#And sure there is the politics element but let me believe that in the moment his heart was on her safety and happiness.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

It's all fun and games until...

[Commission for @dontheckinswear]

[r0ugesun]

I have a fluff maybe to slight spicy request for Aemond Targaryen if you are interested!

Aemond finally becomes betrothed to princess!reader of a different house (can be any it don’t matter) but has circulation problems so she’s always cold and therefore fretted over making Aemond believe she is spoiled. But upon being proven wrong from maybe bonding over books or hell training, falls in love and carries her to bed when the cold gets to her and her bed is just full of blankets to cuddle in.

(Aemond deserves all the intimacy and cuddles)

Thank you for sending me this request anon and sorry for the delay! Ur right Aemond deserves all the cuddles (*ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ꕤ*.ﾟ

Synopsis: Princess y/n of House Martell arrives at the wintry Red Keep as Prince Aemond’s betrothed. As y/n’s warmth and intellect begin to break through Aemond’s icy exterior, he finds himself drawn to her. In return, Aemond’s protective embrace provides y/n the warmth she desperately needs.

Aemond x Martell!Reader

Prince Aemond Targaryen’s engagement to Princess y/n of House Martell was a union crafted to solidify political alliances. While their marriage was intended to serve as a strategic move, it was marred by the disparity in their circumstances. Princess y/n, renowned for her exotic beauty and noble grace, suffered from a rare condition that left her perpetually cold. This affliction required constant warmth, a need that Aemond initially perceived as a sign of pampering rather than genuine necessity.

From the moment y/n arrived at the red keep in the middle of a particularly harsh winter, the contrast between them was stark. The grand halls of the castle were adorned with tapestries of fearsome dragons and Targaryen banners, but y/n’s presence was marked by her constant need for warmth. She was swathed in layers of heavy furs, her every movement accompanied by a retinue of attendants. Aemond observed from a distance, noting her delicate appearance and the attentiveness of her servants. His initial impressions were marked by skepticism and a hint of disdain.

Their first meeting was formal, a carefully orchestrated affair. Aemond greeted her with his characteristic stoicism. “Princess y/n” he said, his tone courteous but distant, “I trust your journey was comfortable?”

Y/N offered a polite smile, though her eyes revealed a trace of weariness. “Thank you, Prince Aemond. The journey was long, but I am well. Though I must admit, the cold here is harsher than I expected.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, his gaze indifferent. “You are accustomed to much warmer climates in dorne, I’m sure. Adapting to this cold must be challenging.”

Y/n’s voice was steady as she replied, “It is indeed a challenge, but I am here to fulfill my duty. I hope to contribute meaningfully despite the discomfort.”

Aemond's eyes remained cold as he regarded

Y/n. "Your sense of duty is admirable, though I can't help but wonder if you’ll be a hindrance rather than a help."

Y/N’s eyes flashed with sharpness, though her smile remained placid. She titled her head slightly before she spoke.

“I suppose we'll find out soon enough. I’ve faced challenges before. If I can endure the cold, I’m certain I can manage other… inconveniences.”

Aemond’s lips curled slightly in a thin smile, more of a smirk than a genuine expression of amusement. “Mmm. I wonder if your resolve will hold up as well when faced with the less glamorous aspects of life here.”

“Let’s hope” y/n replied smoothly. “It’s one thing to endure the elements, another to contend with a lack of charm.”

Aemond’s gaze sharpened slightly, but his tone remained even. “Charm is not a luxury I indulge in, Princess. I prefer matters of substance.”

Y/n had a smirk of her own now, her expression thoughtful. “Substance is important, but so is the ability to navigate social graces. Otherwise, one might come off as... unlikable.”

Aemond’s expression did not shift. “And you, Princess, are known for your social prowess?”

“I am known for many things, my prince” y/n said with a wry smile.

“Including the ability to keep my composure even when faced with frosty reception—both literal and figurative.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered with a hint of respect, though he quickly masked it with his usual stoicism. “We shall see if your composure extends to the political intricacies of our alliance.”

“I have no doubt it will” y/n replied confidently. “After all, if I can manage to stay warm and navigate through a wintry castle, I believe I can handle the complexities of court politics.”

Aemond regarded her with a piercing look, as if assessing whether her confidence was merely bravado or a genuine asset. “We shall see, indeed.”

Days passed, and the cold of King's Landing seemed even more relentless. Aemond, finding solace in the library's quiet, often retreated there to escape the castle's demands. One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the ancient tomes, he entered the library to find an unexpected sight: Y/N, comfortably nestled near the hearth, a thick fur draped over her shoulders, engrossed in a book.

Aemond paused, his usual stoic demeanor faltering for a moment. He approached her with measured steps, his curiosity piqued. "Princess" he greeted, his tone more neutral than before.

Y/blooked up, a hint of surprise in her eyes before she smiled with a hint of apprehension. "Prince Aemond. I didn't expect to see you here."

"The library is a place of comfort for me" he admitted, his gaze drifting over the bookshelves. "I come here often to escape the... noise."

Y/n nodded, her fingers tracing the edges of the book she held. "I think it’s quite peaceful myself. I find the histories of your lineage particularly fascinating."

As Aemond sat across from her, he noticed the title of the book in her hands. "The Histories of Dorne and Aegon the conquerer" he remarked. "An interesting choice."

Y/n’s eyes sparkled with interest. "I was just reading about Aegon’s failed conquest of Dorne. It seems he underestimated the resilience of the Dornish people."

Aemond’s lips twitched into a faint smile. "Aegon was a formidable conqueror, but he came unprepared, the Dornish have always been adept at guerrilla warfare, using the knowledge of their land to their advantage."

Y/n leaned forward slightly, her interest genuine. "Do you think he could have succeeded if he had approached the conquest differently?"

Aemond considered her question, appreciating the depth of her curiosity. "Perhaps. He tried to discredit your ancestors with slanders and rumors when his dragons failed, of course that endeavor proved fruitless as well, if it were me I would’ve hired mercenaries familiar with the terrain and the culture”

Y/n smiled wryly “Wars are not won with bloodshed alone my prince If he had been more willing to negotiate and form alliances rather than relying solely on brute force, he might have had a better chance. The Dornish value our independence highly, we would not bow to mere threats."

Aemond’s gaze softened, clearly intrigued by her insight. “It seems you have a keen grasp of the intricacies of the histories and strategy. I imagine you would have made a formidable advisor.”

Y/n’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment, but she remained composed. “Thank you, my prince. I’ve always believed that knowledge and perspective are key to navigating both conflict and peace.”

Aemond’s smile widened slightly, a rare gesture that hinted at genuine admiration. “I look forward to hearing more of your perspectives.”

Their debates on the histories of the realm continued, the conversation flowing easily between them. They discussed strategies, historical figures, and the nuances of Dornish culture versus the Targaryen way of conquest. Aemond found himself increasingly drawn to her intellect and passion, her perspectives challenging and enlightening.

As the evening wore on, Aemond realized with a start that he was enjoying her company. Y/n’s confident demeanor were a stark contrast to his initial impressions. He found himself admiring the way she held her own in their debate, unafraid to challenge his views.

As the days turned into weeks, the cold of King's Landing seemed to grow less oppressive for y/n and Aemond, though winter’s bite was still unmistakable. One crisp afternoon, the pair decided to take a stroll through the Kingswood, a vast expanse of trees and tranquility that lay on the outskirts of the city.

Wrapped in their furs, they walked side by side, their conversation flowing as seamlessly as the wind through the trees. They continued their discussion of history. Aemond found himself enthralled by y/n’s insights and the way she animatedly discussed the events of the past.

As they wandered further into the wood, engrossed in their discourse, they lost track of time. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the temperature dropped sharply. Y/n’s delicate frame began to show signs of discomfort, her shivering becoming more pronounced.

Aemond’s keen eyes noticed her struggle first. “Princess, you appear distressed” he said, his voice laced with concern. “We should head back.”

Y/n tried to maintain her composure, but her attempts were faltering. “I’m quite cold” she admitted, her voice trembling. She winced as she took another step, her limp becoming more noticeable. “Perhaps... we should indeed return.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed as he observed her growing discomfort. Without a second thought, he scooped her into his arms with surprising ease. Y/n gasped, both startled and flustered by the sudden, intimate contact. Her cheeks flushed, though it was not entirely from the cold.

Aemond, maintaining a careful hold, began to carry her back through the woods. His stride was steady and purposeful, though he could not ignore the feeling of Y/N nestled close against him. The warmth of her body against his own was both a contrast to the frigid air and a comfort he had not anticipated.

As they neared the castle, Y/N’s embarrassment was palpable. She attempted to speak through her shivering. “M-my prince, you needn’t carry me. I can manage!”

Aemond’s gaze softened as he looked down at her. “You are in no condition to walk, Princess. Allow me to ensure you are safely returned to your chambers.”

Despite her initial resistance, Y/N found herself settling into his embrace, her coldness slowly melting away with each step Aemond took. The castle’s warmth greeted them as they entered, and Aemond carried her up the grand staircase, his movements deliberate and careful.

Upon reaching their chambers, Aemond gently set y/n down on the edge of the large, ornate bed. He took a moment to stoke the fire, ensuring the room was warm and inviting. Y/n watched him with a mixture of gratitude and bashfulness.

“Thank you” she said quietly as he helped her settle under the heavy, embroidered blankets. “I didn’t expect...”

Aemond interrupted her softly, a rare tenderness in his voice. “There is no need to thank me. It is my duty as your future husband to ensure your well being.”

As the fire crackled and the warmth enveloped her, y/n began to relax. Aemond, though maintaining his usual stoicism, could not ignore the growing affection he felt. He seated himself beside her, his presence a comforting shield against the chill.

Y/n looked at him, her eyes reflecting both relief and a newfound closeness. “You’ve been very kind, Aemond. I appreciate it more than you know.”

Aemond nodded, his own emotions subtly shifting. “I am glad to see you more comfortable. It would be remiss of me to let you suffer.”

The fire's glow cast a warm halo around them, and the room was filled with a tender intimacy that seemed to wrap around them like the softest of blankets. Y/n’s eyes met Aemond's, and for a moment, the world outside their secluded chamber fell away. The air was thick with an unspoken yearning, a deep desire that neither could ignore.

Aemond's gaze softened as he took in the sight of her, his usual composure giving way to a rare display of vulnerability. The warmth from the hearth made her cheeks flush, her lips slightly parted in a way that made Aemond's heart ache with a longing he had not anticipated. He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch tender and lingering.

As he leaned in, their breaths mingled, warm and intertwined. The kiss that followed was not hurried but slow and filled with a profound tenderness. It was as if Aemond was trying to savor every moment, every sensation of her closeness. His lips moved gently against hers, exploring with a careful, reverent touch. The kiss was a quiet confession of his growing affection, a promise of warmth and devotion.

Y/n felt a delicious shiver of pleasure as he placed his warm hands under her dress and caressing her thighs, melting into his embrace, her cold body finally finding solace in the heat of his touch. Aemond's arms wrapped around her with a desperate kind of need, pulling her closer as if he could absorb her cold and make it his own. His warmth seemed to seep into her, chasing away the chill that had plagued her since her arrival.

With each press of his lips every soft touch under her clothes, Aemond conveyed a yearning that went beyond mere physical desire. It was a yearning for connection, for understanding, for something deeper than the political arrangement that had brought them together. His touch was both possessive and protective, He was a fire that would keep her brittle heart warm.

When they finally parted, their foreheads resting together, Aemond’s eye was filled with a tenderness that spoke volumes.

Y/n’s voice was low, almost a whisper. “You bring warmth to more than just my body, Aemond. You’re igniting something in me that I never knew I needed.”

Aemonds eye shone with a mix of relief and affection as he looked down at her. “I never thought I’d find comfort like this.”

Aemond’s smile was soft, almost shy, as he brushed his thumb lightly over her cheek as she spoke.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so unexpected can bring such warmth to our lives.”

Y/n nuzzled her nose with his and wrapped her leg over Aemond’s waist, drawing herself closer to him. The closeness of their bodies created an even more intimate cocoon, reinforcing their shared warmth. The contact of her leg against his body was both grounding and tender, a subtle way of expressing her trust and affection.

Aemond’s hold tightened slightly, his eye closing in contentment as he savored the sensation of her closeness. His hand continued its soothing caress, and he rested his forehead against hers, his breath mingling with hers in a warm, gentle rhythm. “You are my only warmth” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Y/n’s eyes met his with a tender, knowing look. “And you are mine.” she replied softly, her lips brushing against his in a final, lingering kiss. They were each others warmth and comfort.

[solxamber]

Bid for Disaster - Kaito Fuji x reader

When Kaito borrows money from Romeo again, he's forced to become a product at Romeo's auction. To his surprise, you are the one who bids, rescuing him from the humiliation of being sold off to strangers.

Kaito stood on the auction stage like a deer caught in headlights, his face a mix of desperation and sheer mortification. The crowd murmured in amusement as Romeo paced the stage, drawing out the tension with an exaggerated grin.

“And next up, we have Kaito Fuji!” Romeo’s voice dripped with a sarcastic lilt. “Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, a man with... well, questionable judgment but hey, a date’s a date, right?”

Kaito’s eyes widened, and his cheeks flushed a deep red. You could practically see him calculating the odds of survival if he just made a break for it. And Romeo, of course, was in his element, milking the moment for all it was worth.

"Come on, folks! You’ll be helping him pay off his debt to me! A noble cause, don’t you think?"

No one moved. The silence stretched uncomfortably long, and Kaito looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. He shot a panicked glance at you, as if begging for help, though you weren’t sure if it was intentional or just his desperation seeping through.

You couldn’t take it anymore. This whole situation was wrong. He might’ve had bad luck—or maybe terrible financial management skills—but he didn’t deserve this public humiliation. You glanced at your wallet, sighed, and then...

“I’ll bid!” Your voice rang out louder than you expected.

All heads snapped toward you, including Kaito’s, whose mouth was hanging open in complete shock. His eyes locked onto yours, utterly speechless.

The crowd erupted in a chorus of whispers, and Romeo actually froze mid-stride, blinking at you like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Recovering quickly, his face broke into a wide grin. “Sold to the lovely bidder in the back!”

You could’ve sworn you heard Kaito let out a sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. As the hammer came down, he tried to leave the stage with a shred of dignity, but his nerves betrayed him. In his haste, he misjudged the steps and tripped, rolling down in an almost comical display of limbs, landing in a crumpled heap at the bottom. The crowd gasped, and you winced, trying not to laugh.

This guy had been trying to ask you out for months? He was absolutely pathetic—but in the kind of way that made your heart feel oddly soft.

Despite Kaito’s less-than-graceful exit from the stage, you decided to go on the date. After all, he had tried to talk to you for ages, and hey, maybe he’d surprise you.

He didn’t.

You arrived at the restaurant he’d picked, and from the moment you stepped inside, you had a bad feeling about this. It wasn’t the ambiance—it looked like a cozy enough spot. No, it was Kaito’s jittery demeanor, like he was two seconds away from bolting. His eyes flicked from the menu to you, back to the waiter, then the ceiling, and then the exit—like he was mapping out all the ways to escape. It was endearing, in a trainwreck sort of way.

“So, um, yeah. I hope you like this place.” He fumbled with the menu, almost knocking over the silverware. “I read some reviews, and they said it’s like... good?”

You smiled politely, trying to put him at ease. “Yeah, looks nice.”

The waiter appeared, and Kaito scrambled to order. “Uh, we’ll take the... uhm, I’ll have the chicken... wait, no... the fish... or maybe the...?”

The waiter raised an eyebrow, and you were pretty sure you heard a quiet sigh escape from him. Finally, Kaito settled on something, and you ordered too, hoping for the best.

But then the waiter returned almost immediately, looking apologetic. “We’re out of chicken. And fish. And... well, everything you ordered.”

Kaito’s eyes went wide. “What? How is that even—? Okay, uh, we’ll just have water for now.”

Water. You tried not to laugh, biting your lip as Kaito’s face flushed. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t... I didn’t expect this.”

“It’s fine,” you said, trying to hold back your amusement.

But then things got worse. Kaito, clearly flustered, reached for his glass of water—only for it to slip out of his hand and spill directly into your lap.

“Oh my god—! I’m so sorry!” His voice cracked as he frantically grabbed napkins, dabbing at your soaked pants.

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” You couldn’t help but laugh now, because really, it was all too ridiculous.

