softly and grip tight fists on the bed sheets when he captures a soft nipple with a slow suck of lips and a teasing scrape of teeth, your body curling beneath him tightly. He smiles with your nipple still between his lips, leaving wide, warm trails of his tongue on the little perky bud. His hips slide against the inside of your parted thighs, pushing the hardened bulge in his pants against your pussy once.

You bite your lip and close your eyes, but he doesn't stop. With another thrust he uses his strength to push you back onto the bed, the bed you shared many nights with him, to fuck you into the warm sheets. It's almost too much for him to finally feel your little pussy once again, even through the leather of his pants and your delicate nightwear. But he continues with slow, strong thrusts, rubbing his cock against you in a way that teases your clit, the smell and heat of his effort wafting throughout his body; sweat, dragon, fire, ash, blood, death - all mixed together, merging with your own sweet, intoxicating scent and, of course, the unmistakable scent of sex.

Before the chaos broke out, Aemond was quite skilled at this, at driving you crazy. A part of him is extraordinarily pleased to find that he still remembers correctly, especially when a press of his fingers and a twirl of his thumb on your slobbery nipple makes you gasp. He wants to see you, to see you blush and sweat, looking ruined for him. Gods, oh yes, Aemond wants this so much. He can't stop, he can never stop, especially with you singing so sweetly to him. When you arch into his touch and whisper his name softly, like a secret no one can discover, his breath hitching. Aemond can't stop.

A specific thrust makes you let out a high-pitched meow, your hands pulling at the linen on the sheets and he moans along, releasing your breast with a wet pop to look at your face. You have your lips parted, your long eyelashes touching the top of your cheeks, your eyebrows furrowed in sweet agony. He thrusts a little faster, rubbing your clit with more pressure, taking in your presence and the feeling of your tiny, supple body, preening at every sound that leaves your lips.

Sounds so sweet, so beautiful; he considers himself a sinner with the way something so innocent and angelic makes his blood boil and his cock throb with need inside his pants, surely soaking the fabric with the way he feels himself leaking.

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me, baby...”

And yet, he doesn't think he cares about dying by your hands when things turn out like this. He is admitting defeat without any embarrassment now; he can bear the dull weight of war, he can bear his own mind trying to destroy him at every turn, he can bear the betrayal of his own family and the demands of his duties. He can bear with anything.

Anything except being without you.

With an impatient grunt, his fingers tug at the soft skirt of your nightdress, bunching the thing at your waist as he rips your underwear down your legs. You don't try to stop him, but you don't try to help him either, remaining almost motionless against the bed, and he feels like he can growling at you like an animal for that - stubborn girl. He hates and loves this about you in equal intensity. He's almost rough and punishing as he hooks the back of your knee into the inside of his elbow, pushing your leg up to your breasts. And then you're giving up your fight, sighing - all anxious expression, furrowing your eyebrows and biting your lip as he hurriedly unzips his pants and pulls them down just enough to pull his cock out, slamming the wet, throbbing head over your clit before sliding his entire length along your folds.

You moan, he moans. The slide is wet and he can't tell if it's all you, if it's all him, if it's all both. He doesn't care, honestly. All that matters is how his cock is thrusting into your heat, hitting your clit with luscious pokes, coaxing more of those sweet sounds from your pretty lips.

He hooks your other leg in the crook of his elbow and does exactly what he did with the other, trapping you between him and the bed in a position where your entire pussy is presented to him. With his hands flat beside your head, he brings his face closer to yours, the leather covering his chest pushing your knees further into your breasts. You moan through your teeth, unable to do anything but tighten your hands around his shoulders. He smiles slowly, drunk on the sensations, still gently sliding the length of his cock into your folds.

Aemond doesn't look away from you, enchanted by the way you dance between looking at the sapphire stone and the deep lilac of his functional eye. You've always done this, he thinks - saying one was as beautiful as the other, impossible to choose.

“I’m giving myself to you, love…I’m yours.” He whispers softly, husky, needy to you. "Will you do the same from now on?"

He’s so close he feel how your heart races violently at his words, slamming against your ribcage as you take a deep breath. Every expression on your flushed face makes him sure you're going to have an intense crying fit, but even when the liquid in your eyes pours down the side of your eyes, you keep yourself almost in one piece. You look deeply into his eye as your shoulders shake. "Y-yes." You exhale, fragile. “Yes, yes, yes,” your voice sings repeatedly, with quick, confused nods, tears streaming from your eyes.

He can't hold back the husky sound that leaves his lips, his cock pulsing in reaction to your obvious fragility exposed to him.

"Yeah?" He asks breathlessly and it's very slow - as he thrusts inside you, thrusting his hips back and forth once, twice, three times until your pussy swallows as much of his cock as it can, until the tip of his hip bones rub it against your thighs. And it's so intense, so obscene – the position he puts you in, the full weight of his body pinning you to the bed, broad shoulders hiding you from view, silver hair like a curtain around the two of you, your mouth falling open in a silent scream and his releasing small curses between clenched teeth... debauchery.

You give his shoulders a few desperate slaps as he fills you, your tight ring of muscle stretched to accommodate his girth, and no matter how long it takes him to prepare you, no matter how wet you are, he knows there's always that initial pain that rips through your groin as he pushes into you. It makes you sway beneath him, little tearful sobs that are like the sweetest song to him.

Another curse muttered in deep Valyrian was his only warning as his palms sink into the softness of the bed. Your own hands looking desperate too, one tangled in the silver base of his hair at the back of his neck and the other gripping the material of his leather shirt, a strangled moan catching in your throat as he begins to fuck you slowly. You can only hold on as he pulls and pushes his body above you with each deep thrust, his impatience shown only in the forceful and violent way in which his hands grip the bed sheets.

He leans into you a little more, moving his hips in different ways, testing the angles until he makes more of those tears well up in your eyes as your pleasure increases almost painfully. Your moans quickly turn into babbling when a particularly strong movement of his hips makes you shake all over. The way your tight pussy tries to contain him and suck him in at the same time drives him crazy, feral.

He won't last long. He already knew this before it even started, but now, feeling your walls squeezing the life out of him after so long deprived of it, with your cute little noises getting louder and louder, with your expression drunk with lust and sadness, the buzz of battle still vibrating through his veins... Aemond feels release approaching shamefully fast for him.

He'll make it up to you later, Aemond promises himself. When the hot need subsides at least a little in his system, he'll take off his dirty war clothes, maybe ask you to take a shower with him. He'll soap your body and tease you until you're riding his cock in the tub at your own pace, his fingers rolling your little clit with each bounce of your hips. He will lay you on the bed and love every inch of your soft body, worship your skin with kisses and hickeys. He will part your thighs and bury his fingers and tongue in your wet softness. He will rip orgasm after orgasm out of you until you are hoarse from screaming, until your body is physically unable to continue.

He will do it all.

He has done it in the past, many times.

Now, however, all he needs is to find his release, to unload those months of forced distance inside his trembling body. But Aemond will be damned if he doesn't bring you along with him.

He leans down to press his forehead against yours, pushing your legs against your body further, lips parting with hoarse, breathless moans that escaped him with each thrust and the sweet pleas you murmured incoherently. The movement of his hips quickens, one hand leaving its blunt grip on the sheets to squeeze between your thighs, poking your clit in tight circles, his cock hitting a spot inside your walls that makes you shiver and tremble in anticipation.

“Aemond…” you cry, digging your nails into the back of his neck, pulling his body towards yours, as if you weren’t already physically as close as possible.

He growls at your plea.

“My little, innocent wife,” Aemond giggles wildly as your pussy clamps down on his length again, your climax approaching, his thumb rotating a steady rhythm on your clit. If only your mind was clear enough to form a coherent thought, maybe you'd complain that the rhythm of his cock in your pussy would be painful, that the continuous and harsh scratching of his clothes hurts the soft and delicate flesh of your body, but you don't say anything, not now. You just accept what he gives you. And he knows you missed him as much as he missed you. “Always so good to me baby.”

Aemond watches you intently, unable to look away from the pleasure that shows on your face. You're shaking, lost in your wet breaths and high-pitched, broken cries, your legs trapped between his body, welcoming him. You're tight and small, his sweet wife, and Aemond can feel your cracks stretching, a spider's web of fractured thought and temptation too much for anyone to bear, and as much as he knows it's impossible, he wants this moment to last forever. Aemond is undone. A fool in love. And it's sad. And it's beautiful. It's being at home.

"Mine." His murmur echoes next to your lips, both of you breathing each other's breath, his rhythm starting to falter, the searing heat rushing through his body beneath those layers of heavy clothing makes him dizzy, but he doesn't stop, he doesn't stop. “So pure, so beautiful, so delicate…” he caresses your clit without faltering with a rumbling purr as his cock swells inside you. “Ngh...oh fuck, so tight. You're going to get everything, aren't you, darling? All of me.” His own teeth graze your neck as you arch and scream in pleasure. “Be a good girl and don't let anything leak, hmmm…”

He fucks you roughly, your name dancing on his lips like a prayer in the dark. Aemond savors this moment with the veneration it deserves, the final chase. The two of you so broken, so vulnerable, shaking with pleasure for each other. He rubs your pussy, hips slamming into you at lightning speed.

And finally, gods yes, it finally happens.

"Aemond! A-Aemond, please! Please-" You throw your head back, your lewd pleas turning into a broken scream as you explode around him. Your face is flushed and glistening with a subtle sheen of sweat, tears streaming down. It's all he can take. You convulse and break and the sensation of his cock swelling with the resulting explosions of hot cum filling you follows shortly after. As your body and pussy tremble and clench, he finally releases his own pleasure, biting down hard on your shoulder to muffle his husky moans, spilling himself deep inside you, the continuous spasms of your orgasm milking every drop from him. You and he cum together, and even in the hazy haze of climax, he thinks he's never experienced something so sublime, so perfect.

You're both shaking as you come down from the waves of mutual pleasure, and Aemond is especially careful now, gently unfolding your legs from that tight position to allow you to stretch them, which earns him a long, grateful, relieved moan. He slowly pulls away until he's kneeling between your thighs, watching raptly as you bite your lip as his cock leaves your heat. A tight grip circles around your parted thighs, lifting them up a little to expose your dripping pussy. He looks almost in awe as he watches his seed flow steadily from your abused pussy.

But Aemond is selfish and his cum doesn't belong on the crumpled, sweaty sheets. No, he told you to keep it safe inside you and that's what would happen. His fingers slip into the wet mess of cum in your folds, pushing as gently as he can all the thick liquid inside you again.

You're too tired to react, but you still sob softly at the sensation, subtly squirming on the bed, legs shaking from being held in the same position for so long. He looks at you, icy lilac gaze half-lidded with lust, blue stone glowing in the flames of the fire. He looks at the soft, creamy flesh of your sweaty body. He longs to see dark spots and bite marks, a way of proving that you belong to him. He lifts his head, sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, just above your left breast. His teeth leave crescent moons on your skin and you scream loudly at the stinging sensation, but you don't stop him. He walks away, admiring the constellations he had traced on your skin. Painting you for him, marking you as something unique to him.

You sniffle and blink wet eyelashes at him. He kisses his bite, murmuring gentle words to you, his lips trailing up with soft sucks and wet kisses in your throat until he brushes against your lips. And it's then, and only then, that he realizes he hasn't kissed you yet. He doesn't know why he didn't do it, given that it's probably the thing he misses most about you. Feeling the softness of your lips on his, the gradual way a small, innocent kiss quickly evolves into something more urgent, the way you immediately struggle to keep up with his pace, his hunger as he swallows your cute sighs and your ragged breaths as he suck your tongue.

Yes. This is what Aemond longs for. How easily he could make you fall apart in his hands.

Taking into account the way that you blush and look down at his lips, you're thinking the same thing. He smiles mischievously, slowly leaning in for a deep kiss, fingers damp with your juices and his cum resting on your jawline. Your little hands sink into his hair until you lightly scrapes your nails across his scalp, making Aemond shudder. The fingers of his other hand cup your hip, tracing the line of the bone in gentle patterns. His nose bumps yours as his tongue dances in your hot mouth, spreading in you the taste of smoke and revenge that seems to follow him at absolutely every moment now. And like his perfect antithesis, you gasp, let him savor your sweet, fruity flavor - so fuckin sweet.

Your legs circle his waist, making him press against your heat, quickly reigniting the flame of need within him. You lick it off his tongue, moan when he sucks your bottom lip and bites it, you beg between quick breaths and Aemond continues to rub himself against you, the kiss becoming sloppier, driving him crazy with how irresistible you are in this state. You give yourself completely to Aemond, without asking questions or making new complaints, and it drives him crazy.

"You are mine. Only mine. And you will never leave me again, do you understand?" He murmurs as he pulls away, both of you panting, looking seriously into your water-bright eyes, noting how they're a little wide and your mouth is swollen and wet from his kisses.

A few tears slide down your face, but you smile shakily at him, the hand in his hair stroking the silver strands lovingly.

"I am yours, Aem. Now and forever." Honesty bleeds into your shallow voice, your little fingers on your other hand tentatively tangling with the buckles of his shirt to open it.

Aemond rests his forehead against yours and truly smiles for the first time in a long, long time. Not a malicious, mocking or condescending smile... No, this time his lips are stretched into a small, but genuine, honest smile.

And it's because of you.

Because he knows he got what he wanted so much. He has you again. He was resilient, he was patient and he was fair. He fought and, with his efforts, created a space just for himself within your heart. He knows you're still unhappy with everything that's going on, and no matter how much he wants to, he can't change that. He can only strengthen you to bear it. It can only burrow deeper into your body and your heart until you are able to forget the atrocities that are happening around you - the horrible things that he is doing. It's a gaping hole in your chest that leaves you continually bleeding, he knows, but the exposed cut is so sweet, and here he is, licking the wound like an animal, with all the violent, relentless gentleness he has to offer as the vengeful prince that he is.

He wraps his arms around you, pushing his cock back into your abused pussy in a deep movement that draws a broken sound from both of you, pulling you against his chest. He rubs his sweaty face against your throat, your face, your hair. His voice syrupy and thick as he whispers, "I love you."

Fuck. Aemond would never let you go.

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond imagine #aemond one eye #aemond x reader #hotd x reader #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond x fem!reader #dance of the dragons #aemond smut

[jeannineee]

coming up lavender, part two

cassian x reader x azriel

part one

author’s note: thank you guys for the love on part one <3 i’m very excited about this series!! comment or message me to be added to the taglist!!

summary: the high lord of the night court and his inner circle have taken reader from her home—the only one she’s ever known. what awaits her now? what interest could they have in her?

warnings: angst!! emetophobia warning at the beginning--it's brief!! ptsd, reader recounts her traumatic childhood. misogyny, and other canon-typical themes. this is an 18+ series.

Hands collide roughly with wooden flooring; grit your teeth as you rise to your feet. A poorly-stifled chuckle has you whirling around, glaring at the assailant: Cassian.

"Welcome to the House of Wind."

The Illyrian grins, despite the ire in your expression. "You'll get more used to it over time--winnowing, that is."

You hunch over, finally hurling the contents of your stomach. At least it didn't happen in the great hall.

"Eventually, that won't happen, either," Rhysand adds from beside Cassian as he plucks seemingly invisible dirt from his tailored suit. Where the rest of his inner circle had gone, you couldn't be sure.

You dry heave a few times before standing straight once again, and ball your hands into fists at your sides to mask their shaking. "What do you want?"

Rhysand waves his hand, disentegrating the mess you left on the floor, then studies you for a moment, face unreadable. "For now?Nothing. Nuala and Cerridwen will show you to your room. We'll start training in the next few days. Once you're settled in."

Instinctually tense as a hand grabs your arm from behind you. "Don't touch me," you hiss, only to immediately relent and flush with embarassment as you meet the eyes of the two females Rhysand mentioned. "I'm sorry."

"Nonsense. We should've said something before touching you," the taller of the two murmurs, an all-too-familiar pity lacing her words. "I'm Nuala," she points to the shorter female beside her, "My sister, Cerridwen."

You give the sisters a tight-lipped smile, and follow them out of the main room. And try to ignore the way shame weighs on your chest as you feel the males' eyes boring into your back--surely noting your reaction.

~~~

To your relief, no one bothered you the first two days, besides Nuala and Cerridwen to ensure you were eating and drinking.

Until now, with Morrigan at your door. You recognized her from court, though the two of you were much younger. Before your power grew, and you were shut out from the world.

"Are you adjusting well?"

Take a step back as she enters your room, cross your arms over your chest as a defense. "Hard to adjust when I have no idea where I am, or what I'm here for. I barely know who any of you are. Who you are, even."

"You can call me Mor, for starters," she says, trying for a smile. "I'd rather let Rhys explain exactly why you're here. But know that you're safe. You're free."

Your brows furrow, words caught in your throat as you consider the weight of Mor's words. Free. Free. Free.

Slowly, Mor takes your hands in hers. Squeezes gently. Understanding in her eyes. She's been here before.

"Would you like to see the library?"

Eyes light up. You nod; blink back tears. "Yes, I would."

~~~

After mere minutes in the library, you decided you would be content to spend the rest of your life there. You likely could spend the rest of your life there, with countless books still left unread.

Mor gets distracted by a couple of the priestesses, leaving you to your own devices. Fingers trace the dusty spines of books far older than you, far older than the space they reside in.

Heavy footsteps sound behind you, and you turn, to once again be met with Cassian. Hair tied back in a knot, sky-blue shirt with a few buttons undone, showing off a chiseled chest--

You silently curse yourself, thanking the Mother he can't read thoughts. Can he?

Clear your throat, arms once again wrapping around yourself. Wrack your brain for something casual to say.

"There are a lot of books here."

State the painfully obvious. Way to go, genius.

A smile from Cassian that sends your heart aflutter. "Not used to seeing so many books, I take it?"

Hold his gaze, fingertips digging into your arms out of habit. "We--my father had a library in our estate, but it's much smaller. I wasn't permitted to enter very often."

Cassian stares. "Oh..."

Realization dawns on you, and you bark a laugh. "I can read. It was one of the few things I could do, back...home." You falter on the last word, tasting bitterness on your tongue. "It's simply discouraged for women in the Hewn City. Deemed 'uneccessary.'"

He shakes his head, and somehow, you can feel his disgust, his rage.

Shrug off the feeling, try to muster a smile. "Well, if the House of Wind is this beautiful, I can only imagine what the city is like."

Cassian smiles. "Velaris is beautiful. I'd love to show you around, eventually. There's this restaurant by the Sidra that--"

"Eventually...?"

He nods. "We have to make sure your powers aren't volatile--"

"Volatile? I've spent decades shielding my power from other people. What makes you think--"

"We don't know what to think, y/n. We don't know you. We haven't seen your powers, beyond what little you showed the day we rescued--"

A bitter laugh. "Rescued. Does wording it that way make you feel better?"

Cassian's expression hardens. "What else would you call it?"

Bite your tongue, ignore the way your power stirs underneath your skin. "Am I free to leave the House?"

Cassian sighs, face quickly changing to one of pity. "You have to-"

"Stop looking at me like that. Am I free to leave the House? To explore the city?"

A long breath. "No. But you can explore the entire House. I can fly you around--"

Arms tighten around yourself as you scoff. "Then I suppose I've simply traded one prison for another."

Turn on your heel, ignore the way your chest oddly aches with each step you take. "I'm going back to my room."

Mor appears from behind one of the shelves as your start climbing the stairs. "Do you need help getting back?"

"I can find it myself. Unless I need an escort, too?"

The pair look away; picture of shame.

You don't spare another glance to either of them as you leave.

~~~

The corridor to your room feels tighter than usual, windows smaller. Loose another shaky breath to leash the panic threatening to spill over.

At least you weren't in your father's grasp. That had to be something. But what did you trade it for?

Racing thoughts cease as you spot shadows swirling at the end of the hall. They recoil suddenly as you gaze at them--as if shocked they were caught.

"If you have something to say, Shadowsinger, best to ask me to my face."

Nails bury in your palms as you wait for a response, heart thumping behind your ribcage.

Shadows dissipate as a figure walks through. Not quite as tall as Cassian, but he still towers over you. Visibly marred hands tucked into his pockets, wearing a gray sweater that looks so comfortable you consider stealing it from him.

"You're observant," Azriel says, lips turned up ever-so-slightly.

Roll your eyes, fight off a smile. "For someone of your position--the renowned Azriel Shadowsinger, one would think your shadows would be better hidden."

Smile widens, revealing pretty white teeth. "They were hidden. I've never seen anyone notice them so easily." As he speaks, confusion paints his face for only a second before disappearing. "Are you okay?"

His eyes dart to where your hands still remain in fists. He can likely hear your heartbeat, smell your panic.

Stiffen, rub your hands along your sides. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."

He seems inclined to question further, but thinks better of it. "Alright."

Pick at your nails, glance down the hall. "I hate to be rude, but I was trying to go--"

"To your room."

"--to my room."

You laugh as the two of you speak in unison. "Yes. My room." You offer another smile, begin to walk past.

"What's your name?" Azriel questioned.

You turn, arch a brow. "There's no way you don't know my name. Rhys, or someone had to tell you."

A shrug. "I forgot. Remind me."

Liar. You smile.

"Y/n."

"Y/n," Azriel repeats. You try to bury the way your cheeks warm, hearing your name on his tongue. "Have a good evening, y/n."

You nod, and hurry off to your room. It isn't until your door is shut that you realize your smile hasn't left your face.

taglist: @cleverzonkwombatsludge @marina468 @cherry-cin @sevikas-whore @tequilya @nickishadow139 @thatacotargirl

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #azriel x reader #cassian x reader #cassian acotar #azriel x reader angst #azriel x cassian x reader #cassian fluff #cassian #cassian angst #acotar angst #cazriel x reader #azriel angst #coming up lavender

[lovebittenbyevans]

Behind Closed Doors

Summary: Being married for five years to Gojo Satoru is not all that it seems to be.

Pairing: Actor!Gojo Satoru x Wife!Female Reader

Warnings: angst, cursed words, fame au

Author note: Hello, Welcome to Life In The Spotlight AU Universe series. Enjoy reading this out of order chronological series. Comment, like and reblog.

– I don’t do taglist at all. If you want to keep up just click the notification

Being around the parties, rich celebrities was always a good time to be at. You got used to the fame of being Gojo's girlfriend at first then wife over the years. Everywhere you go with Gojo paparazzi always taking pictures of you two or sometimes a video.

His fans love him like crazy and you were not surprised what an amazing fanbase Gojo has. Even though some of his fans send you death threats every now and then. On social media you had to put your account private because everyday some fans leave nasty comments as well.

Although you were able to live your life the way you wanted while being with Gojo, you started to notice a change in him for the last few months. He was always working which was understandable but he would stop calling you and text you while he is at work on set being busy.

You would send him a lot of voicemail and text messages since he doesn’t answer your calls anymore. He would sometimes come home late drunk and out of his mind. Some days he doesn't bother to say hello to you or kiss you. The connection between you two was slipping away slowly.

You were over it.

You were tired.

You felt your feelings to be all over the place. You can tell he was not the same Gojo you fell in love with and wanted to marry. You can tell the spark between you two is always there but it feels like you two are drifting apart.

Sitting on the bed, you were still deciding whether to go to the Screen Actors Guild Awards this evening. You were so busy this morning being around your friends that you almost forgot about it.

Of course you wanted to show your support for your husband even though you already feel off. You sat there on the bed holding your dress when you heard his voice along with his footsteps. “Babe, are you almost ready?”

He stopped at the door when you glanced up at him. “Babe we are going to be–” You cut him off immediately. “I decided I don’t want to actually go, Gojo.”

Gojo eyes were on you. “What?” He never once heard you turn down any award show you wanted to go to with him.

Your eyes filled with tears as he entered the room. “What do you mean?”

You glanced at him and wiped your tears away swiftly. “This marriage and us, I can't do this anymore.” You continue to speak. “We don’t communicate anymore. It’s obvious you don’t answer my calls and texts. You come home drunk all the time. You are out everyday at some dinner and always at one of your friend’s parties.”

You had to let it out. You've been holding this in for so long that you didn’t know how to tell him. You love Gojo so much but sometimes you wish he was a different person and your marriage could be so much better.

He crosses his arms as his back touches against the wall. “Y/N, I may not be the fairy tale prince you wanted but I treated you good.”

You scoff and meet his gaze. “Fairy tale prince? I never told you I wanted that princess Cinderella bullshit!” Your voice started to get loud.

As he runs his fingers through his white hair, he sighs. “Y/N, don’t lie. You wanted that version with me during this whole marriage and I gave you that.” He knew you were going to not tell him the truth about what you really wanted in this marriage.

“What I wanted!? Wow.” Your voice got even louder. “Gojo, when we met and started seeing each other you were the sweetest guy. I wanted to be with. You were a romantic as well and it’s obvious all you wanted was my attention even after we got married.”

You can’t believe this bullshit. The Gojo you got was when you two first started dating and seeing each other. He hasn’t changed until after you have been married to him for five years.

He shakes his head while listening to you. “You started ignoring me once you went to Chicago for a few months to film that movie you were excited to be in.” Gojo just stood there looking at you. He can see the hurt on your face. He noticed he hasn’t been a good husband to you but he didn’t want to admit it to himself.

“That’s not–I always call you and text you when I am there.” He walked over to the bed and sat down next to you.

You shake your head and move away from him on the bed. “G, you just love lying huh?” For once you wanted him to be honest with you.

He said, pretending to act dumb. “What do you mean, Y/N?”

You scoff. “Don’t be stupid now. You come home drunk all the time. You barely touch me and kiss me anymore. It’s like you are allergic to me.”

“What? I don’t–” You interrupted him before he responded to you. “I AM YOUR WIFE! I am not some fucking random bitch you come home to every so often!”

Gojo's stunning eyes widened in surprise. He never saw you lose your temper like that with him ever. When you and him have a disagreement he always sees you stay calm and humble.

Your heart was racing. You were unable to think at all. You felt your head begin to pound, noticing a slight headache coming along as well.

“Honey I–” He paused when you got up off the bed taking a step straight to the closet. “I–I didn’t know you felt this way.” He mumbles.

You open the closet door and place the dress on a hanger. “How could you? You are too busy being Mr.Hollywood star getting drunk all the time and accompanying a few women.”

The loneliness was starting to creep up on you again. You have felt like this for the last two years and a half.

“Y/N, I would never cheat on you.” He said, honestly.

You placed the dress back in the closet and closed the door. “Well, it seems like your co-star Julia had other ideas for the blogs to know.”

Gojo was confused because he had no idea what you were talking about. He took his phone out of his pocket when he realized the time he had to be at the event.

“Huh? She wouldn’t–” He stopped talking when his phone was buzzing like crazy. He stared at the screen seeing notifications from his friends asking where he was. He clicked on his messages and ignored the ones above.

Gojo doesn’t always check his emails, text messages sometimes because he is a busy man. He kept scrolling and scrolling through his phone when he finally realized a bunch of headlines about him and his co-star Julia for the last few months.

Gojo Satoru spotted out with his co-star Julia at a restaurant

Gojo Satoru seen getting cozy with his co-star Julia on set of their new movie The Angel Above

Gojo Satoru seen drunk with some friends and his co-star Julia

“Where is his wife?” One comment on the article says.

How did he let this get too far?

How has he not seen all of these different headlines in a matter of months?

He turned his phone off as he met your gaze. “Honey, I am sorry.” You let out a fake chuckle while grabbing a pillow and a blanket off the bed. “Too late for sorry. I’ll be sleeping somewhere else when you get back.”

You walked out of the bedroom as Gojo quickly followed behind you. “Wait! Are you leaving me?” You opened the door to the guest room and turned around staring at him. “Have a good night G.”

The door slammed shut before Gojo could get a word out. He stared at the door feeling a tear roll down his cheeks. “Fuck!” Worried that his marriage would fail, he struck the wall with his hand as he went downstairs and out of the house.

#gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x female reader #gojo satoru x y/n #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x fem!reader #jjk x y/n #jjk gojo #jujutsu gojo #gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo x female reader #gojo x y/n

[star-hoon]

VERSION OF ME — (p. sunghoon)

"CAN YOU LOVE THE VERSION OF ME, I DON'T LET ANYBODY ELSE SEE?"

— MASTERLIST

pairing: sunghoon x fem reader (oneshot)

includes/warnings (16+):  comfort/healing from dark past! au — fluff, angst, profanity, comfort, implied reader has scars, mentions of food/eating  (let me know if i missed anything!)

word count: 1.8k [not proofread]

synopsis: you and sunghoon have been dating for a few months now and he is the definition of your prince charming. but you are finally forced to uncover what you've been hiding from him, and it makes you fear you’ll lose him.

DISCLAIMER: this fic does mention/imply reader has SH scars. it is mentioned without detail and sunghoon is comforting reader about them. *as someone who used to SH, i would never ever mean to trigger anyone. so if this could potentially trigger you, do not read/please proceed with caution.*

author’s note: omg thank you to everyone who read my 'obsessed' & 'intermission' AND for over 110 followers!

i hope you're all okay with this fic idea even its a little on the darker side. but i promise its fluffy n hoon is a sweetie. this one is dedicated to all of you out there who have overcome hardships in the past or dealing with hardships right now, with physical or mental scars. you are so strong, beautiful, and loved!! <3

VERSION OF ME SOUNDTRACK

it was yet the end of another long and arduous day at work. you dragged your feet into the doorway of your apartment, hanging up your bag on the hook in the entry way and removing your shoes that you could feel were forming blisters on your heels.

sighing, you make a beeline to your bedroom. nothing sounded better than a hot shower to change into some comfy clothes. well, maybe one thing sounded better.

cuddling with your boyfriend sunghoon. and his deep voice and hearty laugh. and his silly puns and dad jokes. and him getting so excited talking about film cameras. just—him.

you had never been one to be very clingy nor dependent with your boyfriends. you just valued your own time and pursuing your own goals, but that doesn't mean you care about them any less.

that's why when you and sunghoon started dating 4 months ago, you felt something click in that regard. he fully understood your introverted ways and wouldn't be like the previous guys and complain about feeling 'neglected' or that you were too cold because he knew exactly how it felt to need alone time/your own space and he respected it.

but even still, when you are together he treats you like an absolute princess. carrying your purse for you when you go shopping, opening the car door for you, standing on the side of the sidewalk that faces the street. he also emotionally cared for you, listening to you rant about things big and small and always reassuring you the day before you have a big presentation at work. you felt so deeply cared for and understood, it made your affection for him blossom even more every day.

today was a day that both you and sunghoon had busy schedules so you weren't going to see each other. but you missed him and wanted nothing more than his comforting presence to fill your currently empty apartment.

you made your way to the bathroom, removing your uncomfortable work clothes. as you stood there uncovered you caught sight of yourself in the mirror. you stared down at your arms, the dark marks that littered your skin. you knew you couldn't hide this from him forever.

before you could let any more negative thoughts consume you, you hopped into the shower hoping the hot water can wash away your stress and worries.

after your shower that probably lasted a little too long in some water that was probably a little too hot, you heard a knock at your front door. you peeked to the corner of your phone amidst the tik tok scrolling 10:38 pm.

considering how late it was you were suspicious so you tiptoed to the front door, glancing through the peep hole. it was sunghoon. even though you should feel giddy and excited at the sight of your boyfriend, a twinge of panic arose. you were just wearing a tshirt so your arms were fully exposed, not expecting company. you ran and grabbed the first hoodie you could find. it happened to be one of his.

you opened the front door and there sunghoon stood as handsome as ever, with a bouquet of flowers and a takeout bag. you pouted at the sight in front of you—you were the luckiest girl alive. this was exactly what you needed after a day like today.

"hi hoonie" you softly greeted him, gently hugging him and he leaned down to give you a peck on the cheek. "...what's all this?"

he spoke as he took off his shoes and made his way into the kitchen. "sorry for dropping by so suddenly, i knew weren't planning on seeing each other today but i knew you had a long day and you were gonna be home late so i thought you would want some food. it's your favorite from the restaurant downtown." you nearly started crying, how could be so sweet?

"don't be sorry. thank you, you are seriously the best hoon i missed you a lot today."

"i missed you too. just sit and relax baby, i'll plate everything up for you" sunghoon always insisted on plating food even if it was takeout. he believed it made it taste better, the notion always made you laugh.

despite offering to split the meal with him, he insisted he didn't want any saying he ate dinner earlier. but as you two sat at the dining table chatting about your day, you fed him forkful after forkful anyways.

after finishing the meal you convinced sunghoon to let you wash the dishes. he eventually complied, standing next to you at the sink drying the 3 total dishes you had to wash.

no matter how small the gesture sunghoon was willing to do anything and everything to make it easier for you. you were convinced he came straight out of a fairytale—but your fantasy was going to come crashing down.

"y/n...why do you never roll up your sleeves when you wash the dishes? they're gonna get all wet!" his tone playful.

"i-its fine hoon, these are just a few dishes anyways" you try force a small laugh as a chill runs down your spine.

"come on sweetheart lemme roll 'em up for you..."

"i said it fine-"

his hand reaches towards your sleeves, pulling them up your arm slightly. you reflexively move away from him, your mind went into overdrive.

"SUNGHOON STOP! I SAID IT'S FINE!" your arm harshly shoved his body away from yours, the glass you were holding flying out of your hand. the sound of the glass shattering on the kitchen floor seemed to echo in the room.

silence fell between you two. your eyes wide and brimming with tears, your chest heaving from your heavy breathing. all you could was cup your hands over your mouth, your eyes looking at the broken glass a few feet away from you and then to your boyfriend. his expression made you sick. he has never looked at you this way. you couldn't tell if he was scared, angry, sad. it didn't matter.

"hoon i-i'm so so sorry, i didn't mean to push you. fu-fuck the glass i'm sorry i'll clean it up" large streams of tears flowed down your cheeks and you managed to get the sentence out in between sobs.

you felt yourself spiraling. you dropped to your knees and crawled towards the broken glass. the sight of the the pieces blurry from your tears and you picked up the pieces with your hands and putting the shards in your palm.

sunghoon was more confused than angry at you, it all happened so fast he barely had time to react. but seeing you pick up the shards of glass with your bare hands snapped him back to reality. he dropped down in front of you on the floor.

"baby stop! what're you doing?! you'll hurt yourself" his voiced laced with concern. he put a hand on your arm and cupped the side of your face with his other hand, wiping the tears away with him thumbs.

you couldn't stop the tears from escaping you. you couldn't believe what you just did. sunghoon was just trying to do a sweet, innocent gesture for you and in the end you hurt him. you didn't deserve him. you knew you couldn't hide it from him forever but you didn't think it would all end like this.

he leaned his forehead to yours, searching to meet your eyes. you just couldn't look at him.

"please y/n, what's going on?" his eyes wide and he pleaded for an answer. catching your breath after what felt like countless sobs, you gently placed the shards back on the floor.

"i need to tell you something hoon."

you followed sunghoon's order to meet in your room as he swept up the broken glass. you sat on your bed as you prepared how you were going to explain all of this.

you didn't want to lose him. he was the best thing that has ever happened to you. all you could imagine was his mortified or disgusted face when he sees your arms. the thought made all your tears resurface. sunghoon sat down next to you on your bed.

"i'm sorry for pushing you hoon. i shouldn't have done that." you took a deep breath before continuing.

"i-i've been hiding something from you since we met. i knew i couldn't h-hide it forever, but i never knew how or when to tell you." you didn't know what else to say to explain. you silently pulled up the sleeves of his hoodie you were wearing.

your arms illuminated by the lamp on your bedside table. silent tears ran down your face as you exposed yourself to him. you have never felt so vulnerable, bare, and scared in your entire life.

"sunghoon i-" before you could say anything else, he pulled you into a silent embrace. one hand pushing your waist to be flush against him, and the other to the nape of your neck.

you eventually muster up the courage to pull away to look up at him. silent tears flowed down sunghoon's cheeks. your eyes widened, sunghoon never cried. your lip quivered at the sight. it was your turn to wipe the tears from his cheek as he did for you earlier.

"um i don't really know what else to say but this explains why i've always covered up my arms around you, why i never was intimate with you...even though i really really wanted to..." you let out a chuckle through your cries trying to lighten the mood.

"...i-i'm sorry i'm such a mess. i know you probably didn't want this going into the relationship. i just- i'm so sorry hoon... i get it if this too much for you."

"you don't have anything to be sorry for y/n..." he grabbed your hand to lace it together with his.

"...this is definitely not an easy thing to share. it just breaks my heart to see someone so kind, smart, and beautiful could do this to herself" he kissed your lips, one of his salty tears landed on your lips.

he used your currently intertwined hands to lift up your arms, placing gentle yet tender kisses to each mark on your arms, your breath hitching at his every touch. this was the first time anyone has been so close, seen you at the most vulnerable. and yet he is treating you like you are made of porcelain.

"this isn't too much y/n. i still think you are the most beautiful person i've ever met—inside and out. this is just a reminder or how strong you are and you overcame whatever you faced in the past. i hope one day you can open up and confide in me because i'm here for you baby. through the good and the bad, especially the bad. because i love you."

your heart melted at his comforting and sincere words, now shedding tears of joy.

"i-i love you too hoon, thank you"

taglist (open!): @laylasbunbunny @blackberryrains

ramblings: this made me so soft and healed my past self 🥺 would you guys like to see more full fics/series or oneshots like this?

thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think <3

reblogs, likes, & comments are always appreciated!!

#enhypen #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen blog #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen x female reader #enhypen x y/n #enhypen park sunghoon #enhypen fic #enhypen ff #enhypen fanfiction #park sunghoon #park sunghoon x reader #sunghoon x reader #sunghoon imagines #enha imagines #enha x reader #enha #enha sunghoon #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon angst

[weirdo-fun]

What Else Can I Do?

Azriel x Reader - Chapter 1

Hello everyone! This is my first ever fic. I don't know if this will be good at all or people will even like it. This idea has been in my head for a few months and I finally caved and wrote it. This will be a few chapters maybe 3 chapters long? I don't know but I hope you enjoy! Also side note grammar is not my strong suit, so if there are any grammar mistakes please be nice. :)

Chapter 2

Summary: Reader ends up geting turned fae and befriends Elain and gets super close with her. But Reader notices Elain gets treated differently, and Reader would like to change that but a certain batboy always gets in her way of trying to help her friend and under her skin.

Word Count: 1.7 K

Warnings: Bickering, slight dislike of inner circle, slight enemies to lovers, fem! reader, reader being sort of a rebel

Author's Note: Was this slightly insipred by "What Else Can I Do?" From Encanto? Maybe... (I do not claim or take credit for the song, all rights for the song go to the respected owners)

Side Note: Azriel will come into the story later I promise.

“Why do you let them do that to you?” You ask Elain as you sit on in arm chair with both legs draped across one arm of the chair with your back leaning against the other one. The book you were just reading now lay on your chest as you look at Elain who is sitting, a lot more elegantly, on a sofa adjacent to you. You wait for her to answer as you give her a questionable look. 

She sheepishly looks up from her own book. “I don’t mind it. I know they only want whats best for me and to protect me.” You raise an eyebrow at her not entirely believing her. “Yeah, but doesn’t it bother you that they practically tell you what you can and can’t do?” You ask, pushing the conversation more. 

These have been questions you have had for a while. Ever since you and Archeron sisters were thrown into the caldron and turned High Fae, everyone decided, weather subconsciously or not, to keep Elain in this sort of bubble. Treating her as this precious flower that needs all the protection from everyone. You never had any ill will towards Elain, she is a very feminine woman who does tend to be on the more soft spoken side, which is what makes Elain Elain. This is what gravitated you towards Elain and wanting to be her friend. Being a very outspoken and extroverted person you always tended to befriend the more quiet types. It has always been this way since you were a child. The extroverted girl talking and hanging out with the introverts. You don’t know why you subconsciously gravitated to being friends with the quieter crowd when you were the complete opposite. Maybe it gave balance in your life. You being the talker and the other one being the listener. You don’t know why or how but those friendships always worked out when you were mortal. 

That was true until you accidentally, more like breaking a rule, decided to take a stroll in the middle of the night throughout the Archeron estate. You were a newly hired servant and you were too excited for your new job that you couldn’t sleep so you walked around the estate and ended up in the middle of the crossfire of the Archeron sisters, Nesta and Elain, being kidnapped. You of course jumped in to help but ended up being taken as well. 

After being turned and by the grace of the Mother, the Inner Circle allowed you to stay even though you weren’t related to the Archeron’s. You were still turned fae and needed a place to stay. Although the healing process was slow and mostly done on your own you never thought the inner circle was completely bad.  

It wasn’t until Elain finally started to come around and was healing from her trauma when you decided to befriend her. You guys fastly became close. Mostly thanks to you for always seeking her out and wanting to strike up a conversation. From the outside it may have appeared that you kept forcing yourself in her life but Elain wouldn’t turn you away and she would start conversations a good portion of the time. But it was when you guys started to become close that you noticed the treatment that the inner circle gave her. You never said anything in the beginning thinking you were thinking too much into it. But after so many days, and even weeks of the same treatment that you were questioning everything regarding Elain. 

You have questioned Elain about this treatment but she would brush it off saying things like “oh well i don’t see a difference” or “it’s ok Reader they are just being friendly and making sure I am ok.” And you haven’t pushed Elain further until today. 

A certain bat boy got under your skin earlier. And to be frank, he actually has always gotten under your skin when it comes to Elain. He is the master of the “delicate flower treatment” towards Elain. This treatment would be cute if 1) he was courting her, which he isn’t and 2) if it was dialed waaaaay back and the treatments actually respected her as being a true adult woman and not a fragile little girl. 

Azriel, is the bat that gets under your skin. You have tried to be friendly to him but he never talks to you and you never know what he is thinking. His face, although you first thought very handsome when you first met him, is always expressionless and stone cold. You have tried to be civil with him but because of your outspoken and extroverted nature he mostly disagrees with you for the simple fact that he knows you don’t like how he treats Elain. You have confronted him before about the matter in a friendly way but he shut you out and blew you off saying how you don’t know anything about what Elain has gone through and you don’t know whats best for her. The whole interaction left your relationship with him strained. And since then both you and Azriel have been on opposite sides on everything. Both wanting to challenge each other and win; never seeing eye to eye.  

Elain sheepishly shrugs. “I don’t think they really do-.” “Girl, no they do.” You interrupt her sternly. She looks at the ground and her posture slouches a little and you can tell that she knows your right. That her sister, with Cassian, and especially Azriel treat her as a fragile little princess. That anything can break her. But she survived the Caldron, she survived her trauma from it. You know she is a strong woman and you try to show her that; try to show the inner circle that. “You know I am right.” You say in a firm way as you swing your legs from on top of the arm rest to sitting right in the chair with your feet on the ground and back straight. She looks at you with innocent and confused eyes. “Well, I don’t know what to say to them when they tell me what I can and can’t do. I just agree because I don’t want to create conflict with them.” She softens her tone at the end, getting shy and embarrassed. “But is that what you want?” You ask her straight in the eye. “To keep agreeing with whatever they say and tell you how to live your life? To not have an opinion or a say? Is that what you want?” You ask in a calm yet concerned manner. “Well, it’s just that-” “Is that what you want?” “Well no but-” “Is that what you want?!” “I can’t just-” “ELAIN! Is that what you want?!” You yell for a third time. Wanting to hear her true feelings, her true thoughts and opinions on the matter. With no bullcrap excuse about how she won’t mind for stupid reasons. And no running away from this conversation. 

“No.” She speaks so softly that you don’t hear it. “What?” You ask leaning into her to hear what she said. “No” Elain says. You hear it this time, but her head is down and her hair is fell in front of her face, not being able to see her. “Elain what did you say? I can’t hear you?” You lie to her to try and get her to voice her opinion louder and to lift her head up and say it more confidently. She slowly lifts her head, straightens her back and looks at you with truthful eyes. “No. That is not what I want.” She says without her voice wavering. “I would like to go out shopping when I want to go. I would like for them to tell me things straight up and stop carefully stepping around eggshells thinking I won’t be able to handle it, that I might break.” 

You smile at her. Proud that she was finally able to say what she was feeling out loud. You walk over to her and pull her up to stand and give her a hug. “That is all I wanted to hear you say.” You look at her proudly holding onto her upper arms. “But, I still don’t know how to tell that to them. You know it’s hard for me to voice my opinion.” You shake your head. “We will take this one step at a time. Step one was to get you to voice out loud to me what you actually want. And we did that, so congratulations.” You tease as you walk back over to the arm chair you were sitting at to pick up the book you were reading. “Well then what’s the next step?” Elain asks curiously. You smirk and turn towards her. She sees the smirk on your face knowing you are already planning something. Her eyes widen in concern because every time you had a plan it would always get you in trouble and Azriel would always be the one to scold you. But you keep doing these “plans” because you didn’t care what Azriel was going to tell you.

“Remember when you told me that you thought my power could do so much more, than make pretty plants and flowers?” You ask as you create just a simple pink rose on your hand. “Yes.” She nods, not knowing where this conversations was going. You smile, “Well, I have been secretly trying to practice to create new things but it’s hard when just in the confines on my room.” You hand her the pink rose that you just created. “Why don’t we take a walk through the forest. And maybe along our walk I try to practice without the worry of the inner circles eyes and ears.” You ask sheepishly. “Look I know this is supposed to be about you but I would just like to be with my favorite person in the forest exploring my power more without judging eyes.” You plead. Elain nods and gives a small smile. “Thank you Reader for wanting to help me. And if helping me also includes me being able to see your power that I am super jealous of by the way, then yes.” You smile at her, grab her hand and both of you guys start to giggle like little girls as you guys walk out of the living area planning to “sneak out”. 

That is it for Chapter 1! Did I also give Reader Isabela's powers?...Read the next chapter to find out! I am already thinking about chapter 2 and I promise Azriel and Reader will be interacting with each but I was setting everything up until then. But chapter 2 may take me while to publish because I am getting ready for my vacation but depending on how people react to this I may be motivated to publish it sooner. ;) Please if you have feedback leave a comment because I would love to read them. Thank you so much for reading and if you made it this far. Until next time, take care everyone!

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #azriel acotar #elain archeron #azriel x reader #azriel x you #acotar fic #cassian acotar #nesta archeron #pro elain #acowar #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #female reader #shower thoughts #music inspired #weirdofun #weirdofunfic

[pynkgothicka]

Ｋｎｅｅ Ｓｏｃｋｓ ＫＮＪ

Pairing - Tutor! Dark! Kim Namjoon x AFAB! Reader

Synopsis-Based off Parasite, your korean teacher leaves to go on a work study trip, and leaves you with his best friend to be a replacement teacher. Part 2 of the movies series.

Featuring - Brandon Perea (Angel From Nope)

Word Count - Around 3k

Tags and Warnings - age-gap, manipulation, murder, fingering, tutor/student relationship

Authors Note - As you can probably tell, the stories are majority very loosely based on the stories with me throwing my own twists into it all. Also Joon is a conglomerate of all the Parks (the poor family) into one character! Enjoy:3

A friendly reminder that all my works are dark fanfiction! Please if you do not like that do not read them! These depictions don't pertain to reality. This is your final warning before hitting the keep reading button!!

“So you want me to basically be your substitute?”

Namjoon eyed his friend as he ate from the bowl of ramen in front of him. One of his old high school friends, Brandon, stopped by his apartment out of the blue. And of course, Namjoon was embarrassed, the place looked like a dump.

Which is exactly what it was.

A dump.

“Yeah, listen I know you're smart. And I know you need the pay.” Brandon said taking a bite out of his ramen. He used his chopstick to point at Namjoon. “Also I trust you man.”

Namjoon groaned out leaning back into his couch. “Trust me? With what? Don't tell me you got roped into something fucked up.”Namjoon complained. Brandon had that look in his eyes, Namjoon could tell when he was being shifty.

“So maybe I've kind of got something going with the girl, she's sweet, super sheltered, like the perfect girl,” Brandon says leaning back long with Namjoon. “I plan on asking her out when I'm back okay? I just need you to be so you man. All scholarly and shit.”

Namjoon thought about it for a minute. “How's the pay?”

“Around 500 a session. Trust me her family has the money to blow. They want the best and they trust me to have good recommendations. Also, the mom is a bit of an airhead anyway.”

“Fine, you're lucky I need to make rent.”

📖

You sat in your room bored out of your mind. Your mother told you that Brandon had found someone to continue your studies while he was away. You knew your mom was probably annoying the poor man downstairs. She had a habit of talking too much.

Curiosity got the better of you as you found yourself heading downstairs to your lavish mansion kitchen. You sat on the stairs, peering through the railing.

Your new tutor was handsome, slightly built with a buzz cut. He reminded you of men you see in movies, rich CEOs who would fall for their secretaries. Or even a dangerous boxer who has a soft spot for the ballerina.

Lost in your trance, your mom spotted you. “Oh! Sweetheart come down, Mr. Kim here would like to meet you.” You curse under your breath as you stand up and walk the rest of the way downstairs. Almost tripping as your socks slipped on the hardwood floor. You catch yourself walking over to the side of the island.

Mr. Kim looked at you for a moment before smiling. “Please call me Namjoon, Mr. Kim makes me sound old.” He said extending a hand. You take it and give him a slightly firm handshake.

“She'll call you Mr.Kim, respect always remember sweetheart?” Your mom cooed passing you a bowl of pomegranate seeds. You nod towards her as she smiles. “Okay now go study, Mr. Kim is a very smart man by the sound of it. If you need anything call me upstairs.”

You were already walking upstairs with Namjoon following close behind. You led him into your bedroom and sat down at your desk. You pull out the notebook that you and Brandon used. “Sorry if my mom was annoying you, she's ditzy like that.” You mumbled going to the practice test you were doing before Brandon left last session.

Snap!

You jump at Namjoons snapping right in front of your face. “I want you to focus. From what you're mother is telling me she wants you to pass with Korean as a foreign Language for college next semester correct?” You nod at Namjoon. You focus back in on the practice test.

It was a particular problem you stared at, and it was something you couldn't figure out. You were about to circle A but you were stopped by Namjoon grabbing your wrist. “Are you certain that's the answer?” He asks leaning next to you. You shake your head, no, your breathing rising in speed as his hand holds your own in place. “Then why are you answering it?”

“Because it's the next question?” You say your voice peeking as you finish the statement. It comes out like a question and more so it comes out as you being rude to him. You shake your head looking up at him. “Sorry… I mean… it's true I just didn't want you to take it as me being rude to you.”

“Focus.” He reprimands. “Look at the question and think again.” Namjoon let's go of your wrist and you reconsider the answer. It's D. The answer is D. You circle it and look back at Namjoon expecting a response. You're welcomed with a warm smile. “Very good.”

His hand digs into the bowl of pomegranate seeds and he pops one into your mouth. You blush as you feel the tips of his fingers touch your lips and the action in general. Not even Brandon did something that bold. “T-Thank you Namjoon.”

He gives you a warm smile, showing his dimples, something you just caught. “Good, now continue answering the rest of the questions, you don't want to do bad you're first day with me do you?”

📖

Once Namjoon got his pay and started his trek home he realized something. Brandon was right, you pretty much were the perfect girl. Just from one lesson, he realized he enjoyed teaching you something he's become so familiar with.