Kaito looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. His hands were trembling as he tried to wipe up the spill, his face so red you were starting to wonder if he’d combust.

The rest of the meal, if you could call it that, wasn’t any better. Kaito kept jumping from topic to topic, trying to start conversations, but every time he looked at you, it was like his brain short-circuited. You watched him stammer through half-finished sentences, laugh awkwardly at jokes that weren’t funny, and at one point, he knocked over the salt shaker, which promptly shattered on the floor.

It was bad. You almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

By the time Kaito dropped you off at your dorm, he looked like a broken man. His shoulders were slumped, his face etched with despair. He turned to you, eyes filled with regret.

“I... I’m so sorry. That was... the worst. You’ll probably never talk to me again, and honestly, I wouldn’t blame you. I... I’ve been trying to ask you out for months, and then when I finally do, it’s... this.” He waved his hand vaguely, as if gesturing to the entirety of the disaster that had unfolded that night.

You stood there, watching him fall apart, and felt something unexpected. Endearment. Sure, the date had been a complete catastrophe, but Kaito was trying. He genuinely cared. And somehow, in his fumbling, pathetic way, it was... sweet.

“Kaito,” you said softly, stepping closer. You could see the tears welling up in his eyes. He was really beating himself up over this. Before he could spiral further, you leaned in and kissed him gently on the cheek.

His eyes widened, and he froze.

“I had fun,” you said, holding back a laugh as his expression shifted from utter confusion to disbelief.

“What? Fun? How could you possibly have fun?”

You handed him a small piece of paper with your number. “That’s my number. How about we try again?”

He blinked, staring down at the paper like it was some sort of mystical artifact. “Wait... you... you want to go on another date? With me?”

You couldn’t help but laugh and nod at how utterly baffled he looked. All you could think was: Yep. I think I have a taste for boyfailures.

As you skipped back into your dorm, Kaito remained rooted to the spot, staring at the door in a daze. Slowly, the realization hit him, and his entire face lit up in a giddy, disbelieving grin. He laughed under his breath, still too stunned to move.

Masterlist

[elliespeach]

tear you apart | ellie williams

˗ˏˋ"if your friends won't watch over you, i will." ´ˎ˗

pairing ellie wiliams x fem reader synopsis ellie owns her own vinyl store and the day you wander in changes both of your lives forever. she quickly becomes infatuated with you, desperate for your love that she believes is meant to be. when things in your life begin to spiral, ellie is there to catch you, but you'd never suspect she was the reason you fell in the first place. heavily heavily based on the book/tv show "you" on netflix wordcount 4k warnings gosh where do i start, stalking both cyber and in person, ellie is obsessive, manipulative, a gaslighter, a pervert lowkey, possessive and easily jealous, she breaks into readers apartment and goes thru your stuff, shes also so delusional like top tier delulu, shes based off joe goldberg so i mean put the pieces together. this is all from her perspective, most if not all of the inner monologue is ellie's thoughts about you, the italics is verbatim what she is thinking in that very moment if that makes sense. like joe, all of her actions are justified in her mind, and she doesn't see anything wrong with them. reader has a dysfunctional family. pls lmk if i am missing something! authors note hi hello hi, i have been so excited to post this!! just wanted to clarify this rn, i am bringing in a LOT of elements from the book and show, especially in this part, if it seems very similar thats why. i don't plan on following the plot line for season one, but i needed a good base to jump off of, dont hate me. n yes, readers best friend is shauna from yellowjackets i couldn't help myself. i needed a girl group, sue me. cat is apart of this girl group, not ellie's ex along w dina, also not ellie's ex in this au lol

fuckin’ trash, ellie thought to herself, looking over the torn up vinyl in her hands. the guy who returned it obviously had no fucking clue how to take care of something. especially something so needing of love. she placed the vinyl down on the counter beside the register before stepping into the back of the store, grabbing her tools of restoration. as she rummaged through a drawer, the familiar bell rang from the front door indicating a new customer, but she ignored it and continued searching for the sandpaper she always left laying around somewhere. the last drawer she opened was the winner, taking her supplies, she emerged from the small room into the front of the store, the beads in the doorway swaying as she walked through them. 

thats when her eyes found you, examining the vinyl left on the counter. you hadn’t noticed her yet, too engrossed in the mishandled vinyl. she watched you for a moment as you looked it over, tracing the scratches that lined it. to ellie, you looked to be the definition of a nice girl. sporting a flowy sundress that laid just below your ass. nice girl who likes attention, she thought to herself, looking you up and down from afar. 

she played it cool, keeping her eyes on the sandpaper and cloth in her hands as she made her way back to the counter. you finally took notice of her when she stood in front of you. “oh, hi,” you smiled brightly, to which ellie looked up. “whoever handled this vinyl should be in jail.” a sense of humor, ellie smiled at you, letting a breathy laugh fall from her lips. and an appreciation for vinyls, rare.

“a life sentence, for sure.” she spoke, and you laughed. a laugh that was genuine, not forced by politeness. 

“can you point me to where i could find a david bowie album, ellie?” you asked sweetly, and she had to remember she wore a name tag. flirting with me and you like david bowie? ellie’s grateful its a tuesday afternoon, the store is dead. giving her more time to talk with you. you, who seemed to never stop smiling at her. 

“against the wall,” she pointed. “third box from the left.” she lets you wander over yourself, taking the time to admire the way you carry yourself. you had a pair of red, heart shaped sunglasses resting on your head. ellie could tell you liked to pay attention to details, it was evident in the way you matched your sunglasses to your dress, and she wondered just how many pairs you owned. both short dresses and uniquely designed sunglasses together. her head tilted at the thought, switching her over chewed gum to the other side of her mouth. 

you rifled through the box as ellie’s gaze pierced your back, although you were seemingly unaware. david bowie, she thought again. not another stuck up gen z who only listens to who is in the top one hundred, no. no, you were special. ellie put her focus onto the vinyl in front of her, slowly dampening it with the cloth before grinding the sandpaper over the scratches. but she kept you in her peripheral vision and she couldn’t help but notice you were struggling to find a specific one, or at least it looked like it. 

“need help?” she asked you, keeping her voice neutral.

your body turned to face her, meeting her eyes and a faux pout on your lips.“i think the only one i want isn’t here, or i’m seriously blind.” 

ellie chuckled, coming out from behind the counter, “my money’s on blind, just organized this box a few days ago.”

you huffed lightly, standing to the side while she approached you and the box. “i can’t find the rise and fall of ziggy stardust, it’s one of my favorites.”

of course it is. ellie barely looked in the box before she saw the album, pulling it out and holding it out for you. “i’ll book your eye appointment,” she said with a light grin. 

“ugh, my hero,” you gushed, taking the album from her hands gently. i’ll always be your hero, but something tells ellie that you didn’t really need her help to begin with. 

“c’mon, i’ll ring you up,” ellie led you back to the register and you placed the vinyl down on the counter lightly.

“promise i won’t do what that guy did,” you joked, reaching into your bag for your wallet. 

ellie almost wishes you would. you’d come in a few days later, apologizing for being so clumsy but asking if she could fix it for you. of course, she would say yes. how could she say no to someone like you? “you couldn’t if you tried, pretty sure he did it on purpose.” 

“what makes you say that?”

“just a hunch,” ellie shrugs, scanning the barcode on the vinyl. 

“maybe his dogs got it, or worse, his kids.” you kept eye contact as you spoke, which shocked ellie. a lot of people would break away, divert conversation, maybe even stay silent all together. but not you. 

“if that guy had kids, i’d feel bad for them,” to a lot of people, this comment would rub them the wrong way, and ellie internally cursed herself for saying it. you’re a sweetheart in her eyes, someone who wouldn’t think things like that, but again, you laughed. the transaction was almost over and she was grasping at straws, so she kept going. “guys like him blame everything on everyone else, i wouldn’t be surprised if his kids actually hated him but,” 

your head tilted, waiting for more. to ellie, it looked like you were hanging onto every word she said. and she relished in it. “–thats only if someone wanted to have kids with him, which i highly doubt.” 

“from what i’m hearing it doesn’t sound like anyone would want to,” you’re trusting my judgment. ellie’s lips curled up with your words, and she bagged the vinyl in a plastic bag. you handed her a credit card, which was decorated with flowers along with your name. and you want me to know your name. you could’ve used cash, the vinyl was less than twenty dollars. but no, ellie knew better and she knew you better. your eyes found the scratched up vinyl yet again, “but you can fix it?” 

ellie swiped the card against her own wishes. she’d give you the whole store if you asked with that pretty smile. “it’ll be back in the box within the hour, why? you like pink floyd?”

“yeah, for the most part. i haven’t listened to that album yet,” 

“i can put it on hold for you.” ellie rushes out, and she feels like she came on too strong. you could easily listen to it on spotify but she reminds herself that you’re in her store for a reason. you probably own a vinyl player, an older model you got off of facebook marketplace because the newer ones don’t match your personality. maybe a pioneer or a yamaha, and now shes thinking about how you probably dance around your room listening to music. your response breaks her from her imagination. 

“that’d be great, thanks ellie,” but she can see it so perfectly in her mind, you’d wear a big t-shirt and a dainty pair of underwear. twirling and spinning about, the t-shirt riding up as you did and as you stood in front of her in that short dress her mind seemed to unravel and she had to clear her throat. 

“anytime–” she tacked your name at the end of her words with a smile, handing back your card which you very quickly put in your wallet. her eyes glanced down for a split second, admiring how the dress pushed your tits together before bringing them back up to your face. 

“aren’t you going to tell me to have a good day?” you teased much to ellie’s enjoyment, reaching out for the bag she was holding for you. 

“have a good day,” your fingers grazed hers, and ellie knew it had to be on purpose. a flirt, and a good one at that.

“you too, ellie. i’ll be back for that album.” 

you left the store as quickly as you came, taking your sweet vanilla scent with you. ellie thought about your interaction all day, it consumed her walk home and when she entered her small apartment she fell to her couch and opened her laptop. 

plugging your name into any and all social medias was easy, who could forget a name like yours? all your accounts were public, and very quickly ellie could tell just what kind of person you were. the sweet girl who loved vinyls who had an addiction to posting online. your twitter was filled with random, obscure thoughts and always with a hashtag at the end of them. from time to time you’d tweet about where you were, and ellie tsk’d out loud to herself. anyone could find you within seconds, you need to be more careful. you seemed to tweet about everything in your life and ellie refreshed the page, wishing to see a post about the cute girl in the vinyl shop who helped you find your favorite album. 

yet, there was nothing. and for a moment it hurt her, but the more she thought about it, it was better you didn’t post about her. that means it was real for you, hope remains. 

facebook provided the basics of your family, although the account was inactive. but your parents who divorced a few years back seemed to only post about your younger siblings, leaving her to wonder if they didn’t approve of your lifestyle in the city. she stalked their pages like it was her job and at this point it felt like it was. she discovered that your two younger siblings went off to college out west and your parents even sold their home to be closer to them while still living separate lives. ellie felt pity for you, how could they just leave you behind? 

your instagram feed was an aesthetic one, pictures posted solely to appease your followers. a pretty sunset here, a mirror selfie there, a quick post about the food from the restaurant just down the road from ellie’s shop. there were also posts about your own art, colorful and detailed, just like yourself. a painting you did was the last thing you posted, but this one wasn’t like your other ones, it was black and white and had a lonely floating balloon in the center and the borders were lined with overlapping words. ellie could make out only a few of them, ‘melancholy’, ‘nobody’, and ‘distress’. 

there were lots of group pictures of you with friends. ellie could see you looked more authentic than them, who all seemed to resemble something out of a factory for young adults. you were a pearl in a sea of clams. 

out of curiosity, ellie brought herself to your friend’s pages as well. she needed to see the types of people you spent time with, seeing if they were someone she would approve of for you. one friend made an appearance more than others and she assumed that was your so-called best friend, a spunky city girl named shauna. her own instagram was like an influencer’s guide to posting online, and she seemed like someone ellie would avoid at all costs. shauna’s posts of you always had you in the background, or if you were directly in the frame it was a candid where shauna looked better. she's making herself look better at your own expense, can't you see that?   

your other friend’s social media were bland and unhelpful. ellie brought herself back to the task at hand. she typed your name into google and watched the loading screen. your name brought up a string of links all connecting back to your art pieces you’ve submitted to local papers and art galleries. an artist in new york city, aren’t you ambitious. maybe your parents didn’t like the instability of being an artist. but yet, you still pursue your passion. its admirable. 

what also popped up was a white pages link, with a few clicks, and a small charge to her credit card she found exactly what she was looking for. there wasn’t much she could do with your phone number, texting you would be creepy. there was no way for her to explain how she got it, so the next best thing was your address. which, lucky for ellie, was only six blocks from her own. 

if she could find it this easily, she needed to make sure that no one else did. which is how she found herself standing across the street from your apartment, peering into the windows that had no blinds, no curtains, no protection from the outside world. you were on full display for all of new york. first thing were doing together is buying you blinds. you were lounging around on your coach, scrolling through your phone and periodically shifting in your spot to get more comfortable. 

it was dark now, and again, luckily for ellie, someone standing on the sidewalk of new york wasn’t a weird thing to do and no one paid her any mind. for days she would stand in the same spot, studying your movements throughout your apartment. sometimes you would go to bed on the early side, but most nights you were fully awake, sipping something out of a purple mug which she could only assume was coffee, and drawing lines on a canvas. 

everytime you would take a break and scroll through your phone, ellie would refresh every social media, waiting for a post. your fingers danced on the keyboard and after a few refreshes on ellie’s end, your twitter had a new post. 

@yndoesartstuff: if anyone has tips on how not to procrastinate finishing a wip, please enlighten me

if you just put down your phone, i’m sure you could get it done.

one night she watched as you dipped your wet brush into the purple mug instead of the designated paint water cup. they didn’t even look similar, but ellie laughed to herself while you groaned, tossing your head back before getting up to dump the liquid out of the mug. this would also be the first night ellie gawked at you while your hands dipped below your shorts, she quickly looked around. no one else seemed to notice that you were pleasing yourself with your own gentle hands and her eyes found you again, sprawled out on your couch. 

your back arched, obviously hitting your sweet spot and ellie swallowed hard. blinds. were getting you blinds. 

some days, ellie was too busy with the store to watch over you and she hated herself for it. too tired to walk the six blocks and instead just looking over your social media again, looking through your friends posts to see if you’ve been up to anything. you had never come back for the album, which ellie had finished nearly two weeks ago now. but tonight, as she locked up the store she knew she was going straight to the sidewalk adjacent from your apartment. 

when she arrived at her usual spot she saw you through the windows and you looked too well put together for a night to yourself. you were dolled up and ellie liked to imagine it was for her, you’d leave your apartment and head to the store for the album you said you’d come back for weeks ago. but her hope was squashed when a cab pulled up outside your apartment and a woman who looked way too old started to walk up the steps to the building and entered the main door. ellie had been here enough to know the general look of your building's inhabitants, and this woman wasn’t one of them. maybe someone's mom, maybe she's visiting a friend. she can’t be here for you. no way. 

but through the windows, with no blinds, she saw you open your door for this woman and welcome her into your home. your mom. it has to be. ellie’s eyebrows narrowed when you pulled this woman into a hug, then pulled back and let your lips kiss hers. okay, so not your mom. who the fuck is this?

ellie, whose eyes were going from her phone to the big windows of your apartment, began to search through your online presence and found no traces of her. this mysterious woman who, now, you seemed to be having a highschool make out session with on your couch, was all over you, touching you, kissing you, and worst of all, pleasing you. that sweet smile that had previously been for ellie, was now for this woman and it made ellie’s stomach turn. but she didn’t leave, instead watched while the two of you began to peel each other's clothes off. 

were getting you blinds and were getting rid of this woman. 

the next day while she opened up her store, she couldn’t help but think about you and this woman. she was frustrated, of course. but she couldn’t blame you, obviously this woman was prying on your weaknesses for her own pleasure. taking advantage of you. it sickened her, and she had to know more. she had been through every following list she could think of and still, this woman was a mystery. and as she refreshed your twitter (a new hobby of hers), a new post popped up. 

@yndoesartstuff: lunch date with @shaunamavisxx never felt so right – at hoppers tavern

seeing that, ellie locked up shop way too early. it was fairly easy to make her way into your apartment, all she had to do was play the part. “sorry, my girlfriend hasn’t given me a key to this door yet,” she said with a friendly smile to your neighbor, who out of the kindness of his heart let her into the building. she waited until he was in his own apartment before picking your lock. 

it smelled like you once she stepped inside, and she let the aroma fill her nose as she walked around. it was messy, canvases piled up everywhere along with dirty paint brushes. clothes lined your floor from the bedroom all the way to the kitchen and she had to force herself not to clean it up for you. she examined your paintings up close, admiring how the strokes on the canvas looked. she noticed you draw a small bird in every corner, the bird is plump, uncolored and holding a small twig. it was your signature, and it matched you so well. but, what she really was after was your laptop, she found it sitting on your unmade bed. 

no password? she was shocked, and made a mental note to tell you that you needed to secure your devices. it’s almost as if you wanted her to search through it to get to know you better, and ellie did just that. it was linked to your phone and as she went through your messages they all seemed to be relatively normal. for someone like you, at least. 

loads of messages from a group chat labeled city gals, and she knew it wasn’t you who had named it being as you were funnier than that, and less basic. scrolling up, all the conversation in the chat was merely nothing of note, no mention of this woman to your friends which ellie found odd. maybe just a hookup? but even then, wouldn’t you tell your friends? 

ellie could gauge your friends' personalities through the texts they would send, shauna was most definitely the unnamed leader of this group, probably also the one who named the chat. her texts were mostly about planning activities, meanwhile the others just tacked on with fake enthusiastic responses. even yourself. 

leaving the group chat, she continued to scroll down your messages and found an unsaved phone number which seemed to be the winner. you don’t have her number saved, this is good. a lot of your texts to her went unanswered, left on seen and only responded once you’d ask for her to come over. that usually generated a reply within minutes from this woman, who ellie still didn’t know the name of. it angered her even further, realizing she was just toying you along. only using you for your body when you were so much more than that. 

ellie jotted down the unsaved number into her notes app, saving it for later when she could find out just exactly who this woman was. it was clear from the texts that she wanted nothing to do with you, and you still kept texting her like a sad puppy. it was pathetic, really, but ellie didn’t judge. she knew that your attention seeking habits were brought on by your dysfunctional family, she just wished it was her on the receiving end.

she found herself in your emails and saw you had an abundant amount of unread ones. it was a lot of spam and a waste of time, so she moved on. she decided it was best to go into your search history, restaurants, art galleries that allowed online submissions, sometimes even silly questions that ellie would most definitely answer for you if you asked. 

“how do magicians do their cutting in half tricks?” you would ask her from the couch while ellie made you both dinner. 

she’d call out from the stove, “there’s a fake table, the girl puts her legs through that. the legs you see on the other end are fake, baby.” and you would giggle sweetly as you always did, thanking her for being a know-it-all. 

but as she continued to scroll further and further down your search history, she saw that the day you two had met, you googled “vinyl stores near me” and ellie’s was the first to pop up. she thanked every star in the universe for such a coincidence, but the more she thought about it, it couldn’t have been a coincidence because to her, it was always meant to be.  

suddenly your laptop dinged and a new message appeared at the top from city gals. it was shauna and she was proposing a night out and it didn’t take long at all for the rest of the chat to respond. 

shauna: drinks at our favorite spot tonight?

dina: totally what time 

shauna: like 8 ish? 

cat: sounds good to me

shauna: im with our heavy drinker, she says yes too!! see u guys then

dina: hangin w out us :( rude 

cat: yeah wtf 

shauna: oh hush its no biggie, we’ll see you guys tonight 

ellie sat back as the texts rolled in, heavy drinker? ellie didn’t like the sound of it, and your friends seemed to think it was funny. bet they don’t even watch over you when you’re plastered, leaving you alone where anyone could hurt you. a few clicks on your instagram and she found a group mirror picture in a dirty bar bathroom, and the location clear as day at the top of the post. she confirmed it with a few other pictures and a deep dive of your twitter. gotta stop putting your location everywhere. 

ellie knew your lunch date with shauna would be ending soon and you’d return home to start getting ready for the evening. she shut your laptop down, placing it exactly where it was on the bed before and started towards the door to leave. as she was on her way out, a bright red thong caught her eye. it was so carelessly thrown between the couch and the table next to it and she stuffed them into her pocket before locking the door behind her on the way out. she knew you’d never notice, your apartment already looked like a tornado had been through it seven times over. 

she played with the string of fabric in her pocket as she walked down the sidewalk back to her place, contemplating the night to come. if your friends won't watch over you, i will.

read part two here :)

[dulcewrites]

Unnerved

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader (kind of lol), implied aegon targaryen x reader (wc: 3.1k)

Summary: Being at court is a game, and your favorite opponent is a certain long haired Prince.

A/N: I sort of adapted this from my fool me once series. I got an idea of the reader being slightly more ambitious. But then realized that would change the story so this kind of a new one lmao. Some elements are from like Aemond being married (this time to Floris Baratheon) and possibly cheating 👀. But anyway just wanted to explore Aemond and reader being haters but also having crazy sexual tension. *insert something smart about Aemond hating someone that is a mirror of him*

The heavy fabric of your dress seems to drag more than usual.

The extra care given to your appearance hopefully will not go unnoticed. The gown is your most expensive. A deep blue Lyseni cut dress with beaded bodice, and silk sleeves that slip open and ripple like water.

Walking the halls of the Red Keep is at night is not something you frequent. Working up the courage was always something that made you falter. But the result would make it worth it.

You bite back a smile when you see Ser Arryk not near his post. For a moment you consider knocking, worried that Aegon may be in the room with someone. The thought never bothered you till recently. A surge of confidence overtakes when you just open the door instead.

The fireplace in his is uncharacteristically blazing at this point. You stop in your tracks when you notice long legs extending from chair near the fire. Long silvery blonde hair catches your eye, and your heart sinks. Before you can turn around to make a beeline towards the door, an eye flick towards you.

“My Prince,” you bow your head softly. “You are back from the trip.”

You try to keep you voice bright, and unassuming but you are sure disappointment colors your tone. Aemond gives you sly smile.

“Come to look in on my brother, I assume,” condescension laced through his voice. He gestures to the book in your hand. There were days Aegon did enjoy hearing you read, but most of the time the conversation dissolved into other things. He would start at the seats in his room, you at his desk… till the you ended up on his bed. Faces close, and whispers soft.

“Yes, Prince Aegon always enjoys hearing about the histories.”

Aemond’s polite disposition drops, and he lets out a short laugh. “Right, I am sure he enjoys hearing about the histories from you.”

You feel yourself falter. An unnerved and unprepared feeling burst in your stomach.

But a lady is never those things. Not ever. Your mother’s voice rings in your head. A true lady never worries. The best of them can turn negatives into a positive.

You put on the sweetest smile you can and nod.

“This week we read about all about Maegor the Cruel.”

Something flashes behind his eye that you can’t quite put your finger on. He hums softly, giving you a once over. Inspecting your dress, your hair, your face. The hair jewelry holding back your hair starts to feel like it is digging into your scalp. Not feeling comfortable standing and letting him dissect you, your feet lead you to sitting in the chair opposite him.

“I do hope Prince Aegon is well.”

“What you mean to ask is where is he,” Aemond corrects. “He was not here when I arrived. He may be out on a late-night joyride with Sunfyre. Perhaps wandering the Street of Silk for another type of joy.”

You say nothing, laying the book flat on your lap. It should not shock you. Aegon is not getting that from you. You know Aemond does not believe that by the false innocuous way he mentions his brother’s indecisions. Every bit of attention Aegon puts elsewhere is a win for him. He decides to twist the knife more.

“I bet the discussions you two have are ravishing,” Aemond replies sarcastically, leaning back further in his chair. It only makes you more aware of your posture. More of mother’s words - Back straight, chest out, and head up my dear girl. “Aegon has always been known for his ability to hold a riveting conversation.”

“I think you underestimate your brother. He retains information quite well, and loves to debate,” your hands trace delicately over the large book.

Aemond’s eye doesn’t leave yours. The enjoyment wiped from his face. He just stares soberly.

“You know the sad part is that I genuinely think you believe that. You think you will be able to carry on like this. Pretending this all for companionship and light reading.”

Your eyes drift to the fire. A part of you wonders what it would be like to just stick your hand in it. Would there be excruciating pain or would the numbness that you force into you mind spread through your body? The old wives’ tales Aegon tells of Targaryens being fireproof pop into your head. Maybe that is where Aemond’s gall comes from; the inability to burn the way others would. You wish you could test the theory. What a sight it would be to see him engulfed in flames.

Aemond lip curls a bit. “But at least you can pretend with the best of them. First born sons deserve the best, even the best whores.”

The harsh words are strangely tinged with pity.

“Tis a shame, the way court changes a girl.”

Your eyes snap back to him. “I am not a girl, my Prince. The same way you are not a boy.”

The two of you are the same age. The superiority in his voice is not needed nor appreciated. You must bite your tongue not the bring up the stories of youth Aegon has told you about. His life has been court fodder many times over. It would be too easy to bring up the strife a young Aemond had to go through. Too unladylike to bring up the little boy you know is still tucked under the bravado.

He would revel in taking you out of yourself.

“You could get out of it, before it is too late,” he pushes the subject more. “Marry some lord and be swept away from here.”

The possibility sounds nice. Away from court, away from your family. Maybe a different version of you would agree with Aemond. Acknowledge that being at court, that striving for more has stolen something from you. A life of simple monotony away from the Red Keep sounds lovely. But you are not a different you. You were made and pushed into the world in your parent’s image. Simple is not enough, monotony is not enough.

“I appreciate the advice,” you smile calmly. “But I would miss everyone too much to do that just yet. I would miss Prince Aegon, along with Princess and the children. As well as you and sweet Floris.”

Aemond stands abruptly at the mention of his sister and wife. The light from the fire reflects on the side of his face. He looks like something out of a fairy tale. You are sure he wants to look intimidating but looks more ethereal if anything. He shares that trait with his siblings.

He goes to leave without another, but a sudden urge washes over you.

“Wait, my Prince,” you set the book in the chair and go to where he is near the door.

You wet your thumb slightly, watching his eye linger on your mouth.

“You have a little rogue there.”

Your thumb traces over the vein on his neck, and you feel him stiffen under your light touch. You flinch a little when his hand grabs your wrist firmly. For a moment, you don’t trust your instinct fearing your boldness has taken you to a point you cannot tip toe back from. You become acutely aware of blade resting snugly against his hip. He could slit your throat easily. But you have seen him training; he would go for a more gruesome approach if given the chance. Slow and painful.

Instead, he gently placed your hand at your side. His hand making a route from your wrist to the delicate tips of your fingertips. There is a coldness left when he lets go.

He leaves without another word.

“I will tell Prince Aegon you stopped by,” you lie as you call after him.

Aegon does eventually show up. Riding gloves on, and cheeks splotched, pink from the cold. He goes on and on about something Sunfyre did. You sit, pleasant and accommodating, the way men like him want. Hanging of every word as if you would die not hearing the next one spill from his lips.

Despite the dragon drivel, your mind does not drift often, liking the easiness that comes with speaking with an agreeable Aegon. But when it does, it only fixates on one thing.

First sons deserve the best… even the best whores

“She is not pregnant, Your Grace.”

The maester seemed nervous to tell the Queen. Aemond bites back a breath of relief when the words come out, eye fighting to go back to outside the window next to the wall where he leans. Floris’ face scutches into a frown.

Alicent chews on her cheek in clear aggravation, a tell Aemond can pick up from years of noticing his mother’s ticks. But like any good diplomat, she quickly replaces the disappointment with smile towards Floris.

“Well, it can take time,” she tries to give a good-natured shrug. “No reason to worry.”

Alicent had gotten good at giving her kids the same empty placating statements sprouted to her by her own father. Everything is going how it should. No need to worry. You will be fine.

They do not believe her the way she does not believe Otto. She can at least say she knows her children well enough to see they do not believe it. Alicent is sure her father still deludes himself into thinking his halfhearted attempts at warmness work.

Even the smartest man in the Seven Kingdoms can be mind-numbingly daft at times.

The maester and Alicent jump into words of encouragement and ideas to help a seemingly upset Floris. Aemond assumes he should join in, comfort his wife but his legs don’t catch up with what his brain tells him is best. Instead, he stares out of the tower window, a flash of deep red and black catching his eye.

He sees you walking through the castle with such sure steps, in perfect tow with his sister. A creep of bitterness works its way up Aemond’s throat. The way you have encroached into the inner fabric of his family leaves him feeling uncomfortable. As if you were always meant to be here. A harmless addition, but he knows better. There is nothing harmless about the way Aegon looks at you.

The only vindication he gets is his mother’s shared hesitance. But in the end, he knows Alicent is too tired to say anything unless true harm is being done. Even she can appreciate Aegon having a singular focus for once, even if it not his wife. And she is undoubtedly fond of your strait-laced yet kind nature. You knowing your place makes all the difference. But Aemond sees hints of boldness and rashness.

It feels odd watching a woman not of his family so garishly wear the color that matches the walls of the castle. But too terribly fascinating to look away from. The black dress with Ruby red trimming sits off the shoulders elegantly. Your hair pulled up showing off a swan like neck that he has only seen on his mother.

Poised, well-read, quick witted, and all wrapped up in a pretty package. You are the ideal vessel for a royal bastard; he knows you see it too, you are too bright not to. A perfectly placed temptation.

He knows his brother is foolish enough to try it.

Mindlessly, his hand goes to his throat. The touch is not the same as yours. His sword withered hands nothing like the dainty soft one that danced across his nights ago. He swallows thickly.

“Aemond, are you listening,” his mother voice breaks through his thoughts.

He nods. As he pushes himself from the wall, he swears he can feel eyes looking up at him.

— — —

Aemond starts to wonder if all his thoughts will be tinged with violence and paranoia.

Simple ideas can be quickly shifted into something morbid. He does not when it started. After he lost his eye? After watching Aegon and Helaena get married? After learning about get married himself. It is easy to have this to turn into dust and ashes in this family.

Though Floris is a welcomed difference. The right amount of different yet bland enough that his thoughts on her dissolve into nothing. Sweet, and palatable; things could be far worse he guesses. He could be stuck with far worse. She lets him do as he pleases. Finds ways to occupy herself that has nothing to do with him, a comfort.

When he hears laughter coming from their chambers, he assumes she must be with one of her ladies in waiting. He internally groans at the small talk he must make with them. Pretending to care about whatever court gossip they dither on about. But when he walks in he sees a table full of tea and treats.

“My love,” Floris hops up from her seat, a bright smile on her face. A warmer disposition than the one she had been sporting since the news of not being with child.

Before he can reply, the person in the seat turned away from he springs up with equal vigor.

“Prince Aemond,” you curtesy, polite smile on your face.

For today, the cold, silk targaryen-esque garb had replaced with a lace emerald green and gold gown. Coils falling in way that create a halo around you. He should add chameleon to the list of attributes. The transformation is remarkable. The typical icy demeanor being washed away with a young, sheepish, and girly smile.

Aemond bites back a sneer. His body feels like it vibrates whenever you are near. He has not figured out if it is anger or something entirely different.

“We were just having tea,” Floris looks at you then at the wine on the table, and you two share a knowing giggle. “Chatting away.”

He waits for the moment you finally excuse yourself, but it never comes. The two of you continue to whisper and giggle as if there is an inside joke no one else will be in on. He tries not to focus on it as he takes off his riding gloves, and cloak.

A guard comes into the room asking for Floris. He sends a prayer to the Gods that his wife will take you with him. But all she does is tell you that she will be back soon.

“Did you have a nice ride,” your voice rings through the room. Aemond lets out a deep sigh, turning from the clothing cabinet. He turns to find you lounging in the chair, goblet in hand.

He doesn’t answer, just stares at her leaning against the wardrobe.

“I have always thought about it,” your lips are stained red from the wine. “Taming a dragon, riding a dragon. Your wife is very lucky.”

Aemond blanches at the image that passes through his head. The vibrating feels like it is starting to radiate inside to outside. You down the rest of the wine.

“I am assuming she had ridden on Vhagar with you.”

She had…. once. Aemond had assumed it would romantic or a deep connection would be had. His at the time future wife meeting his first friend. She threw up afterwards, politely saying that she would never want to do that again.

Dragons are not for everyone.

“Maybe my brother will finally put you out of your misery, and let you ride his.”

Your lips curl into a cruel smile. “I would like that. I hear one good ride always clears the head. I am sure you have needed that lately.”

Aemond frowns not understanding what you mean.