While he was lost in thought Brandon called him and Namjoon picked it up. “Hey, how was your first class?” Namjoon didn't want to tell him that he was secretly fond of the girl that Brandon liked and that he felt something for her as well so he chose to be as bland as possible.

“It was good. We just kind of reviewed what you guys already went over before.” Namjoon said crossing the street and walking into his apartment complex. He checked the mail seeing that he had nothing.

No one usually contacted him unless it was some bill.

“That's good, is she ok? I know I kind of left on short notice.” Brandon said into the phone. Namjoon hated that he felt indifferent towards Brandon's concerns. It wasn't really like him to see his friends whining about nothing in particular. “God I must've hurt her so bad.”

“I mean if she's hurt she didn't say anything about it, I mean I guess she was nervous,” Namjoon said entering his apartment. “I mean it's nothing bad for her to not be upset. Maybe she'll ask about you later?” God, he hated giving Brandon hope.

But Brandon took it as is. “Thanks, man, I really appreciate you doing this for me. Call you later.” And before Namjoon could even wish him goodbye the phone hung up in his face.

He let out a sigh before pouring a bowl of cereal. He wished you were there for him. You wouldn't have him eating this, you'd probably want him to eat better. Namjoon caught himself thinking in that way and he caught himself. He knew this would end badly. There is no other way it could go.

📖

Namjoon had taught you for about a month now, and you couldn't stop thinking about him. Even now as he sits next to you while you study what he taught you today, you couldn't help but fantasize about him.

You sat with your head down reading over the pages in your notebook. You poked your lip out, hoping he would notice you. It was fruitless of an attempt but you at least had to try.

“Namjoon, have you ever been in love?”

He looks up at you cocking a brow. “What does this have to do with Korean?” You look away at his question, keeping your eyes glued to the notebook. Namjoon takes his thumb and tilts your eyes to look into his own. “Look up here, Answer the question.”

Your eyes look away. “It was a dumb question, I shouldn't have asked it.”

“But you did. Why?”

You let out a sigh before responding. “Well, I was just wondering if you had, you don't have to answer it, I know it's off-topic.” You blabber on, Namjoon letting your head drop.

“Well, yeah of course. I'm 29, and I of course have had a few relationships. But they always just don't get it you know?” Namjoon rests his head in his hand, elbow resting on your desk. “They didn't want to change for the sake of our relationship. I guess I just have a bad taste in women huh?” He ended with a chuckle.

“Yeah, I mean what do you like in women…? I can probably be a good judge of character for you.” You add playing it off as being nice towards him. Maybe if he told you what he liked, you could change to fit his standards. Namjoon seemed to be a perfect man, and maybe you being almost 20 could be perfect in his eyes if you did.

He turned to look at you. “Well, I like my women of course pretty. Smart, shy, well… I mean that's too much already.” He said throwing his hand up to brush it off coyly. You put a hand on his thigh, looking into his eyes as to encourage him.

“Tell me, I want to know.”

“Well, I don't think it matters really. Unless you think that you're right for me.” Namjoon said leaning down to get closer to you. “Are you baby? Are you the right person for me?”

You nodded getting closer, your lips ghosting over his own. Namjoon does the final push, connecting your lips together. His hand goes to your hair, tangling his hand into it. His tongue brushed over your teeth, pushing into your mouth. You were messy, clunky, and unsure of what you were doing. As he pulled away, his chest rose and fell. “Do you think you love me?” He finally asks. “Is that why you asked me if I had ever been in love?”

“Mhmm, you're just so… amazing and wise… I've looked at you since you showed up in the kitchen…”

“Good, I think that you're amazing, and I want to see where this goes, I think you're the right person… the one I've been looking for,” Namjoon said before connecting your lips again.

📖

From that day on, every time you had a class with Namjoon, it was really spent cuddling and enjoying your time with the older man. Laying in bed, you two would usually talk about life, normally letting Namjoon talk and praise you. Maybe it was due to the fact you usually went along with whatever he wanted to do.

Like now.

You dug your nails into his arm, his hand dug into your panties, fingering you. He quieted your moans with his lips, you sitting in front of him, toes curling as they hang off your bed. “Joon…” You whine into his mouth, trying to be as quiet as possible. “It f-feels so good…”

His fingers curled, blunt nails hitting at your walls. “Yeah? Doesn't it feel good to be loved?” He said placing kisses down your neck, sucking a hickey to join new and faded ones. He usually couldn't keep his hands off of you, no matter what, usually liking for his hands to dig into your thighs, thumbs brushing over the top of your knee-high socks. But now he wanted to give you pleasure, something he called a gift since you two were together.

You nodded as you feel your cunt gush around his thick fingers. “Please let me cum… I need it, sir.” You moan quietly into his mouth. Namjoon only liked to be called sir when messing around. He told you that it made him feel empowered and that you being there made him feel so much better than usual. You saw nothing wrong with that of course, isn't that the role of a lover?

“Do it for me, baby, all over my fingers.” And you do, as soon as he says that, you throw your head back on his shoulder. You collapse onto him, Namjoon adjusting it to where you laid on him in bed. He stuck his fingers into his mouth, sucking off your juices. You couldn't help but blush. “You taste amazing, like always.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Are you still going to be able to make it to my party? I know my parents invited you and stuff.” You ask, hand playing with your boyfriend's cheek. Of course, coming from a rich family meant you'd have large parties for your birthday. It's not like you wanted them but, they also told you they invited your tutor who just so happened to be your boyfriend.

Namjoon swatted at your fingers, chuckling a bit. “Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world. We just won't pretend to be a thing.” He says. You nod in agreement, knowing your parent's reaction would most likely ruin the party in general.

“Yeah… okay! We should have around 30 minutes left, and I really just want to nap.” You say closing your eyes and laying down your head. Namjoons hand stroked at your head soothing you to fall asleep.

📖

The day had come for your party, and Namjoon couldn't have been more excited. He put on a brand new suit, one he brought with the money he made from his newfound job. As he arrives at the home, he spots that people have already shown up and that it's an outside party at that. Namjoon walked towards the backyard patio, your father setting up a backdrop for pictures.

“Mr, Kim, just the man I wanted to see,” Your father behind raising up to hug the man. “I'm glad you made it, hey can you head inside to grab the champagne buckets? They should be in the cellar in the basement.”

Namjoon nodded. “Yes, of course, I'll be back.” Namjoon makes his way to the back door seeing a table of women who blew kisses at them. He smiled before going inside, taking his phone out to send you a quick text.

Namjoon: Just arrived! Ur dad is already putting me to work lol

Baby🤍: Oh goddd I'll get on him about it.

Baby🤍 Still getting ready though, so just work for him a bit until I finish. Luv uuuu!!!

Namjoon chuckled at your texts as he made his way into the kitchen.

“So when were you going to tell me you started fucking her?” Namjoon put his phone down to look up, seeing no one other than Brandon. He stood at the kitchen island leaning on it, a drink in hand.

“Oh, your back? I thought you'd be gone longer.” Namjoon commented before turning to head to the basement. He wasn't going to deal with Brandon and ruin his girlfriend's day.

That thought was before Brandon shoved Namjoon into a wall. Brandon held Namjoons shirt. “Don't play dumb with me, I went to see her. I was gonna gift her a letter and she said she already had a boyfriend. And I know the only dude she would see constantly was you. How could you? I asked you to do one thing and you couldn't even do that?!” Brandon said, getting in Namjoons face. He whinced, Brandon's forearm resting on Namjoons neck pushing down. There was no way he was going to die this way, not from Brandon's rage.

Namjoon pushed him off, then shoved him down the basement stairs. Namjoon stood there as he watched Brandon fall, head hitting the wood. He waited until the last thud, Namjoon slowly walking downstairs to see what he had just done. Once he reaches the bottom, Namjoon smiles, the sick sight of Brandon writhing on the ground groaning. A puddle of blood formed around him, the impact from hitting the concrete probably giving him a concussion.

The bottom of Namjoons shoes clicked as he made his way to the cellar. He took the metal branding tool used to mark the barrels. The sound of metal shrieked as he dragged it towards Brandon's beat-up corpse. “I'm sorry I have to do this, but you're in my way now. And we can't have that now can we?” Namjoon taunted raising the iron. Brandon's eyes opened slightly as he saw the iron come down on him.

Namjoon felt tears pour down his cheeks as he began to beat Brandon in.He coughed up blood, and Namjoon didn't stop beating Brandon until he was certain he was dead. Once he came to that conclusion he dropped the iron. "Why did you make me do that huh?!" Namjoon yelled at no one. "You ruin everything, god, im happy you're fucking gone."

Namjoon claimed himself wiping his eyes of tears. He got up and grabbed the champagne buckets. He looked back before heading out of the basement, locking the door. He lets out a sigh before leaving, not looking back. He had bigger plans now, and Brandon wasn't in them.

He couldn't be in them.

Namjoons eyes trailed over your form, stopping at your socks as you laughed with your family. Outside the patio, you see Namjoon carrying the ice buckets and wave him over. He smiles at you before signing and returning to his girlfriend who he plans to keep forever.

Let me know through a dm or ask to be included in my official Taglist- @darkuni63 @captainengineer-trixie @chimmisbae @iloverubberduckiez-blog @mageprincess7 @looneybleus @whipwhoops @mayvalentine33 @devilzliaison

#dark writing #tw dark content #tw yandere #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere blog #yandere bts #tw gaslighting #yandere namjoon #yandere kim namjoon #kim namjoon #bts fic #bts smut #bts yandere #dark bts #dark namjoon #bts fanfiction #yandere bts fanfic #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #namjoon #Spotify

[fyorina]

ᡣ𐭩 I LAUGH LIKE ME AGAIN (SHE LAUGHS LIKE YOU)

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: four years apart and the ultimate question is about to be answered: do you and dazai really still know each other, or are you clinging to a fantasy of the past? you decide to put it to the test with a game of wits and questions when dazai gets back to your apartment—but as the game drags on, dazai starts to wonder if maybe he was wrong. worse, if maybe he would prefer to be wrong.

(wordcount: 14.5k; ņsfw; fem!reader; port mafia executive!reader, jealous!dazai, possessive!dazai, smoking & drinking, unprotected sex, switch!dazai, switch!reader, undertones of angst (happy ending). lmk if anything is missing, im rushing to get this out!)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: guys here it IS - sorry it's late, but TRUST it's worth it. i'm so proud of this fic, genuinely one of the things im most proud of writing. this is technically a part 2 to he's my collar but can be read as a standalone

It takes far too long for Dazai to make it out of the Port Mafia headquarters, with both Akutagawa and Chuuya prowling about like the dogs they are. He wonders if you tipped either of them off—Chuuya, in particular—because the slug had been looking around like he was searching for someone. He thinks you’re entirely wretched for it, knowing that if he got caught, he’d be trapped in that damp and filthy torture chamber until he managed to finagle his way out, and he plans to make it known to you just how entirely displeased he is by the situation. 

The path to your apartment is achingly familiar, and the giddiness in his chest is something he hasn’t felt since the day he left. He knows that he should probably be more careful—he’s still in Port Mafia territory, your apartment spans the top floor of the easternmost building of the five towers—but he also knows that you’re the only one with direct access to the cameras in this building so he’s more reckless than he would’ve otherwise been. 

The floors tick up agonizingly slowly, Dazai swears that there must be something wrong with the elevator because it’s never taken this long before to get up to your place. His fingers thrum against his thigh, and his foot taps the ground impatiently. He paces from corner to corner within the small space like a caged animal. He thinks that maybe he should be taking advantage of the time alone, come up with some better excuses as to why he didn’t say anything to you before he left.

“I wouldn’t have left,” isn’t going to cut it. As true as it might be, it’s not the full truth, and Dazai knows you’ll be able to sniff it out in a matter of a few seconds with a clear head. He’s not walking into a cheerful reunion between old lovers, he’s walking into what’s about to be a stressful game of chess against a strategist whom Dazai has always considered a near-equal, a battle of wits against a woman whose whole life has revolved around political warfare. If he wants to keep his dignity intact and his secrets safe, he’s going to have to be incredibly cautious with what he says to you and even with how he reacts to what you say to him.

Still, he can’t help the giddiness. The excitement. He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much that it hurts. He’d thought that over time, the longing for you would go away, but it never did. If anything, it got worse because, over time, the pictures of you started to lack the soothing feeling they used to bring to the aching in his chest. Over time, he started to forget the sound of your voice and the sound of your laugh.

He’d known that you’d been sent away on foreign business not long after his last call to you, but he didn’t think Mori would actually keep you abroad for three whole years. He’d been hoping, maybe, that he could stumble into you one day. Or maybe just watch from afar, get close enough to hear the sound of your voice again. He’s been grossly denied of you for too long, and he knows that it’s of his own doing but that only makes it worse.

When the elevator dings, announcing his arrival on your floor, Dazai is sorely unprepared for the conversation about to take place. He steps into your penthouse, eyes drifting around the familiar vast space.

Like your office, not much has changed since the last time he was here. Your coffee table is still set down a few centimeters too close to the couch in the living room—the same couch he had his first kiss on with you when the two of you were sixteen and drunk on champagne celebrating a successful mission. You still hang your black jacket over a chair instead of properly on a hanger, it’s why it always has a crease on the back—he’d noticed it when you left your office, and he can’t help but smile slightly at the confirmation as his eyes linger on where it’s draped over one of your kitchen chairs. 

You tried to convince him that you’ve changed in the years the two of you have been apart, but Dazai doesn’t think you’ve changed much at all.

You’re leaning against the windows, looking down on the city—he knows you must’ve heard the elevator, but you haven’t bothered to look his way yet. There’s an indecipherable expression on your face and a glass of wine in your hand. You’re still dressed in your suit and Dazai notices there’s a glass of whiskey on the rocks untouched on the kitchen table. He shrugs off his trench coat and drapes it over yours, hoping that the scent of you seeps into it because he’s gone too long without it.

His fingers curl around the glass of whiskey you’d left out for him, and for a moment, he swears that he’s eighteen again. He’s making his way to your penthouse after a long mission with Chuuya, you’re expecting him—you always are—and he can never push away the fondness that squeezes his chest when he finds you lounging back on your couch, flipping through channels to find something to watch, a glass of his favorite whiskey set down on the coffee table next to where your feet are propped up as you wait for him to show up.

He wonders if you even care to remember what his favorite is. He wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.

He makes his way out of the kitchen and back into the living room, and he’s reminded that he’s not eighteen and you’re not waiting for him to show up after a mission because you finally look at him, and his breath catches in his throat.

He thinks you look a bit older now than you did four years ago—to be expected, of course—and there’s a coldness to your eyes that hadn’t been there before. Impossibly, he thinks that you’re somehow even more beautiful than you were when he last saw you, and he realizes again, throat tightening, that even after three years of no contact with you, he’s just as in love with you now as he was the day he left.

He knew it back then before he left, even if he never said it. When he was eighteen and could only feel any inkling of pleasure when he was with you; it wasn’t like he’d never tried to have sex with other people, he’d whore himself out for information at any given chance and slept around frequently after you started dating a civilian to distract himself from the bitter jealousy he felt, but he’d never known how good it was supposed to feel until he slept with you for the first time. When he was seventeen and could only ever feel comfortable in your presence, seeking you out at any given chance when he couldn’t handle being around people anymore; he’d curl up in your office with your orange blanket, napping as you did work, knowing that you’d keep people away from him. He thinks he might’ve even known when he was sixteen when the two of you first met on the streets of the Kanagawa prefecture.

He wonders if you even believed him when he said it earlier—he doubts it, you don’t seem too keen to believe anything he says, and he doesn’t blame you for it. 

But whether you believe it or not, it’s yours—that rotted heart of his, shriveled and shabby, riddled with holes and decay, half-eaten by maggots and worms it might be, but it’s still yours. He thinks that it was meant to be yours since the moment he was born, and it’ll be yours even after the two of you are long dead. He doesn’t know how he’s meant to go without you again—he doesn’t think he can. He knows that despite the tentative ceasefire, the Port Mafia and the Agency are still enemies, but he knows in his heart that he won’t be able to leave you again. Even just the sight of you has condemned him completely. 

Then you speak, and at once, his entire world falls apart.

“I’m leaving again in the morning,” you finally say, tone flat and eyes sharp and shrewd as you look over him. He reminds himself that this is not a reunion, that he needs to get his head on straight if he wants to make it out of your apartment in one piece, but it’s hard. “I was only brought back to smooth things over with the government after the whole fiasco with Fitzgerald and his American cronies. I’ll be leaving for Russia in the morning to meet with Tolstoy and Nabakov. Hopefully, gain some intel on Fyodor Dostoevsky’s plans before the man makes another move on the city.”

He… did not anticipate that you’d be leaving again so soon. Something cold and sharp latches to his heart, like jagged nails ripping it apart. He makes sure it doesn’t show on his face.

“Be careful,” he tells you quietly. “Dostoevsky… he’s not someone to underestimate. Just-Just be careful.”

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed, “I’ve worked with Dostoevsky before. I don’t need you to warn me about him.” 

Your voice is cool. Sharp. Dazai sighs, knowing that anything he might’ve said to you earlier in the night is lost to you, and he doesn’t know if he’ll have it in him to bare his heart again, only for you to scorn it. He’s not meeting with you as he knows you—as his closest friend, as his lover; he’s meeting with you as the Port Mafia executive. Not the version of you that treats with allies, wining and dining them with glittering eyes and playful smiles as you use your ability to ensure they never turn on the Port Mafia; the version of you that sits at the round table with enemies, with a quick mind and calculating eyes as you decide whether or not they’re worthy of being absorbed into the Port Mafia or if Double Black will be sent out to eradicate them. 

“I told you everything I had to say back at the office,” Dazai tries, and he wonders if you’ll let him get away with it—he doubts it, but it’s worth a shot, and it will at least stall for a few moments as he tries to forcibly turn the cogs in his mind to figure out the best way of appeasing you. “I missed you. I… couldn’t say goodbye to you, not if I was to leave. I…”

I love you.

He doesn’t say it; he thinks he was only able to push it out earlier in the night in the heat of the moment, the orgasm-induced haze fogging his brain enough to let it slip out in desperation to make you give him a chance. And it worked because you gave him a second chance when you invited him back to your apartment, but Dazai doesn’t know how to make the most of the opportunity. He thinks he’s a fool for not preparing for this before getting here.

You click your tongue sharply, lip curling up in something close to disgust, and Dazai is glad he didn’t speak his ‘I love you’ because he thinks he might’ve actually cried if that was your reaction to him saying it.

“The only things you told me earlier in the night were half-truths and sweet talk. I didn’t invite you back to my apartment to hear you beg for another chance, Dazai,” you say coolly, and Dazai desperately misses the sound of his given name on your tongue. The corner of your lip curves up into a half-smirk, eyes suddenly glittering beneath the dim lighting of your penthouse as you add, “Although, I wouldn’t be opposed to it after we talk.”

He thinks the fact that you’re already considering an after might be a good sign. He can feel his cheeks flush a bit at your words, but instead of letting himself get rattled, he takes a step forward, well into your personal space, as he dips his face down so close to yours that his lips nearly brush yours as he speaks.

“I’d beg pretty for you,” he whispers, letting his voice drop an octave as his gaze tracks down to your lips. “I’d even get on my knees.”

Unfortunately, you are entirely unbothered by the proposition. “We’ll see, I suppose,” you say, and then raise your eyebrows, signaling for him to take a step back.

He does, and he feels distinctly put out and rejected by your reaction, but he sighs and asks, “What did you invite me here for then?” 

He very much does not like the way your eyes glitter now—shrewd this time, more amused, dangerous, as if you know the two of you are about to tread down territory that he’s going to be unfamiliar with. You nod for him to follow you into the kitchen, taking a seat at the head of the table and motioning for him to sit opposite you.

He does.

“We can play a game,” you finally concede. Dazai settles back against his chair, fingers still tapping rhythmically against his glass of whiskey, a terrible habit that Dazai has accrued whenever he feels cornered. Not a frequent occurrence, but damning when it is. Your eyes linger on them, and he knows you’ve pinpointed the tell. He forces himself to stop, but from the way your lips curl up, he can tell it doesn’t matter. “Ten questions each. Yes or no answers only.”

Dazai notices that you pointedly leave out any rule about the honesty of each answer—intentional, surely, so he probes.

“How do we determine the winner?” Dazai asks. He finally takes a sip of the fine whiskey you’d poured for him, and his question from earlier is answered. His favorite. There’s a warm feeling in his chest at the realization that you’ve remembered it even after all of these years.

Your lips curve up into a sharper and wider smile, teeth glimmering like knives beneath the soft lighting of your kitchen. The glass of wine in your hands is suddenly more reminiscent of a gun being pointed at him than your choice of alcohol, and he feels as if he’s already made some egregious mistake in your eyes.

“After we give our answer, the other has to decide whether or not it was truthful. In the end, we’ll both see how many the other got right. A test to see how well we still know each other,” is all you say in response. You’re mocking him and his insistence that the two of you are still the same, but Dazai intends to prove himself right. You tilt your head to the side and then say, “The prize is to be determined by the winner. I’ll ask the first question.”

Dazai winks, a lecherous comment already on his tongue about the prize, but the withering look you give him is more than enough to make it die before he can let it loose. He pointedly takes another sip of his drink and sinks in his seat.

He thinks that this should be an easy win. You’re quite the adept liar, but you’ve always had a glaring tell. Well, he amends, it’s glaring to him, at least. Not many others would be observant enough to catch it, and even if they were, only someone with an abundance of experience with you would be able to put it together. His gaze flickers up to meet yours, wondering if your lashes flutter right before you tell a lie. It’s such a simple and subtle tell, so casual that it took Dazai a year and a half to put together, but it was hard to miss once he did.

You hum to yourself as you give off the appearance of thinking about a question, but Dazai knows you better than anyone, and he’s certain that you already have all ten prepared, so he rolls his eyes at the faux show of uncertainty. 

“We both know you know what you want to ask,” he finally says. “Do us both a favor and quit with the theatrics.”

Your lip quirks up in amusement. “And here I was being gracious giving you more time to formulate whatever lies you’ll try to get away with,” you drawl, and Dazai nearly flinches.

“You know me so well,” Dazai sighs to hide how disconcerted he really is. “The question?”

You stare at him for a moment, and your lips curl up into a deceptively soft smile that almost throws Dazai off because, god, he’s missed you. And he knows you’re looking at him like this just for this specific reason because you’re a despicable bitch who knows that he’s always been easily unsettled when people show any semblance of affection toward him, but he can’t help the way he falters.

He tries to brace himself for whatever invasive question you’re about to ask regarding his reasons for leaving. Tries to prepare himself to lie cleanly because he’s sure you’re as aware of his tells as he is of yours. 

Then you ask: 

“Did you defect because of something Oda asked of you?”

Jesus. Right for the throat. You really don’t pull punches. 

Dazai’s throat tightens at the mention of his old friend, but he’s able to keep his expression clear of the sudden pain that your question brings on. You’re watching him carefully for reactions, gaze hawklike as you study his face, and Dazai is not about to let you pinpoint any more of his tells so early in the game.

He figures that this is an easy question; you already know the answer but want to hear the confirmation from his lips, so he decides to tell the truth.

“Yes.”

“The truth,” you say, an indecipherable expression on your face. He wonders if you want to ask what Odasaku asked of him, but that’s not part of the game and Dazai has no intention of answering that.

Be on the side that saves people. If both are the same to you, become a good man.

You might laugh in his face—Dazai Osamu, the Demon Prodigy, a good man? The idea is blasphemous, and he thinks it might actually hurt him if you scoff or laugh in response to hearing that, so he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t give away more than he has to, hoping that you don’t just straight up ask him.

You open your lips to speak, and Dazai braces himself for the prying question, but instead, you only probe, “First question?”

He wonders if your whole first question and the implications of it was just a means of trying to throw him off because now he’s fumbling trying to remember what he wanted to ask you before you hit him with it. He wouldn’t put it past you to play dirty like that—bringing up his dead friend and his last request just to unsettle him to give you the edge.

“Did we meet during my underground years after I defected?” he finally asks, and yeah, he knows the answer to this question. The missing half of his ear and waking up in the old safe house he used to hide out at with you is more than enough evidence for him to come to a definite conclusion, but he wants to hear it from you.

“Yes.”

Dazai inhales sharply and then murmurs, “That’s the truth.” And then, more loudly and far more affronted, he accuses, “I can’t believe you shot half of my ear off.”

He expects you to toss him a wink and a sharp grin, unrepentant and even finding amusement in his offense, but instead, your expression falters for the first time since he’s arrived. Something strange crosses your face; for whatever reason, his words leave you conflicted and Dazai suddenly feels even more nervous than he already was because now he can’t help but wonder what he might’ve said to you in his drunken state. 

He supposes that’ll have to be another question, but first, he’s going to have to figure out how to phrase it to get a yes or no answer first, without being vague enough for it to be a waste of a question or easy for you to misconstrue.

You hum after a few moments, taking a pointed sip of your wine. Dazai watches curiously—you’re bothered still, you’re not even trying to hide it. He knows you have better control over your facial expressions than this, so he thinks maybe it’s a ploy to get him to start spiraling down a path of useless questions. Put off by his sudden inability to discern your schemes, a part of him wonders if maybe you were right because the him of four years ago would’ve seen right through you right now.

“I’m afraid it had to be done,” you sigh with faux regret, but he can tell from the way the smile on your lips doesn’t reach your eyes that you’re not into the banter. “Were you able to fulfill Oda’s request?” 

Fuck. This time Dazai can’t withhold the grimace that spreads across his face. He tries to keep his voice light with a deflecting comment, “My, bella, you’re really hitting with the deep questions tonight, aren’t you?”

You raise your eyebrows, tilting your head to the side as you wait for an answer, not giving him any room to formulate a response to your question. He finally sighs and shakes his head, taking a long sip of his whiskey. He wishes he had a pack of cigarettes on him, suddenly desperately longing for the pleasant burn of the smoke against his throat; he needs the buzz badly right now.

As if you could read his mind, you shift in your seat a bit and stuff your hand into the pocket of your slacks. It takes a few seconds but you fish out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, sliding them across the table over to him. If he wasn’t already so in his head over the question you asked, he’d make a quip over the fact that you still know him so well despite your insistence otherwise, but he only pulls out a cigarette and lights it, looking curiously down at the familiar brand.

“Since when did you start smoking these?” he asks quietly, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head back and takes a long drag of it. He exhales slowly and then adds, “Thought you liked the other ones, in the green box.”

“Teal,” you correct, and then frown a bit. “... Switched after you left.”

Dazai’s eyes flutter back open as his gaze focuses on you, wondering if the implication you left up in the air is something he can take at face value or if it’s just another way of trying to get him to lower his guard. But from the way you suddenly don’t meet his eyes, Dazai thinks you might be being honest: you switched because they reminded you of him.

Dazai’s chest suddenly feels heavy again.

“... No,” he finally responds to your second question. “Not yet, at least.”

“... Truth,” you say, and Dazai’s lips curl into a wry smile.

“Unfortunately.” The word slips out before he can stop it.

Your gaze flickers back up to him, curious, but Dazai doesn’t give you the chance to dwell on his comment, asking his next question: “Did I… admit anything to you that night that I wouldn’t have said while sober?”

His fingers tap rhythmically against his glass of whiskey, half-empty now; he’s anxious to hear your response.

“You did,” you confirm.

Dazai grimaces because that’s another truth, and that is not good. But just like how he doesn’t offer any context for his answers, you don’t either. He doesn’t know what he might’ve admitted or how you might’ve taken it—he’s going to have to waste another question on this topic.

“Truth,” he murmurs.

You hum and then ask, “Do you still blame yourself for what happened to him?”

“Come on,” Dazai complains sharply, tossing you a dirty look now. His jaw is tight. He wonders if you keep asking about Oda as some sort of sick revenge for him leaving, ripping open wounds that never properly healed so you can dig your fingers into them and twist around. You don’t look bothered by his outburst, waiting patiently for a response. He lets out an angry sigh, looking away and taking another long drink from his glass and another drag of his cigarette. 

He voices his first lie, “No.”

You let out a puff of air, rising to your feet and making your way over to the opposite counter, you grab the bottle of whiskey and bring it back over to him, topping off his now-empty glass before pointedly holding out your hand. He passes the cigarette over to you, tilting his head back to watch you bring it to your lips—a part of him longs to lean forward, to slide his hand behind your neck and cradle your head as he brings his lips to yours, inhaling the smoke as you exhale it, dizzy off the proximity to you, high off the buzz of the nicotine, just like the two of you would do when before he left.

He refrains, if only barely.

You exhale the smoke, a small cloud billowing around you—Dazai mourns the waste—and then you pass the cigarette back over to him. Your fingers brush his as you do, and a spark shoots through his arm at the touch.

“A lie,” you finally say, looking down at him with a frown. “You shouldn’t blame yourself. There was nothing you could’ve done to save him.”

“You don’t know that,” Dazai says tightly, averting his gaze from you as you make your way back over to your seat across from him. “If I’d been faster-”

“If Mori wants someone dead, then they’ll die,” you interrupt him, a grimace on your face as you look down at your wine glass. “Trust me, Dazai, there was no saving Oda Sakunosuke.”

Dazai pauses instead of snapping again, catching the expression on your face. Haunted, as if you’re speaking from experience. He tilts his head to the side and then asks quietly, “Are you talking about your ex-partner? Itou?”

If Dazai remembers correctly, he died on a mission when you were seventeen. You never told him the circumstances, and he never asked, but it was the first and only time you ever broke down in front of him.

The corner of your lips tightens, “Is that your next question?”

Dazai barely withholds a frustrated sigh. 

“No,” he says quietly, and then asks, “Did I tell you why I couldn’t say goodbye? The real reason?”

He holds his breath now as he waits for your response. One way or another, this question is a double blade: if he did tell you why, then he’s at another disadvantage because he’s going to feel distinctly bare and vulnerable; if he didn’t tell you, he just admitted that he lied back at your office, at least partially. 

After what feels like an eternity, you finally say, “Yes.”

The truth. Dazai wonders when you’re going to utter your first lie, if you will, or if you’re trying to make some sort of point by being honest with him. He voices his answer and then waits impatiently for your next question as his mind races.

He desperately wants to know how you responded to him back then. Would you have come with him had he come to you before he left? Or would you have chosen the Port Mafia? He wonders if he should ask, make it one of his remaining seven questions, but he doesn’t know if he has the guts to hear your answer, so maybe he’ll just change the subject.

“Are you enjoying yourself at the Agency?”

For the life of him, Dazai cannot figure out your angle. First, the prying questions about Oda and now asking about the Agency. He doesn’t know what he expected at the start of the game—you’ve always been unpredictable, but even more so now. He’s never had such a hard time reading you or your intentions before.

He starts to feel even more doubtful, wondering if you were right.

Maybe he doesn’t know you as well as he thinks he does anymore.

But this is an easy question, so he says the truth with little hesitation, “I am.”

Dazai swears the corners of your lips curl up into a soft smile, but it’s gone so quickly that he might’ve imagined it.

“Good,” you say quietly. “I’m glad.”

Dazai’s lips part, a warm feeling spreads through his chest at the honesty in your tone. Desperately, he wants to know what’s going on—where’s the rage and the betrayal he expected from you? The hate? Why do you seem… okay with all of this?

Irrationally, he starts to wonder if everything from the office was just a heat-of-the-moment conversation. If now that you’ve had time to sit on your thoughts, you’ve realized… realized what? That you’ve moved on from him? That you don’t care what he does anymore? That you’ve accepted that he’s no longer a part of your life? The warmth in his chest disappears, edged away by a sudden coldness and desperation because he thinks he’d rather die than go back to a life without you.

Even more irrationally, he remembers the comment you made back at the office, the admission that you’ve slept around since he left. Oh god, what if you really have moved on?

He knows his next question.

“The people you slept with—were they all one-night stands?”

He doesn’t want to know the answer unless it’s a yes.

You raise your eyebrows at the abrupt shift in his line of questioning, and then, to his absolute horror, you say, truthfully, “No.”