“Floris was telling me about your problems. Do not fret Aemond, impotence is very natural while under pressure,” your eyes travel down his body, and you give him a fake pout in pity.

Aemond is sure he is about to lunge at you. His vision goes red for a second. “I am not impotent,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Nothing of what my wife and I do is any of your business.”

He shouldn’t feel the need to explain himself to you. Insolent girl with too much time on her hands, and too many ideas in her head. Aemond slightly curses his brother for being the reason you even come around. You hold your hands up innocently.

“Your wife invited me to tea, and she brought up the conversation. I am only now trying to extend my support.” 

Aemond always thinks the people around him are too trusting, too open. Helaena is painstakingly warm to whoever shows her an ounce of kindness. Aegon is easily swayed with pretty faces or a sense of camaraderie. His mother’s whole being shuts down at the sound of compliments. Floris is alone at court, in need a friend. You meet all of their needs in ways he cannot begin to. You know it as much as he does.

He should feel upset at his wife, but he doesn’t even have the passion to do that.

So, all he can do is focus on how you bring on a nagging tug in the pit of stomach. How he trusts absolutely nothing you do. How embarrassed he feels about you knowing any intimate details about him.

“But if I could give some advice,” you get up from your seat, walking towards him. “If your wife is not doing the trick, perhaps thinking about other things may help. Something that makes the blood pump a little faster.”

Aemond’s throat bobs. He glares, trying to think of cruel insult to dismiss the notion, but he finds his mouth dry and his tongue heavy.

The moment is interrupted by Floris coming in with a smile. “What did I miss?”

The transformation happens again, Aemond thinks. The low voice you had put on, and the hazy look in your eyes instantly go away. You turn to her with a chipper smile.

“I was just telling Prince Aemond about how I am looking forward to going to the orphanage with you, Princess Helaena, and the Queen on the morrow.”

You lock arms with her, and all Aemond can do is watch.

Wretched girl.

—— —

Later that night, when he feels Floris’s lips on his neck, and her hand working down his chest. He tries to think about how lucky he is. Floris is pretty, and kind. He has bolstered his family through the marriage. It should make him happy.

Despite himself, he finds himself thinking about other things. About berry red wine-stained lips, and a perceptive mind. A wet thumb tracing where his wife’s lips are. Heat pulls in the pit of his stomach at the thought of you wanting to ride a dragon. That night he cums harder than expected.

Maybe second sons deserve the best too.

[sciderman]

Reading New Mutants #98 is such a wild experience because Wade still acts as the snarky and kinda sadistic shit talking queen of mercs, but he's also like...super menacing and competent too? Especialy next to today where people fuck him up like a noob, seeing him taking out a group of mutants with gadgets and tricks, body Nathan and having to be taken out by a suprise element was a true shock...and i kinda love it? Like, Wade shows up and he's actually a threat, but a threat that doesn't even take you seriously, he insults you but is also oddly polite to his main target. What is your take on the original version of Wade?

interesting question! really really reaaaally interesting question! new mutants #98 is an issue i've read like, a million times because newer comics always always always recontextualise it - so you find out, wait - domino was vanessa in disguise, so actually, she probably had an insight on how to take down wade better than anyone else - wait, nathan knew wade as someone who saves his life so was probably pulling his punches actually - wait - the guy who sent wade to kill nate was actually nathan's SON?? like there's five million plot twists that come after new mutants #98 that get me rereading it over and over.

i do love that wade's introduced as someone who is equipped and prepared – he definitely was more competent in the earlier comics, he was perpetually a threat, and always had just the contrived weapon in his arsenal needed to take out certain mutants with certain powers.

they kind of gradually started stripping him of all that - i think when he started making the transition from minor villain to empathetic anti-hero, they started stripping him of his teleporter belt, his image inducer, his swiss-army-knife arsenal that made every fight too convenient for him. and now - now he's just a guy with two swords and maximum effort.

i'm not saying it's bad – buuuut... i love the mission impossible movies. i love impossible gadgets. it's so much more fun to see than just, you know, guys hitting and slashing at each other. give me stupid weird gadget that wade has tucked away in some pouch belt of plot convenience specifically to take down this specific guy with weird specific powers. give me a competent wade who did all the research before going into the fight. not a wade wilson who kind of coasts by with dumb luck and gumption.

but - you know, on the topic of wade being hyper-competent in new mutants #98 it's - kind of not something i believe, either. sure, he's a menace to those kids but - remember, he does still get his ass handed to him in a humiliating kind of a way. what a start to his career. and these guys aren't shaken at all. no "oh my god. this guy is someone we should worry about. we should worry about letting him free." no. wade is shipped back to his employer in a box. there's no worry that he might come back angrier. deadpool's kind of a joke.

nathan summers does often maintain a level-head in general - buuut, i just don't think there was any moment in that fight that nathan really thought he was going to lose against wade. there was no "oh no, all hope is lost" moment. wade was just quick with his punches, sure, but i don't think the cards were actually in his favour. nathan wasn't incapacitated, and would have easily taken wade down.

he kind of just didn't want to, i don't think.

i think maybe he wanted to see what wade could do. and i think if nate really thought wade was a threat to the kids, nathan would have protected them more fiercely. there's no reason at all why nathan couldn't have so, so easily just - yeeted wade out of the building. wade really, really wouldn't have stood a chance if nathan really saw him as a threat to him or (especially) to the kids. nate's training up these kids. he probably saw wade as just - adequate practice for them, but no real threat. wade is completely manageable for him.

i think later on wade gets savvy to the fact that nathan usually pulls the punches with him.

nathan could so, so easily just...

if he didn't want to deal with deadpool.

i think vanessa probably knew that too. and i think that's why she stepped in when she did - because she probably thought if wade pushed too far and trod on one of nathan's nerves, it would be the end for wade. so she neutralised him.

i write a bit about it in i love you, wade wilson - my beloved fic about deadpool's early days.

[rachell-redacted]

Here's my review of The Talos Principle 2. It's not a flattering one, but it felt like some things needed to be said.

First of all, let’s get all of ad hominems out the way. This is not a review in bad faith, nor is in written out of malice. I’m not politically opposed to democracy, liberalism, individualism, humanism and women’s rights. I’m somewhat a nihilist, yeah, but a rather practical one. Meanings can be constructed for ease of living and efficiency and all that jazz. I’m also not a puzzle genre hater. I’ve 100%ed Portal 2, and the only reason I do not have 100% at TTP1 is because I could never bring myself to kill Milton off. Who I am though is a huge fan of the first game. This is clearly affecting my perception of this one, so this is relevant, I think.

I’m a huge fan of TTP1 and I hugely disliked TTP2. Is this game a sequel, does it continue the story? Yes. Is it a spiritual successor, does it continue the _narrative_? No, not at all. It feels different, hits different, and for me it wasn’t in a good kind of way.

First of all, TTP2 is overwhelmingly naïve. I do see that this is a deliberate creative choice, but I strongly believe it does not fit the series. It was a bad idea to take a thought-provoking piece of art and continue it as a message rather than as a discussion. TTP1 had space within itself to engage with its ideas and to form individual conclusions. TTP2 clearly wants to tell you something specific, but to truly listen you need to suspend your disbelief a lot more than before. Where the first game would have tackled a question with some degree of nuance, this one tends to postulate an answer. Would like to explore space for some other reasons than our moral duty to light up the Universe with cognition and life? Do not believe in such things? Good luck. Do not think that beauty exists / is inherently good / matters? Good luck once again, now with a chance to disappoint your companions. The list goes on, and while I’m all for humanism, technocracy and progress, I still felt trapped in reasonings game offered me for it all.

There’s also a huge problem with the narrative as a whole – there is no whole. Plot seems strangely fragmented, with Somnodrome arc being a bitter mix of an afterthought and a cut plotline. What was it for? Same goes for the secret society plot. And the main story, including Miranda, is just flat. Writers want us to care for their characters, but with characters being mouthpieces for ideas this is rather hard.

Also, there’s a Theory of Everything is this game. It just is. With it, the Universe is _postulated_ as being fundamentally knowable and understandable, which is unsettling for such a huge philosophical debate. (Put your ad hominem down, I do believe that the world is cognizable, I just don’t think making this a knowable fact is a good choice for this particular game). Moreover, with the Theory of Everything the science is solved. By one person, who consciously excluded their peers out of scientific progress. One person solved science and nowhere in the game is anyone upset about it. Why? Because writers needed a magical solve-all-problems device, and without it nothing would work plot wise. But with it the plot just seems plastic and cheap.

This story has no room for me to challenge it from the inside, it forces me to go and start a one-sided conversation with its authors, which I do not like. In short, it feels rushed, naïve and incomplete. But this is a puzzle game, not a text adventure. So, are the puzzles any good?

Well, I did not like them. I’m not sure if it means that they are bad, but in my opinion, they are somewhat boring. Most of the time solving them feels mechanical, not that much of ah-a! moments for me. More of the “finally, get this, stupid new puzzle element” and “after 500 hours in portal my brain solves this without thinking”. The other category is “to convoluted to be interesting”. But there’s non zero chance this is me and not the game.

Really bad stuff happens between the puzzles, in those huge open spaces. They get old very fast, and fast travel option isn’t helping much. Some regions are almost impossible to navigate even with the compass, and solving for stars just becomes a chore.

Well, most of the game felt like a chore to me. There are other things I’m upset about, like making Athena, seemingly our main character from TTP1, a chosen-one with a God complex (she IS that even without the myth around her) or not including Milton, but otherwise good plot could have made it work. This one did not. It disregards a very personal thing for a fan of the first game – their unique experience. Maybe the new audience will find this alluring. I certainly did not.

[very-sleepy-head]

Day 24: FREE

AU: stripper Mickey (no manic dancing phase for Ian) I can’t believe kinkmas is over! Please enjoy this super long one (over 4K words) ❤️

Previous Read this on Ao3 Master List

The music inside the club was loud as Ian and Lip walked in.

"A strip club? You brought me to a fucking strip club, Lip?"

Lip smirked as he sat down to order 2 fruity drinks, "A gay strip club, Ian."

"For fucks sake," Ian mumbled under his breath as he looked around.

As they started drinking, Ian's brother was hit on by a blonde girl in a little black dress. Only Lip would find a straight woman in a gay strip club. Ian immediately gave him a thumbs up under the table. 

"Are you sure, E?" His brother was a bit skeptical, but Ian just replied with a simple "Lip, she's your type and I don’t need a babysitter. Go get laid," and let him go.

All alone now, his attention turned towards the stage, and he was captivated by the dancer at the front.

He had dark hair and sparkling blue eyes, He was short but fit, earning grins and stares from every man in the crowd.

He looked irresistible, strong defined thighs, perfect slim waist, gorgeous neck and hips that Ian could see himself holding onto.  Ian was mesmerized by the way he was dancing, his moves were graceful, he was in his element. 

He was different from the rest of the dancers. He looked tough, like he wouldn’t take shit from anyone. 

He wore tiny little sparkly black booty shorts that were now on the top of Ian’s mind. The dancer’s hands teased the crowd by playing with the band of his shorts. And that was the moment Ian noticed his knuckle tattoos. He couldn't help but be turned on by the sight, but he also was curious as to why a guy as badass as him was dancing here.

Ian was sweating a little and trying really hard not to show how much he was enjoying the show.

A twink sat next to Ian and nudged him, earning a polite nod. "Are you here to watch or get some action?" he asked, disappointed that he got nothing in response other than a polite smile. 

“I’m Byron,” He tried again.

Ian finally opened his mouth, “Sorry, I’m just watching.”

Byron got up and left while grumbling, "You're not even that hot anyways."

The man gripped the pole with both hands and then heaved himself up onto it with a grace Ian didn’t know was possible, legs wrapping tightly around the pole, muscled thighs catching the light and it looked almost like his shorts were going to rip if he flexed his legs anymore.

The light caught on something on the man’s chest and Ian realized he had nipple piercings. 

Fuck that’s hot.

As he looked out towards the crowd Ian swore their eyes met just for a moment and he shuddered, watching as the dancer did one final spin around the pole, holding on with one leg and one hand, and flipped the crowd off. Moments later the song ended and the stage was doused in darkness.

Ian just took another sip of whatever stereotypical fruity drink Lip got him, watching the stripper end his show. With a bit of liquid courage in his system he decided to approach the beautiful stranger as he got down from the stage. 

He got up fast, moving towards the man who caught his eye, afraid he’d miss his chance if he waited too long.

When he finally reached him, Ian noticed how much shorter the man was up close. "Hey," he said, biting his lips, "How much for a d–"

"100$ take it or leave it, babyface." The dancer spoke, not surprised by the blush on Ian's.

"It's good,” Ian's hand slid 100$ into his shorts. “Not my first time, don't worry."

The stripper blushed, surprised but quickly came to his senses. “Okay, let’s go, firecrotch.” He smirked as he motioned Ian to sit down on the couch near them. 

Ian did as told and sat down, keeping his hands on either side of his lap. A new song started playing and the stripper began dancing for him. 

"So you've been here before?" The dancer asked, staring into his eyes seductively while beginning to move his hips on the redhead's lap.

"Not here. If I knew a guy like you worked here I would've, though," Ian flirted as he checked him out, and without thinking, slid his hand towards the stripper's waist, squeezing lightly.

“Try that again, asshole,” the dancer snapped, “I’ll break your fucking fingers.” He rejected, causing Ian to raise an eyebrow. It took him a moment to realize what he had done wrong. He pulled his hand back immediately.

“Shit, sorry.” Ian apologized sincerely. 

"Even though you're hotter than the average gariatric viagroids around here, I'm only here to dance, I'm not a fucking prostitute or something."

Ian raised his arms up, putting them on the backrest of the couch. “Won’t happen again.” He promised.

The stripper just chuckled at the theatrics, making Ian grin, "So, Red, what's your name?"

Ian eyed the dancer up and down, watching his moves closely and biting his lip, debating whether he should lie or not.

"Ian." he finally said after a moment of silence.

“Suits you.” The dancer replied simply.

Then the song changed and he got up with a smile, turning away.

Ian rose up immediately, getting up from the couch as fast as humanly possible and grabbing his hips, "Hey, that's it? A 100$ bill and you're gonna tease me with one song?" He let go and whispered in his ear, "Don't I deserve just a little bit more?"

The dancer turned his head around just for one second, winked at Ian, and left the dance floor.

—

Ian couldn’t get the dancer out of his head. No matter what he did, he kept dreaming about him.

He never anticipated returning after the one visit, but there’s just something about the foul-mouthed stripper, something about his unapologetic attitude, his effortless moves and his hot body…

Ian just couldn’t get him out of his head.

So when the next weekend rolled around he went back to the club, in the hopes of finding him.

The dancer was in the middle of his set when Ian walked it.

This time he didn’t bother ordering a drink. He waited until the beautiful man finished his dance before he approached him.

As soon as he was in ear shot the dancer called, “Missed me already, Red?”

“I–,” Ian was surprised he remembered him, but it gave him hope that the shorter man felt the connection too. “Can I have another dance?” He pulled a 100 dollar bill from his pocket and pushed it into the dancer's faux leather costume.

When the dancer gave him a slight nod, Ian began following him, "What's your name?" he asked but the man in front of him didn't answer, just put his arms around the taller's waist, squeezing it.

Ian froze and looked the stubborn man in the eyes, waiting for an answer. 

"I’m here to dance, not for you to listen to my life story, man." glancing around, he continued, "Besides, if you don't know my name, it's better." The stripper kept a smile on his face, but it didn’t seem genuine.

Ian didn’t hide his confusion, but he let it go. "So, do we-" He started before the feisty man cut him off, "Sit."

And Ian did as he was told, sitting down on the couch.

The dancer stuck around for two whole songs this time, but didn’t give Ian any information. Ian didn’t mind that much, he was just happy to feel the beautiful man’s energy was enough.

—

The next time he came to the club, Ian asked for a private dance. Maybe this way he could get more time with the mysterious man.

“Feeling comfortable there, big guy?” The dancer asked him as he stood in front of the pole in the private room. Ian sat on the black leather couch, his legs spread as he adjusted himself in his pants

“Would be better if I had you on me… or under me. But the couch is fine.” Ian said playfully, he could tell the guy was okay with his flirting. He trusted he’d make it known if Ian crossed a line.

The dancer leaned on the pole, looked Ian up and down before flirting back, “I think I’m gonna start with this pole, even though I can tell yours is almost as long.”

Ian just chuckled and the man in front of him started his dance. 

He spun around the pole, lifting himself up, never losing eye contact with Ian.

Ian noticed how strong he was, using his hands and thighs to hold himself up. Ian couldn’t want him more.

When the short man crawled closer to Ian, he asked, “So, Ian, do you think you could keep your hands to yourself this time?” 

Ian smiled. “If that's what you want me to, I will play nice.” 

“Don’t want to call security on you, so you better stay still.”

Ian nodded and the stripper kept crawling closer sensually, arching his back to make sure Ian got a view of his ass.

"What's your name?" Ian breathed out again as the dancer sat between Ian’s thighs, running his hands up Ian’s legs.

He kept dancing without missing a beat, a groan left his lips in annoyance yet he replied, "Mickey. Now move your hands so I can get on you."

"Oh," Ian was taken back but his body moved and he removed his hands from the place they rested in his lap.

“Now let me enjoy this,” Mickey said and resumed his slick moves against Ian’s body.

Ian had a hard time processing what just happened. Not only the hot dancer told him his name, Mickey, Mickey, but he told him he wanted to enjoy this. Like Ian wasn’t the only one enjoying the way their bodies pressed together.

Maybe Mickey felt this too.

When their time was up, Mickey got up quickly but lingered by the door before saying over his shoulder, “Kinda hope to see you again, Ian.” And with that he left.

Ian needed a minute to recover.

—

Mickey was horny as fuck tonight.

Mickey had two objectives as he took the stage: to make fucking bank, and to take the redhead home.

As always, he’s nothing if not goal-oriented.

He hasn’t seen him in two weeks and he was on edge.

If his audience is under the impression that he’s the prey in any sense of the word, they’ve got another thing coming. As soon as he stepped out on stage he noticed the dopey looking redhead. His favorite client in a long time. Ian’s attention was on him from the first glimpse of his move.

Fucking bingo.

It's the energy that radiates off of this guy. He's just magnetic. Mickey felt his eyes on him. Ian was sitting with his legs spread and his spine straight, and he didn't shy away from ogling Mickey immediately. But when Mickey winked at him, he could notice the blush on the guy’s cheeks all the way from the stage.

Mickey‘s gut instinct from day one was that behind the slight shyness, Ian would know how to handle his bratty ass.

Doe-eyes was in the front row tonight, so Mickey decided to give him a bit of a VIP treatment, to see how he’d react. Mickey started to dip, sliding his forearms down the pole and giving him a nice full view of his ass.

The guy has the audacity to smirk, like he was finally catching on, enjoying the little private show Mickey was giving him. That was the moment Mickey knew for sure that his instincts had been on point.

Even so, Mickey took his time making eye contact with the entire crowd, earning his tips that they threw  his way. 

When he began his most jaw-dropping part of the  show, it only proved him right. None of those other men could handle him like they think they could, wolf-whistling and waving their cash, yelling sexual suggestion that would make other strippers crawl.

He entertained them and at the same time he didn't. He didn’t grab cash from the floor, not risking getting too close to the crowd.

The only times he got closer to the edge of the stage were when he stood in front of his favorite redhead.

It was such a fucking thrill to ignore the audience, to set his eyes on one person but make him question his own sanity, to make him wonder whether or not he was imagining it. Mickey knew he was driving Ian crazy tonight.

Mickey licked his lips, and the dude looked absolutely starstruck.

It gave Mickey a rush. It felt like no one else was in the room, the way this man got Mickey with just his eyes. Almost like Ian understood him, as Mickey moved his body on stage for everyone to see, it was for his guy to see.

And god, he was hot as fuck.

Mickey is taking him home tonight.

After he finished his set and walked down the stairs he could still feel Ian’s eyes on him. Once he made eye contact he signaled Ian to come closer and nodded towards the „employees only“ sign.

Ian walked to him slowly, keeping his cool. Mickey liked it.

When the tall man reached where Mickey was leaning on the wall he placed a hand by Mickey’s head. 

“Your show was really–”

Mickey couldn’t help himself. “Let’s go to the Employees only bathroom. It locks.” His coworkers pulled this shit in the bathroom sometimes, it always pissed him off, and he was about to be that hypocrite. Fuck it.

“Follow me, Ian.”

Preventing potential confusion, Mickey used his name as he grabbed his arm and led the way. He wanted to affirm that he remembered him, that he didn’t pick him randomly. He has never done anything like this before.

Mickey found the door he was looking for and turned his back to it, using his shoulder to open it while asking Ian with a smirk. "Enjoyed the show, huh?"

Once the door's shut and locked, Ian pushed Mickey up against it. He wasn’t crowding him, not really, but sizing him up, drinking him in. Mickey took the same liberty to scan Ian’s body, his tight shirt and well-fit jeans, the way his big muscles filled them.

It was obvious that Ian was already half-hard, and it got Mickey’s heart racing.

"Felt like the only guy in the room," Ian said smugly, like it was an explanation, and that gets Mickey’s body on him.

Though Mickey was usually opposed to kissing his hookups, with Ian it almost felt like a necessity. So when Ian made the move to kiss him against the bathroom door, Mickey was putty in his hands, responsive and loud. He moaned when Ian kissed down his neck or squeezed his ass.

The more he heard, the more Ian felt like he should have done this sooner.

Mickey was almost too caught up in the fact that he found a person he actually liked hooking up with, to even notice that Ian was certainly tougher than his shy general impression suggested.

Ian was enjoying all of these varied responses from Mickey, his touch growing more playful, more adventurous. Something about Ian's openness encouraged Mickey to let himself indulge, and he didn't hate it.

Usually, men can’t even handle Mickey’s attitude, but this guy… 

Ian had Mickey wrapped around his finger, it was clear that this guy had something different about him.

Mickey was so fucking here for it.

Mickey felt like he was dreaming. Ian stuck his tongue in his mouth, and he couldn’t help but moan into the kiss. Ian grabbed his waist, pushing him against the door. He slowly kissed down his jaw, and began leaving hickies on his neck. One of his hands went down, giving Mickey’s hard cock a squeeze.

“Someone’s excited.” Ian smirked, not like he had any room to talk, Mickey could feel his boner against his hip. Mickey peaked behind Ian’s head and saw his own reflection in the mirror, looking like he just got fucked. He looked back at Ian, he was just smirking at Mickey. He began rubbing his hand on Mickey’s cock, who bucked his hips to get more pleasure but that was quickly put to an end, “Stop moving or I’ll leave you here like this.”

The whimpers coming out of Mickey's mouth was like music to Ian's ears.

Ian began to undress Mickey, removing his dancing shorts and underwear in one go, "God, I can't wait to see your body… Your gorgeous body." Those words coming out of his mouth only turned Mickey even more.

Mickey couldn’t move, pinned entirely against the wall by the bulk of Ian’s body. He was aware of how large Ian was, it’s impossible not to notice— but now Ian was towering over Mickey. There was nothing gentle about the way Ian was kissing him right now or the way his hands squeezed every part of Mickey he could get his hands on.

“Come on, Red, get on with it!” Mickey urged, hoping Ian would start fucking him already.

But Ian dropped to his knees, digging his fingers into the meat of Mickey’s thighs hard enough to bruise. He wanted to tease Mickey, nuzzling and licking until was a begging mess, but he didn’t have the patience right now. Tonight, he just took Mickey’s entire dick in his mouth, sucking it real good. Mickey shoved his fist into his mouth to stop himself from shouting in surprise and pleasure. He wanted to thrust into Ian’s mouth, to do anything but stand here and take it, but Ian’s grip on him is implacable. Mickey could only squirm and whine against his fist.

Suddenly there was a knock on the bathroom door. Ian pulled off Mickey’s cock with a loud pop and cursed “Fuck off,” he growled.

The stranger walked away.

Mickey laughed. “Well, that’s one way to do it, my— oh, shit.”

Because Ian was sucking his cock again, as if there was no interruption at all. His hands slide back to cup Mickey’s ass, pulling him closer. He would probably lose his balance, if Ian wasn’t holding him up. 

He was definitely going to have bruises on his ass, Mickey realized. Marks on his skin in the shape of his new lover’s fingers, which would hopefully last for days, if not longer, even after he and Ian part ways. The thought is almost as hot as the slide of Ian’s lips around his cock.

“Shit, shit! gonna cum,” Mickey whispered and Ian pulled off but his grip on his ass only tightened.

“No. Not yet.”

Ian surged to his feet and Mickey almost lost his balance at that, but Ian pushed him back against the wall, kissing him again.

Mickey let out a little whimper. When he felt the press of Ian’s cock against his hip, he pushed forward instinctively.

"Can you feel what you do to me? Can you feel me baby?" Ian leaned forward whispering the dirty words against Mickey’s skin, it drove him crazy, made him feel so out of his mind with need. He nodded trying to catch Ian’s lips again but he just moved his face, his hand moving to grip Mickey’s jaw lightly, forcing him to look into his eyes, his hand snaking around Mickey’s lower back, helping him grind down. It was hot, so hot and sexy he couldn’t even think straight.

"I said can you feel me?" Ian repeated and Mickey nodded fast, his mouth falling open as Ian moved his hands down to cup his ass in his big hands, squeezing his soft round cheeks.

"Fuck. I can feel you, you're so fucking hard" he whimpered lowly his hand moving down to grip Ian's cock through his jeans. He decided he needed to feel it. He opened Ian’s jeans and pulled his cock out of his pants and boxers. He was throbbing and leaking, and Mickey couldn’t wait to feel it inside of him. Ian groaned in appreciation of the touch, leaning forward to attach their lips in a wet kiss, he bit down on Mickey’s bottom lip.

"Hold on, beautiful."

Mickey obeyed, wrapping his arms around him tightly, he knew exactly what's coming when Ian lifted him up, and carried him a little further until his ass hit the cold sink edge. He whined at the cold hitting his bare ass that Ian was still groping.

His hands not knowing where to go, moving from Ian’s neck to his broad shoulders, he wanted to feel him all over. He needed to fucking feel him.

Mickey was a bit embarrassed but he wanted Ian to get on with it so he confessed, “I’m ready, come on!” When he noticed Ian’s confused expression he explained, “I fingered myself before… before my set.”

Mickey squealed as Ian’s fingers pulled his cheeks apart as best he could in this position, his thumb rubbing against his still open hole. He was still a little bit sensitive so it made him let out small whimpering sounds and hide his face into Ian’s neck, but it felt good.

"I'm still open, just fuck me-" he didn’t know how to speak through the harsh breathes he's letting out, but he didn’t think he'd be able to get through Ian fingering him open without cumming. He knew it was going to sting a little, and maybe take some time to adjust, but he felt so desperate, he needed this.

“Fuck. Yeah, okay. Let me turn you around, Mick.”

Ian nodded , kissing him deeply for a moment before setting him on the ground. Mickey’s eyes widened when he took a moment to properly look at Ian’s dick. He wished he could go down on his knees and suck his cock nice and wet, but they both didn’t really have the patience at the moment, so he let Ian spin him to face the bathroom mirror.

Ian reached into his back pocket to take a condom and single-use package of lube out of his wallet. He quickly slipped the condom on and rubbed the lube on himself and pushed two lubed fingers into Mickey. Ian bit Mickey’s shoulder as he fucked them into him hard and fast, only for a few moments, before pulling out.

Ian helped Mickey position himself against the sink and lined his cock against Mickey’s hole, “push yourself on my cock, baby.”

Ian’s mouth fell open, his eyes closing and rolling when Mickey pushed himself back on to his cock.

Ian’s fingers dug into Mickey’s hips, as he took over and thrusted gently until all of him was inside of Mickey’s ass. It was a big stretch and he wished Mickey let him finger him properly beforehand.

Mickey was in heaven. The angle was perfect, it wasn’t quite on his prostate but he knew Ian will find the perfect way to fuck into him. 

“Holy shit. That's it baby, that's it baby" Ian was mumbling under his breath.

Mickey threw his head back as the breath knocked out of his lungs, Ian fucked him in slow thrusts out until he was comfortable to thrust hard and fast.

Ian was so in tune with Mickey. Every pleased expression, every time his mouth fell open with a low moan, every time his eyes rolled back. Ian changed the rhythm of his thrusts to match. The second he was confident he was pushing every right button and could give Mickey what he deserved, the bastard met Mickey’s eyes in the bathroom mirror and asked, "Do I feel good?"

"Shit," Mickey cursed, stunned. Ian pushed inside him once, twice. "Fuck yeah."

"Shit, okay, come on," Ian grunted, reaching around, to get a hand around Mickey’s dripping cock. "Cum with me. Fuck, cum with me, yeah?"

Mickey noticed his own expression, chewing his lip again, his hair was everywhere, his skin blushing around his neck. Mickey’s eyes flicked back to the mirror, and Ian’s already there and Ian–

Ian didn't stand a chance.

“Ian,” Mickey moaned as his orgasm took over, Ian kept thrusting into him as he felt himself getting pushed over the edge.

Ian was certain he had never cum so hard. It could be Mickey’s perfect ass, squeezing him hard from base to tip, but deep down Ian knew it was more than that. He felt his whole body pulse as he came into the condom, Mickey’s own climax milking him through it.

They both collected themselves in a weirdly non-awkward silence. It might have something to do with the massive grin Ian had on his face, or the way neither of them can keep their eyes from one another for long.

“Will I see you again?” Ian asked eventually, hoping Mickey felt the same crazy connection he did.

“Of course you are, Red.”

Ian cleared his throat. “Not just in the club, I mean… I love watching you dance, but I was hoping to see you outside of this club too.”

“Oh I’m not done with you, Ian. Not for tonight, and possibly not for the foreseeable future. Wanna get out of here and go to my place?”

“Was I just invited to sleep over?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Fuck you is what you’re invited to.” 

“Would much rather fuck you, Mickey.”

“Then you better get your freckled ass out of this nasty ass bathroom.”

MASTER LIST

[arinnaamin]

THE LIFE, ACCUSATION AND DEATH OF MAHSURI ; Falsehood, Innocence, and What her Curse Meant for Langkawi

POST 1/5 - We explore what's probably been one of my favourite Malaysian folk tales - or should I say, legends - growing up, discussing the reality of the curse she placed on all of Langkawi and the major role her flawless innocence served to play throughout it all.

During the reign of Sultan Abdullah Mukarram Shah III, in Kampung Mawar, Mukim Ulu Melaka, Langkawi, a married couple by the names of Pandak Mayah and Endak Alang (Cik Alang) were blessed with the arrival of a beautiful daughter, by the name of Mahsuri binti Pandak Mayah.

She grew up with a rich understanding of her culture's beliefs and morals, and was quite different from the rest of her friends and playmates in her younger years, bearing a beautiful face and polite manners. In adulthood, her looks and kind heart only shone through even more, making her the talk of the town amongst practically all of Langkawi, with every man in the island practically clamoring to play the role of her suitor. Eventually, she was married to a young warrior named Wan Derus, the son of Wan Yahya, the village chief.

Around 1803-1843, under the reign of Sultan Abdul Halim Shah II Ibni al-Marhum Sultan Ziyauddin Mukarram Shah, relations between Kedah and Siam (now Thailand) became strained, forcing Wan Derus to leave Langkawi temporarily to fight against Siamese soldiers in Kuala Kedah (according to some sources), leaving a pregnant Mahsuri to live with her parents in his absence. At the time, a traveling poet named Deramang made his rounds to Langkawi, and sought refuge in her parents' home thanks to their courtesy, teaching Mahsuri about poetry during his stay. The two soon became good friends.

His way with words and Mahsuri's reputation invoked the jealousy of Wan Mahura (the village chief's wife). She used the birth of Mahsuri and Wan Derus's child, Wan Hakim, to her advantage to spread rumors and accuse her and Deramang of engaging in an affair. The two were apprehended and punished by Wan Yahya (Mahsuri's now-brother-in-law) and brought to the center of Langkawi at the time, Pulau Matsirat, where they would be executed.

Despite repeatedly begging for mercy, Mahsuri was tied to a tree and stabbed repeatedly with spears, but all of them only fell at her feet. Eventually, believing that only her death would appease them, she resorted to telling them that she could only be killed with her family's sacred keris (a traditional Malay dagger). When she was stabbed, the blood that flowed from her wound was not the usual red, but pure white, signifying her innocence. In the last moments of her life, she made her last stand, and for the injustice they had brought upon the land, she cursed Langkawi for the next seven generations.