“What do you mean no?” he asks angrily—he thinks if he was a bird, he’d be puffing his chest out in irritation. He feels antsy suddenly, he needs to move around. He starts tapping his foot against the floor, his fingers against the glass. And again, he thinks you’re a despicable bitch because you only look amused at his question as if he’s not beside himself with righteous fury.

“It’s not your turn,” is all you respond with, and Dazai has a distinct urge to throttle you. Then you ask, “Do you feel like you belong there?”

He halts.

His fingers freeze from where they’re tapping against the glass, his foot freezes mid-motion. His lips part as he’s confronted with the very question that he’s been struggling with for two years now. He wants to yes, if only to maybe be a little spiteful, to rub in your face that he’s somewhere good and he’s somewhere where he belongs, and it’s not somewhere with you. A cruel dig to get back for the aching in his chest at the thought of you being with other people, but he knows that you’ll catch the lie, and more importantly, he doesn’t want to hurt you like that.

Maybe he has grown a bit because the Dazai of four years ago nearly killed your civilian boyfriend when he found out that you were dating someone besides him and then promptly made a show of sleeping around to try to get back at you.

So, instead, he says quite honestly, “I don’t know.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Not a yes or no answer, but I suppose it works. How curious.”

He hates your cryptic comments. Pointedly, he side-eyes you as he takes another long drag of his cigarette. Already, it’s nearly down to the nub, so he puts it out on your table, ignoring the distasteful look you give him, and then reaches for another to light as he asks: “Were you in a relationship with any of them?” 

You roll your eyes at his prying, and he cannot hide the abject horror that crosses his face when you say, “Yes.”

“That better be a lie,” he complains, and when you look at him as if to ask if that’s really his guess, he makes a show of pushing out his bottom lip and looking away as he says: “I cannot believe you dated other people. Cheater.”

“We were never even dating, Daz-”

“Yes, we were,” Dazai protests instantly, entirely aghast at your words. “We absolutely were. What does that even mean? Of course, we were dating. Everybody knew it. Ask anybody. Ane-san knew. Gin-chan knew. Chuuya knew. Even Mori knew. We were so dating, you-”

“You never officially asked me to be your girlfriend, which is, unfortunately, the most fundamental step of dating,” you interrupt him, and Dazai stares at you in disbelief.

“I bought you flowers, we fucked exclusively,” Dazai complains, aggrieved. “We were definitely dating, and you definitely cheated on me because we never broke up.”

“If we were dating,” you emphasize the if very pointedly, and Dazai is distinctly put out by it, “then we broke up the day you left without saying goodbye.”

Dazai withers. He has no witty comment to return fire with, so instead, he just takes another sip of his whiskey, grateful for the combined buzz of the alcohol and the nicotine to distract him from the overwhelming guilt he feels whenever you bring up how he left you.

“Do you feel like you belong more with the Agency than you did with the Port Mafia?” 

Your next question is an amendment to your previous on, and it leaves Dazai just as lost.

He wants to belong with the Agency. He does. Desperately. He wants more than anything to feel as at home and comfortable in the light as he does in the dark. He doesn’t want to question his place among them anymore, he doesn’t want to wonder if he sticks out like a sore thumb. He wants to enter the office and feel like he doesn’t have to pretend to be someone he’s not, just so he can keep his place with them. He doesn’t want to have to fear at every corner that he’s going to revert to old habits, and they’ll see him for the monster that he is: a monster that should have never left the dark crevices that he crawled out from, a monster with blood so black that it strikes fear in even the most terrible mafiosos.

“No,” he admits the insecurity that’s plagued him to the one person he feels comfortable enough with to voice it aloud. He can’t bring himself to look up at you, wondering if the admission will give you some sort of sick satisfaction, if you’ll be happy that he’s not finding a place he can be comfortable in without you. Instead, he decides to rush to ask his next question: “The one you were in a relationship with, did you love him?”

He thinks that the question came across as far more timid than he meant it to be, and his eyes slide shut as he waits for your answer.

“There were multiple I had relationships with—” Dazai scoffs, of course, there were multiple. “—...but no, I did not.”

He lets out a soft puff of air, shoulders slumping a bit in relief. But his fingers are still tense around his glass, waiting for whatever question you’re going to ask next that’s going to dig deep into open wounds, stripping him of all of his masks and armor to force him to lay himself entirely bare in front of you.

“Did you really blow up Chuuya’s car before you left?”

His eyes fly open at the sudden change of pace in your questions, noting the smirk curling at the corner of your lips and the amusement glinting in your eyes. He accepts the olive branch quickly as he gives you a sharp smile and asks: “What do you think?” 

Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle a laugh, and the smile on Dazai’s lips becomes a bit softer as he watches you desperately try to get yourself under control. “You’re insane, you know that?” you finally say, still trying to bite back giggles. “He was so mad. Raged about it for weeks.”

Another question pops into Dazai’s head at the mention of Chuuya, and before he can consider whether or not he actually wants to know the answer to it, he asks: “Speaking of Chuuya, was he one of your trysts while I was gone?”

Suddenly, you are not laughing, and suddenly, Dazai regrets speaking.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Do not tell me-”

“He was,” you confirm.

Dazai’s glass of whiskey is empty. 

He grabs the bottle and drinks right from it, miserable.

“I think I would’ve rather been stabbed through the heart,” Dazai says mournfully, and though he keeps a faux-light tone with you, his throat feels like it’s swollen, and he feels a bit sick to his stomach.

He’s always been jealous of the bond you have with Chuuya. Absurdly jealous, even. You clicked with him quickly—you clicked with both of them quickly, and maybe it was a matter of the three of you being the youngest of the Port Mafia’s uppermost echelon, but Dazai doesn’t want to attribute it solely to that—but the way you clicked with Chuuya was different from how you clicked with Dazai. Two people so completely human locked away in the dark, clinging to one another to maintain some sense of normalcy; your and his casual humanity made Dazai’s lack of it irrefutable and glaring.

Regardless of the why, he never liked how close you were with Chuuya. 

Even before you were dating him—because you were dating him—a part of him had always felt sidelined whenever the three of you hung out together. Not because of either of your wrongdoings but just because it was hard for him to keep up with the two of you. He always felt a bit lost trying to, unable to follow along when the two of you would start laughing at jokes that he didn’t understand even when you explained them to him, when you would share glances with one another that spoke whole conversations he wasn’t privy to. The two of you got along in ways that Dazai would never be able to get along with anyone because there’s just something fundamentally wrong with him at his core. Chuuya, for all of his talk and fear regarding the question of his humanity, has always been so unfailingly human in ways that Dazai, to this day, cannot fathom to understand.

After you started dating him—because you were dating him—it only got worse because he’d see you with Chuuya and wonder if you were better off with someone like him instead. Dazai doesn’t know how to treat you right, clearly. He can’t even treat himself right; and Chuuya has always been the epitome of a gentleman, loathe Dazai is to admit it—Ane-san drilled that into the other boy where Mori only taught Dazai how to be cruel and unforgiving. The line between love and obsession has always been a terribly blurry one for him, and you have always wavered on either side of it—and Dazai, unfortunately, does not love healthily and obsesses so entirely that it would have most people running for the hills. 

For better or for worse, you’re not most people.

In his spiral of insecurity, he doesn’t catch the way your brows furrow as you put together some puzzle pieces. “Dazai,” you say suddenly, drawing him from his thoughts abruptly. There’s an accusatory look in your eyes that he really does not like. “Were you the one that booby-trapped my fucking apartment?”

Dazai snorts.

“You bastard,” you snap at him, and Dazai can’t help but bite the palm of his hand as a means of trying to stifle his laughter. “Mori thought it was a goddamn assassination attempt. He kept me under watch for weeks because of you. I couldn’t leave the towers without half of the Black Lizards with me.”

“Sorry,” he coos, not sorry at all. Dazai, because he clearly doesn’t know when to learn his lesson, then he promptly asks, “Am I better fuck than Chuuya?”

“Jesus Christ, Dazai, get off the topic of Chuuya and my sex life, it’s clearly only upsetting you,” you snap at him instead of answering the question. Dazai wants to argue and retain some dignity; he’s not upset, but then his entire world is shattered by your next words: “I am not answering this question.”

Dazai blanches. He can feel the blood drain from his face. He’d thought this was an easy question to make him feel a bit better. What do you mean you won’t answer? Does that mean Chuuya-

No. Dazai refuses to believe it.

 “No way,” he says, shaking his head. “He’s not a better fuck than me. You can’t possibly-”

“He’s not,” you finally say, and Dazai audibly lets out a sigh of relief. “But if you ever mention anything along the likes of that to him, you will never fuck me again, Dazai Osamu. Do you understand?”

Dazai is too relieved to even argue. “Yeah.”

“No more questions about my sex life,” you say firmly, and Dazai doesn’t respond, but he does agree internally because he doesn’t think his heart can handle any more scares like that. Your eyes sharpen again, and Dazai braces himself. “Were you the one to tell Mori I lied about being sick so I could skip out on the ball Mishima hosted when we were seventeen?”

Dazai’s eyes narrow right back at you and rather than answering, he shoots one of his own questions at you: “Were you the one to tell Mori I had his contact in my phone as ‘ignore’?”

You take his lack of an answer as an affirmative, correctly so. Dazai has no regrets about ratting you out to Mori because he was not about to attend Mishima’s event without you on his arm. He’d rather die. 

“You bastard, do you know the lengths I went to fake being sick? I wanted one night to relax without people breathing down my neck.”

“If I had to go, you had to go,” Dazai retorts petulantly. “I was not about to suffer with only Chuuya as company. You had no reason to tell Mori about the contact name besides to be petty. I fought with Chuuya for weeks because I thought he was the one to do it.”

You choke on a laugh. “Chuuya was so mad, he had no idea what you were talking about.”

“He tied me to a pole and swung me around for three hours,” Dazai complains, but there’s a smile on his lips as you burst into laughter, unable to stifle the giggles that spill from your lips.

“I know,” you wheeze, “I got it on video. We watch it sometimes when we’re bored and can’t find a movie.”

Dazai gapes, and you laugh harder, but for the first time in four years, Dazai finally feels… at home, he feels comfortable in his own skin again. He’s back in your penthouse, he’s drinking his favorite whiskey and smoking his favorite brand of cigarettes, you’re sitting at the kitchen table with him and laughing your head off at his expense, and for a moment, Dazai feels as if nothing has changed: he feels like himself again, eighteen and entirely enamored by the sight and sound of you, and you feel like you again, all of the doubt that had begun to rise to his chest as the two of you played the questions game long gone.

He falls in love with you all over again. Harder this time. Faster. He thinks he’ll fall in love with you again and again every day for the rest of your lives, each time more than the last, no matter how impossible it might seem.

He thinks maybe it’s not that he feels like he belongs with the Port Mafia more than the Agency. He thinks that it’s you. You’re the one he feels at home with. You’re the one he’s comfortable enough to be himself with. You’re the one he belongs with, always has, and always will.

After a few moments, you finally manage to get yourself under control, still giggling a bit as you look back up at him. Your smile is softer now, eyes gentle, more genuine than the smile you gave him before asking the first question. Dazai’s breath catches because when was the last time you looked at him like this—the last time anyone has looked at him like this? A warm feeling spreads through his chest; Dazai thinks he would stay in this moment forever if given the opportunity.

“Are you happy?” you ask quietly

Dazai blinks, startled, and an odd feeling spreads through his chest once your question registers. His lips part to answer, but no words leave them; he draws back as if he’s been slapped, a bit flustered and confused because that’s the furthest thing from what he expected you to ask. He wonders if you’d asked the last three questions to lull him into a false sense of security.

“I-” he starts to say but cuts himself off. “What kind of question is that?” 

He tries to deflect instead of properly answering, frowning, but you only raise your eyebrows, pointedly keeping your lips sealed to let him know that you expect an answer. He shakes his head and then sighs, bouncing the question in his head a few times before going for a cop-out: “When I’m with you? Always.”

You’re not pleased by his decision, frowning as you look away from him—he knows that’s not what you asked, not really, but you should have been clearer with your question if you wanted him to give you the answer you expected. But he doesn’t like the sudden disappointment on your face, it leaves his skin itchy and his chest longing for the soft look to return.

So he sits there, ruminating on the question. Is he happy? He should be, right? He’s saving people. He’s on the way to fulfilling Odasaku’s final request. He has a whole group of people whom he can rely on without having to fear being taken advantage of or betrayed at every corner. He’s happy.

But is he trying to convince himself of it? Why is he still trying to kill himself if he’s happy? Why is there a part of him that feels lonely no matter how surrounded he is by people? Why is it that when he’s at his lowest points, the only two people he wishes he could be with are you and Chuuya? Why does he ache for the days he’d spend dragging the two of you around Yokohama, causing trouble for Mori—the closest he’s ever felt to enjoying life?

“I don’t know,” he finally amends his answer, looking down at the bottle in front of him and the cinders of the cigarette dangling between his fingers. He lifts it to his lips again, taking one last drag of it as he tries to figure out what his last question should be.

There’s only one pressing question he has left, but he hesitates, unsure if he really wants to know your answer.

He forces it out anyway.

“Would you… would you have come with me back then?” His voice is quieter than he intended, cracks over ‘me’, and to your credit, you don’t react to the question, expression as eerily still as it was before, as if you’re considering your words.

A yes or no. It shouldn’t take this long for you to answer. Each second that passes feels like an eternity, and Dazai suddenly feels anxious, he doesn’t know why he asked this question because if the answer is no—if it’s no, then…

Finally, you let you a soft sigh, taking a sip of your wine as if to prolong his agony.

Your lashes flutter before you speak.

You lie for the first time that night.

“Yes.”

Dazai’s voice sounds far away as he says, “That’s a lie.”

“I guess you were right,” you say softly, but you sound so distant, like you’re on the opposite side of a long, empty tunnel and not sitting right in front of him. “We do still know each other decently well; you got them all right.”

Dazai doesn’t care. In fact, he would have gladly conceded a loss in this game, and he would’ve gladly admitted that maybe the two of you don’t know each other as well as you used to if it meant that he got the last question wrong because then he would’ve just given you a coy expression and asked if you’d let him get to know this new version of you too. You would’ve said yes, and he would’ve made quite the pleasurable night out of it for the two of you. Instead, he had to insist that nothing has changed, and now he has to come to terms with the fact that he was right and he had known you well enough back then to know not to ask you to leave with him because you would have chosen the Mafia over him. 

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice you approaching him until you’re leaning on the table next to him, index and middle finger coming beneath his chin to tilt his face up toward you. He looks up at you through his lashes, eyes searching your face, but he only finds another blank slate that he can’t read. His breath hitches when your hand slides from his chin to cup his cheek, and he can’t help the way that he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“I would choose you over so many things, Osamu.” You speak his given name for the first time in years, but he can hardly find any comfort in it because he knows he’s not going to like what you’re about to say. Your fingers card through the tips of his hair, brushing the dark locks behind his ear as your thumb sweeps over his cheekbone. “But not over the Port Mafia. Just like how you didn’t choose to stay for me.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, voice hoarse. “It’s-”

“It is,” you interrupt, voice deceptively gentle, and he thinks you’re entirely unfair because he can hardly focus with your touch distracting him. He’s missed it so much—he’s gone four years without it, without any type of touch that wasn’t him getting his shit kicked in by Kunikida or an enemy. “You didn’t choose to stay for me. I wouldn’t have chosen to leave for you.”

“Why?” Dazai asks tightly, and he hates that when his jaw tenses, you smooth your fingers over it, and he unclenches it immediately.

There’s a sadder look in your eye now as you give him a small smile. “You know why.”

Of course, he knows why. He feels the hatred deep in his gut as his mind draws back to Mori. Because that’s who the issue is. It’s not the Port Mafia. It’s not your friendship with Kouyou. It’s not even your friendship with Chuuya that’s the issue. It’s Mori and your undying loyalty to him. No matter how much you claim to despise him, bashing him every chance you get, sneering at him whenever he tries to treat you like his daughter, Dazai knows that when it comes down to it, you’ll always choose him. You’d throw yourself on a sword if he asked it of you, and not for the first time, Dazai wants to spit in the man’s face for making you feel as if you’re eternally indebted to him for rescuing you from that warzone so many years ago; for making you feel as if you’re nothing without the Mafia, nothing without him.

“You don’t owe him anything,” Dazai says tightly. “You have to know that by now—you don’t owe him anything.”

“I don’t want to have this conversation, Dazai,” you sigh, sounding tired. Your hand drops from his face, and Dazai longs for your touch again instantly. His fingers twitch from where they’re resting on his lap; he only barely stops himself from reaching out for you. You try to smile as you change the subject, but it hardly meets your eyes, “It’s a tie then. No prize for either of us, hm?”

Dazai is not so inclined to switch the subject. He wants to press on this now that he has the chance; he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to rip you out from beneath Mori’s thumb, but he needs to at least try… but you’re leaving again in the morning, and Dazai also does not want to ruin this night with you. He doesn’t know when he’ll get another.

So, instead, he matches your half-assed smile as he looks up at you and says, “I didn’t say you got them all right. You only said that I got them all right.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Did I get any wrong?” you ask, amused.

No.

“Yes.”

“Liar,” you say, but there’s a fond lilt to your tone as you let out another puff of air, the smile on your face finally reaching your eyes as you look down at him. The soft lighting of your kitchen casts a pretty glow over your face, your smile is so entrancing that Dazai thinks he could stare at it forever.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes out, the words slipping from his lips before he can stop them. “I’ve missed you so much.”

He’s sure he must look like a fool right now, entirely enamored by the sight of you, unable to even fathom drawing his gaze away. He wonders if you’ll protest again, call him a liar, and shift away from him.

You don’t.

The smile on your lips falls, and a wrecked expression crosses your face as your eyes search his. Your lips part to speak, and he waits with bated breath for whatever you’re about to say—he thinks that if you deny him again right now, it might completely shatter all of the walls he’d so carefully built to protect himself.

“I’ve missed you too,” you whisper as if you’re scared to speak the words out loud—and how can he blame you when the last time you dared to speak them, he hung up on you, never hearing from him again until tonight.

God, the guilt he feels whenever he thinks of you returns with a vengeance, so intense that Dazai starts to feel sick to his stomach. He can’t handle it, so he does the only thing he knows how to do to distract himself from it.

His movements are clumsy as he pushes himself up to his feet, nearly tripping over the leg of his chair, and his fingers feel clunky as he lifts them up to cup your cheeks. For a second, he fears that you might move away from him, but you don’t, so he leans in to press his lips against yours.

There’s no tenderness to his kiss. Dazai kisses you like he wants to consume you, lips sliding messily against yours, blunt nails indent crescents into your cheeks as he holds you close. Usually, he would be embarrassed by his blatant desperation and lack of finesse—he’s never been a sloppy kisser, when the two of you were younger, you would always let out pleased hums into his mouth, lashes fluttering as he worked his lips carefully against yours, tongue sliding against your own as he traces his name on it. 

All of his finely honed skill is thrown out the window now as he kisses you like a man who has been starved for years. He has been starved for years—the quick fuck in your office did nothing to quell the longing he’s felt for you the past four years. He could kiss you for hours. Days, even, and it still won’t be enough. Nothing short of an eternity with you would be enough to make up for the four years he’s been deprived of you.

He lets out a low groan into your mouth as you nip at his bottom lip, hands sliding from your face down to your hips. He’d take you here. Right now. But he remembers the last time he tried to fuck you on your kitchen table, it ended with him choking on the barrel of your gun as you yelled at him for being gross (“I eat on this table, you heathen!”) and he’s not particularly in the mood to set off your temper now that he finally has you in his arms again, so it’s with much restraint that he grabs you by the hips to walk you back into your bedroom.

He can hardly concentrate as your fingers twist the hair at the nape of his neck, soft moans slipping from his lips, muffled against your mouth. It’s only sheer instinct and muscle memory that has him making his way from the kitchen and down the hall. He can’t bring himself to separate his lips from yours for even a second. And he’s a mess because he’s not coherent enough to force himself to breathe properly through his nose, so his lungs are burning and his head feels a bit light, but he doesn’t care so long as it means he can keep kissing you.

Turn left, turn right, second door from the end of the hall. 

His fingers fumble for the knob of your bedroom door, pushing it open a bit too hard, considering the way he hears it slam against the wall and how you tug his hair hard in retaliation. He doesn’t care, moans a bit louder even when your nails scrape his stinging scalp, and you let out a derisive noise against his lips before biting down hard enough to draw blood.

The taste of iron makes a slow smile curl at his lips, walking you back toward the bed, and it’s only when your knees hit the edge that you finally pull away from him. “If you broke my door, you’re fixing it, Osamu.”

Dazai’s smile is lecherous. “I’m gonna break something alright,” he croons, relishing in the way you immediately roll your eyes at him. It’s all so familiar—he can almost pretend that he never left, that nothing has changed since the two of you were eighteen, dumb, reckless, and in love.

Before he can press you back against the bed, he feels your fingers drop from around his neck to his waistband, curling around his belt loops. In an instant, you’ve twisted the both of you around, and suddenly, it’s the back of Dazai’s knees pressed against the edge of the bed as you push him down onto the mattress. He hits the sheets with an ‘oof’ and a hazy smile, surrounded by the scent of you, drowning in the sight of you. He thinks he might be in heaven. 

You shift on top of him, straddling his waist; Dazai’s hands instantly come to rest on your thighs, sliding up the sides to grab your ass and pull you more firmly onto him. He groans when he feels you grind down against his cock, and god, he’s already hard just from kissing you. He hears you snort above him, but Dazai doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed.

His lips part in a silent moan as you lean down to ghost kisses along his jaw, hands sliding up his chest. He feels you wrap your fingers around his bolo tie and tug it, you let out a sharp noise of distaste against his skin before murmuring: “I hate this ugly thing.”

He lets out a huff of laughter that quickly breaks off into a moan when your lips trail to the spot behind his ear that always makes him writhe. His fingers bite into your hips, pushing you down on him as he rocks his hips up into you—shit, he might be able to cum just from this. His cock is straining painfully against his beige pants, twitching as he grinds up against your clothed cunt. He thinks maybe if he fucks his hips upward a few more times, he might be able to push himself over the edge, but as desperate as he is to chase his release, he refuses to cum anywhere but inside of you.

Plus, he thinks he’ll be shamed to hell and back if he finishes in his pants with you hardly touching him. 

“Then strip me out of it,” he gasps, lashes fluttering as your teeth graze his pulse point right above the edge of his bandages. Fuck, he’d give anything for you to bite down—riddle him with marks he can’t cover so he can flaunt them off to everyone who looks at him. Dazai knows that there are countless men and women out there who’d die to be able to be called yours, he wants them to know he’s the only one who can take that honor. “What’re you waiting for?” 

You hum and then sit back on his hips—he bites his bottom lip raw as you unintentionally put even more pressure on his cock. He’s half dazed out, not realizing that your grip tightened on his bolo tie until you straight up yank it off of him, snapping the string around his neck.

“No!” he complains, watching with wide eyes and parted lips as you fling the now-broken bolo tie off to the side of your room. “Noooo, why’d you do that? I’m going to have to order a new one.”

“Boo-hoo,” you say dryly, hardly paying attention to him as your fingers curl around the hem of his vest, pulling it up over his head, snorting when he lets out a puff of irritation as his nose gets caught around the collar. 

“This is so unsexy,” he protests, rubbing his nose. “Shouldn’t you be more gentle?” 

“Stop wearing so many layers of clothes,” you retort, but Dazai is placated when you lean back down to kiss the corner of his lips, lashes fluttering as his eyes slide shut. He lets out a pleased hum as you kiss down his jaw, nimble fingers unbuttoning his final layer of clothing. He wishes he wore an undershirt just to watch you huff in annoyance. His breath catches as you nip at his skin and then murmur, “This better?” 

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice wavering as you get down to the last button of his shirt, sliding it off of his shoulders and easing him out of it. His body shudders as your hands slide over the bandages wrapped around his abdomen. Fuck, it’s been so long since anyone’s touched him beneath his clothes, even with the bandages still acting as a layer between the two of you, his nerves are on end, sensitive to everywhere your fingers touch.

He wonders if you’ll pull off the bandages—it’s a line that the two of you only crossed once back then, and although the idea of it has him brimming with anxiety, he longs for the feeling of your skin flush to his.

He almost feels a bit embarrassed when you sit back again to admire him as if there’s not a scar-ridden body hidden beneath the bandages. You look at him like he’s beautiful, like he’s not a monster disguised as a man, like he’s human. Dazai has always felt distinctly seen beneath your stare like you can see through all of the masks he wears and see him for him, and that has not changed over the past four years.

He’s missed the comfort of it. He has. It used to unnerve him back then, thinking someone could see him so clearly when he tried so hard and so carefully to hide himself beneath layers of impenetrable masks, but after going four years alone, with no one for him to turn to, no one he could look at and have them just know what he’s thinking… 

Yosano once mentioned offhandedly that to be loved is to be seen, and Dazai thinks the only time he’s ever been seen—truly seen, down to his core, deep in his soul—is when he’s with you.

It was a very lonely four years without you.

“I thought about you every day,” Dazai tells you softly, the grip on your hips easing up as he looks up at you. “Made a list of places I wanted to bring you and then burned it because I never thought I’d get the chance to be with you again. Stared at old pictures of you all the time, couldn’t sleep without thinking about memories with you. Drank your favorite wine just so I could pretend I was tasting it off your lips.”

You bring your hand up to cup his cheek, and Dazai leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut again. He kisses your palm, humming softly when your thumb runs along his bottom lip.

“There wasn’t a single day I went without you crossing my mind,” you admit quietly and Dazai’s breath hitches as he stares up at you, dark eyes wide and lips parted. He thinks he should say something, anything really, but it’s a lost cause. You don’t seem to mind, luckily, because you only lean down to brush your lips against his again.

This kiss is softer than the last, lips trembling against yours as your tongue dances along his inner lip. He thinks his cheeks might feel wet but he doesn’t dare acknowledge it; you don’t either, only using your thumbs to brush away the tears as they spill over his cheeks.

“Are you really leaving again in the morning?” he finally asks, and he hates that his voice cracks over the words.

You hum in agreement, still hovering over him, still running your thumbs along his cheekbone. His lashes droop shut, but he forces them back open as you speak. “I am. Bright and early. Flight leaves at six.”

His gaze flickers to the left, over to where your alarm clock is set up on your nightstand. 

12:35

He looks back at you, eyes swimming with desperation.

You give him a soft, wry smile. “We should make the most of the night then, hm?”

He doesn’t waste any time on that.

His grip on your hip tightens, and in one swift motion, he flips the two of you around, elbows resting on the mattress on either side of your head as he hovers above you. Your eyes glitter as you give him a coy smile, and again, Dazai falls in love.

Then, he ruins the moment.

“Tell me how you fucked Chuuya.”

Your smile drops. “Osamu, what the fuck?”

“Tell me,” he pouts, nudging his nose against your cheek and peppering soft kisses on your cheek and down your neck. His knees drop to the bed on either side of your hips, holding up his weight as he reaches down to unbutton your slacks, sliding them off your body. A smile flickers onto his lips as his fingers graze your panties—drenched, finally, evidence that he’s not the only one so affected by this. “Tell me. Were you on top? Did he take you from behind? Was he rough? No, it’s Chuuya-”

“If you care so much about how Chuuya fucks, Osamu, how about you go fuck him yourself?” you interrupt him.

Dazai gags.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he says and then returns to his mission, fumbling with his own pants now as he tries to yank them and his briefs off, unable to hold back the relieved sigh when he finally frees his cock, unceremoniously tossing them to the floor. “Tell me.” 

“Why do you care so much, hm?” you ask, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. “I told you that you were better.”

You’re only trying to deflect from the question and he almost lets you succeed, partially placated, but he stays strong, leveling an unrelenting stare onto you as he waits for your answer. You sigh heavily, and he knows he’s won.

“Not rough,” you say as if Dazai hasn’t already come to that conclusion. Chuuya’s had a crush on you since the three of you were sixteen. Dazai assumed he had grown out of it, but evidently, he was wrong, considering he took the opportunity to sleep with Dazai’s girlfriend—because you were his girlfriend—the moment Dazai was out of the picture. What a little snake. Dazai needs to vandalize his apartment again. Maybe set up a few more bombs. He’s only drawn back from his mental spiral when you start talking again: “He took the lead. Wanted to see my face the whole time, make sure I was okay.”

“How gentlemanly of him,” Dazai says—he’s not bitter. He’s not.

“It was,” you agree, too genuinely.

Dazai squints at you hard. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say. “You asked.”

“You don’t need to sound so wistful.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Osamu, I’m not wistful.”

“How-”

“Are we going to talk about Nakahara Chuuya all night, or are you going to fuck me?” you interrupt immediately, looking increasingly incensed. Dazai only raises his chin at you pointedly—you’re the one that slept with Chuuya. “Time is dwindling, Osamu.”

Okay. 

Dazai’s gaze flickers back to the clock and then back down to you, withering a bit under your irritated stare. He sighs and leans back over you to kiss the corner of your lips, fingers curling around the hem of your panties to slide them off your legs.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his kisses linger against your skin now as he drags his lips down to your jaw. “The thought of him being with you…”

It makes Dazai want to do terrible things. The part of him that he locked up deep within rattles at the bars of its cage, furious and bloodthirsty. The trigger finger he’s been so careful to tame twitches with a desire he hasn’t felt in four years. The thought of anyone being with you makes Dazai sick to his stomach—Dazai is the only one who should get to see you like this, be with you like this—but the thought of Chuuya being with you is so much worse.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, Osamu,” you tell him quietly, fingers intertwining with his hair as he nips at your neck. “No matter how much I slept around, nothing was ever able to fill the hole losing you left. Not even Chuuya.”

Dazai exhales, shaky—the guilt returns, and so does the doubt because what right does he have sitting here being petty about what you did while he was gone when he was the one who left you behind without so much as a word? His eyes flutter shut, he spares a few more chaste kisses across your throat before lifting his face back to yours, kissing you gently.

“Let me make up for lost time then,” he says softly.

He doesn’t hesitate now, one hand dropping down to your thigh, lifting it to wrap around his waist as he presses his hips into you. His breath shudders when his cock slips against your folds, a low moan spilling from his lips. He has to reach down to angle himself properly, tip pressing against your tight hole.

The fingers of his free hands are shaky as he lifts them to cup your cheek. “Look at me,” he says, heat spreading through his abdomen when he realizes you already can hardly hold your eyes open, quick breaths escaping your lips as you try to keep yourself from cumming already. “Look at me, I want to see you.”

Your eyes flutter open, lidded and heavy as you look up at him, and Dazai thinks that maybe he could cum just from the expression on your face alone, inhaling sharply as his thumb drags across your bottom lip. He thinks maybe he should try to get ahold of himself, fearing that if he pushes inside of you now, he might cum on the spot, but his cock is aching so badly that Dazai thinks he might die if he doesn’t feel your heat around him immediately.

It takes all of his strength to keep his eyes from sliding shut as he pushes inside of you, desperate to see the way your face twists and your breath catches. Your lips tremble, chest rising and falling rapidly, he can feel your thighs tightening around his waist, and Dazai groans when your heels dig into his lower back, forcing his hips flush to you, burying his cock deep in your cunt. He chokes, grip on your thigh bruising; his abdomen tightens, and his head feels light.

No way, he thinks, gritting his teeth as he tries to hold back the waves of pleasure threatening to tear through him. He hears you let out a huff of laughter beneath him, and Dazai would shut you up with a sharp thrust of your hips, but he’s still desperately trying to regain control over himself, so he thinks that’s maybe not the best idea.

His forehead drops to rest on the pillow next to your head, lips brushing your ear as he lets out a low moan. He can’t even savor the way you let out a full-body shudder, fingers coming up to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. Fuck, you’re so tight—Dazai can feel your walls tightening around him, spasming, his breath is shaky, and he tries to distract himself by pressing his lips to your skin, mouthing messily at your skin, sucking and nipping and counting to ten as he tries to settle down.