One thing I'm not too certain of in my retelling of this story is if whether Wan Yahya is Wan Derus's older brother or son. Some sources I made use of suggest the former rather than the latter, some vice versa, but it doesn't really matter since it doesn't change the story in any way.

It's important to note that the courteous, perfect Mary Sue trope that Mahsuri takes on in the legend plays a significant role in the rumors spread by Wan Mahura. Most versions of the reason behind the treachery, including mine, suggest that Wan Mahura was jealous of Mahsuri's beauty and popularity, while others imply that Wan Yahya initiated it, being enamoured by Mahsuri and wanting to use her husband's absence to his advantage. Nevertheless, Wan Mahura remains the main aggressor of the conflict.

At this point, I'm sure you all are curious about the curse, and let me tell you: the curse does have some elements of truth to it. Soon after Mahsuri's death, Langkawi was attacked by Siam, forcing the villagers to burn their rice fields to take control of the situation, but Siam still managed to conquer, leading to decades of failed crops and constant invasions. The villagers remained under the impression that this was all part of Mahsuri's curse.

It is during the 20th century that the seven generations affected finally came to pass, and since then, Mahsuri's descendants living in Thailand have visited her tomb in Langkawi on occasion.

At the time in which the legend was thought to take place, adultery stood as a sin punishable by death, though themes of polygamy are also present in some versions where Mahsuri is portrayed as Wan Derus's second wife.

Furthermore, the strong beliefs of every citizen of the village and how convinced they were, having been swayed by Wan Mahura's lies, serve to represent patriarchal authority, slander, and injustice present within Malay communities in the past. This point in the story also serves to portray the close connections between citizens in spreading false allegations like wildfire, but the story's conclusion essentially delivers the message that whatever goes around comes around eventually.

Works Cited

kathrynwp. “The Legend of the Mahsuri Curse - Langkawi - Chronically Ill Kat.” Chronically Ill Kat, 18 Apr. 2024, chronicallyillkat.com/2024/04/18/the-legend-of-the-mahsuri-curse-langkawi/. Accessed 29 May 2024.

Workman, Vanessa. “Makam Mahsuri, Mahsuri’s Tomb and Legend in Langkawi, Malaysia.” The Island Drum, 30 Oct. 2019, www.theislanddrum.com/mahsuris-tomb-langkawi/. Accessed 29 May 2024.

Catohrinner Joyce Guri. “Langkawi – the Legend of Mahsuri.” Asian Itinerary, Dec. 2014, asianitinerary.com/langkawi-the-legend-of-mahsuri/. Accessed 29 May 2024.

Shamsuddin, Heidi. "Nusantara: A Sea of Tales." Penguin Books, 2021.

[hannahsmusings]

Jackson

*Jackson hated how much he loved your attention and affection in these moments, his shoulders immediately relaxing and letting out a breath he had no idea he had been holding as soon as your hand was on his arm, the simple touch warming him from the inside out* *he did find it laughable that you thought that he was actually upset about the lack of his fiancé’s presence when in reality, he was upset that he couldn’t spend the night right by your side, leading you around proudly, being the one who’s cheek you were kissing* Well, if she were here, she’d be half drunk off champagne and talking about her modeling career… you can do that if you want. *he gives you the smallest hint of a smile, his eyes a bit more clear than they were just a few moments ago, his heart rate starting to slow down just being in your presence, your warmth and company always bringing him peace* *he nods as you say you won’t disappoint, wanting to tell you that of course you wouldn’t, he knows that now, but he couldn’t bring the words to his lips, just watching as you walked away, his eyes lingering on you for a moment as he watched you walk right up to the Waldorf’s, you being so in your element and he absolutely loved watching you, not sure how you didn’t end up in this world of networking, you being such a natural that it blew him away most of the time* *his heart clenches as he watches you laugh, realizing that he had been watching you for too long, clearing his throat and looking away, the intense urge to run and hide in the bathroom passing so he decides to just get himself another drink, walking up to the bar, standing a few people down from Matt but not noticing, ordering himself another scotch, a double this time* *he sighs, letting his head hang, taking a few steadying breaths before he rights himself, turning to get more comfortable since a few people had dispersed, his eyes falling on Matt sitting there, all the comfort from just moments ago vanishing in an instant* Hello again. *he didn’t know how to make small talk with the boyfriend of his assistant who he had intense intimate moments with, not sure what to say to him or how to make conversation, the two men being total opposites but he knew he had to be polite, his professionalism and politeness would always win out over his gut feelings of running away*

________________________________

*as soon as I’d spotted Hannah with you my blood began to boil, thinking I was so stupid to believe her when she said she was going to network, especially when my eyes locked on her hand on your arm, the touch too familiar to be professional and feeling myself seethe with fury as I finish my second drink, slamming it back on the bar and it being refilled immediately as I glance over, only relaxing a bit as I see you’d both parted ways and Hannah was talking to people in the crowd, presuming they were the Waldorfs* *looks back out at the crowd for you and couldn’t find you, staying watching Hannah and my stomach sinking as even I could tell from across the room they were enamoured with her, her clearly being good at this and that just annoying me more as it would meant she’d stay in this job and really I knew that I’d never be truly happy with her if she stayed in this job with you* *my anger simmers under the surface but not as fiery hot as it was a moment ago, sipping my drink before pulling my phone out and scrolling through my emails* *sighs as I turn back to face the bar before looking around, eyes locking on you just a few people down and when you greet me I realise I was going to have to endure this, nodding in greeting* Hi. *i didn’t have anything to say to you, not putting any effort in at all as I sip my scotch, still grimacing a little at the taste before my eyes lock on your drink as well, a slight scowl on my face* I suppose you’re responsible for her new taste in drinks? *asks it like a question but it really was more of an observation*

[justminawrites]

where do we go now?

AO3

Summary: an epilogue that takes place after the events of Thor: Love and Thunder.

1 | TBC

Love didn’t know many things. 

She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep or what had woken her up. She didn’t know how she’d ended up in the infinite emptiness that she’d come to understand was called the Shadow Realm. She didn’t know the name of the pale man who’d died in her arms just a few hours ago, even though Uncle Thor had explained that he was her father. 

Love was sure that couldn’t be true - she’d definitely remember something as important as her father’s name, wouldn’t she? - but she didn’t have the heart to correct him then. 

Love didn’t know many things, but she could tell when someone had been crying. 

She didn’t know how, perhaps she’d become accustomed to seeing sorrow, but the wet face and red-rimmed eyes were terrible giveaways. At some point Love wondered if she should offer the golden-haired god a hug sheerly out of polite confusion, like she’d done with the dying man, but found she didn’t have to. 

“I’m your Uncle Thor,” he said proudly by way of introduction; so proudly, in fact, that she  immediately broke down sobbing, and admitted she didn’t have any idea what was going on. 

He didn’t look the least bit fazed by this. 

“Do not worry,” he shook his head reassuringly, “That’s what I’m for. We shall figure it out together, little one.”

Then he’d offered his hand, Love had reluctantly held onto it, and he’d whisked her off to Earth. 

Love didn’t know many things. 

However, in New Asgard, she found out that wasn’t the case after all. She knew how to count, how to play the flute, and could even speak some crude midgardian, though the answer to how she possessed all this knowledge eluded her. 

She’d clung to her Uncle Thor in those initial few weeks, unwilling to part with the comfortingly large frame of the once-king, no matter how much Lady Sif tried to coax her to play with the other children, or simply leave his side for a short while. 

Love would follow him around, watching and replicating his movements as best she could: only eating what he ate, only talking to people he talked to, occasionally looking up at him for permission whenever she was out of her element.

For his part, Thor didn’t seem to mind it too much; he was preoccupied with building a memorial - a twenty-foot statue for someone named Jane Foster - and often entrusted her with keeping safe his prized hammer, Mjölnir. 

Love decided it must be important because she’d seen Lady Sif tease him about it when they’d first arrived.

“Oh, not again,” Sif sat up from the infirmary bed, grey eyes narrowing on the hammer slung on his right hip.

“I suppose I can’t convince you to return that to the New Asgard Museum? It’s one of our main attractions, your Highness.”

“Highly unlikely, Lady Sif,” Thor smiled kindly and squeezed her uninjured shoulder, “And I believe I’ve outgrown that moniker many decades ago.”

“Don’t jest, you’ll always be– oh! Who’s this sweet thing you’ve brought with you?”

Love poked her head out shyly from behind his red cape at that moment, interrupting their conversation. 

“My name’s.. Love.. ma’am.. uh.. Lady Sif,” she mumbled in broken asgardian, looking up to Thor for confirmation.

“C’mere, let me get a look at you.”

He nodded encouragingly, so she emerged, tentatively stepping closer to the bed until she was face-to-face with the one-armed warrior laying on it. Love held her breath as she watched her own reflection tremble in Sif’s dark eyes.

“By the All-Father,” Sif exchanged a strange look with Thor, brows furrowed in confusion, “She’s got your eyes, your Highness.”

“The universe has a cruel sense of humour, Sif,” was all Thor had to say on the matter.

Love didn’t know many things.

But she did know that the week her Uncle Thor was away, had been the loneliest of her life so far. He had promised to return soon - catching up with a few old friends - but she’d begged him to take her with him. After an hour of fruitless bargaining Thor gave in and left his hammer with her as a compromise. 

“Mjölnir,” he pretended to chastise the weapon after setting it down on her bedside table.

“You must protect this brave little girl with all your might till I return. Do we have an understanding, old friend?”

After a few quiet seconds, Mjölnir glowed a faint blue in affirmation, and her panic was immediately replaced with delight. 

Thor ruffled her hair fondly and left that very night.

Love had only just gotten used to her life New Asgard - she made few friends, minded her manners, even did her dishes without complaining - when the first incident occurred. 

It happened during a harmless self-defense exercise in the Town Square. Lady Sif was teaching her the correct posture with which to hold a wooden sword when a wasp the size of a walnut landed on its tip. Love had been so startled she hadn’t noticed what happened until it was too late. 

The slightly smoking carcass of the insect disintegrated into ash in a blink. 

She looked up at Lady Sif, alarmed, only to find the seasoned warrior looking down at the ground in horror. The cobblestones under Sif’s feet had cracked in a straight line all the way from the edge of her foot to the point under Love’s wooden sword – directly in her line of sight. An inch or two further and Sif’s leg–

“How did you–“ Sif began, but Love had already dropped the sword and fled. 

Love didn’t know many things. 

Like what rumours were, or how they began, but all of New Asgard knew about her condition before suppertime. She’d left the windows of her room open to invite a cool sea breeze but snatches of conversation floated in instead:

“..purple lasers?”

“..from her eyes!”

“–nearly took out Sif’s leg too!”

“Definitely not Asgardian–”

The last one felt like the twist of a knife in her gut. Love had slammed the window shut, pulled the covers over her head and tried not to cry.

Hours passed, but she refused to leave the room, regardless of who knocked. The door stubbornly stayed shut when Lady Sif brought her supper that no one, not even King Valkyrie could coax her into eating, until–

Three soft taps followed by a gruff male voice.

“Will you let me in, little one?”

Dizzy with guilt and hunger, she feverishly threw open the doors to a tired Thor stirring a steaming bowl of potato stew. 

“I’m not Asgardian!” She cried accusingly, expecting him to be surprised.

He only sighed and knelt so she could face him eye-level.

“I see,” he nodded seriously before holding out the food, “Does that mean you no longer eat asgardian meals?”

Love opened her mouth to contest it but the smell of tomato broth had her stomach answer before she could.

“I had a brother who was not Asgardian,” Thor admitted once she’d inhaled the soup and flopped down on the floor beside him. 

“What happened to him?”

“He gave his life to protect them.”

“But why would he do that?” She looked up at him, puzzled. 

“Because being Asgardian has nothing to do with where you were born,” he said, almost to himself. 

“Only what you do.”

Before Love could ask what that meant, she felt the feather-soft touch of sleep caress her face and tip her backwards into a deep slumber. 

Love didn’t know many things. 

She didn’t know why she had no memories before the Shadow Realm or why purple lasers shot out of her eyes whenever she was afraid. She didn’t know where Uncle Thor would go whenever he left New Asgard but there was one fact of which she was certain: he was done leaving her behind.

Thor for his part seemed to agree with this sentiment since he made no effort to dissuade her from tagging along, besides making her promise to heed his warnings if and when he gave them. She readily accepted these terms and they were off once again.

The first midgardian Love ever met was Dr. Erik Selvig. 

A tall, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and kind eyes, who smelled like the cough drops she’d stolen from the infirmary once. He walked out of a shiny, rectangular building to greet them, pulling Thor into a long, drawn-out hug; so long, in fact, that Love wondered if the doctor had fallen asleep mid-way.

“Thor!” He smiled, finally pulling away, “It’s good to see you, my boy! How long has it been since you last visited Earth?”

“Longer than it should’ve been, Doctor,” Thor said ruefully. The tone of his voice was so foreign to Love, devoid of its cheer and confidence, that she stuck her head from behind his cloak to squint up at him.

“Ha! That’s the spiri– oh my! What’ve we got here?”

Dr. Selvig had caught sight of her. He leaned down to peer into her face for a minute and broke into a blinding smile.

“My God!” He exclaimed, “She’s got your eyes! So you and Jane didn’t work out, huh?”

Love quickly introduced herself and asked the doctor how he knew her Uncle Thor. Selvig flushed with embarrassment (the resemblance is quite uncanny) and explained that he was one of the original scientists, along with Dr. Jane Foster and Darcy Lewis, who’d met the asgardian when he’d been banished to Earth.

Love didn’t know many things, but she could swear it was out of relief that Thor ruffled her hair then.

“About Jane, Doctor,” He interrupted Selvig’s story, “There’s something I need to discuss with you, privately.”

“Oh-Of course! We can go to my office,” Dr. Selvig gestured to the building behind him. 

Once they’d made their way in and up the building that Love suspected was actually a maze designed to trick a person into walking round and round in circles, Selvig opened a heavily fortified door to what looked like a bank vault and slipped inside. 

She was about to follow after him but a gentle hand on her shoulder held her back. Thor shook his head, unhooked Mjölnir from his belt hoop and placed it on the ground beside her - she’d promised - then held up three fingers, indicating that he’d only be gone 3 minutes and disappeared into the doorway after Selvig.

Love frowned but took her place beside the hammer obediently, watching a faint blue glow pulse along it’s cracks. She couldn’t lift it yet, of course, but she’d spent so many nights whispering secrets to it beside her bedstead that she was sure Mjölnir could hear her thoughts at this point. 

She wondered what it could hear now, when her thoughts were so mixed up that she couldn’t pinpoint one feeling from another.

Love didn’t know many things, but the only thing she was certain of was that she’d done something to make her Uncle Thor hate her. 

He’d tried his best to hide it under sallow smiles and half-hearted promises, but he’d kept her at arm’s length ever since he’d brought her to New Asgard. 

Thor wouldn’t attend any school events or training practices, he would take his meals separately from hers and, once, when she’d accidentally slipped up and used the asgardian word for father instead of uncle, he’d stiffened and left the room.

Lady Sif had consoled her by explaining how the God of Thunder had suffered through a tremendous period of loss in his life - he’d lost almost everyone there was to lose, his mother, his father, his brother (thrice!), his friends, half his people, even Mjölnir for a while - and that sometimes, one needs to take the time to grieve the dead before they can fully come back to the land of the living. 

This reasoning had pacified her at the time but it had gotten increasingly more awkward since he’d taken her with him on his missions. Where it had once been one-armed hair ruffles and the occasional head pat, now Thor could barely look her in the eye and Love was convinced it was because people kept comparing them to his own.

She’d tried not to take the rejection to heart, he’d done the best he could, after all, but a part of her wondered if it’d be easier for him if she wasn’t around.

Even though the real reason Thor had left her alone with Mjölnir was in case of an emergency - she’d been instructed to grab onto the handle and hold tight if the hammer should ever twitch or move a fraction - Love liked to imagine that there was actually a person inside it, a guardian of sorts that kept watch over her when he couldn’t. Someone strong, like Sif or even Korg, to protect her when the nightmares got too lucid to handle on her own.

“Yes, yes I understand-“

Love looked up to see the vault like door spin open (unlocking itself from the inside, she realised), and hear the tail-end of a conversation escape out into the hallway; it seemed like the Doctor had just received very unsettling news.

“–but why didn’t she tell me? We worked on her diagnosis together, you know–”

“Perhaps she did not want to alarm you, Erik. Jane was always stubborn about such things.”

“Yes, yes, that sounds like her; my Jane. I just– I can’t believe she’s really gone–“

“She will be missed.” Thor finally emerged from the doorway, Selvig at his heels, a vague sort of confusion still etched into his wrinkles- and gave her a curt nod. It was time to leave. 

She jumped to her feet, dusting off her new jeans (a gift from Valkyrie), and reached out to clasp Thor’s arm. He absentmindedly shook her off as he bent over to pick up the hammer and reattach it to his hip. Love tried not to let the devastation show on her face as she held onto his cape instead. 

“I hope to see you at the funeral, Doctor,” Thor turned back to his friend with a tight-lipped smile as he prepared to open the Bifrost with his axe.

“Wait!” Selvig yelled as the white light cascaded all around them, “ Do me a favour! Tell Darc–“

Unfortunately she never got to hear exactly what the favour was because the rest of Erik Selvig’s words were drowned out by the roar of the Bifrost as a multicoloured rain of starlight descended from the sky and teleported them back home. 

Love didn’t know many things.

She knew the legacy of Dr. Jane Foster, of course, it was all the children of Asgard would ever talk about. 

During recess, during lessons, on the way to and from the schoolhouse, there was always a new story from one of the survivors of the ‘Taking’, as the people of New Asgard had dubbed it.

Though the accounts of the villain differed greatly from one story to another - sometimes it was a man with a face as pale as the moon and eyes like egg yolks, and sometimes it was just a dark shadow with a rows of knife-like teeth - all of them usually agreed on one thing. 

With her shining blonde hair, and silver sparkle her eye, the Mighty Thor intervened at the exact moment all hope was lost and blam!–– blasted a lightning bolt right through the villain (in this case a shadowy spectre), giving the children the perfect opportunity to escape! It was her well-timed attack, and eventual sacrifice that allowed Asgard’s own legacy to live on in the form of its young, and for that she would always have a place in their homes, and their hearts. 

However incredibly entertaining, none of these stories shed light on the relationship between Asgard’s newest hero and its once-king, which was what Love really needed to know. So she decided to ask someone who she was sure had all the answers.

“King Valkyrie,” she huffed, wiping away the sweat that slicked her palms just enough to keep her from holding her staff properly.

“Was Uncle Thor friends with Jane Foster?”

Valkyrie raised an eyebrow but continued to swat Love’s staff with one of her own, forcing her to keep dodging the blows as the afternoon the sun beat down her back. She finally dropped her weapon as Love slipped on the sandy floors of the training ground and collapsed in exhaustion.

Valkyrie had taken over her training ever since the eye-laser Incident, and Love was torn between feeling grateful for individual practice, and resentful for how far her new mentor would push her. While Sif would have her swing a sword, string a bow and call it a day; Valkyrie had undergone the most rigorous tutelage Asgard had to offer, only on par with the royal family themselves, and subsequently decided that Love’s newfound powers merited the same level of attention. 

“You need to focus your energy, kiddo,” Her mentor finally replied, holding out an arm to help her stand up, “And I would say a bit more than friends.”

“More than friends? Were they disciples?” She asked, accepting the hand with no small amount of relief. They’d only been here an hour and her muscles were already aching.

“Disciples?” Valkyrie scowled, “Like religious groups? What put that idea in your head?”

Love cocked her head to one side in confusion; she didn’t understand the question. 

It seemed like a true and undeniable fact of the universe that the natural progression of a friendship (liking one another) was religion (liking one thing, together). 

King Valkyrie’s response didn’t immediately alarm her, many of the other asgardians had reacted similarly to hearing such words; to them God was just a glorified title for favoured warriors and princes, nothing beyond an indicator of great respect. 

“I- I’m not sure,” she frowned, trying to pinpoint where the thought had come from, but much like her memories, the answer seemed to hover right above her tongue, so close but still out of her reach.

“Where’d you hear that word anyway?” Valkyrie narrowed her eyes, unwilling to let it go, “Kids at school saying things they shouldn’t be?”

“No, I think I might’ve heard it in a dream–“

“A dream?”

It was more of a nightmare, really. Love had been plagued with the reoccurring vision since she’d left the Shadow Realm - she was being chased through a barren wasteland by a formless, black wraith that kept calling her name - and each time she awoke, she’d remember a little detail about her past that she wasn’t sure she hadn’t already known. 

It was usually harmless, she’d awaken from a short nap with the realisation that her favourite colour was yellow, or that she’d lost most of her baby teeth already, but occasionally the monster in the dream would catch her; those times were the worst. 

Love would scream as its nails would scrape the skin on her forearms, pull and hold her in its breathless embrace, and whisper strange nonsense in its raspy voice. She’d wake from those dreams crying, a mixture of salt and snot smeared all over her face and the inexplicable exhaustion in her legs, as though she’d actually been trudging across a desert in her sleep. 

It was during one such dream that the apparition had hissed “...daughter of Rapu's disciples.. you are no Asgardian.” a phrase Love had instinctively understood without knowing why.

“Actually, it was a nightmare–“

“What?” Valkyrie furrowed her brows, “What kind of nightmares? Have you told anyone about them?”

Love shook her head obediently. She’d considered telling Thor multiple times but every time she opened her mouth, the raspy voice at the back of her mind would scoff at her– did she think the All-father, Protector of the Nine Realms, had time to sit around and comfort a little girl because she’d had a bad dream?

“Not even Thor?”

“No, ma’am.”

“How long has this been happening?”

“A- a couple of weeks maybe.”

“SON OF A– Mmpfff!“ Valkyrie kicked the staff at her feet so hard it broke in two as it spun away, but Love got the feeling that she was holding in far more frustration than that. Before she could even attempt to smooth things over with a placating white lie however, they were interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Do you need a hand, your majesty?” Lady Sif asked cheerily carrying a tray with a pitcher of cool, lemon-infused water. 

Now usually even one of these things would make the most courageous asgardian nervous– Love didn’t think she’d seen Sif pass someone a goblet without a death-glare attached to it, much less bring refreshments with a smile. Yet here she stood anyway, silver-grey eyes flicking back-and-forth between her king and once-protégée.

“Oh, uh, thanks, but I don’t really drink..um.. not-booze.” Valkyrie shrugged noncommittally as she was offered the tray.

“O-Oh right. I must’ve been mistaken.” A faint pink sheen dusted Sif’s cheeks as the warrior hastily bowed in apology. 

Love reached for the pitcher next and and nearly spilled it onto herself out of sheer relief. 

“No please,” Sif rolled her eyes at these antics, “Don’t save any for the rest us. Just like your fa- uh.. ahem.. the All-Father.”

Love stuck her tongue out in reply. 

“Right! Where’s that brute gone off to anyway?” Valkyrie crossed her arms, suddenly recalling her pent-up irritation.

“Him and I need to have a talk. It’s about the kid.”

“Thor? Oh he’s probably at Jane’s statue.. again.. Your Highness?”

“Keep an eye on her will ya?” Valkyrie called back as she set off towards the exit, “She’s too quick for her own good.”

“Yes.. of course.”

But by the time Sif had turned around, Love was already gone.

Love didn’t know many things. Useful skills like forging, lock-picking or gardening were lost to her, nevertheless, she’d spent so much time running and hiding (in dreams and reality) that she’d developed an affinity for secret passageways. 

She knew where all the best shortcuts were in all of New Asgard; for example, there was a tunnel in the fence behind the schoolhouse that would lead right up the clocktower, she’d use it to sneak away whenever her lessons got too much for her to handle. 

Then there was the one beneath Lady Siriana’s flowerbeds that would take you straight to the Frigga Temple, and so on and so forth. 

Love had spent her unsupervised time (of which she had plenty), scouring the city’s catacombs and found that it had once been known by a different name, Tønsberg, Norway, and inhabited primarily by midgardian shepherds and farmers alike. 

Out of all the otherwise undiscovered pathways, her favourite was the abandoned mine shaft that ran right under the training grounds, all the way to the Jane Foster Tribute: a twenty-foot tall monument made of white marble, erected to honour the dead hero. 

Ironically, it was also the one she used the least.

Love was careful to sneak away only during group activities like archery, slipping through a trapdoor behind the stone benches and following a long, twisted passage to emerge above a second trapdoor concealed right behind one of the legs of the giant statue. 

The first time she’d done it, the memorial site was filled with people, some praying, some recounting stories, all consistently praising the fallen warrior; so she hadn’t stayed long. 

The second time however, she’d found Thor kneeling at its foot, softly whispering to the wind as tears trickled down his face. Perhaps it was the novelty of it that scared her, she’d never seen her uncle look so lost, but she hadn’t stayed to listen that time either.

This time - she promised, landing on her knees with a soft thump!- would be different.

The passageway was lit by oil braziers fixed to the walls at evenly spaced intervals, or at least they would have been, if anyone was there to light them. Both times that Love had been down here, she’d stumbled along in the dark, feeling her way through with only her hearing and her sense of touch to guide her. She wouldn’t have even known it was a mine shaft if she hadn’t scraped her knees on the tracks the first time.

Ten minutes of utter darkness and silence later the faint sound of conversation came from somewhere above her head; Love stopped and began to check the walls for a handle or switch of some kind. 

After a few seconds of grabbing empty air, she felt the sleek, cone-shaped design and pulled downward– unfortunately she pulled too hard and the handle snapped right off. For a second, Love was too shocked to react. 

If she didn’t know any better she’d call it a sign from the universe that she wasn’t meant to listen in on this particular conversation.

The logical thing to do was, obviously, turn back but if there was one thing Love shared with her uncle, it was their inability to accept defeat. 

Using the broken handle to identify the most hollowed spot in the tunnel wall, she punched with all her might. 

The mechanism to activate the trapdoor was a simple one– pulling the handle should activate a revolving door with the steps leading upward and outward. Unfortunately, the hinges had rusted over in their decades of unuse, so Love tried to manually rotate the door using her physical strength. 

She punched once, twice, but it was only at the third punch that she felt something behind the wall tremble, like a mini-earthquake. Alright, now she was getting somewhere. A few more punches and she felt the wall move an inch, dragging its heels the whole way– similar to closing a door with a doorstop.

After another strenuous push or two, Love began to deeply regret slacking on her mentor’s physical training exercises. She briefly wondered if the eye-lasers would have a greater effect but decided against it immediately– the last thing she needed was this passageway collapsing in on itself and burying her alive. 

Okay, what had Valkyrie said? Focus your energy. Focus, focus, focus. Love stabbed the broken end of the handle into the stone and took a deep breath. Focus. Then she punched. 

The impact glowed with a faint violet pulse, creating a rippling effect on the stone as the wall turned smoothly to reveal a rocky stairwell leading upwards. She quickly ascended it, popping open the latch on the trapdoor just in time to hear the current and former king of Asgard screaming at each other.

“–she NEEDS YOU-“

“Don’t you think I KNOW THAT–“

Love scrambled to her feet, being careful to drop the door gently, and inched closer to the statue. From her vantage point (sandwiched between the statue’s marble cape and boot), she could see her mentor trying to reason with an unresponsive Thor. 

She ignored the guilt that bloomed in the pit of her stomach and leaned closer to listen.

“At least look at me when I’m talking to you, coward!” Valkyrie snapped, hands on her hips as he remained hunched over at the foot of Jane’s statue. 

“You’re right,” Thor mumbled under his breath.

“What?”

“I said YOU’RE RIGHT–” He shot back, “I’m a coward.”

“I must be a coward because no matter how much I fight, it is always someone else that dies in my stead. Mother, Father, Heimdall, Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, even Loki got his day in Valhalla. And now Jane. Jane.”

“Thor–“

“I asked her not to do it; I begged her. I said we’d find another way.”

“She made a choice,” Valkyrie sighed, “Asgard owes her more than it can ever repay for her sacrifice.”

“A choice she might have reconsidered,” Thor replied vacantly, “If someone hadn’t given her a pegasus to travel with.”

“Don't you dare put this one on me–“ Valkyrie retorted, “I wasn’t the one who decided to adopt the kid–

“WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?” He roared, slamming the ground with his fist. Love ducked as the impact sent small tremors up the statue, shaking free specs of white dust and debris.

“Would you rather I left her there? A defenceless child in the Shadow Realm?”

“I would rather-,” Valkyrie stressed, “-you take some responsibility for the little girl you’ve been avoiding for the past week and a half, your majesty.”

The honorific seemed to evoke a reaction out of Thor as he finally turned around to face Valkyrie with a scowl. 

“Do not–“

“No, that’s right,” she sniped, “You’re not the King of Asgard anymore, are you? Another thing you just abandoned when it wasn’t convenient for you.”

“You know nothing of my pain–“ He opened his mouth, only to be quickly shot down.

“Oh please,” Valkyrie rolled her eyes, “I know enough. You’re not the only one who’s lost everything before, Thor.”

“I have tried to be patient with you; I’ve tried to let you off the hook. I didn’t say anything when you dumped your duties onto me because you were consumed with your quest for revenge against Thanos. I didn’t utter a word when you called it quits to travel around the galaxy to ‘find yourself’ or even when you had us go into the Shadow Realm without a plan.

I trusted you every step of the goddamn way, but I can’t sit here and watch you give up on this child because you’re too busy feeling sorry for yourself, again.”

Her outburst seemed to have an effect on Thor, at least, as the fog in his blue eyes cleared and his shoulders slumped in defeat. 

Love swallowed thickly, feeling the faint prick of tears in the corner of her eyes and quietly prayed that her eye-lasers wouldn’t start acting up now. She was so focused on keeping her cool that she almost missed what he said next.

“–anything happened?”

“What?”

“Has anything else happened?” Thor repeated, gesturing to his eyes, “You know, any more of that  purple-laser–eye thing?”

“She’s been having these dreams,” Valkyrie took a deep breath, “Visions; I think she’s starting to remember.”

“When I last spoke with her about her father, she didn’t believe me.”

“Well, maybe you should consider revisiting that talk, unless you want her ending up like your brother.”

“Loki died a hero–“ Thor began.

“And lived an outcast.“ Valkyrie countered, recalling the green-clad, silver-tongued god of mischief, detested by many.

“What do you think will happen when she figures out the man in her dreams is the same one that attacked New Asgard and stole its children? Did you assume our people would be ready to welcome the daughter of that monster with open arms?”

“They never have to know–”

“Your brother,” She interrupted ruthlessly, “–was the best kept secret in all of Asgard. Odin told no one but Frigga, but even that wasn’t enough. People are already starting to talk about her powers, Thor, I guarantee it won’t be long before some of them start asking questions neither of us can answer.”

Love watched their back and forth, transfixed. 

A small part of her knew she should be surprised by everything she was hearing but she couldn’t bring herself to do anything but stare in confusion as the two most important people in her life debated her future like she had no part in it. 

Something like pressure began to build in the back of her skull. 

“What do would you have me do?” Thor asked tiredly. 

Valkyrie pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath, letting the silence between them curdle in everything left unsaid. Love held her breath as this same silence pressed down upon her, threatening to unearth her with even a wayward cough. 

“Take her away–“ Her mentor said finally, and Love’s mind immediately went blank.

“What?!”

“–just for a little while,” Valkyrie pressed, gesturing for him to let her speak. 

“I’ll do some damage control here and when she comes back no one’ll be able to draw any connection between her and the God Butcher.”

“New Asgard is her home–“ Thor refuted, a vein on his neck standing out against his flushed skin.

“Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?” Valkyrie pointed at him, equally agitated, “You are her home, Thor– and she can’t even tell you about her dreams. Awful dreams that she’s been having for weeks, by the way. Did you know that?”

He fell quiet at that. Love peeked out from behind the statue to get a better look but all she could see was his back.

“Look, I’m not saying forever,“ Valkyrie sighed when he didn’t respond, “Just for a few weeks at most. I’ll have everything under control before Jane’s funeral.”

Another moment of silence lapsed in the clearing before Thor finally said,

“And you are certain this will work?”

Instead of dignifying that with an answer, Valkyrie gave him a mirthless smile.

“You’ve gotta be more open with the kid, alright?” She fixed him with a meaningful look, “You know as well as I do; she can't trust us if she doesn’t even trust herself.”

Thor replied under his breath, but Love had stopped listening. 

Tears had already left tracks down her cheeks, and the pounding in her head, had now begun to echo in her lungs and throat; a drum beating at her insides like a caged animal, begging to be let out.

The sun dipped below the horizon, scraping the sky of all its blue and leaving only violent red gashes and soft pinks in its wake. Love squinted up at this same sky, and tried to get her bearings.