But it’s hard with the soft sighs you’re letting out, the way your fingers catch on his tousled hair, tugging enough to make his scalp sting. His head is so fogged that he can hardly think straight—god, he’s missed this, he hasn’t had the comfort of letting himself go like this in… since he left, really. His mind is always turning, plotting out ten, twenty, thirty steps in advance in fear of making a mistake, slipping up and letting the rest of the Agency see him for what he is, slipping up and their lives being the price just like with Odasaku. It’s only with you that’s ever comfortable enough to finally let the cogs in his brain slow and shatter, lose himself in carnal pleasures, lose himself in you; it’s been four years since he’s last had a reprieve from his own brain.

But he only lets himself slip halfway—tonight isn’t going to be about him, it’s about you. He has four years to make up for and he intends on getting a good start on it tonight.

He pants quietly as he lifts his head enough to bite your earlobe, tugging it gently before pressing his lips to your temple. “I’ve missed this,” he admits, voice raspy and clogged thick with emotion. “I’ve-”

He can hardly get the words out, and his breath catches when your hands slide from behind his head to cup his cheeks, forcing him to look at you. He thinks he must look wrecked—he can already feel the sweat beading on his forehead, and he knows his eyes are probably glazed over. You still look stunning, a soft expression on your face as you look up at him as if he’s not buried to the hilt inside of you. 

Unfair, he thinks mournfully. 

“What're you still holding onto, hm?” you ask, and Dazai only barely registers your words, sinking into your touch as you brush matted hair out of his eyes. He can finally bring himself to roll his hips—experimental, slow, trying to make sure he can actually move before trying to fuck you. Then you sigh softly, and he’s too out of it to try to make out the expression on your face as you say: “You work yourself so hard… always have. I’ve got you, you can let go, Dazai. C’mon.”

“No,” he hums, but his voice is strained, evidence of his struggle. “Tonight’s about my favorite girl.”

“Favorite?” you tease, lifting your shoulders off the bed to ghost a kiss against his lips that nearly has his hips stuttering—the conversation so reminiscent of one that the two of you had at seventeen it almost makes him smile.

“Only,” he amends quietly, kissing your nose, then the corner of your lips, and then nipping your jawline.

Just when he thinks he’s good to actually start picking up the pace, intent on fucking the thoughts out of you until you forget about your stupid flight in the morning, he catches a suspicious expression on your face, one that has his eyes narrowing.

“What?” he asks dubiously; your eyes are glittering in a way that he knows from experience is dangerous. 

You don’t say anything, just look pointedly at your thighs, then up to his shoulders. Dazai tilts his head to the side, recognizing what you want, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slides your legs up above his shoulders, folding them to your chest, eyes nearly rolling back at the new angle. Fuck, his hips do stutter this time, breath hitching. He has to readjust again, mentally focus on not cumming on the spot, and then-

And then you say: “He had my legs like this.”

A trick. 

Dazai knows it. 

You’re trying to make him let go of the thin thread of self-control he still has. To give in. To let all of the gears in his brain finally fall apart for the first time in four years.

He knows it.

He falls for it anyway.

Dazai’s jaw tightens, gaze snapping down to you only to catch a goading look in your eyes, a sly smile on your lips that Dazai has every intention of fucking right off your face. He inhales sharply, one hand sliding up your body to grab your chin, blunt nails digging a bit too deeply into your cheeks.

“Yeah?” he says, voice rough. 

Your lashes flutter and lips part as Dazai pointedly jerks his hips up. Your breath catches over a moan, and Dazai knows that this new angle is affecting you just as much as it is him.

“Mhm,” you agree, and just like that, the thin thread snaps.

He snaps his hips into you so hard that your bedframe bangs loudly against the wall behind it, quickly setting a steady pace, nice and deep, quick enough that you can’t even get a breath of air to your lungs before Dazai is fucking it right out of you. Already, he’s so fucked out that his mind is in shambles, one hand settling on your hip to hold you in place as he thrusts his hips into you, hitting that sweet spot with each stroke while his other hand, still cupping your face, slides down to your neck.

He doesn’t squeeze—wouldn’t dare to cut off the pretty noises spilling from your lips, moans of his names, choked gasps and cries between each rock of his hips—but the fact that you trust him, him, enough to have his fingers wrapped around your throat is always a quick way make him topple over the edge.

His eyes dart down to your chest, realizing, very unfortunately, that you haven’t taken off your button-up yet. He nearly bites down on his tongue in frustration as his hand comes down to your chest, careful to keep the pace of his hips as he hooks his fingers around the first button just to yank down, popping off half of the buttons of your expensive dress shirt and haphazardly pulling it off of you to toss it to the side before fumbling with the clip of your bra.

“Osamu,” you hiss, and Dazai revels in the way your voice wavers with each thrust, biting back moans. “That’s the second-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence. Dazai tosses your bra over with your discarded shirt and dips his head down to wrap his lips around your nipple, tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before rolling it between his teeth, and you’re gone—Dazai lets out a muffled groan around you as your back arches up into him, crying out his name, walls tightening around him as you cum on his cock.

“Oh-f-hah-fuck,” Dazai gasps as he rests his head on your collarbone, grip on your waist tightening. 

He has to physically force himself to lift his head, bracing his forearm on the mattress next to your head, desperate to see the way your eyes roll back, he can already feel himself teetering over the edge—the lewd sound of skin-on-skin, the sloppiness of his cock driving in and out of your cunt, he can feel your cum dripping down his cock, smeared on his pelvis.

His hand slides behind your head, lifting it from where you have it pressed against the mattress. Beautiful—the only thought that can run through his hazy brain is of you and how perfect you are, lips swollen and bitten raw, parted as pitched moans escape them, tears spilling from the corner of your eyes as he fucks you through your orgasm and right into a second. He’s the only one that should ever get to see you like this, with your clever brain fucked right and dumb, body writhing against the bed as you cling to him.

He leans down again, trailing sloppy kisses against your neck, gasping as he starts to feel his high approaching.

“No one makes you feel like this,” he says, or maybe he begs, he’s not sure if he’s making a statement or pleading for you to tell him it’s the truth. “Tell me. T-shit-tell me.”

“No one,” you sob over another moan, and Dazai can feel your pussy fluttering around him—he wonders if he’s already fucked you into a third. Usually, it takes longer. “No one, Osamu, you’re the only one.”

And that’s the only thing he needed to hear to give him that final push. His steady pace shifts into a more erratic one, sloppy and desperate, as he chases a high that’s just out of reach. His moans are muffled against your skin, teeth scraping your collarbone, mind a jumbled mess of thoughts of you. He feels your fingers trembling as you lift them to his cheeks, pulling his face up to press your lips against his, and that’s all it takes: he lets out a wanton moan against your mouth, pressing your legs further into your chest as his hips still against your ass, finishing deep inside of you.

Spots dance in his vision, head buzzing and ears ringing; he swears his orgasm lasts an eternity, body shaking and shuddering above you, letting out breathy moans into your mouth. He can feel his cum dribbling out of you, pooling onto the sheets beneath the two of you, so much of it that you can’t even keep it all in you. 

He doesn’t let his lips leave yours once—the kisses are messy and sloppy, devoid of all of the finesse that the two of you usually have, teeth nearly clashing, tongues sliding against each other’s. 

It’s only when his vision finally starts to clear and his head feels less on the verge of passing out does Dazai finally trails kisses from your lips to your jaw and down your neck before he finally collapses on top of you, mind entirely gone, like he’s floating on clouds. He pants as he tries to catch his breath, eyes lidded as he absently trails kisses along your chest and collarbone. He thinks the world could be ending around the two of you, and Dazai wouldn’t even have the capacity to notice. For the first time in four years, he really, truly allows his brain to rest.

He doesn’t know how much time passes, eyes drooping shut as he lets himself be enveloped by your arms, drowning in the comfort of your scent.

He doesn’t want to know. He’s scared to look at the clock and check.

“Tonight was supposed to be about you,” Dazai finally complains, burying his face in your chest as he pouts.

You only let out a soft laugh above him. “We have the rest of our lives for that… You deserved a break, Osamu.”

The rest of our lives.

Dazai’s throat tightens, vision blurring a bit at the thought—he can only barely bring himself to respond, and the words that slip out are not what he means to say: “I never thought I’d get to be with you like this again,” he admits, voice hoarse. “I never thought-”

“I know,” you interrupt, voice quiet, a bit shaky. “... I know.”

Of course, you know.

He can’t bring himself to say anything else, so he doesn’t, sinking into your arms and allowing himself the comfort he’s deprived himself of for so long. He almost starts to drift off—and god, he can’t remember the last time he’s dozed off willingly, only able to sleep after drinking copious amounts of alcohol or taking an even more copious number of sleeping pills. It’s not until you speak again does he stir back awake from the brink of sleep.

“What did he ask of you? Oda, I mean,” you finally ask, fingers brushing through his dark hair, lulling him further to sleep.

Dazai thinks that you’re cruel, asking him while his mind is still fogged from the exhaustion following his high, and he’s still half asleep in your arms, trying to regain his bearings. The words slip out before he can think twice, forgetting his fear of you laughing at the idea of him trying to be a better man.

“He asked me to be on the side that saves people… if both are the same to me, he wanted me to be a good man.”

The words dawn on him too late; he can hardly bring himself to look up at you, scared that he’s going to find an amused expression on your face or a derisive sneer. He wouldn’t blame you, he’s thought the same about himself ever since he left the Port Mafia, doubt and self-loathing riddling him with every step he takes in the light. He waits for the scoff, he waits for the laugh, he waits for-

“... I think he would be proud of who you’ve become, Osamu. I think you’ve fulfilled his request.”

Dazai does look up at you now, feeling particularly vulnerable, still scared that he might find a mocking expression on your face but he doesn’t. Only an uncharacteristically soft expression is painted on your face as you look up at the ceiling, a genuine one—a small smile and a look in your eyes that makes his heart feel warm. You don’t notice him looking until he lets slip out:

“I’ve missed you so much,” he whispers. 

(I love you, he means)

“I’ve missed you too,” you say back quietly.

(I love you too)

#dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai smut #dazai osamu x reader #dazai osamu smut #dazai osamu x you #bsd x reader #bsd smut #bsd x you #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungo stray dogs smut #bungo stray dogs x you

[midnightorchids]

Hey babe- I wanted to know how you felt about booknerd!reader x Jason. Because it's been rotting my brain forever now and I need to know what someone as genius as yourself thinks about it. So like- We know Jason is a book girl. He's got huge floor to ceiling shelves in his apartment filled with non-fiction, historical fiction, classics, and maybe a few Si-Fi titles. I feel like he would love Toni Morison, Maya Angelou, Henrik Isben, Margret Atwood, and maybe even Harukai Murakami. He has this beautiful collection of leather bond additions of the Iliad Bruce gave him when he was 16. And when he finally invites you over, he cannot contain his excited smile as you start gushing over his home library. He makes you guys coffee and you spend hours talking about your fav genres, authors, online author drama - and after he's walking back to his apartment after dropping you off, he's smiling down at his phone at the message you sent. 'I had so much fun today! Ur library is so so so cool, was wondering if you would be ok going with me to Chapters next week? Wanted to pick up the new Skyward book' He's kicking his feet and hiding his face in his pillow. So deeply overjoyed that his crush shares in his immense love of literature. After you guys officially get together, he buys you so many fucking books. He fallows your goodreads wishlist religiously and surprises you almost every month with a new addition to your growing collection. He usually collects used paper backs, but for you, he splurges on the hardcover special additions. Of course it's because he loves you but it's also so that, maybe, you'll be more incentivised to move into a different apartment. One with floor-to-ceiling book shelves and a shared bed... just saying.. He branches out into more genres and authors he wouldn't usually read from just so he could talk about your favourite books with you. You do the same - your book collections getting mixed together in the process. Library dates, bookstore dates, used-bookstore dates. Your first couple of dates and realisations of love happened in and around books. You would always leave little messages inside the first page of the books you give him. So that if your every away or he's on a mission and he takes a book with him, he'll have one of your small messages of love as a reminder of something to return home to.

Hi hon!! I’m so sorry for the late response, I’ve been dying with uni and just life in general recently, but I’m back and ready to write again!!

I fully agree with almost everything that you said, like you’ve written it out so well and it’s just so cute! I was literally giggling and kicking my feet at the last one omg.

I shall try to add more stuff!!

Jason’s go to present for his loved ones is annotated copies of his favourite books. He only does this when he feels comfortable with a person because sharing his thoughts feels raw and vulnerable sometimes.

Having a significant other who loves to read and appreciates these types of gifts would make him feel happy and very emotional. It’s not often he gets to share this side of himself with people.

When he gifts his copies to his friends or his partner, he feels like he’s leaving a piece of him with the person, so he only does this when he trusts you.

He leaves detailed little messages on the margins of his books. He draws little smiley faces on the cute parts and angry faces on the parts that made him upset.

In the books for his significant other, Jason leaves little notes around the quotes that remind him of you. He highlights them in a different colour and makes sure his notes look extra tidy.

He sucks at wrapping things, so sometimes you’ll get a very poorly wrapped, tape covered novel. You’ll look at the wrapping and laugh, you’d pinch his cheeks teasingly and tell him he did a good job. He’d turn his face away in embarrassment, which leads to you placing a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Then, there would be times where he doesn’t have the energy to deal with the horrible wrapping paper. So, you’ll be gifted a plain paper back with a sticky note on the front cover that reads ‘for you,’ in squiggly lines.

It’s honestly sweet and he gets very shy about it.

Also, Jason’s taste in books is very diverse, he reads anything from the classics to romance to gothic horror. He reads anything and everything and because of that, I think that it would be very easy for you to share your thoughts and recommendations with him.

Even if Jason hasn’t read the book, he listens intently with a huge smile on his face. He loves listening to you talk. If he doesn’t know the author or the book, he will try to familiarize himself with what you’re reading and branch into different genres.

There would be lots of reading and bookstore dates. You’d browse through the different aisles with his hand in yours, only letting go when a particular book catches your attention. He watches you in awe as you gush about the different series.

(Side note, my friends and I always go to bookstores and just point out the worst books we’ve read and I think Jason would do that too.)

As you search through the shelves to find your next read, he’ll come to you all excited, rambling about the book in his hand. From the looks of it, it seems like he loves the book. His hands are moving around, he’s smiling and giggling, but if you pay attention, he’s actually just cussing out the author.

This becomes a tradition in your relationship. You both bring up books that you hate instead of the ones that you really enjoy. You’d spend the next hour of your bookstore visit just giggling at the random passages that the author thought were good enough to share with the world.

I think this would also lead to a book club of reading awful books sometimes just for shits and giggles. There would be weeks where you would read amazing, well written stories together, but then there would be times when you guys would pick up something bad just to make fun of it.

Overall, Jason would love having a book nerd significant other because he finally has someone who he can geek out with.

#gn!reader #jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood imagine #jason todd headcanon #red hood headcanon #batfam

[1800-fight-me]

Death and His Lady

Death!Aemond Targaryen x Female Assassin!Reader

Rating: E (Explicit - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT)

Warnings: Extreme violence, explicit smut, allusions to reader having prior trauma

Word count: Almost 6k

Synopsis: As the King's assassin, Death becomes your most trusted confidant, but his influence along with unexpected events lead you down a path you never thought you'd walk.

Author’s note: I have literally been so excited about this fic I can't even deal with it!! Here's another gothic horror romance vibez fic from me! Thank you so much @lauraneedstochill for the beta read! Also the new trailer has me freaking all the way out so here we go! This fic is a rollercoaster ride and I really hope y'all enjoy it!!

I do not have a taglist! Instead if you would like to be notified when I post new fics follow my side blog @jo-writes-fanfic and turn your post notifications on!

Aemond Masterlist

You courted with Death in this endeavor, that you were certain. 

Death must be enamored with you, given how many times you have brushed against it. Once, Death held even you in his arms, his embrace warm, but you spun free before he could sink his claws in you. 

This time, you weren’t sure you’d be able to outwit him. 

Like a fox evading a hound, you toyed with Death, amused at his growing frustration at your continued escapes. 

If you’re being completely honest with yourself, you enjoyed being chased as much as you believed he enjoyed chasing you. 

But now, as blood spurted from your lips, your vision hazy, you thought you might very well fully succumb to Death’s clutches today. 

“No,” you groaned as the vision of him flickered in your view. 

White hair, pale skin, one eye of sapphire and one of violet, a jagged scar down his face, clothes of all black to match the black feathered wings at his back.  

He looked like an angel- the fallen avenging kind, and he smirked as he cocked his head at you, the promise of conquest in his gaze. 

There was a yearning deep in your chest, a desire to have his attentions on you and only you, a pull that left you intoxicated at the sight of him. Perhaps that was why you continued this game. 

It was one you could only ever lose.

The wooden chair you were tied to as the men mercilessly beat you groaned in protest from the backwards momentum of your body as your enemy landed another punch, blood spurting again. 

You were too far gone for quick witted comebacks, for speaking at all. Being the king’s most trusted spy and assassin was always a dangerous job, but one you flourished in. 

Today, however, was particularly dangerous it seemed. You couldn’t even remember what information the men wanted from you anymore. 

It didn’t matter, you would never give anything away, you’d sooner greet Death like an old friend than betray your kingdom. 

He flickered in your vision once again. His savage beauty was a welcome sight. Like a fallen prince. Like an avenging angel. Like your heart’s darkest desires. 

Perhaps it would be a relief to sink into his embrace, to give up, to cease the fight. 

His expression changed, no longer self satisfactory, no-  he looked angry with you as he strode across the dank dungeon to stand before you. 

Time paused completely and you let out a gasping breath of relief as fists paused from meeting your skin. 

He leaned down so his face was close enough that your nose nearly brushed his, like a lover would, but no- fury  filled his gaze. 

“Fight,” he growled at you. 

“I can’t,” you gasped. 

“You can and you will,” he ordered, “you will not give up and die. Today is not the day.” 

Some deep primal part of you woke at those words, at the steel in his tone, at his orders. And the rage and fury inside of him reminded you of your own and it filled you once more. Filled you to fight, to survive.

You would not lay down and die today. 

He smirked as he saw the change in your eyes. He brushed a whisper of a kiss to your lips, soft and swift enough that it hardly even counted as a real kiss, but it ignited a flame in you and when your eyes fluttered back open, he was gone. 

The tie around your wrists had been cut and as time started again, you caught the fist aimed at your face and you fought. 

You gave Death a tribute as your torturers met their bitter end at your violent hands. 

Maybe that was why he had always seemed willing to let you go, you mused, you were practically his handmaiden with the amount of souls you gave him, the amount of lives you ended brutally. 

You walked out of that dungeon battered and bloody, but alive enough to continue your game with Death, to live for another day. 

This game had gone on for years, but never once had he interfered the way he did today, never once had he prevented you from passing over into his realm. No, every other time it had been your own grit and guile. 

Today, Death showed his hand when he prevented you from dying. 

He enjoyed the chase as much as you did, that you were certain, and you were determined to continue it.  

————————————————————

You knelt before your king and the silver white of his hair brought up the memory of your obsession. They say that Targaryens are closer to gods than men. Your death god was testimony of that. 

Once, when curiosity won over practicality, you spend days in the royal library researching and reading about all of the Targaryen ancestors until you found a book weathered and brown from age that contained artist renditions and you found him. 

Your personal demon was Aemond Targaryen, rider of the legendary Vhagar, harbinger of death even in his mortal life. 

You read everything you could about his life, drinking in every aspect of his personality that you could learn about him. You were infatuated, perhaps even loved him after his actions to save you. 

Your king told you to rise and you reported to him the events of the past few days, leaving out details about your kiss with Death. 

The king’s looks were nowhere near the godlike chiseled beauty of his ancestor, you mused as he told you of your next mission. Although it’s not like you were one to talk, earlier as healers cleaned off all the blood and stitched up your cuts, you looked at your reflection in the mirror and had to look away from your bruised and battered form, you were nearly unrecognizable. 

“Rest for a few days, then take your leave,” the King ordered. 

“Yes, your majesty,” you bowed, then left the throne room. 

You retreated to your chambers and immediately tumbled into bed. Sleep took you swiftly and deeply, and like the night after every other near Death experience, he was waiting for you in your dreams. 

You asked him once how it worked, and he explained that the veil was always thin after your near crossovers, and he was able to influence your dreams. 

And influence them he did… you whimpered as his cock filled you to the absolute brim. 

He grunted and pulled your lips to his, tongue tangling with your own, and you wrapped your thighs around his trim waist pulling him closer, wanting him as close as possible. 

The angle changed and you shivered, despite the heat of his sweat slicked skin, as he hit the spot inside of you that made you forget anything but him. 

“Aemond,” you moaned and he stopped his movement, became still as Death. 

“How do you know that name?” He asked, his hand on the side of your neck as he pulled back enough to meet your gaze. 

His voice was low and cold, dangerous. 

You took a shuddering breath. 

“I researched, I needed to know more about the one who haunts me,” you said, putting steel in your voice despite your nerves. 

Amusement flickered in his expression, “I knew I picked the right woman.” 

“You probably say that to all the assassins you save,” you teased. 

He chuckled darkly and you clenched down on his length where he still remained inside you. 

His chuckle turned into a growl and he unleashed himself on you, filling you and your heart’s blackest desire. 

In the darkest part of the night his sounds of ecstasy tangled with your own until you both found release in one another, the type of release you’d never found with anyone else, and a feeling of comfort and satisfaction unlike any other filled your chest. 

With him, you felt whole, but that feeling dwindled as you woke the next morning in your bed alone. 

————————————————————

“Lady Death,” the pirate king before you said in an attempt to flatter you. 

His handsomeness was average, nothing exciting or remotely comparable to the sharp features of your devilishly handsome death god. 

His words clanged inside you and hit upon something true and vital. But, you could not show your reaction. 

“Skull King,” you replied, your lips pursed as you lifted your chin. 

He laughed, like a sword scraping over stones, and your hand drifted towards the dagger strapped to your thigh. 

“You are more beautiful than any descriptions I’ve ever heard,” he said. 

“I do not leave many alive to describe me,” you said back with considerable bite in your tone. 

He merely laughed once more and waved a hand at you. 

“Let us cease with the back and forth and discuss why I am truly here,” you demanded. 

“What does your king want?” He asked with a sigh. 

“For you to cease your pillaging of the costal villages,” you said. 

He narrowed his eyes at you, “And why would he send you to negotiate with me?” 

“He knew you would not want or need riches as a bribe. I offer you my services. In exchange for no longer attacking our villages, I will assassinate an enemy of your choice,” you explained. 

His broad feral grin was an answer in itself. 

————————————————————

“Lady Death Lady Death Lady Death” a deep dark voice hissed at you from the inky black. 

Eyes blinked open, shining bright, one sapphire and one violet, and you jolted awake. 

You took a shuddering breath, your skin slick with sweat. It had been weeks since you’d seen or heard from Death, and you’d spend that time trying to forget about your last encounter, though your efforts were entirely futile. 

But the pirate king’s words to you yesterday had shaken something awake inside you. 

You shook your head and arose from your bed, as you readied yourself, strapping an ungodly amount of weapons to your body, you cleared your mind and prepared yourself for another day of offering your midnight lover tributes. 

You crept across rooftops, having spent the entire day and most of the night tracking the Skull King’s most bitter rival. 

Honestly this whole rivalry seemed trivial to you, but you would do as you were bid. 

The man was a piss-poor drunk, having bought himself and the whole bar rounds and rounds of drinks. You watched through the crack in the ceiling as he pulled a barmaid onto his lap despite her protests. 

Certainly, now you were more than happy to be the bringer of his death. You gritted your teeth and reminded yourself of patience as he squeezed her curves and she pushed off him, managing to disentangle herself from his drunk and reeking presence. 

He yelled after her, slurred and vile words that had you gripping your favorite dagger. 

Just wait, just wait, just wait, you reminded yourself. There was to be only one death tonight. If you unleashed yourself now the death toll would be far too great and the act would be sloppy, more easily tracked and blame pinned quickly on the guilty parties. 

So you continued to watch and finally when he stumbled to the alley to relieve himself as you knew he would, you crept off the roof and hid yourself in the shadows. 

Death himself stood there where the rogue pirate should be. Your heart stumbled but you managed to stop yourself from gasping. 

“My lady,” he purred and bowed. Death bowed before you then stepped aside and gestured to the man you were targeting, the man whose life only had moments left. 

As Aemond faded back into the shadows, you knew he was still watching, and you blinked twice, gave yourself a second for one steadying breath, then moved. 

The man’s back was to you and it took little effort to leap upon his back and slit his throat. 

Blood sprayed and you jumped off his back, retreating quick enough that as his body fell to the ground, it did not hit you. 

You waited the moments it took for the gurgling noise of him choking on his own blood to cease and made certain he was well and truly in Death’s grasp before you yanked the ring off his finger, the proof of a job well done, and turned to leave. 

Before you turned completely, you saw Death as he crouched over the bloodied body, he shot you a wink and you shuddered as you ran off. 

You covered your tracks, and when you were certain there would be no possibility of the death being traced back to you, you returned to the office of the Skull King. 

You slipped through the shadows and waited for him, lounging in his chair like you owned it- like it was your throne. 

When he entered, you threw a knife so that it buried itself in the wall close enough to his head that he felt the whisper of its kiss. 

He glared at you and you smirked. 

“It’s done,” you said and threw the ring at him. 

He caught it, his expression torn between impressed and still angry at your nonverbal threat. 

“It needn’t be said, but I can end your life just as easily should you not uphold your end of the bargain,” you said. His face blanched at the tone of your voice, the look in your eye that held Death. 

He nodded slightly and with one more smirk at him, you vanished into the dark. 

You scrubbed the blood off you and prepared yourself for a night’s rest before beginning your journey back to King’s Landing. 

————————————————————

This was the first night Death appeared to you in your dreams even though you hadn’t nearly greeted him in the afterlife. 

“How?” You asked breathlessly as his lips broke from yours to create a blazing trail of fire across your jaw and down the side of your neck. 

“You are mine, and as you do your king’s bidding- slaughtering - our bond strengthens and so does your power,” he said and then ran his tongue up the column of your throat. 

You gasped and you couldn’t tell if it was due to his words or his tongue. 

You are mine. You are mine. You are mine. 

The words echoed in your brain as his lips trailed down your body to your core where he pleasured you with that wicked tongue. 

Every time you killed after that night, he appeared in your dreams, joining your bodies in ecstacy and strengthening that connection. 

He appeared in a vision every time you unleashed yourself in violence and spilled blood, ending lives, and living up to your new infamous title that rippled across the seven kingdoms, Lady Death.

You no longer lived in the shadows, you became the shadows within men fell. 

————————————————————

In the following months, the King kept you busier than ever. You weren’t certain if it was due to the power that your growing reputation provided him or if he wanted to keep you away, that same reputation striking fear into his own heart. 

Lately you hardly completed a mission before you received correspondence from the King with instructions for your next kill. 

He kept you far away from King’s Landing. It was fine with you, that den of vipers was never your home anyway. You didn’t have a true home. Perhaps that was why the embrace of Death felt like home. 

These days you hardly scrubbed the blood off you before you were covered in more. You killed nearly daily. Your connection with Death strengthened, to the point that his presence became near constant, in your waking hours and in your dreams. 

The more he appeared, the more you could feel it, that sensation like something prowled beneath your skin begging to burst forward and shatter the world. 

There had been no mention again of powers, but yet you could feel them growing. 

Months passed, and the first time they manifested, you leveled a building. 

You were trapped, well and truly, and it was due to your careless fatal mistake, overconfidence having become a rampant part of your personality due to your successes, and the strength of the death god who worshiped you. 

You were surrounded, having not been careful enough to ensure your targets were alone, too cocky that you wouldn’t be followed, and now you fought against twelve men.

”Kill them,” Aemond hissed from where he stood behind you, his rage growing stronger and directly influencing your own emotions. 

You could not determine where his emotions began and yours ended, so entangled the two of you had become. 

You tried, you used all of your skill, all of your strength, and it was not enough as the sword sunk into your gut. 

You hadn’t been this close to joining Death in the afterlife in a long while. 

“End them, destroy, and take what is yours,” Aemond growled through clenched teeth. 

You knew he would not do it for you, if he did then you wouldn’t be who he thought you were, who he needed you to be, who he loved.  

And you could feel it again, that thing that prowled beneath your skin begging to be released. 

So you became Death Incarnate as liquid fire filled your eyes and soul and exploded from your body. Black cold flames that instantly killed everyone they touched. 

“Good,” Aemond urged, those same wild flames in his eye. He pressed a kiss to your throat and the flames only grew stronger. 

His hand grazed your stomach, healing the wound. 

Your chest heaved as you took ragged breaths and surveyed the carnage around you. 

The fire grew out of control as you started to panic, but with Death’s careful instruction, you grounded yourself and reeled it all back in. 

You stood, dead bodies littered the ground around you, and only moved when the building groaned and threatened to fall atop you. 

You walked out of the ruined structure side by side with Death, as it crumbled behind you, leaving devastation in your wake. 

————————————————————

One night, during a dream, as you lay breathless in his arms after you both reached such high peaks at one another’s tongues, you asked him the question that had been so heavy on your mind. 

“Why me?” you asked curiously. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers traced patterns on your back. You turned your head from its place in his neck- you were half lying on his chest, and looked over at his wing. 

“Why did you choose me?” 

He chuckled softly. “Never before have I seen someone turn Death into such a beautiful game. You intrigued me.” 

You brushed a finger down the most sensitive part of his wing and he shuddered. 

“And now?” you asked. 

“And now, sweet temptress, you have convinced me to devote the entirety of my eternal being to you,” he growled before flipping you over suddenly so you were beneath him. 

You grinned at him, breathless and in wonder, and had no words, so you simply pulled his mouth to yours and proved to him how utterly devoted you were to him as well. 

————————————————————

It took time and Aemond’s careful instruction- months as you continued killing daily, fulfilling the King’s requirements, but you learned to control your newfound powers, that death fire. Still you couldn’t hide their manifestation in your eyes when you were angry or prepared to kill. 

You stood before your King once more and offered a several months long report detailing your actions since you last saw him. 

“Do not leave out any details,” he warned you through narrowed eyes. 

You pursed your lips and revealed as little information as you could about this magic, these powers that have recently manifested, but enough to please him. 

You knew he’d gotten reports, you rarely left eyewitnesses, but still rumors spread, you could hardly downplay it. 

You saw the wariness in his expression. 

Death manifested at your side. 

“Kill him,” he murmured. 

You ignored him, continuing to report to the King. 

“When were you going to tell me of this new magic you wield?” He asked, distrust in his voice. 

“End him, take his power for your own, sit on the Iron Throne,” Death whispered in your ear, purring like a lover. 

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in months, my King, you’ve kept me busy far away from the Red Keep, one could only wonder why,” you said, with only a little bit of bite. 

The King narrowed his eyes at you once more. 

“I do not have to explain my decisions to you. Your role is to serve and not question,” he sneered. 

For the first time while you were awake, you could feel Aemond’s hands on you. The bond between the two of you was stronger than ever as he stood behind you and intertwined his fingers with yours. He slowly brought your intertwined hands down from the small of your waist to the front of your hip- threatening to go lower, an echo - a memory of the night before he knew he triggered by that action. 

You remembered your dream last night, in a very similar position except then you sat before a mirror as he guided you to touch yourself, to aid him in giving you release, insisting you watch yourself as you moaned his name in ecstacy and he poured honey filled praises in your ear. He pulled two releases from you, forcing your eyes back on yourself, before he finally filled you, and the sight of him inside you, both your expressions twisted in pleasure, was the most erotic sight of all. 

The memory flashed in your eyes and you saw his current actions for what they were, a blatant attempt at seduction, as he used that same deep velvety voice as when he was trying to make you come, as his lips grazed your ear and beautiful silver hair fell over your shoulder, as he said, “Kill him, my love.” 

And you thought… 

You thought he might be right. 

Maybe you should kill this condescending king. You were more powerful than him. You were more powerful than everyone but your lover, no, to Aemond you were his equal. 

His Lady Death, and maybe it was finally time to take what was your own, to use your skills and powers for yourself, not in the service of others, not in the service of a king who didn’t appreciate you. 

You indeed felt that power within you begin to rise to the surface. 

And the king blanched, fear changing his expression. 

“What are you?” He gasped. 

And just like that, the fire that had begun to build inside you, which you were sure was molten in your eyes, sputtered out as if water had been thrown on you. 

“Your loyal servant,” you murmured with a curtsey. 

Death growled his discontentment, but you ignored him. 

The king nodded, his lips pursed, and dismissed you. 

For the first time in a long long time, you were uncertain of your own actions and choices. 

————————————————————

Two weeks later, you were in the North with a list of targets from the king to dispatch. 

The image of the king’s fear of you constantly flashed in your mind, regret and pride creating an uncomfortable cocktail of emotions within you. 

The regret was waning as Death continued as your constant companion, seducing and urging you forward. 

Your days became routine, although it was a comforting routine. 

Wake up, eat, train your magic, prepare, kill, be rewarded in the form of Aemond fucking you, sleep, and do it all over again the next day. 

The last name on your list of kills in the North was one you were actually eager for. This kill you would savor rather than committing without feeling. This time, you were able to use your skills for both your King and your own gain. 

This man had been one of your tormentors in your youth, you’d never had the time to track him down after he fled from King’s Landing, and now you would grant him the slow painful death he deserved. 

He sat in his home, a candle in the window, and you knew the timing was right. You’d watched him for days and knew you had a window of time of about two hours before his preferred courtesan arrived. 

Hate had your heart beating like a drum, your power rising, but you stifled it. You had to be clear headed and you didn’t want to use your powers to grant him an instant death, no, he deserved something wholly different. You wanted to feel his death, his blood on your own hands. 

You snuck through the back door, through the broken lock you’d disabled the night before. 

You ensured you were well and truly alone- besides your Angel of Death, creeping through the dark house towards your quarry.

You stepped into the sitting room and relished the way his eyes widened in fear, then recognition as you threw back your hood. 

He breathed out a name, not one of your many titles, a name from a past life, a name no one besides Death knew, a name not even your king knew. 

The flames in your eyes guttered, replaced by cold rage. 

His eyes again filled with fear as you threw a dagger that embedded itself in his shoulder. 

A yell of pain and outrage as he tried to stand, but quick as an asp another dagger fled from your hand and buried itself into his other shoulder. 

Another dagger was in your hand, poised to throw if necessary. 

He gritted his teeth, blood flowing heavily, and you smirked. 

“Bitch,” he spat out. 

Aemond appeared behind you, and hissed in disapproval. 

Anger fell to cold terror as he beheld the Death God behind you. 

His haunting beauty, both terrible and great, that was the other side of the coin to your own- that made you the perfect pair. 

“You can see him?” you asked. 

He nodded and the smell of urine filled the room. 

“Interesting,” you murmured even as your nose wrinkled at him. 

“It’s high time I teach you what real fear feels like,” you purred, your words an echo of the ones he’d said to you in your girlhood. 

And show him you did. 

Even after you were done, your rage was a jagged thing in your chest that threatened to swallow you whole. You didn’t know how to put it back in that carefully constructed box that allowed you to play the part of the disinterested assassin. 

Aemond crouched over the body, pressing two fingers to the forehead, sending the soul to the afterlife- to eternal torment, as he always did after you killed. 

He was the beginning and end of the destruction you wreaked on others, on the world. 

Slaughter, that was what you had done today. You couldn’t decide if it made you feel better or worse. You supposed it didn’t matter, the man was no longer capable of hurting others the way he had hurt you. 

Death prowled to you, and you looked up at him, chest still heaving and beating hard from whatever today’s actions had both shattered and healed within it. 

He stood close enough that his steady chest brushed against yours. 

Dark flames danced in his gaze, the same that danced in your own when your emotions were heightened, you both had the same unholy powers as a result of your bond, your union. 

And you knew he understood you completely, when he said nothing, for there were no words that would soothe now, no he simply leaned down and kissed you, thoroughly and deeply. 

When he pulled back, only slightly, brushing his sharp nose against yours, he murmured, “You taste better when you mean it, when your heart is in the kill.” 

You let him make love to you in the blood spattered room. 

————————————————————

Your waking hours and dreams bled into one, so filled with him and the pleasure only he could provide. 

This was indeed one of those moments, where the release he pulled from you was so strong, so heady, that you could not be certain if you were awake or dreaming. 

You moaned as he gripped your hips and continued a brutal pace as he thrusted inside you. 

Your power, his power, flames of Death danced and burned in the bed along with you as he joined himself with you. 

You burned with heat, with love for the only one who truly understood you- your mirror image due to the brutality inside both of you. 

But suddenly, he stopped. 

“Wake up,” he ordered, an expression you’d never seen on his face before, something akin to panic. 

“What?” you asked in confusion. 

“Wake up!” he yelled, and at that primal dominance in his tone, you obeyed. 

You held in your gasp as your eyes opened and you beheld the scene before you. 

You were not alone. The room was filled with men all with weapons in their hands.  

“The king sends his regards,” the assassin in your bed hissed as he lifted a dagger to thrust it into your heart. 

You had less than a heartbeat to react. 

Just as the sharp tip of the dagger broke your skin, black flames exploded out of you, ravaging the room and everyone in it. 

You sat up, hand on your chest and blood coating your fingers, and surveyed your destruction.  

The room was filled with fire. Every man was instantly dead, and now your black flames turned them to ashes. 

Aemond stood in the center of your storm, and watched you, pride evident in his gaze. 

Betrayal twisted in your gut, making you feel sick, and you extinguished the fire. 

“He tried to kill me,” you rasped out. 

Your angel of death, your protector, your lover in life and death nodded. 

“He fears you and the power you hold. He is a jealous coward,” he said, cold anger filling every word. 

“You were right,” you whispered, hoping that if you said them quietly enough that they wouldn’t be true. 

He simply nodded again. 

And it finally sunk in. The king you had devoted your entire adult life to, the king you had defiled yourself for through all manner of heinous acts of bloodshed, had betrayed you. 

He had turned on you, quickly and easily, despite your continued loyalty. He’d sent a group of men to kill you in your sleep after you just finished killing everyone on his list. 

He always had someone else do his dirty work, the coward he is, but usually you’re the one he sends out. 

This time he’d sent others to kill you as if you were no more than a loose end, a task to check off his list, and inconvenience that had grown too taxing. 

You met the heavy gaze of Death and said, “I know what I have to do.” 

————————————————————

The entire journey back to the Red Keep Aemond reviewed and revised the plan with you over and over again. 

You were ready. You were prepared. 

All of the skills, techniques, and powers you had acquired you were going to use for your own gain, for yourself today - with Death at your side. 

No one knew the secret passages of the Red Keep better than the King’s Assassin. You crept in at night, using the darkness as a cloak and remaining completely undetected. 

You set yourself up high in the mezzanine above the throne room and settled in for a long wait. 

Patience was key to your plan, to all of your plans generally, but it didn’t mean that the fury didn’t still burn as hot as ever. 

You let the black flames twirl and dance around your fingers and promised yourself that this time, it would be different. This time, you would come out on top. 

Hours passed, your legs cramped, but you ignored it, waiting, waiting, waiting for the right moment. 

You watched as dawn broke, bathing the room in golden light that bounced off the Iron Throne. 

The king eventually sat on that throne, meeting with petitioners, and you continued your game of patience. 

Finally, the moment was right, the room was no longer teeming with people, but not empty enough that there wouldn’t be an audience. 

You leapt from your hiding spot and landed nimbly right before him. Shock and fear changed his previously bored expression. 

You smirked, a cutting spiteful thing, as you stood. 

There was yelling from the king’s guards, but your midnight fire surrounded and circled the king and you, separating you both from everyone else in the room. The few who tried to cross it died instantly, the others learned from their mistakes and stepped back from your flames and watched.  

“Surprised to see me?” You asked. 

The blood drained from his face. 

Satisfaction only fueled the righteous fury in your chest. 

“Yes,” he admitted. 

“You tried to kill me,” you hissed through gritted teeth. 

“Yes,” he merely repeated. 

“I have given EVERYTHING for you and to protect your rule. Have done EVERYTHING you asked. And this is how you reward me? By sending others to murder me in my sleep?” You said, lip curling in a snarl and angry tears pooling in your eyes. 

Death became visible at your side, not behind you like your puppeteer- beside you as your equal. He was not only visible to you- no you knew he was always with you - he became visible to everyone in the room as your fire pulsed higher and hotter. 

His hand on your back steadied and reassured you. 

Gasps filled the room once more. 

You glanced at Aemond, his long white hair juxtaposed against the black of his wings, his beauty something of dreams and nightmares. He had an intense look on his sharp face, but underneath it was love for you and only you. 

The king looked at his ancestor, made eye contact with his own demise, then looked back at you. 

“You were too dangerous to be kept alive,” he said. 

“I was completely loyal to you until your lackey tried to stab me in the heart,” you spat. 

“I suspect it will be the last mistake I ever make,” he said. 

“That is correct,” Aemond replied, his voice smooth and confident. 

“Kill him, my love,” Death urged. This time, you listened. 

A ball of fire appeared in your hand as you bared your teeth at the man who would no longer be your ruler. 

“You were right to fear me,” you said darkly, and threw Death Flames at your king. 

————————————————————

Aemond walked forward slowly and reached towards the king as you took gasping shuddering breaths.

You stopped seeing him, stopped seeing anything, as the impact of your actions crashed over you. 

He was before you once more, and with gentle fingers under your chin, he tilted your head back so you could meet his gaze. 

“My Lady Death, My Queen,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear before he pressed his lips to yours. 

His kiss enveloped and steadied you. 

Your flames sputtered out, but no one made a single move, for fear of the two of you. 

As he pulled back, he smiled at you, took a step back, and placed the conqueror’s crown on your head. 

“How do I taste now?” you asked. 

“Exquisite,” he murmured, his voice deep and soft as velvet. 

You grinned back at him, a wild feral thing.

He took your hand and led you to sit on the Iron Throne. 

Death then kneeled before you, bowing his head. 

“Kneel before your Queen,” he ordered, loud enough for all to hear. 

Everyone in the room followed suit. 

You became the new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with Death at your side. 

You would rule together, side by side, using your powers for your own gain, as Queen and King, as Death and His Lady. 

#aemond targaryen #house of the dragon #hotd #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen smut

[042502]

☆༉ — CHRIS STURNIOLO. The unwritten rule.

about. Everyone knows the rule, don't fall in love with your best friend's boyfriend.

author's note: This is the Chapter 3, I hope it sounds interesting to you. My first language is not English, you will read this under this warning. m.list

All the long way home because I don't want to be thinking about Chris and Anna when I get there. I don't want to play "what if..." like I've been doing more than half of the time. I want to be happy for Anna and nothing else.

But when I get home, Chris's car is in the driveway. I stop next to him, my stomach twisting as my stupid, traitorous heart fluttered in my chest, making me dizzy.

He looked at the porch and saw my father, Anna and Chris sitting there, all three partially illuminated by the large frosted glass sphere that my mother won as second place runner-up in the best homes competition and mezzanine super porch lifestyles for dining. She made mini meat loaves with honey mustard glaze and honey butter chili corn cakes. Number of times I ate it for dinner: About sixty. It was good: The first forty times. The last twenty were quite difficult, but my mother likes to know her recipes inside and out.

I look at Chris and Anna, I made myself see them, and my heart stopped fluttering because that's how things are. This is the reality.

But why are they here?

"Hello Ada" it was my father, standing up and hugging me like I was six and not seventeen. Sigh, But I hug him back, he replied that he should not shudder because of his bad hip.

"Why are you out here?" he asked him, and then looked at Anna. “How did you get there before me?” Anna rolls her eyes.

"You drive like an old man, Ada" He quickly looked at my father. "No offense."

"No way" ruffled her hair. I hate when he does it to me, because it reminds me that my hair is not as shiny or looks as good, but it looks like someone has been messing up his hair all the time. Anna likes it, although she always has it, and cuts him off with a sheepish smile before turning to Chris and curling an arm around his shoulders.

"Anyway" Anna speaks. “We are here to kidnap you. It's Friday night and my best friend can't sit at home alone. I mean, you do it all the time!”

I try not to flinch at everything but I do. Chris is right, but it still hurts and after that my father adds: "Ada, you don't have to stay home until one, you know? and, besides, There's no need to waste time at home tonight," he gave me a smile. Not unless you want to listen to my class on jurisprudence. Or remind me of my arthritis pills, your mother has already done it twice before I even tell her I took them.

My father is great for a father, He was fifty when I was born and retired from practicing law seven years ago and now teaches part-time at the University of Estados Unidos. He likes a lot, But I know you miss being a lawyer. You have rheumatic arthritis, which means that your immune system attacks your joints, or, as you always remind me, the joint tissues. I don't see the distinction. All I know is that it sucks and it hurts. It ended up being so bad that I can't work full time anymore, and I had to quit.

I know what it means that my mother is asking about her pills and I look at him.

"How's your hip?"

"Still connected to my body” responds with a smile, and he looks down at the sneakers I'm wearing because I know he's hurting and I wish there was something I could do. For him. But I can not.

The sneakers I'm wearing are one of my favorite pairs: Bright pink, with the lining and tongue with a black and white skull print, black stitching and soles with bright pink laces.

Seeing them didn't make me feel better.

The thing about my father leaving the law firm years ago meant that his arthritis became an occasional thing, sometimes he would have horrible attacks, and then he would go away and feel fine in pain quite often. His hip was actually dislocated last year, and although that was fixed, his hip bone is still eroded.

I don't like to think about it too much. It is frightening to think that your bones are being run by your own body. It's terrible to think about how sick your father is and how much worse he could get.

I don't want that to happen. I like having my father and mother at home all the time. around all the time. Actually, it's been my mother's home for as long as I can remember... She has a PhD in medieval history, but gave up trying to find a job after post-doctoral positions that went nowhere, and discovered cooking and then competitions.

Basically I spent a lot of time with my parents, but the fact is that I like them. I like them. I wouldn't trade my parents for anything, so I'm worried about my dad, whose arthritis isn't getting better, or even staying the same, despite his pills. He went from walking five miles a day to three or less. And on really bad days, he doesn't walk at all.

"So" Anna spoke this time, waving a hand in front of my eyes. "Like he said, we're kidnapping you. Chris, quick! Grab her and let's go!"

I move, standing up so Chris won't feel like he has to touch me. I try not to look at him while I do it, but I can't help it and I see that he is looking at me.

I swallow and my father laughs.

"Ada, I don't think Chris will hurt you. In fact, I’m not sure he can lift you.”

"Thank you, dad," I give him a look..

"No, no, I didn't mean... Well, You are thin. Ada, you know, I mean Chris is very big.... Not that I'm not capable, I'm sure, Chris. But you don’t seem like the guy who runs to catch up.” He cleared his throat. “Well, why don't I come in and see if your mother needs help?”

"Dad" She named him, embarrassed and worried about him, but when I went to open the door, she shook her head at me and said: “Go on, go and have fun.”

"Make sure you take the pills” Anna reminds him, and my father smiled.

"Yes, I'll really take my medicine." He ran his hand through his hair before entering.

"He is cute" Anna comments as she takes my hand. “Now come on, Ada, bring your little ass to the game.”

"I am not small" Anna looked as she pushed me towards Chris's car. “I have… Small bones.”

Which meant she didn't have breasts, had no butt and usually the body of a twelve year old girl, even the fact that my foot was small.

What would be cool if I was twelve, but it's not okay when you're seventeen and your best friend has the type of body that guys will do things like stop or look at her even if she's with another girl.

"You're little," Chris spoke from behind me.

"Which is why you should get a new car” again Anna. “I mean, Ada still doesn't even take up half a seat.” He smiled at me as I got into the back seat. “Look, she could practically fit into a baby seat. A new, smaller car might be more comfortable for her.”

"Yes, the captain is drifting back," I spoke while putting on my seat belt.

"What? There are no more girls on board?" I looked at Chris, his smile disappeared before he got into the front seat, and I know he was on the class trip we took last year, when we both got seasick and went back and forth into shared misery lane.

I blushed, with satisfaction and fear.

"You two are weird" he looked at us both. "But I still like them" Anna finished with a smile.

"Thank you" Chris and I spoke at the same time, Anna laughs and then walked over to Chris to kiss his neck.

I rested my hands on my knees and looked at them, and saw the little lights that appear when we drive.

"Okay, get away from me," Anna spoke, annoyed.

"I'm not... I'm driving." Chris gave him a short serious look.

"Can't you take a second and kiss me?" I was demanding him. Was she really complaining about this?

"No, I mean," he sighs, I think he tries to keep his patience. “I'm driving and this car is, you know.”

He looked at my hands. Just as I didn't like being around Chris and Anna when they were kissing, This was much worse than that. And the reality is that these tense moments are more common than kisses, they have been for a long time in fact.

"Ok, you're driving" I noticed how forced his attempt to sound happy was. “Can you at least think about ordering a better one?”

"I like my car" here they go again.

"It is not yours."

"It's mine" I admit that seeing Chris upset is not easy, but for some strange reason Anna had a knack for making him angry easily.

“Ada doesn’t even have a car, so the car can’t be who you are,” he turns to look at me. “Right, Adi?”

"Well, my mom is supposed to be getting it somewhere," I felt the tension. “So that would make it orange and jagged, I don't know.”

Anna looked at me for a few minutes, and I could tell she was angry because I didn't agree with her. I leaned forward to try to do something, say something, but she didn't seem to want to hear what I had to say so she turned on music.

He found a song he liked and turned the volume up to maximum, making the car windows move from the vibration, we couldn't even talk to the music.

The party is in someone's basement, one of those things hey we did this so you guys don't destroy the house. It's one of those gadgets you might want, but of course no one cares because everyone is too busy dancing or wasting time with the croquet game someone found and installed.

Anna walks straight to the dance floor, Chris and I end up playing croquet for a bit. I make sure I'm not standing next to him, because well... Because I am.

Rob comes to me while I'm done and I feel my millionth turn and I'm waiting to go again.

"Hello."

"Hello, Rob" I saw him smiling. He really looks good, and he smells... Well, he smells like aftershave. My father's aftershave.

"You look great" just looking at Anna while he says this, and I have to say, Although it's strange to be complicated by a boy who smells like my father, I actually feel a little bad for Rob. Anna was with him for about a week last year, then she decided she didn't want to continue.

He did not do it. Most of Anna's boys don't. I mean, I don't walk behind her at school or something, but you know, Even when they are with someone else, if she were interested again, they would have been running back. She has this way of doing things, that the boy loves her more than she loves him, the boys love her forever and it is allowed to think about her even when she has gone out with someone else.

"So, do you want to sit down or something?" Rob spoke, and I shrugged, dropping my gavel.

We are going to sit on the lawn chairs that have been placed in a semicircle around the edge of the croquet set up. At first glance, he is nervous, but then he asked him about his band, I remember Anna complaining about this one, and pretty soon he stops complaining and lets go. I like music, although I'm not sure Rob would necessarily qualify as that.

I like the name though. He told me he'd give me a t-shirt when I told him that, and then he started telling me about his ironic cover of a song about some boy band I remember loving when I was in first grade.

"So, how has Anna been?" He says, and looked at him, trying not to look at her. Poor boy.

"She's fine," I say, and bump Rob with my elbow. “She always liked your band.”

"Really?"

I nod and smiled at that, wide and very happy because I've seen him smile the entire time he's been with me. He looked around and found Leila looking at him.

"Do you know who else really likes your band?" He smiles. “Leila.”

"To her?"

"Yup. You know, you should go talk to him about that song." said. “She loved her.” she will do it. Leila only wears t-shirts from the nineties, And if anyone else would love to hear about an ironic boy band cover, it's her. Plus, it's obvious that she thinks Rob is cute.

"No," Rob tells me, but he's looking at Leila now, and she gives him a shy giggle. I see him look at me and then he smiles back.

"Hey, I'm going to grab a drink," he pointed to a round place. “See you around?”

"Yes," he answers.

And while I'm looking for a beer, but I have to settle for a Pepsi I see him sit near her. She looks really happy and he's not even looking at Anna. Well, once, but only for seconds.

"So, Rob and Leila?" It was Chris, she looked at him alarmed.

"So it seems" I take a sip of my Pepsi before stopping to look at him. “She always liked hearing about her band.”

""I thought he liked you." I force a laugh.

"No, he just likes to talk about... We just talk sometimes" he almost mentioned Anna.

"Do you always find girls for the boys who still like Anna?"

She watched him to see if he looks jealous or angry about Rob liking Anna. He didn't sound like that, and he doesn't look angry at all. He is smiling and looking at me.

"I don't..." I say, and then my voice trails off, because he's raised his eyebrow and I'm just... I just want to lean into him. Now, here, in front of everyone. I confronted my best friend. “You should go dancing with Anna.” I say, and move a little away from him, wrapping my trembling hands around my Pepsi.

"Who can?" say, ignoring the last part of what he says because I have to. I can't think of him dancing. I just can not. The mention of that boat ride last year was enough to keep me wanting and not wanting. Do not do that. I look at Anna swaying her hips, smiling at me as she tosses her hair back and sways her hips, something that I could practice in my room for thousands of hours and never master, and added. “Besides, Anna doesn't care. “She likes it, she likes everything about you.”

"Except my car," he says.

"Well, except that."

"And my hair."

I laugh, sure he's joking, but he's not laughing either, and I turned around in a sort of cough and took another sip of soda.

"What's wrong with your hair?" I know I should drag him over to Anna and watch her move her hands around him, but that's what comes out instead. And she can't really not like her hair. No?

"She says it's too long," he says, running his hand through his hair.

"Oh" I say, because I can't touch his hair or say I think he looks cool because I'm best friends and he's her boyfriend. I don't know why Anna asked me to come to her house and watch that movie with them or bring me to this party, But I know I want to go home and not think about how much I want Chris and I was standing here talking about something real instead of him and Anna.

"I'm very tired," I say. “I should probably go.” And I try to fake a believable yawn and avoid shaking my Pepsi.

"Wait, I'll go tell Anna" I should have said I had to go talk to someone and get a ride with them. I don't want to go with Anna and Chris, I don't want to sit in the car with them, I don't want to see them.

"Ada, do you want to go?" asks me, Coming after me and throwing his surroundings away from me. Even sweating, She looks beautiful. "Because?"

I can't say: "Because I want to throw myself at your boyfriend and also, it's exhausting to want and feel guilty about that at the same time" so I'm just saying: "I'm tired. I'm sorry, I'm exhausted."

"Just hang out with us for a little while longer, okay?"

There's something in her voice and I look at her, but she's turning her face and watching everyone dance.

"I can't. I'm going to find someone and take a walk, still call me tomorrow" I bump my hip against hers.

"I'll take you home" Chris speaks to which I look at him surprised. He has his hands stuffed in his pockets, his face a little flushed.

"Yes, go with Chris" Anna hugged me. “Ask him why he doesn't want to spend time with me,” he whispers as he puts his hands around me. “He doesn't even care that I'm dancing with guys I used to date, and at first this no jealousy thing was great, but now it's... I don't know. Also tell him to cut his hair.”

She returns to the group of people who are dancing, turning to Chris before she turns to one of her exes, Chris looks very happy to see her.

I turn to Chris, ready to tell him that he doesn't need to worry about me, that I'll be able to find a ride home and that he should spend time with Anna, but he's not seeing her. She's right, he's not jealous. That's never happened before.

"Ready to go?" I nod, confused and somewhat... Another thing. Things I shouldn't be feeling. But I feel them anyway.

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[deadgirlwalking91]

new update - 'Thank You for the Venom', chapter 6 🎸 🗡️

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter 6 Summary

Lute bites off more than she can chew; Adam remembers he's not just Lute's punching bag... he's her boss.

Author's note:

Thanks to everybody who has read/engaged so far! I hope you like this one - it was great fun to write. Feel free to comment and inbox away, doesn't have to be about this fic. Happy to chat anything and everything guitarspear!

Cheers to @branded-rose for beta-ing once again; there's a snippit in here that I didn't send you, by the way. You'll know it when you see it ;)

***

Adam and Lute’s Office, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

It had been a month since the Great Bathroom Incident, and the Exorcists were beginning to feel the effects of burnout.

Layla collapsed from exhaustion during a gruelling combat tournament that Lute had sprung on the girls one training session. It turned out she had been hitting the gym twice daily to ensure her physical fitness could keep up with the increasingly difficult drills that Lute had been implementing.

Adam also knew for a fact that the gym wasn’t the only thingLayla had been hitting lately, but he was trying this new tactic with women where he didn’t kiss and tell.

Layla was one of many Exorcists who were suffering the effects of extreme fatigue due to their intense training regime. Over the course of a fortnight, there was at least two new injuries or incidents daily that arose, which meant one thing: More. Fucking. Paperwork.

As if he didn’t have enough shit on his plate already, he now had to spend more time in the office with the she-devil herself, who was still a raging bitch to him on the daily.

She was even worse than usual – not that Adam thought it was possible - now that their increased workload meant they had to stay back late each night to ensure the incident reports were completed in a timely manner. If there was one thing Sera got her panties in a twist about, it was overdue incident reports. Which, unfortunately for Adam, meant that Lute was also on the warpath about them.

The moment he stepped into their office on Monday morning, he knew he was in for it.

“Think you could fucking manage to be on time for once?” Lute snapped, eyes not leaving the paperwork she was frantically filling out.

“Think you could manage not to be a raging cunt for once?” Adam retorted, slamming a take-away cup down on her desk. Not that she fucking deserved it. He hoped the coffee was so hot that it would burn her mouth.

Without acknowledging the insult, Lute grabbed the cup and started drinking desperately from it, disgust clearly written all over her face as she chugged the beverage.

“Don’t get me that milky shit again,” she snarled, tossing the cup into the bin. “In fact, stop buying me coffee every morning, would you?”

“You seemed to enjoy it enough,” Adam retorted. “A ‘thank-you’ would be nice though, you rude bitch.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Lute looked up at him for the first time that morning, despite insulting him at least twice since his arrival. Adam couldn’t hold back his wince – she looked awful. Dark bags lined the underneath of her eyes, which were red rimmed with exhaustion, her hair looked like a brush hadn’t been taken to it in weeks and even from where he stood, he could see how physically tense she was.

“You look like hell.”

For once, Lute resisted the urge to retort back, though her eyes narrowed into slits as she glared at him.

“I’m serious. You look like you need a good dicking.” Adam dropped into his seat and started sorting through his own pile of paperwork. “Not that I’m offering. My cock would probably shrivel up and fall off once I stick it in because –”

“Will you shut the fuck up?!” Lute shouted, standing and gripping the edge of her desk so tightly Adam could see the whites of her already pale knuckles. She looked positively rattled, and he wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, but her eyes seemed to be glistening. “C-c…” She took a shuddering breath to steady herself and looked around the room, avoiding eye contact, running her hand through her cropped hair. “Can you just…go?”

Adam studied her, frowning. In all the years they’d worked together, he’d never seen Lute lose her cool like this. Sure, she was in a perpetual foul mood, and often directed said foul moods at him, so he was used to her sharp tongue and venomous insults.

But…emotional Lute?

He didn’t know how to deal with an emotional Lute. He didn’t deal well with normal women who were emotional. He’d hate to think of how he’d handle his unhinged second-in-command who hated his guts on any regular day.

And yet… there was a nagging voice, somewhere deep in the back of his brain, that was urging him to cut her some slack. Give her a break.

Adam couldn’t quite place his finger on what caused him to listen to that voice, and there was every chance he’d live to regret it, but instead of kicking Lute while she was down – tempting as it was, given she’d been such a bitch lately - he decided to do the opposite.

He was going to grant her a reprieve.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said simply, staring at her. “You on the other hand, are dismissed for the day, Lieutenant.”

Lute’s head whipped towards Adam, her mouth agape.

“What?” she hissed.

“You heard me. Go home.”

“I’m not going home!” she shrieked. The glisten Adam thought he caught in her eyes earlier were now full-blown tears, threatening to spill down her cheeks. “Who’s going to do all the paperwork? Who will take training today?”

“Nice to know you hold so much faith in me.” Adam said dryly. “You’re a fucking mess, Lute. I need you to get your shit together. I can’t have you taking it out on the rest of the girls, not when they’re already dropping like flies every day.”

Lute gaped at him wordlessly.

“Close your mouth. You’re going to pack your stuff and go home. Now. If I catch you putting a single piece of paper in your bag so you can continue working from home, I’m adding another day to your dismissal.”

“What will Sera say?” she whispered, fear evident in her voice.

“Don’t worry about Sare-bear, she probably won’t notice. If she does, I’ll say you’re unwell. Women’s problems, or some shit.”

Lute let out a shaky laugh. “Great. Just what I wanted her to know.”

“One more thing,” Adam added, leaning back in his chair. “We’re having dinner tonight. You and me.” He pointed back and forth between the two of them. “After you’ve taken the day to wash the sand out of your vagina, and you’re a nicer person because of it, we’re going to go out to dinner and talk through some shit. Finish our conversation from where we left off a month ago.”

“I –” Lute started, but Adam held his hand up for her to stop.

“Shut up. It’s not negotiable, Lute. I’ll meet you at seven. For once, wear something that isn’t workout gear or your uniform. Got it?”

For what seemed like minutes, but really would have only been the matter of seconds, Lute stared at Adam, frowning like she wanted to argue but something was holding her back.

“Fine,” she answered. “See you then.”

Lute’s Apartment, Apartment Block, Exorcist Training Centre, Heaven

Lute sat on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a towel, staring into her wardrobe.

She had no fucking idea what to wear.

This wasn’t a predicament she usually found herself in; the beauty of being as unsociable as she was meant that she didn’t need an array of outfits stashed in her closet for impromptu events such as dinners with her boss.

In fact, her wardrobe mostly consisted of workout gear, her exorcist uniform and a few other select items of clothing. All of it was black. None of it was fancy. Or particularly feminine.

Sighing, she tousled her damp hair. This was stupid. Going to dinner with Adam was stupid. Adam was stupid. She could be using this time to catch up on the paperwork she missed out on doing while she’d been stood down for the day.

Lute would never admit it to Adam, but she had managed to relax for most of the day. And by relax, she completed a two-hour home workout, scrubbed her apartment from top to bottom, rearranged her pantry and finished all her laundry. This was all after she spent a good hour sulking about being sent home and wishing nothing less than a slow and painful death on her boss. Her version of sulking happened to consist of throwing things around her apartment until they broke.

She reached for her phone and tapped out a quick text message, hating herself for initiating conversation with Adam outside of work hours, but what other choice did she have?

Lute: Where are we going?

She tossed her phone aside and flopped backwards onto the bed. Knowing her luck, she’d make somewhat of an effort with her appearance, and he’d take her to a damn fast-food restaurant. Or she’d dress casually, and he’d humiliate her by taking her to a fancy restaurant, which she wouldn’t put past him.

It wasn’t the instantaneous reply that took her by surprise, but more the response itself.

Adam: Do you like BBQ?

Unsure how to answer, her fingers hovered over the screen of her phone before she replied.

Lute: Don’t know. Never had it.

Adam: Didn’t think so.

Lute hissed at her phone and threw it across her bed. Fuck it, she wasn’t going. It’d be a waste of time anyway – no doubt they’d start arguing and she’d probably get so irritated that she’d throw her drink on him and storm out of the restaurant.

Only for the next morning to come and it’d all repeat again. The childish jibes, the insults, the threats of murder…

Her phone buzzed again, unexpectedly interrupting her thoughts. Probably Vaggie asking where she was today. She reached across her bed and tapped the screen.

Adam: It’s not fancy. Hellfire Bar & Grill. See you at 7.

Well. That at least gave her something to work with. Sighing, she got up and started sifting through the clothing in her wardrobe for what seemed like the four hundredth time, wishing she was doing anything but going out for dinner with Adam that night.

Hellfire Bar & Grill, Heaven

For once, Adam had arrived somewhere earlier than Lute. She wasn’t surprised; considering he was highly food motivated she was willing to bet that had something to do with it.

What she was surprised at, however, was the fact that he was dressed entirely in casual clothing. She’d only ever seen him in three outfits before, and they were all different variations of the same robe. It was jarring, seeing him dressed in civilian clothing but still donning his usual helmet and mask.

“Hey,” he greeted her, looking up from his phone as he saw her approach.

“Hi.”

“Have you calmed the fuck down?”

Lute narrowed her eyes. “If you’ve asked me to come here so you can insult me, I’m turning around and going back home.”

“I would have thought,” he sighed, pocketing his phone and opening the door to the restaurant. “That some time off would have put you in a better mood.”

Ignoring him, Lute entered the restaurant and waited while he requested a table. Luckily for them - or unluckily, Lute thought – it wasn’t very busy, so they were seated swiftly.

“What can I get you two lovebirds to drink?” Their waitress chirped, beaming at them both.

“He’s not my fuckin-”

“We’re not dating, babe.” Adam grinned up at the waitress, who at his words, seemed to suddenly be very taken by him. “You and me, though? That could work. Two glasses of your best red wine, thanks.”

Lute shot him a disgusted look, wrinkling her nose at his blatant flirting. Sleazebag.

The waitress was clearly infatuated with Adam, because she giggled incessantly as she flounced away with their drink order.

“How do you know what I drink?” Lute demanded.

“The night I came to your apartment –”

“Broke into my apartment.” Lute corrected him, folding her arms.

Adam waved a hand carelessly in the air. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You had an open bottle of red wine on the bench, so I figured you drank it.”

“The things you learn when you break and enter.”

Before he could retort, the waitress returned with their drinks. She also held a piece of paper which she slipped not-so discreetly across the table to Adam. Winking at her, he pocketed the paper and Lute had to force herself to look away, lest she start gagging as the woman practically melted on the spot in excitement.

What all those women saw in him, she’d never fucking know.

“So,” Adam cleared his throat, shifting in his seat as the waitress practically skipped away. “Did you, uh, relax today?”

“I did.”

Silence. Lute, not really wanting to divulge any further information to Adam, fiddled with the sleeve of her jacket, staring around the restaurant. To their right was a couple who showed all the signs of being on their first date. Hands entwined atop the table, the angels were staring into each other’s eyes, not talking. Just… staring. With stupid smiles on their faces.

Lute rolled her eyes and shifted her focus to the table on their left, the couple occupying that space arguing in hushed voices, though one of the two women looked like they were dangerously close to tears.

Wonderful.

She lifted her wine glass to her lips and sipped, trying to fill the silence with something.

‘What did you do?” Adam pressed, drumming his fingers on the table.

“I worked out. I cleaned. I did laundry.”

“Didn’t I tell you to relax?”

“I don’t really do relaxing.” Another sip of wine. The way this meeting was going, she’d polish off the entire bottle before she got the chance to even eat.

“You were relaxing the night I came around to talk.”

Lute stiffened at the mention of that night. She set her glass down on the table, frowning as she ran her thumb and index finger up and down the stem. She was unsure how to answer – it would be easiest to tell Adam where to go, but the reality was that she was tired, and wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep up the back and forth between them.

“I haven’t done it since.”

“Because of me?”

Lute felt her stomach knot, her hands growing warm and clammy. She removed them from her glass and wiped them down on her jeans. The last thing she wanted to do was get into a back-and-forth about that incident. Again.

“Why are we here?” Lute asked, her eyes snapping up and glaring at Adam. “What’s even the point of meeting here tonight? For you to -”

“Hey! Are you guys ready to order?” Another overly chirpy waitress was back, her smile almost blinding Lute. Her teeth were so white, it was alarming.

Lute stared at her menu, not registering anything that was on it.

“Usual for me, thanks babe,” Adam said, handing his menu back to the waitress. They both looked expectantly at Lute. Shit. She scanned the menu again, but nothing jumped out at her as particularly enticing. Truthfully, she didn’t particularly care for food – to her, it was just fuel to keep herself going.

“Uh, I’ll just have what he’s having. Thanks.”

Adam stared at her incredulously as the waitress took her menu and sauntered off, her small wings flapping happily.

“I’m not sure that was the best choice,” he said, eyeing her wearily. “I ordered –”

“I didn’t know what to pick, okay? I don’t really eat this stuff.”

“What do you eat, then?”

“What is this, twenty-fucking-questions?” Lute snapped. “I don’t have the time, or the patience to play bullshit games with you. What do you want?”

They both glared at each other from across the table, Lute’s golden eyes boring into the screen of Adam’s mask. For what felt like minutes, neither of them spoke.

The loved-up couple next to them were now tangled together atop a single dining chair, making out sloppily, the noisy smack of their lips filling the awkward silence. Lute’s eye twitched in annoyance, and she had to turn her head so she couldn’t see their tongues being shoved down each other’s throats.

“Shit, that’s annoying,” Adam scowled, taking a sip of his wine.

“If they keep going, they’re going to end up fucking on the table in front of us. Gross.” Lute muttered, also drinking. Their eyes met again, though this time there was the slightest hint of a smirk behind Adam’s mask.

He sighed and looked away, frowning.

“Lute. I’m going to level with you,” he said, leaning his forearms onto the table. “We need to make this work. The stakes for Extermination Day are fucking high this year.”

“What do you mean?”

 “Sera – ” Adam cut himself off, frowning. Lute studied him with mild curiosity as he paused, collecting his thoughts, his hand rubbing his chin. “Sera… she’s put a lot of faith in your proposal. And I won’t bullshit you – I thought it was a load of crap when I first read it. Too much math involved. If I can’t do the sum using my fingers, it’s too fucking hard.”

“Good thing calculators have been invented.”

“Wouldn’t know, I’ve never used one. Smartass. Anyway, after you left today, I took the time to read it again. I’ll admit, there’s…potential for it to work. But speaking from experience babe, a few adjustments need to be made.” Adam reached for his glass and swirled his wine, taking a sip once he was satisfied the burgundy liquid had been aerated enough. “Wanna hear them?”

Lute crossed her arms. “What are you getting out of this? I’ve worked with you for many years. I know you don’t offer anything up unless you’re getting something out of it.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

“Spit it out, then.”

“Fine. Stop being such a fucking bitch all the time.”

“Excuse me?” Lute spat, her eyes automatically wandering to the steak knife set in front of her.

“You heard me, Lute. Statistically, you might be my top girl, but you rank dead last on my list when it comes to personality. Maybe if you loosened up and had a little fun –”

“Dinner’s here!” Two very large, very meaty plates were set down on the table in front of each of them. Lute wrinkled her nose, immediately regretting her decision to blindly order her dinner.

She should have known Adam would have ordered ribs, considering he waxed lyrical about them on an almost-daily basis. There had to be at least two dozen on each plate, all covered in a sticky glaze. Just lookingat the plate was giving her the sweats. She glanced over at Adam, who was watching her reaction intently.

“You know,” he began uncertainly, eyeing the sheer volume of food between the two of them. “You don’t have to eat that. You can always order someth-”

“I’ll eat them.”

“Sure? There’s a lo-”

“I’ll be fine. I bet,” Lute added, folding her arms across her chest, an unknown bravado washing over her, “I can keep up for you, rib-for-rib.”

Adam choked on the sip of wine he’d been taking.

“You’re not fucking serious!” he spluttered, wiping his screen with the back of his hand.

“Did I stutter?” She picked up one of the ribs, instantly regretting her declaration that she’d eat what looked to be her entire bodyweight in meat. Why couldn’t she have picked a normal meal, like a steak? Steak would have been safe. Steak would have been easy. Steak wouldn’t have ignited her competitive streak and didn’t come with potential digestion issues.

But no. She just had to open her mouth. And if there was one thing that Lute did not do, it was back out of a challenge. Especially one that she initiated.

“Ready?”

“Lute, this isn’t a good idea, I mean it, the ribs are –”

Staring Adam down, she held the ends of the rib in each hand and tore a chunk off meat off with her teeth. She grimaced – the glaze was sickly sweet, and they were…

“– spicy.” Adam said, wincing.

She maintained eye contact as she chewed, hating herself for not thinking before speaking. The meat burned her throat as she swallowed, the spice hitting her nose and tears prickling at her eyes.

Lute closed her eyes and bit into the rib again, stripping the meat from the bone completely.

“You,” Adam started, picking up a rib of his own and shaking his head, “are the craziest bitch I’ve ever met, you know that, right?”

Lute wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and tossed the bone onto the spare plate on the table. “Try and keep up, Sir.” She reached for another piece of meat and noticed Adam staring at her, an unusual expression depicted on his mask. “What?”

“You called me ‘Sir’.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t sarcastic.”

Lute grabbed her napkin, wiping her nose which has started to run. “Must have slipped out. I can assure you it won’t happen again.” 

She watched with vague interest as Adam started eating. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen him consume food – in fact, he regularly ate at his desk in their shared office. It was the first time though, that she focused on the food disappearing into the void of his mask.

Because it did exactly that. It just… disappeared. Almost like there was nothing underneath.

Maybe…maybe that was actually his face, and she’d been wrong about it being a mask all along.

“How does that thing work, anyway?” She managed to swallow rib number three considerably easier than the first two.

“Holy magic, babe.”

“Care to elaborate?” Four down, twenty to go. Her stomach churned at the thought.

“Who’s playing twenty questions now?” he snapped suddenly, glaring at her. “Drop it.”

“So you’re allowed to interrogate me, but I can’t ask you anything?” Another rib done. She was getting hotter, and Lute could feel the sweats starting to kick in. Wiping her glaze-covered hands on her napkin, she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair. The cool air was welcomed on her skin, and she silently thanked herself for choosing a top with thin straps.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t ask me anything. For example, if you were to ask me if I’m surprised that you own feminine clothing,” Adam waved a hand at her, “I’d say yes.”

Lute scowled. “I’m feminine.” She ripped the meat off rib number six with her front teeth, holding the bone expertly now with one hand. Wiping her mouth with her hand again, she reached for her wine and sipped steadily, using the liquid to help wash the food down.

“You’re the least feminine Exorcist in the fucking army.”

“That’s because I’m the only one you haven’t slept with.”

“Not true. I haven’t slept with the ones that are into chicks.” Adam counted the rib bones on his plate. “I’m at nine, by the way, what about you?”

“How are you at nine? I started before you, and I’m only on seven. And that’s just great. Wonderful. I’m the only straight one you haven’t touched. That makes me feel amazing.” Lute gnawed at her rib, her face flushing in embarrassment.

It wasn’t like she considered herself attractive or anything like that. Truthfully, she’d never thought about it because her appearance had never been of high importance to her. Sure, she liked her hair cropped a certain way, and she’d very rarely wear a small amount of makeup on special occasions, but that was the extent of it.

Moodily, she threw the bone down, not caring where it landed, and reached for another piece of meat.

“Shit – I, uh, didn’t realise you were into dick.” Adam at least had the gall to look somewhat embarrassed. “I just assumed you and Vaggie –”

“You assumed Vaggie and I what?” she growled.

“I’m not judging, babe!” Adam held his glaze-covered hands up in defence. “Love is love, right? And, between you and me, there’s nothing hotter than watching a woman eat pu -”

Lute chucked her eighth bone at him in disgust, cutting him off and hitting him square in the chest. The couple to their left, who had been arguing all night, stopped their bickering and glared at her.

“The fuck are you looking at?” Lute snarled at them, fingers wrapping around the steak knife that still lay atop the table. “You bitches have been going back and forth all night, but me throwing food somehow offends you?” She pointed the blade of the knife at them. “Turn around and shut the fuck up before I –”

The women stood hastily from their table and scurried towards the exit, one of them tossing Lute a scared look over her shoulder. She sighed, satisfied, and grabbed another rib, hand still on the knife’s handle.

“You,” Adam began wearily, shaking his head, “are a fucking nutcase. You know that, right?”

Lute shrugged and kept eating. “I don’t suffer fools.”

“I can see that.”

“Which is why you irritate me so much.”

“I’m no fool,” Adam declared, counting his rib bones out with his finger, starting over once as he accidentally confused himself. “I’m more than halfway done, by the way.”

“Me too. And yes, you are a fool.”

Adam crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “Before our dinner came, I was trying to explain how, if we tweak your proposal slightly, you’ll have more success with your training plan.”

Exhaling, Lute closed her eyes. She was starting to feel nauseous and if she kept going, she was going to be sick. Maybe she was the fool. “I’m pretty sure you were in the middle of calling me an uptight bitch with a shitty personality, actually.”

He clicked his fingers. “That’s it! Thanks for reminding me.”

Lute opened her eyes and narrowed them at him.

“What? You’ve just jogged my memory. Anyway, you’ve been riding the girls too hard,” he stopped to snigger at his choice of words, and Lute rolled her eyes at his immaturity as she grabbed more ribs. “You need to give them some time off.”

“They already get weekends and evenings off, what more do they need?”

 “A night out on the town.”

“You’re telling me,” Lute said, pointing her bone at him accusingly, “that the reason you dragged me out to this stupid restaurant is so that you can propose some kind of night of fucked-up debauchery with your harem of women? And I’m meant to be okay with that?”

“Settle down, Dangertits. As hot as a harem would be, I’m thinking more a night at a bar with a few drinks. Let the girls have a good time.”

“And by a ‘good time’ you mean get them drunk enough so they’ll sleep with you?” Lute snorted, starting on a fresh rib. She noted that there were only a few remaining on her plate. She couldn’t wait to get home and take her pants off, because she felt like she was going to burst from the sheet volume of food she had consumed that night. She was so uncomfortable.

“Hey,” Adam said, sounding slightly wounded. “I’ll have you know I don’t fuck drunk chicks. I might be an animal, but I’m not a predator.”

“Congratulations, you have one redeeming personality trait.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Oh that’s right, I forgot. I’m the unfuckable, unfeminine, uptight bitch, right?” Lute gulped down the rest of her wine before reaching for her second-last rib.

Adam cocked his head. “I never said you were unfuckable. I said I’d slept with all the Exorcists that I thought were straight. Which, up until about half an hour ago, I was not aware included you.”

Desperately wanting to end this conversation – and the night, Lute held up her final large, juicy rib. “Last one.”

She was sweating, bloated and her throat felt like it had been ripped apart and set on fire, but she’d done it. She’d kept up. Rib-for-rib, like she’d challenged.

Adam raised his eyebrows and downed the rest of his wine. “Fuck me dead, Lute. I thought you’d struggle to get through six with the way you started out.”

Lute shrugged. “Yeah well, I proved you wrong, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, and you also managed to scare the fuck out of the couple next to us. I’ve seen you slaughter thousands of sinners over the years, but honestly, I think it’s your tongue that’s the most terrifying thing about you.”

Lute smirked. “I guess it is.”

And with that, she took the rib whole in her mouth, closing her eyes as she sucked the meat clean off the bone. Once she’d finished, she opened her eyes and set it down on her plate atop the others. Adam was eyeing her with a pained expression.

“I don’t know if I should be turned on or disgusted by that,” he muttered, avoiding eye contact. “But I was definitely wrong about thinking you weren’t into dick after watching you deep throat that massive piece of meat.”

Lute rolled her eyes. “It’s always one step forward and two steps back with you, isn’t it, Sir?”

“You know it, Dangertits. So what do you say? Can the girls have a night of fun?” He extended his hand over the table.

Lute considered it for a moment before reaching forward and shaking it. His handshake was incredibly firm, and she was surprised to discover that the span of her entire hand was almost the same size as the width of his palm. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed how massive his hands were before now.

“Fine. One night out, and then back to regular training.” She quickly let go and exhaled, wishing the remainder of the meeting would come to an end soon so she could go home and unbutton her pants.

After all, how bad could one night at a bar be?

***

Next time: Lute reflects on the positive effects of a night off. Adam finds it hard not to chant 'I told you so'.

#hazbin hotel #adam x lute #guardrock #guitarspear #guitarspear fic #hazbin adam #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel lute #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin lute

[echobx]

Timing - JJ Maybank × fem!reader

summary: reader is dealing with losing JJ after he went missing with the rest of the Pogues (end of s2! to start of s3!), leaving her and her heart behind

warnings: angst, visions of drowning (not detailed), delusions and visions because of malnutrition and depression

word count: 1.3k

author's note: I write angsty shit when I'm depressed. it's a theme.

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You're curled up in your bed, eyes burning red, nose runny, mouth slightly agape. The alarm clock on your nightstand reads 2:48am and you watch the minutes run.

Your dream has destroyed your peace. Peace as much as anyone can call your state of being such. There is nothing peaceful about the depression you have fallen into, nothing quirky about the way your body trembles at every touch, always reminded of him.

2:49am.

You know you should drink something to regain a tiny bit of strength and maybe fall back asleep, but when you drink you'll just be able to cry even more. So you don't. Maybe if you refuse to, it will end faster.

2:50am.

The branch outside your window keeps knocking against the glass. The same dull noise that his knuckles made almost every night. But you know it's not him. You know he's gone.

2:51am.

Maybe a shower would help. But you'd have to get up for that, so it's a no for the shower. No one there to jokingly say, “you're gonna shower without me, princess?”

2:52am.

If you'd look out of the window you'd see his bike, parked in the same spot where he'd left it that day. Quickly stopping by to tell you about a new lead. Telling you to not worry. Telling you to stay home because it probably meant nothing, and after all, it's too dangerous, he'd kill himself if something happened to you.

2:53am.

And your mind drifts back to sleep, exhausted from the pain and malnutrition.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to leave you, my love,” JJ is standing in front of your house. He looks as pretty as ever. Cut off shirt, cargo shorts, boots, his favorite red cap on backwards and a sorry smile on his face. But when you jump forwards into his arms you fall and you fall and fall and fall. Drowning, really. Sinking to the bottom of the ocean. His lost treasure, truly.

Maybe that's what you had signed up for unknowingly. A life of pain because you fell in love with a boy who couldn't sit still for the life of him.

“Hey, shhh, it's okay. I'm right here,” JJ’s voice is like music to you and when you open your eyes he's holding you close in his arms.

“Is this real? Are you really here?” you ask, close to tears.

“Of course I'm here. Where else would I be but with my favorite girl,” he laughs softly and kisses your forehead, but you can't feel it.

“This is a dream,” you remind yourself and sit up.

“Does it matter? I'm here now. You have me. Isn't that enough?” JJ asks and you press your hands to your ears and cradle your body, swinging back and forth in your seat.

“Not real. Wake up. Wake up!” you tell yourself and after some time it finally works.

The alarm clock reads 4:21am.

The sun is coming up soon. You think about how real it had felt before he had kissed you. You think about how much more comfortable it had been to drown than to be alive.

4:22am.

Maybe it's the dumbest thing ever, love. It's just too painful. You could do good without love.

4:23am.

Your favorite shirt of his doesn't even smell like him anymore.

4:24am.

In ten minutes it'll be four weeks that your parents had woken you up in panic to make sure you hadn't vanished the same way your friends had.

4:25am.

Your feet carry you to your closet. Getting dressed is methodical.

4:26am.

He left his keys. “So I have no choice but to come back to you, princess.”

4:27am.

You know your parents will wake up when they hear the engine of the bike, so you decide to push it for a bit, down the road and then you can get on.

4:28am.

He didn't park in neutral. Stupid boy. Stupid stupid boy who stole your stupid stupid heart.

4:29am.

The engine is louder than you expected. You see the lights turn on inside your home, but you're already gone by the time your parents have realized what you are doing.

4:30am.

Cold air stings when it shoots right into your teary face.

4:31am.

The sun is coming up in the distance, it's beautiful. You remember doing this with JJ. Staying up all night and driving around to see the sunset and come up again.

4:32am.

You stop at a red light although no one is there. JJ had started touching your ankles on the pegs every time he had to stop.

4:33am.

The Shack is sitting lonely at the sound. The hammock’s empty, the porch lonely and the pick-up orphaned.

4:24am.

Breaking and Entering is illegal actually. Not that you care, you've done worse with JJ by your side. You need a new shirt, maybe the ones in the closet here still smell like him. You need it like a drug addict seeks the next kick.

4:25am.

One month and no life sign. You should stop hoping. Stop wishing. Stop. “JUST STOP” you scream and fall down on the bed.

4:26am.

“I'm not even doing anything,” JJ whispers from next to you.

“Leave me. I don't want to love you anymore. It hurts so much. Please,” you cry and curl up on the bed, holding onto the shirt.

“I can't. You know why,” he whispers, lying opposite of you.

“I don't want it,” you cry and screw your eyes shut.

“All you gotta do is let go,” JJ whispers.

“I don't know how to not love you,” you hush and reach out for him, but there's nothing there. You're alone.

6:34am.

Ghosts don't know how to make dishes clatter.

6:35am.

You pinch yourself before walking out of the bedroom, making sure it's not another dream.

6:36am.

It has to be a dream. Gotta be. No other explanation.

6:37am.

He hasn't turned around yet. It's a dream. It's a dream, has to be. 5.3% chance that he's real, maybe less.

6:38am.

You take the baseball bat that stands next to the bedroom door in your hand. Ghosts don't feel pain.

6:39am.

You don't know what hurts more, JJ's head or your heart.

6:40am.

“Jesus fucking Christ, who the fuck is trying to murder-” he spins around, one hand still holding onto the bat to stop it from hitting him again.

6:41am.

You can hear your head hitting the wooden floor as you go down.

11:57am.

Hospital beds are not comfortable. The lights are harsh. Your head is screaming.

11:58am.

Someone is holding your hand. Rings, familiar ones at that. You blink slowly. How is this real?

11:59am.

“My ghost keeps torturing me,” you whisper and he turns his blonde head around to you. Furrowed brows and blue eyes stare back at you.

12:00pm.

“You got ghosts? Can I get one too?” JJ smiles and you shake your head.

“You're my ghost, there's no ghost who needs ghosts.”

“Could a ghost do this?”

12:01pm.

His lips are pressed to yours and you can feel it. Hot and heavy and not a dream. Not a Dream. Not. A. Dream.

12:02pm.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to leave like that, and when we came back I wanted to clean up first. But you got to me quicker,” JJ whispers. “I wish I could turn back time and take you with me.”

12:03pm.

I love you's are underrated. You could hear him mumble it against your lips until you die. And when you say it back he smiles wider.

12:04pm.

Your parents yell at you for running out, but you don't care, you have your ghost. And this time, everyone else can see your ghost too. Everyone can see how much he loves you, and you him.

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please don't copy and/or post my work onto other platforms! ~e©ho

taglist: @ijustwantttoread @spideysimpossiblegirl @redhead1180 @princessmaybank @kys4-20 @drwstarkeyy @immyowndefender @julczimozart

#jj maybank #obx #my writing #~fanfiction #~blurb #outer banks #obx fanfiction #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank angst #angst

[astonmartinii]

F1 ASKS!

i saw this tag floating around and wanted to let yall get to know me better since i’ve been doing this a while and have only really spoken in the form of authors notes! also im not going to tag anyone so just do it if you wanna!

who is your favourite driver?

i think for anyone who has read anything i’ve ever written it’s probably a bit obvious but max verstappen! what can i say little me was told we’re supporting red bull and here was this little charmer (emphasis on little who let that child get into an F1 car)

do you have other favourite drivers?

also based on my writing you can probably tell that my top three are max, charles and oscar! however, i will also say that alex is a close fourth for me (he’s also very nice irl). also as for retired drivers i think the mamma mia series is a bit of a spoiler but i love jenson, seb and kimi

who is your least favourite driver?

i used to say i didn’t dislike anyone on the grid - that was a lie. i’ll still write for anyone within reason but you can also probably tell with how in detail the back and forth is on certain pieces that i am really not a fan of sainz, actually people who get yelled at while i write them would argue it’s more than “not really being a fan of” but i am fake and i have maintained that if i meet him at silverstone (which i very nearly did last year) ill tell him im his biggest fan! also not the biggest fan of like pierre he’s just kinda there for me and a wee bit too cringey ALSO what you may not be able to guess from how i write him… im not really a fan of lando! ive really, really tried especially after his win but he just kinda rubs me the wrong way (i was immediately proven right with the trump comments lol). people say i should pull for him cause he’s from bristol which is where i live but he’s from glastonbury babe - also ive done a few swimming competitions at the school he went to a WOAH baby has so much money.

do you pull for drivers or do you like teams as well?

i mostly pull for drivers but like i guess i like red bull? well i did. i love max so i would follow him everywhere but i did like red bull as well as a team (i like alex, danny and checo so that also helps) but this whole protection of christian horner shtick is really disappointing so id say im a driver person.

if you like teams, who do you pull for?

like i said red bull were the team id pick if i HAD to follow a team - i support chelsea so i cant handle even more disappointment if i followed ferrari and also i only like charles there and they’re the source of all of his misfortune so …

how long have you been into F1?

so my family has always been into F1, my cousin karts and my uncle is a mechanic and makes karts on the side but i had always been more into football cause i could actually go to that with my dad - and also for young me who didn’t know what the fuck a strategy was it seemed kinda boring. but i’d say from maybe 2016ish i started watching it more regularly (hence the max stanship). my mum loves it and her first love in the sport was mark webber which is why we like red bull. but yeah i remember watching max’s first win and was like MUM I WANT THAT ONE (and i have technically met him? idk we made eye contact when his taxi nearly ran over my foot)

what got you into F1?

my mum! i love her and she’s just as much a passionate fan (and hater when appropriate) so it’s a nice thing to do together - especially because me and my dad are season ticket holders at chelsea so spend a lot of time together doing that so this is like my sport time with my mum (along with the olympics that’s our shit we’re very excited for the swimming). so i guess it was being around her watching it and listening to her and my dad argue about it! my mum is an ardent seb supporter and my dad is like a twitter account away from being in teamLH so canada 2018 (2019?) was VERY entertaining. also my uncle loves it so he likes that im proper into it (like have a sports journalism degree) and so we always chat about it - he’s trying to recruit me into motogp next

do you enjoy fanfic/RPF?

i mean i’ve written so much i must love it. lol jokes i do enjoy it and i feel like it helps me like people more (case in point: when i was trying to make myself enjoy the lando win i just read my own fics of him LOL)

but also its something fun to do that’s also creative and has helped me make new friends from all over

how do you view new fans?

ugh i hate the hate new fans get like not everyone can be born into loving a sport? if anything the more people that watch and love the sport the more money it’ll make? idk this whole superiority complex some fans have is just so unneeded for the sport and we all know why is majorly directed at girls. i do fear that some of the new fan behaviours could border on worrying - waiting outside hotels and ambushing drivers is stalking actually!

but overall im always happy to have new people in a sport - a bigger community is always good and new fans bring new perspectives which is good as older fans may just be desensitised to “normal” things in the sport but new eyes can remind them - hey halos are the best thing to happen to F1 and red flags in heavy rain are necessary.

if you could take over as any team principal for any team who would it be and why?

i know i previously dunked on ferrari but there needs to be an intervention because my girly max already has three championships and i need charles to get at least one so i can die happy - then ill move to mclaren, kick zak brown up the ass get a piastri championship and bounce (honourary race with willams or whatever team alex is with cause i need all three 2019 rookies to be race winners)

are your friends and family into F1 as well?

i feel like my other answers answered this but yeah! i also recently reconnected with an old primary school friend who is also really into it. i went to a sports uni so basically everyone there liked it as well (which means me and a friend did trek to the F1 arcade at 4am to watch aus 23 where she had a public meltdown over sainz (i enjoyed it)). also ive made a couple friends through working at races!

are you open to talking to other fans/making friends?

i always am! i am a year out of uni and working from home with all my home friends still at uni after taking gap years so i am big time lonely so always feel free to slide into my messages!

#f1 imagine #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #alex albon #ferrari #f1 #formula one #formula1 #tag

[iiheartstef]

Mile high club

Pairing: Bratty!Black!fem x Dom!chris

Summary: you and chris are in a private plane section together, what’s gonna happen when everyone on the plane is sleeping and it’s just you two?

Warnings: Dirty talk, Overstimulation, sex obvi, oral, p in v, pet names (mama, ma, baby)

word count: 5.6k

authors note: i hope u guys like this one😝 i had a fun time writing it and i think y’all will like it toooo. enjoy you lil freaky frogs

★·.·´¯`·.·★. Ⓢт𝔢𝔽𝓲𝔼. ★·.·´¯`·.·★

you and Chris have been together for over a year, which is crazy because of how much commitment issues he said he had.

you’ve gone public recently and most people have given you a ton of loves so now your youtube channel of 7.3mil has went up to 9mil.

because of this you and the triplets had the idea to go on a combined tour which sold out immediately. now you guys are in the airport going to the next city.

“okay ma’am step here” the security guard gets the metal detector and goes down my body slowly. then you look at chris nervously as they get down to my boobs

“BEEP BEEP BEEP!!” chris bursts out laughing and can’t even stand up straight so he leans on matt who chuckles but hides it

“um ma’am..” the security guard looks at me awkwardly

“oh sorry i have piercings..” the security guard widens his eyes and nods then continues scanning my body.

you notice chris staring at your ass as you impatiently wait for the security guard to be done

just when he finishes scanning the triplets you push chris by his arm “chris why’d you laugh at me” you pout as he laughed even harder.

“passengers on private flight 2834 to Chicago start boarding now” you and nick start jumping up and down excited to get on the plane “i can’t believe we got a private planeee i’m so excitedddd”

“I CALL SHARING WITH MY GIRLFRIEND” chris yells. you slap his arm for being so loud since it’s nighttime.

nick rolls his eyes and groans already walking towards the plane then matt grabs your small suitcase that chris nor you couldn’t carry

he looks at nick and frowns jokingly “so u don’t wanna sit with me nick” matt says in his baby voice

“no actually. i want to sit by my best friend but chris’ crusty bitchass won’t let me, i know it”

you see chris stick his tongue out at nick while smacking your ass “chris stop acting like a child” you say

“your ass just looks so good in those shorts ma i can’t help it” chris whispers in your ear and you can’t help to smile but also low key squeeze your thighs together

*

Madi w that fattyyy😝🍑- heyy bae how’s the flighttt?

little troll😻🧌- hii madii the pilot said we just took off and aren’t expected any turbulence, so me and chris are abt to watch a movie

little troll😻🧌- nick n matt are already sleep even tho we jus got on😔🤦🏾‍♀️

Madi w that fattyyy- i wish i could’ve cameee, what time is it where u are??

little troll😻🧌- it’s 11:25 at night girl we’re still in LA😭

Madi w that fattyyy😝🍑- oh..

Madi w that fattyyy😝🍑- wait. so u and chris in a private plane at night with evb sleep😧

little troll😻🧌- yes..🌚

Madi w that fattyyy😝🍑- y’all r abt to join the mile high club😰

little troll😻🧌- no.. we’re not madi😡

Madi w that fattyyy😝🍑- yea okay..

read 11:28

*

“what movie mama” chris takes your phone and throws it on the other side of him

“ooo let’s watch adventures in babysitting” you start to get excited and pull the blanket over yourself

“newer or older?” chris says smirking already putting on the older one

“noo the newer one is better why are we watching the old one”

“because we’re not gonna watch the movie” chris turns the volume up a little and takes his shirt off

“chris not in the plane !!” you whisper yell then look to see if anybody might’ve woke up

he takes advantage of you not paying attention and slowly slips your shorts off

“my god chris calm down” u see him slide under the blanket and pull your panties off

“we won’t have a lot of time to do this on tour so let’s take advantage of it.“ he looks up at you with low eyes “can i?”

as soon as you nod your head he slowly puts his long finger in your pussy.

“fuck mama ur so wet for me” he twists his finger and spits on your pussy and starts slurping it

“fuck chris oh my god” you whisper yell then chris slaps his hand over your mouth “we can’t do this on a plane !!” you squirm

“be quiet or i’m gonna stop” chris sternly looks at you and continues doing the fingering/eating combo.

he starts licking it and fingering you at an unbelievable pace then as he’s doing that chris licks up from your stomach then stops at your lips to kiss you

he starts to suck on your sweet spot right under your ear and then he feels your breathing slowly speed up and he fingers you even faster

your confused on how he’s doing it this fast but you enjoy it

“chris i’m gonna cum” you say as you feel your high coming up “yea baby cum for me” right as he said that you cum hard right on his fingers

then without giving you time to recover chris pulls his sweats taking his boxers off with them and strokes his dick and pushes it in your pussy without any hesitation

“fuck~ chris wait a sec- oh my god” you try to push his arms away but he grabs your wrists and pins them above your head

“you thought you were going a slut and wear those shorts then walk in front of me the whole day huh mama?”

you moan when you hear this, remembering that u indeed did intend to tease chris when you put them on

he smirks as he pounds into you not making as much noise as one would think “are you gonna be a good girl and give me words?”

you shake your head knowing exactly what you’re doing and what’s gonna happen. chris bites his lip and nods “well i guess i’m gonna have to treat you like the slut you are”

“turn around” his eyes are darker then ever so you comply. chris lays down, put props himself up and forcefully grabs your hair and shoved his dick down your throat

you started to lick his tip then spit on his dick making it easier to get in your mouth. you took his full length but gagged a bit.

you hear chris moan a bit as you felt his cock hit the back of your throat.

you loved every second of seeing his groan and shake because you usually have to force his submissive side to come out.

"Fuck I'm going to cum mama" chris said as he grabbed your hair. you felt his dick twitch a bit and his cum shot into the back of your throat as you swallowed it all

“fuck baby you’re such a good girl” chris wipes some saliva off of your lips and kisses you “you want me to get you some water?”

“yes please” you nod and chris helps you slide your shorts and t-shirt on.

—

Madi w that fattyyy😝🍑- y’all are nasty i just know it

little troll😻🧌- uhh🌚

Madi w that fattyyy😝🍑- disgusting🤦🏻‍♀️

#chris sturniolo #smut #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut #black reader #mile high club #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #madi filipowicz #plane smut #airplane

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: James B. Meigs

Published: Spring 2024

Michael Shermer got his first clue that things were changing at Scientific American in late 2018. The author had been writing his “Skeptic” column for the magazine since 2001. His monthly essays, aimed at an audience of both scientists and laymen, championed the scientific method, defended the need for evidence-based debate, and explored how cognitive and ideological biases can derail the search for truth. Shermer’s role models included two twentieth-century thinkers who, like him, relished explaining science to the public: Carl Sagan, the ebullient astronomer and TV commentator; and evolutionary biologist Stephen Jay Gould, who wrote a popular monthly column in Natural History magazine for 25 years. Shermer hoped someday to match Gould’s record of producing 300 consecutive columns. That goal would elude him.

In continuous publication since 1845, Scientific American is the country’s leading mainstream science magazine. Authors published in its pages have included Albert Einstein, Francis Crick, Jonas Salk, and J. Robert Oppenheimer—some 200 Nobel Prize winners in all. SciAm, as many readers call it, had long encouraged its authors to challenge established viewpoints. In the mid-twentieth century, for example, the magazine published a series of articles building the case for the then-radical concept of plate tectonics. In the twenty-first century, however, American scientific media, including Scientific American, began to slip into lockstep with progressive beliefs. Suddenly, certain orthodoxies—especially concerning race, gender, or climate—couldn’t be questioned.

“I started to see the writing on the wall toward the end of my run there,” Shermer told me. “I saw I was being slowly nudged away from certain topics.” One month, he submitted a column about the “fallacy of excluded exceptions,” a common logical error in which people perceive a pattern of causal links between factors but ignore counterexamples that don’t fit the pattern. In the story, Shermer debunked the myth of the “horror-film curse,” which asserts that bad luck tends to haunt actors who appear in scary movies. (The actors in most horror films survive unscathed, he noted, while bad luck sometimes strikes the casts of non-scary movies as well.) Shermer also wanted to include a serious example: the common belief that sexually abused children grow up to become abusers in turn. He cited evidence that “most sexually abused children do not grow up to abuse their own children” and that “most abusive parents were not abused as children.” And he observed how damaging this stereotype could be to abuse survivors; statistical clarity is all the more vital in such delicate cases, he argued. But Shermer’s editor at the magazine wasn’t having it. To the editor, Shermer’s effort to correct a common misconception might be read as downplaying the seriousness of abuse. Even raising the topic might be too traumatic for victims.

The following month, Shermer submitted a column discussing ways that discrimination against racial minorities, gays, and other groups has diminished (while acknowledging the need for continued progress). Here, Shermer ran into the same wall that Better Angels of Our Nature author Steven Pinker and other scientific optimists have faced. For progressives, admitting that any problem—racism, pollution, poverty—has improved means surrendering the rhetorical high ground. “They are committed to the idea that there is no cumulative progress,” Shermer says, and they angrily resist efforts to track the true prevalence, or the “base rate,” of a problem. Saying that “everything is wonderful and everyone should stop whining doesn’t really work,” his editor objected.

Shermer dug his grave deeper by quoting Manhattan Institute fellow Heather Mac Donald and The Coddling of the American Mind authors Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt, who argue that the rise of identity-group politics undermines the goal of equal rights for all. Shermer wrote that intersectional theory, which lumps individuals into aggregate identity groups based on race, sex, and other immutable characteristics, “is a perverse inversion” of Martin Luther King’s dream of a color-blind society. For Shermer’s editors, apparently, this was the last straw. The column was killed and Shermer’s contract terminated. Apparently, SciAm no longer had the ideological bandwidth to publish such a heterodox thinker.

American journalism has never been very good at covering science. In fact, the mainstream press is generally a cheap date when it comes to stories about alternative medicine, UFO sightings, pop psychology, or various forms of junk science. For many years, that was one factor that made Scientific American’s rigorous reporting so vital. The New York Times, National Geographic, Smithsonian, and a few other mainstream publications also produced top-notch science coverage. Peer-reviewed academic journals aimed at specialists met a higher standard still. But over the past decade or so, the quality of science journalism—even at the top publications—has declined in a new and alarming way. Today’s journalistic failings don’t owe simply to lazy reporting or a weakness for sensationalism but to a sweeping and increasingly pervasive worldview.

It is hard to put a single name on this sprawling ideology. It has its roots both in radical 1960s critiques of capitalism and in the late-twentieth-century postmodern movement that sought to “problematize” notions of objective truth. Critical race theory, which sees structural racism as the grand organizing principle of our society, is one branch. Queer studies, which seeks to “deconstruct” traditional norms of family, sex, and gender, is another. Critics of this worldview sometimes call it “identity politics”; supporters prefer the term “intersectionality.” In managerial settings, the doctrine lives under the label of diversity, equity, and inclusion, or DEI: a set of policies that sound anodyne—but in practice, are anything but.

This dogma sees Western values, and the United States in particular, as uniquely pernicious forces in world history. And, as exemplified by the anticapitalist tirades of climate activist Greta Thunberg, the movement features a deep eco-pessimism buoyed only by the distant hope of a collectivist green utopia.

The DEI worldview took over our institutions slowly, then all at once. Many on the left, especially journalists, saw Donald Trump’s election in 2016 as an existential threat that necessitated dropping the guardrails of balance and objectivity. Then, in early 2020, Covid lockdowns put American society under unbearable pressure. Finally, in May 2020, George Floyd’s death under the knee of a Minneapolis police officer provided the spark. Protesters exploded onto the streets. Every institution, from coffeehouses to Fortune 500 companies, felt compelled to demonstrate its commitment to the new “antiracist” ethos. In an already polarized environment, most media outlets lunged further left. Centrists—including New York Times opinion editor James Bennet and science writer Donald G. McNeil, Jr.—were forced out, while radical progressive voices were elevated.

This was the national climate when Laura Helmuth took the helm of Scientific American in April 2020. Helmuth boasted a sterling résumé: a Ph.D. in cognitive neuroscience from the University of California–Berkeley and a string of impressive editorial jobs at outlets including Science, National Geographic, and the Washington Post. Taking over a large print and online media operation during the early weeks of the Covid pandemic couldn’t have been easy. On the other hand, those difficult times represented a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for an ambitious science editor. Rarely in the magazine’s history had so many Americans urgently needed timely, sensible science reporting: Where did Covid come from? How is it transmitted? Was shutting down schools and businesses scientifically justified? What do we know about vaccines?

Scientific American did examine Covid from various angles, including an informative July 2020 cover story diagramming how the SARS-CoV-2 virus “sneaks inside human cells.” But the publication didn’t break much new ground in covering the pandemic. When it came to assessing growing evidence that Covid might have escaped from a laboratory, for example, SciAm got scooped by New York and Vanity Fair, publications known more for their coverage of politics and entertainment than of science.

At the same time, SciAm dramatically ramped up its social-justice coverage. The magazine would soon publish a flurry of articles with titles such as “Modern Mathematics Confronts Its White, Patriarchal Past” and “The Racist Roots of Fighting Obesity.” The death of the twentieth century’s most acclaimed biologist was the hook for “The Complicated Legacy of E. O. Wilson,” an opinion piece arguing that Wilson’s work was “based on racist ideas,” without quoting a single line from his large published canon. At least those pieces had some connection to scientific topics, though. In 2021, SciAm published an opinion essay, “Why the Term ‘JEDI’ Is Problematic for Describing Programs That Promote Justice, Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion.” The article’s five authors took issue with the effort by some social-justice advocates to create a cute new label while expanding the DEI acronym to include “Justice.” The Jedi knights of the Star Wars movies are “inappropriate mascots for social justice,” the authors argued, because they are “prone to (white) saviorism and toxically masculine approaches to conflict resolution (violent duels with phallic light sabers, gaslighting by means of ‘Jedi mind tricks,’ etc.).” What all this had to do with science was anyone’s guess.

Several prominent scientists took note of SciAm’s shift. “Scientific American is changing from a popular-science magazine into a social-justice-in-science magazine,” Jerry Coyne, a University of Chicago emeritus professor of ecology and evolution, wrote on his popular blog, “Why Evolution Is True.” He asked why the magazine had “changed its mission from publishing decent science pieces to flawed bits of ideology.”

“The old Scientific American that I subscribed to in college was all about the science,” University of New Mexico evolutionary psychologist Geoffrey Miller told me. “It was factual reporting on new ideas and findings from physics to psychology, with a clear writing style, excellent illustrations, and no obvious political agenda.” Miller says that he noticed a gradual change about 15 years ago, and then a “woke political bias that got more flagrant and irrational” over recent years. The leading U.S. science journals, Nature and Science, and the U.K.-based New Scientist made a similar pivot, he says. By the time Trump was elected in 2016, he says, “the Scientific American editors seem to have decided that fighting conservatives was more important than reporting on science.”

Scientific American’s increasing engagement in politics drew national attention in late 2020, when the magazine, for the first time in its 175-year history, endorsed a presidential candidate. “The evidence and the science show that Donald Trump has badly damaged the U.S. and its people,” the editors wrote. “That is why we urge you to vote for Joe Biden.” In an e-mail exchange, Scientific American editor-in-chief Helmuth said that the decision to endorse Biden was made unanimously by the magazine’s staff. “Overall, the response was very positive,” she said. Helmuth also pushed back on the idea that getting involved in political battles represented a new direction for SciAm. “We have a long and proud history of covering the social and political angles of science,” she said, noting that the magazine “has advocated for teaching evolution and not creationism since we covered the Scopes Monkey Trial.”

Scientific American wasn’t alone in endorsing a presidential candidate in 2020. Nature also endorsed Biden in that election cycle. The New England Journal of Medicine indirectly did the same, writing that “our current leaders have demonstrated that they are dangerously incompetent” and should not “keep their jobs.” Vinay Prasad, the prominent oncologist and public-health expert, recently lampooned the endorsement trend on his Substack, asking whether science journals will tell him who to vote for again in 2024. “Here is an idea! Call it crazy,” he wrote: “Why don’t scientists focus on science, and let politics decide the election?” When scientists insert themselves into politics, he added, “the only result is we are forfeiting our credibility.”

But what does it mean to “focus on science”? Many of us learned the standard model of the scientific method in high school. We understand that science attempts—not always perfectly—to shield the search for truth from political interference, religious dogmas, or personal emotions and biases. But that model of science has been under attack for half a century. The French theorist Michel Foucault argued that scientific objectivity is an illusion produced and shaped by society’s “systems of power.” Today’s woke activists challenge the legitimacy of science on various grounds: the predominance of white males in its history, the racist attitudes held by some of its pioneers, its inferiority to indigenous “ways of knowing,” and so on. Ironically, as Christopher Rufo points out in his book America’s Cultural Revolution, this postmodern ideology—which began as a critique of oppressive power structures—today empowers the most illiberal, repressive voices within academic and other institutions.

Shermer believes that the new style of science journalism “is being defined by this postmodern worldview, the idea that all facts are relative or culturally determined.” Of course, if scientific facts are just products of a particular cultural milieu, he says, “then everything is a narrative that has to reflect some political side.” Without an agreed-upon framework to separate valid from invalid claims—without science, in other words—people fall back on their hunches and in-group biases, the “my-side bias.”

Traditionally, science reporting was mostly descriptive—writers strove to explain new discoveries in a particular field. The new style of science journalism takes the form of advocacy—writers seek to nudge readers toward a politically approved opinion.

“Lately journalists have been behaving more like lawyers,” Shermer says, “marshaling evidence in favor of their own view and ignoring anything that doesn’t help their argument.” This isn’t just the case in science journalism, of course. Even before the Trump era, the mainstream press boosted stories that support left-leaning viewpoints and carefully avoided topics that might offer ammunition to the Right. Most readers understand, of course, that stories about politics are likely to be shaped by a media outlet’s ideological slant. But science is theoretically supposed to be insulated from political influence. Sadly, the new woke style of science journalism reframes factual scientific debates as ideological battles, with one side presumed to be morally superior. Not surprisingly, the crisis in science journalism is most obvious in the fields where public opinion is most polarized.

The Covid pandemic was a crisis not just for public health but for the public’s trust in our leading institutions. From Anthony Fauci on down, key public-health officials issued unsupported policy prescriptions, fudged facts, and suppressed awkward questions about the origin of the virus. A skeptical, vigorous science press could have done a lot to keep these officials honest—and the public informed. Instead, even elite science publications mostly ran cover for the establishment consensus. For example, when Stanford’s Jay Bhattacharya and two other public-health experts proposed an alternative to lockdowns in their Great Barrington Declaration, media outlets joined in Fauci’s effort to discredit and silence them.

Richard Ebright, professor of chemical biology at Rutgers University, is a longtime critic of gain-of-function research, which can make naturally occurring viruses deadlier. From the early weeks of the pandemic, he suspected that the virus had leaked from China’s Wuhan Institute of Virology. Evidence increasingly suggests that he was correct. I asked Ebright how he thought that the media had handled the lab-leak debate. He responded:

Science writers at most major news outlets and science news outlets have spent the last four years obfuscating and misrepresenting facts about the origin of the pandemic. They have done this to protect the scientists, science administrators, and the field of science—gain-of-function research on potential pandemic pathogens—that likely caused the pandemic. They have done this in part because those scientists and science administrators are their sources, . . . in part because they believe that public trust in science would be damaged by reporting the facts, and in part because the origin of the pandemic acquired a partisan political valance after early public statements by Tom Cotton, Mike Pompeo, and Donald Trump.

During the first two years of the pandemic, most mainstream media outlets barely mentioned the lab-leak debate. And when they did, they generally savaged both the idea and anyone who took it seriously. In March 2021, long after credible evidence emerged hinting at a laboratory origin for the virus, Scientific American published an article, “Lab-Leak Hypothesis Made It Harder for Scientists to Seek the Truth.” The piece compared the theory to the KGB’s disinformation campaign about the origin of HIV/AIDS and blamed lab-leak advocates for creating a poisonous climate around the issue: “The proliferation of xenophobic rhetoric has been linked to a striking increase in anti-Asian hate crimes. It has also led to a vilification of the [Wuhan Institute of Virology] and some of its Western collaborators, as well as partisan attempts to defund certain types of research (such as ‘gain of function’ research).” Today we know that the poisonous atmosphere around the lab-leak question was deliberately created by Anthony Fauci and a handful of scientists involved in dangerous research at the Wuhan lab. And the case for banning gain-of-function research has never been stronger.

One of the few science journalists who did take the lab-leak question seriously was Donald McNeil, Jr., the veteran New York Times reporter forced out of the paper in an absurd DEI panic. After leaving the Times—and like several other writers pursuing the lab-leak question—McNeil published his reporting on his own Medium blog. It is telling that, at a time when leading science publications were averse to exploring the greatest scientific mystery of our time, some of the most honest reporting on the topic was published in independent, reader-funded outlets. It’s also instructive to note that the journalist who replaced McNeil on the Covid beat at the Times, Apoorva Mandavilli, showed open hostility to investigating Covid’s origins. In 2021, she famously tweeted: “Someday we will stop talking about the lab leak theory and maybe even admit its racist roots. But alas, that day is not yet here.” It would be hard to compose a better epitaph to the credibility of mainstream science journalism.

As Shermer observed, many science journalists see their role not as neutral reporters but as advocates for noble causes. This is especially true in reporting about the climate. Many publications now have reporters on a permanent “climate beat,” and several nonprofit organizations offer grants to help fund climate coverage. Climate science is an important field, worthy of thoughtful, balanced coverage. Unfortunately, too many climate reporters seem especially prone to common fallacies, including base-rate neglect, and to hyping tenuous data.

The mainstream science press never misses an opportunity to ratchet up climate angst. No hurricane passes without articles warning of “climate disasters.” And every major wildfire seemingly generates a “climate apocalypse” headline. For example, when a cluster of Quebec wildfires smothered the eastern U.S. in smoke last summer, the New York Times called it “a season of climate extremes.” It’s likely that a warming planet will result in more wildfires and stronger hurricanes. But eager to convince the public that climate-linked disasters are rapidly trending upward, journalists tend to neglect the base rate. In the case of Quebec wildfires, for example, 2023 was a fluky outlier. During the previous eight years, Quebec wildfires burned fewer acres than average; then, there was no upward trend—and no articles discussing the paucity of fires. By the same token, according to the U.S. National Hurricane Center, a lower-than-average number of major hurricanes struck the U.S. between 2011 and 2020. But there were no headlines suggesting, say, “Calm Hurricane Seasons Cast Doubt on Climate Predictions.”

Most climate journalists wouldn’t dream of drawing attention to data that challenge the climate consensus. They see their role as alerting the public to an urgent problem that will be solved only through political change.

Similar logic applies to social issues. The social-justice paradigm rests on the notion that racism, sexism, transphobia, and other biases are so deeply embedded in our society that they can be eradicated only through constant focus on the problem. Any people or institutions that don’t participate in this process need to be singled out for criticism. In such an atmosphere, it takes a particularly brave journalist to note exceptions to the reigning orthodoxy.

This dynamic is especially intense in the debates over transgender medicine. The last decade has seen a huge surge in children claiming dissatisfaction with their gender. According to one survey, the number of children aged six to 17 diagnosed with gender dysphoria surged from roughly 15,000 to 42,000 in the years between 2017 and 2021 alone. The number of kids prescribed hormones to block puberty more than doubled. Puberty blockers and other treatments for gender dysphoria have enormous potential lifelong consequences, including sterility, sexual dysfunction, and interference with brain development. Families facing treatment decisions for youth gender dysphoria desperately need clear, objective guidance. They’re not getting it.

Instead, medical organizations and media outlets typically describe experimental hormone treatments and surgeries as routine, and even “lifesaving,” when, in fact, their benefits remain contested, while their risks are enormous. In a series of articles, the Manhattan Institute’s Leor Sapir has documented how trans advocates enforce this appearance of consensus among U.S. scientists, medical experts, and many journalists. Through social-media campaigns and other tools, these activists have forced conferences to drop leading scientists, gotten journals to withdraw scientific papers after publication, and interfered with the distribution of Abigail Shrier’s 2020 book Irreversible Damage, which challenges the wisdom of “gender-affirming care” for adolescent girls. While skeptics are cowed into silence, Sapir concludes, those who advocate fast-tracking children for radical gender therapy “will go down in history as responsible for one of the worst medical scandals in U.S. history.”

In such an overheated environment, it would be helpful to have a journalistic outlet advocating a sober, evidence-based approach. In an earlier era, Scientific American might have been that voice. Unfortunately, SciAm today downplays messy debates about gender therapies, while offering sunny platitudes about the “safety and efficacy” of hormone treatments for prepubescent patients. For example, in a 2023 article, “What Are Puberty Blockers, and How Do They Work?,” the magazine repeats the unsubstantiated claim that such treatments are crucial to preventing suicide among gender-dysphoric children. “These medications are well studied and have been used safely since the late 1980s to pause puberty in adolescents with gender dysphoria,” SciAm states.

The independent journalist Jesse Singal, a longtime critic of slipshod science reporting, demolishes these misleading claims in a Substack post. In fact, the use of puberty blockers to treat gender dysphoria is a new and barely researched phenomenon, he notes: “[W]e have close to zero studies that have tracked gender dysphoric kids who went on blockers over significant lengths of time to see how they have fared.” Singal finds it especially alarming to see a leading science magazine obscure the uncertainty surrounding these treatments. “I believe that this will go down as a major journalistic blunder that will be looked back upon with embarrassment and regret,” he writes.

Fortunately, glimmers of light are shining through on the gender-care controversy. The New York Times has lately begun publishing more balanced articles on the matter, much to the anger of activists. And various European countries have started reassessing and limiting youth hormone treatments. England’s National Health Service recently commissioned the respected pediatrician Hilary Cass to conduct a sweeping review of the evidence supporting youth gender medicine. Her nearly 400-page report is a bombshell, finding that evidence supporting hormone interventions for children is “weak,” while the long-term risks of such treatments have been inadequately studied. “For most young people,” the report concludes, “a medical pathway will not be the best way to manage their gender-related distress.” In April, the NHS announced that it will no longer routinely prescribe puberty blocking drugs to children.

Scientific American has yet to offer an even-handed review of the new scientific skepticism toward aggressive gender medicine. Instead, in February, the magazine published an opinion column, “Pseudoscience Has Long Been Used to Oppress Transgender People.” Shockingly, it argues for even less medical caution in dispensing radical treatments. The authors approvingly note that “many trans activists today call for diminishing the role of medical authority altogether in gatekeeping access to trans health care,” arguing that patients should have “access to hormones and surgery on demand.” And, in an implicit warning to anyone who might question these claims and goals, the article compares today’s skeptics of aggressive gender medicine to Nazi eugenicists and book burners. Shortly after the Cass report’s release, SciAm published an interview with two activists who argue that scientists questioning trans orthodoxy are conducting “epistemological violence.”

There’s nothing wrong with vigorous debate over scientific questions. In fact, in both science and journalism, adversarial argumentation is a vital tool in testing claims and getting to the truth. “A bad idea can hover in the ether of a culture if there is no norm for speaking out,” Shermer says. Where some trans activists cross the line is in trying to derail debate by shaming and excluding anyone who challenges the activists’ manufactured consensus.

Such intimidation has helped enforce other scientific taboos. Anthony Fauci called the scientists behind the Great Barrington Declaration “fringe epidemiologists” and successfully lobbied to censor their arguments on social media. Climate scientists who diverge from the mainstream consensus struggle to get their research funded or published. The claim that implicit racial bias unconsciously influences our minds has been debunked time and again—but leading science magazines keep asserting it.

Scientists and journalists aren’t known for being shrinking violets. What makes them tolerate this enforced conformity? The intimidation described above is one factor. Academia and journalism are both notoriously insecure fields; a single accusation of racism or anti-trans bias can be a career ender. In many organizations, this gives the youngest, most radical members of the community disproportionate power to set ideological agendas.

“Scientists, science publishers, and science journalists simply haven’t learned how to say no to emotionally unhinged activists,” evolutionary psychologist Miller says. “They’re prone to emotional blackmail, and they tend to be very naive about the political goals of activists who claim that scientific finding X or Y will ‘impose harm’ on some group.”

But scientists may also have what they perceive to be positive motives to self-censor. A fascinating recent paper concludes: “Prosocial motives underlie scientific censorship by scientists.” The authors include a who’s who of heterodox thinkers, including Miller, Manhattan Institute fellow Glenn Loury, Pamela Paresky, John McWhorter, Steven Pinker, and Wilfred Reilly. “Our analysis suggests that scientific censorship is often driven by scientists, who are primarily motivated by self-protection, benevolence toward peer scholars, and prosocial concerns for the well-being of human social groups,” they write.

Whether motivated by good intentions, conformity, or fear of ostracization, scientific censorship undermines both the scientific process and public trust. The authors of the “prosocial motives” paper point to “at least one obvious cost of scientific censorship: the suppression of accurate information.” When scientists claim to represent a consensus about ideas that remain in dispute—or avoid certain topics entirely—those decisions filter down through the journalistic food chain. Findings that support the social-justice worldview get amplified in the media, while disapproved topics are excoriated as disinformation. Not only do scientists lose the opportunity to form a clearer picture of the world; the public does, too. At the same time, the public notices when claims made by health officials and other experts prove to be based more on politics than on science. A new Pew Research poll finds that the percentage of Americans who say that they have a “great deal” of trust in scientists has fallen from 39 percent in 2020 to 23 percent today.

“Whenever research can help inform policy decisions, it’s important for scientists and science publications to share what we know and how we know it,” Scientific American editor Helmuth says. “This is especially true as misinformation and disinformation are spreading so widely.” That would be an excellent mission statement for a serious science publication. We live in an era when scientific claims underpin huge swaths of public policy, from Covid to climate to health care for vulnerable youths. It has never been more vital to subject those claims to rigorous debate.

Unfortunately, progressive activists today begin with their preferred policy outcomes or ideological conclusions and then try to force scientists and journalists to fall in line. Their worldview insists that, rather than challenging the progressive orthodoxy, science must serve as its handmaiden. This pre-Enlightenment style of thinking used to hold sway only in radical political subcultures and arcane corners of academia. Today it is reflected even in our leading institutions and science publications. Without a return to the core principles of science—and the broader tradition of fact-based discourse and debate—our society risks drifting onto the rocks of irrationality.

[ Via: https://archive.today/j03w3 ]

==

Scientific American now embodies the worst of far-left anti-science nonsense.

#SciAm #Scientific American #James B. Meigs #academic corruption #ideological corruption #ideological capture #wokeness #cult of woke #wokeism #wokeness as religion #woke #unscientific #anti science #antiscience #religion is a mental illness

[divorcetual]

🔥+animanga

I asked ppl to do this n then fell asleep im so sorry

ANIME ADAPTATIONS ARE NOTTTTT NECESSARY FOR ALL MANGA OH MY GOD. ACTUALLY IT WLD MAKE A LOT OF THEM WORSE. Anime adaptation baseline for animation has been getting a lot better lately (a very standard studio now could be on par with the most beloved and highly praised studio ten or twenty years ago) but NO MATTER WHAT the art- especially lighting- of a manga will almost always look worlds better than the anime adaptation, simply because more detail can be added when its a still image. Similarly, some things CANT be reasonably added from a manga without it looking weird. Comics can get away with noy having a background on a panel, be it out of ease or influencing the mood of the panel, but animation has a lot harder of a time switching from a background to a solid coor or design without good reason- its not impossible, and in fact very common of you look for it, but its just... not smth you can do as often as in manga

[ID: The manga and anime versions of the "I am L" scene in Death Note. In the manga, lights shocked reaction is visible and ghe background has a flash of white to show that. Both L and Light have more detail.

In the anime, the visuals are a lot closer to L's face, with light not seen at all. There is less detail, but there is a shadow cast over half of L's face /End ID]

Take the "I am L" scene for example. The original manga has more shock to it. More of a creepy feeling, even. The anime maintains that in a way, but it also sacrifices a lot of the original appeal of that panel- the bacground flash, Light's face, etc. I wont discredit the anime and say that they didnt do a great job replicating the feeling with great music and voice dubbing, but visual-wise its. a little lacking. I will give credit to them, the shadow over the face does a more than you would think to improve this scene.

This is a manhwa, but a lot of fans bashed the solo leveling anime for this exact reason- the art of the manhwa had so much more detail and complex lighting than the anime, bcs it would be unreasonable for animators for spend time on the lighting for a minor scene in the show, but its easy for a manhwa artist to do it. And this is DESPITE solo levelling animation and visuals being an INCREDIBLE adaptation of the mood and original panels

[ID: A screenshot of the anime vs manhwa adaptatiom of a character shooting a magic blast. The manhwa has more detail in the character and harsher lighting, and the anime has brighter light and a larger blast /End ID]

Pleaseeee click on the manhwa one to see the full thing. One thing about the manhwa vs anime is the fact that manhwas are often made to be scrolled vetically, where anime is a horizontal screen. The screenshot above of the manhwa isnt even the entire thing, it didnt fit in my screen. Imo the anime is AMAZING and does a fantastic job adapting it, but literally it Cant Do It Perfectly because of the difference in media form.

ALSO !! ppl forget that comics are an art form in of themself- the way the story is told goes beyond just showing the characters doing things. Panelling specifically is an incredibly influential aspect of it. YES, many authors dont put so much into the panels that a major facet is lost if made into an anime, but SOME DO

[ID: Two Tokyo Goul pages. One is almost entrely empty besides Kaneki sitting in a chair saying "Mother". Above him is a text box reading "Instead of a person who hurts others, become a person who...".

The second page shows Kaneki's torture, the words "Over and over" written many times across the page, in various sizes and layouts. Through yhe page Kaneki narrates "When the injections wore off Yamori would give me "food" and wait for the injured areas to heal. Then, he would start all over again and give me an injection. Repeatedly. My fingers and toes regrew as if they were nails and hair, over and over. They. Regrew. Every. Time. and I felt like I was truly a monster." /End ID]

Sui Ishida is a genius in terms of panelling and using the art form to his advantage- I didnt even include my fav page of his here, bcs theres soooo many good ones and I hit the image limit lolz. He utilizes text in a way unreplicatable by an anime adaptation, which doesnt use that. Even if it did, text shown in an animation has a different feel to it than a comic, where thoughts, diologue, and narration all use text. Much like the formatting of Solo Levellinng, TG text cant be replicated in another medium.

[ID: A page from Chainsaw Man, in which all the panels are seperates by arms /End ID]

Fujimoto has some amazing panelling in CSM, in the way he seperates panels. While this is the most notable one, theres SO many worth sharing if I wasnt constrained by an image limit. Utilizing the characters and scenes themselves as the panel borders enhances the atmosphere, and creates an even mote sinister feeling to the page.

[ID: Two panels and a page from Witch Hat Ateliar. The panels are formatted by being indented into a wall. The page has a scenic panel with a complex, storybook-like border /End ID]

Kamome Shirahama is anothet author with amazing usage of panels and formatting- when background or lore is given, the panels have a fancy, intricate border to indicate its a story being told- see the right image. She also uses the parts of other panels to interact with new ones (see left image), and often has characters interact with the borders themselves. There is SO much I can say about her work but actually I think watching this video will do you better.

im getting exhausted writing all of this I may come back and talk abt gnpp since that was the one I actually meant to write abt. Augh whatever take this for now