She didn’t know know what she should focus on first, the truth about her father, the fact that King Valkyrie had temporarily exiled her from her only home or, and perhaps the most painful of all, the soul-crushing reluctance with which her Uncle Thor agreed– but before she could decide, the edges of her vision began to turn purple.

This time, when the lasers came, they brought a sharp, burning sensation behind her eyeballs and the taste of iron on her tongue. 

Love tried to squeeze her eyes shut but the pain wouldn’t let her, and for a brief moment she could see dark spots floating over a blindingly white background before something small stung the nape of her neck and she blacked out.

When Love came to, she was laying on her back, gazing up at a completely dark sky speckled with little stars and two worried faces peering down at her. 

“–an you hear me? Kiddo? She’s not responding–”

“Let me try. Hey, it’s me. It’s Uncle Thor. Can you open your eyes for me?”

“Uncle.. Thor?” She mumbled, squinting vaguely upwards– it felt like someone had squeezed a lemon right in her eyes, and then rinsed it out with salt water.

“There we go. You’re alright.” She felt someone prop her up and resisted the urge to touch her swollen eyelids.

Valkyries face dipped into view twice, once to check her temperature by placing two fingers on her forehead, and once to give her an uneasy look. Thor gave her what he must have thought was a reassuring smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which only raised her suspicions even more.

“What hap–“ Love began, but gasped when she realised what they were looking at.

A crowd of townspeople had gathered around the Jane Foster statue gaping and whispering amongst themselves in hushed tones, and as she stood to get a better look, Love understood why. 

A large crack had appeared on the hero’s marble cape, spanning from the very bottom of the statue (where she’d been hiding moments ago) all the way up to its shoulders; the gash brutally disfiguring its craftsmanship. 

Love felt a hole open up inside her as she stared at the damaged monument in horror. What had she done?

She spun around, wide-eyed with excuses on the tip of her tongue but felt her throat lock up when she was met with Thor’s gentle gaze instead.

“I’m sorry– I didn’t mean–“

“It wasn’t your fault,” Thor said firmly, putting an arm on the top of her head; a comfort and a warning, Love realised, watching his soft expression shift into a guarded one, as though he expected someone to jump out of nowhere and prosecute her on the spot.

“But I–“

“King Valkyrie!”

Love swallowed her confession as a very short man with a starchy grey goatee and neutral robes stomped up to the monarch and pointed an accusing finger at her. Valkyrie, to her credit, didn’t move a muscle to acknowledge him.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Church Keeper,” She replied cooly, tilting her head to one side.

Saying King Valkyrie had a strained relationship with the New Asgard Town Council would be an incredible understatement. Though it had originally been her idea to elect representatives in order to filter through and attend to the town’s problems accordingly (Lady Sif was a council member), the Church Keeper had amassed a large enough following by monopolising the midgardian vote, and wrested control of the local government from her. 

While Valkyrie was preoccupied with alien passport documentation and expanding asgardian labour supply chains, the Church Keeper and his cronies had slowly turned Asgard into a tourist trap, complete with an Infinity Conez Ice Cream Parlour, and the mighty weapon Mjolnir on display in the Museum; all while trying to undermine their king’s authority at every turn.

“The statue!” The Church Keeper spat, his raised voice steadily drawing more attention from the other citizens, “It’s cracked!

“Indeed it is,” Valkyrie affirmed, still unmoving, “Thank you for pointing that out.”

“This is no time for jesting, your majesty! We are in danger!”

These words seemed to wash over the crowd and dissipate into a flurry of confused whispering; the inhabitants of New Asgard were still on edge from the whole ‘Taking’ incident, after all. 

“Is that so?” Valkyrie unsheathed a dagger from her hip and began to flip it in midair, a careless display.

“Let’s not make any hasty decisions here, Church Keeper– do you have any evidence that what happened to the statue was an act of malicious intent?”

“Well, no, but the perpetrator could’ve been trying to send a message–“

“By leaving marks on a cape?” Valkyrie raised an eyebrow, catching the dagger without looking at it, “Wouldn’t a more effective target be the face? Or the hammer, even?”

“Well, yes, but–“

“And who do you think is responsible for this message? The only people present at the scene were you and I, and, of course, The All-Father, Protector of the Nine Realms, Thor Odinson.”

“Unless–“ she pointed the wooden hilt right below his chin, “–you’re implying that your King had something to do with this?”

Love watched the man’s face swell with every counter-argument Valkyrie threw at him, turning redder and redder until his beady eyes caught sight of her and he lunged forward.

“You! Girl! You were there!“ He hissed, snatching at her forearm, “Did you see anything?!”

Love cried out in surprise but Thor had already put himself between her and the Church Keeper and seized his wrist, in one move.

“Careful,” Thor said pleasantly, tightening his grip enough to turn the other man's face purple, “There’s no need to scare her; she’s only a child.”

“Perhaps you should run along before you make a bigger fool of yourself,” Valkyrie said coldly, tucking the weapon back at her hip. 

The Church Keeper harrumphed and made a big show of extricating himself from Thor’s grip, muttering about how this wasn’t over and taking half of the citizens with him as he proceeded to stomp his way back to the town.

“Are we really in danger, your majesty?” A lilting voice asked. 

Love popped her head out from behind Thor to see Grace, Axl’s mother and Heimdall’s wife, step forward, tightly clutching her son’s shoulders as though she was afraid he’d disappear if she didn’t.

“Of course not,” Valkyrie’s eyes softened, “The danger is long past us. Jane’s sacrifice made sure of that. I’m sure what happened today was the result of someone’s prank–“

“What if you’re wrong?” Grace pressed, “What if that monster comes for them again?”

Love winced; in all the commotion she’d almost forgotten how exactly she’d ended up here. 

Her father - the man who died in her arms - was the shadow man who’d abducted the children of New Asgard; how could she be sure she wasn’t any different? 

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the look Thor exchanged with Valkyrie - the subtle dip of the chin that meant I’ll take it from here - and blindly shuffled alongside her uncle as he put a hand on her shoulder and steered her away from Grace, the crowd and the statue.

Once they were far enough that the townspeople had become smudges of colour in the distance, Love stopped and sat on the grass, folding her knees to chest. Thor obediently followed suit, crossing his arms, and the two of them sat in silence for an excruciatingly long five minutes. 

“You know, I used to meditate–” He started, ready to launch into a story about his various yoga lessons, but fell quiet when he realised the slight shaking and snuffling sound was coming from the little girl beside him.

“Is something wrong?”

“EVERYTHING–” Love coughed out, trying to brush away the tears as quickly as they spilled down her cheeks, “Everything is wrong!”

“Why didn’t you tell me I’m a monster?”

Thor narrowed his eyes.

“Hey, listen to me,” he gently pulled her arms away from her face, “You are not a monster.”

“Stop lying!” She snatched her hands back and curled tighter into herself, “I heard what King Valkyrie said– she thinks I need to be banished. That I’m dangerous.”

“Come now, nobody used the word banished– more like a holiday–“

“I’m not stupid, Uncle Thor!” She bared her teeth and he fell silent. A few seconds passed and Love began to feel the familiar stirrings of guilt in her stomach before he finally spoke again.

“You’re right,” He admitted, resignation heavy in his voice, “I should have told you.”

Love reluctantly peered up to see Thor staring off into the canopy of trees opposite to them, completely unfocused, like he could see right through them and all the way back to the past.

“The truth is a heavy burden, are you sure you wish to hear it?”

She nodded quietly.

“Alright; your father, was not a monster.”

Love opened her mouth to object but Thor gestured to let him continue, so she closed it.

“He was a man who’d been wronged by the gods,” he recounted, “A disciple of the highest faith, he never asked for a single thing for himself. All he asked was that they protect his daughter when he was gone. That they protect you.”

“But Gods are not kind creatures,” His expression soured, “Even those you’ve looked up to for years, ever since you were a little boy, running through the palace of Asgard..”

She must’ve looked puzzled because Thor quickly changed direction.

“Anyway, you get the point. Gods are incredibly selfish and just the worst.”

“Mhm,” Love supplied.

“Your planet wasn’t fortunate, it was mostly desert with resources being few and far between, not the ideal conditions to raise a child. Something unfortunate happened and you.. fell sick.”

“I fell sick?” She frowned thoughtfully, but Thor didn’t meet her eyes now.

“Yes, it was a.. sleeping sickness. You were trapped in endless sleep.”

“And then what happened?”

“Your father begged the Gods to help, but they were too full of themselves.”

“That’s awful!”

“It is,” he agreed, “So he found another way to help you. He went to Eternity.”

“But what about the kidnappings?”

“Shh– I’m getting to that. He needed the Bifrost to get to Eternity, which means he needed Storm-Breaker.”

“Oh.”

“Your father didn’t believe I’d help him willingly, you see, because he thought I was like all the other gods, so he kidnapped some children–“

“All the children–“

“–all the children,” he acquiesced, “–of New Asgard to bargain for my axe. Jane figured it out first–“

“Dr. Foster knew him too?”

“Uh.. yes. She did. Anyway, you have to understand that your father was very desperate to wake you up–“

“Did my father hurt Dr. Foster?” Love asked, alarmed, “Did he kill–“

“No, no,” Thor shook his head immediately and she let out a relieved breath she’d been holding.

“Jane passed away because of other health concerns.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” he sighed, “Now– what was I saying?”

“My father was desperate to wake me up..”

“Right, exactly, so he made a deal with Eternity and exchanged his life for your cure. But not before he made me promise–“

“Made you promise to take care of me, I know that part already.” Love finished half-heartedly, trying to process all this new information. 

In hindsight, she probably should have figured it out sooner that her father and the kidnappings were connected, but the descriptions of the perpetrator were so wildly inaccurate, more fiction tan fact, that she didn’t really blame herself. 

Love also knew that there were a lot of things her Uncle Thor wasn’t telling her– like why she’d heard Valkyrie mention the term God Butcher, or why Dr. Foster’s death was hailed a sacrifice, but a part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to know any more today.

“Uncle Thor?”

“Hm?”

“Do you think I’ll become like my father?”

Thor considered the question for so long that she was afraid he hadn’t heard her at all. 

“My brother Loki–” he replied finally, “–wanted to be like our father so badly, he destroyed a part of himself because he thought it would make him more worthy. Of approval. Of love.”

He leaned against Love and pulled her into a side-hug. She felt warmth along with the comforting smell of rain, wrap around her and nestle into her skin, into her bones, as Thor pressed a soft kiss onto her temple.

“I don’t know who you’ll become, little one, but I promise to love you the whole way there.”

[justinmoviereviews]

The Class of 2022

Bringing this feature back out. Some pretty good films this year.

Dog - Reid Carolin and Channing Tatum

If a movie about a damaged guy getting saved during his darkest night by a dog doesn’t make you weep, you don’t have a dog.

Barbarian - Zach Cregger

This movie slaps so fucking hard.

Don’t Worry Darling - Olivia Wilde

Basically I think this one was killed by its press tour. I think the critic class decided liking this wasn’t worth the risk so collectively expelled it, but going in without any idea anything had even happened I thought it was the best movie so far in the nascent Deconstructing Toxic Masculinity genre that’s become one of the few acceptable avenues for mainstream films. I don’t want to spoil anything, but the twist is so much more interesting than the Stepford Wives aura that hangs over this suggests it will be. And it’s a pretty good looking flick.

Bros - Nicholas Stoller

A very sexually explicit, funnier than average romcom. Allison’s take: I can’t tell if he’s making fun of romcom tropes or just using them. 

The Banshees of Inisherin - Martin McDonagh

More than any movie he’s ever made, this one invites interpretation. I’m still working on it, and I don’t imagine there’s a definitive explanation, but right now the one I like is that this is a movie about death. I’m not sure whose death. I look forward to watching this several more times.

Confess, Fletch - Greg Mottola

Has there ever been a talented actor worse at understanding his gifts than Jon Hamm? The dude is an unknowable phantom with the face of Adonis, not an Apatow comedian. This is not a bad movie, but the guy at the center of it doesn’t fit and never feels natural. They would have been better off with just about anyone else. Even an unknown would have worked better than our man.

Amsterdam - David O. Russell

For awhile this movie has a Thomas Pynchon quality to it, where a ragtag group of goofuses stumble into an evil global shadow conspiracy they’ll never defeat or understand or even directly encounter. Its so good for a minute that I wondered if Thomas Pynchon was somehow involved (maybe he is, I didn’t look into it). The end wraps everything up too neatly to really spin into anything great, and it ends up as an enjoyably forgettable ride, which I guess befits David O. Russell’s late career stage as a guy living in the purgatory of Netflix after missing a bunch of Oscars he still can’t believe he didn’t win. 

Prey - Dan Trachtenberg

I don’t know. It’s solid, I guess.

Emily the Criminal - John Patton Ford

This is a B action movie that caught extra attention because it stars Aubrey Plaza. A lot of people liked it. I’m happy for them.

Nope - Jordan Peele

Let’s see here. My first take was that it was his weakest movie because it didn’t have any neat core conceit at its center. Get Out was a revelation, and Us was I thought basically a perfect movie, a really cool idea from a filmmaker very good at realizing his cool ideas. Nope is more of a regular old flick. But the more I thought about it the more I saw that as a strength. I think most movies are not as good as Us, but it’s ultimately kind of a very expensive Twilight Zone episode. This movie is doing something he hasn’t done yet, which implies he’s going to continue to grow and get more ambitious. I still think there’s something a little undercooked about this one, and the mystery at the center is a little less cool than I think he wanted, but its beginning to seem very clear that greatness awaits.

Men - Alex Garland

If this guy wants to spin conceits out for awhile and then have his movies devolve into lunatic madness, I’ll come out for it every single time. The title and current political moment made me think this would be more of an indictment of the gender, another in the series of aforementioned Deconstructing Toxic Masculinity movies, and it’s sort of that, but its much more elemental, personal, and bizarre. I fucking love this director.

Glass Onion: A Knives Out Mystery - Rian Johnson

Like most sequels, some of the plot points go over the top as the movie attempts to outdo the original, and the billionaires are actually dumb plotline feels ripped directly out of leftist Twitter, but as long as Rian Johnson and Daniel Craig are involved I’ll watch every Knives Out movie they make. This is what happens when you let talented people do their jobs. Also as far as I know this is the first movie that includes Covid as a central life event. I love that for some reason. It is a central life event, its like making a movie about World War II.

Bodies Bodies Bodies - Halina Reijn

I’ll be honest, I was pretty drunk when I watched this on a plane. So this will be an impressionistic review. I thought it was pretty fun. There’s one scene that feels like it was written by people outrightly mocking woke culture. Pete Davidson is in it.

Everything Everywhere All At Once - Dan Kwan and Daniel Scheinert

For the first hour I thought this was the Matrix, and wished that, as a movie about the literally unlimited nature of the universe, it was a little more creative. The second hour changed that thought. It is basically the Matrix, but while that movie was drab and minor key (by design) this movie is colorful and kaleidoscopic and wild and never ever ever not fun. The moviest movie I’ve seen in a long time, by which I mean a piece of art that could only be a movie, and one that pushes into new places what a movie can and should do. It’s big and beautiful and weird and exciting, and at 139 minutes it whooshes by. We’re in a weird place with representation at the moment, but this movie doesn’t feel like its correcting an error about who gets to star in Kung Fu movies, instead the Chinese heritage of the family is a natural part of the plot and makes the movie more than it otherwise would be. It’s hard to imagine this isn’t the best film of the year.

The Northman - Robert Eggers

The verisimilitude alone is worth the price of admission. I can’t think of a movie that’s setting feels so real since the Revenant. This is, and I guess I mean this as a compliment, the most normal movie Robert Eggers will ever make. If the Lighthouse was pure uncut Eggers, just a gonzo madhouse of his shit, this is basically Gladiator with a couple of spirit visions, which come to think of it Gladiator also had. I looked into it and learned that his compromise with the studio to make a big budget picture was to sacrifice final cut, which makes a ton of sense in retrospect and which I’m guessing is responsible for the movie’s worst parts, like when the main character monologues to himself about his motivation and plans for no reason. This is my take: the whole time I watched it I wanted it to be weirder. But as a bloody Viking flick, it’s a good movie. 

The Menu - Mark Mylod

A movie about a great chef who got so tired of cooking for shitheads that he went insane. Pitched at a tone that, for me, made any level of insanity make sense. The characters in this movie aren’t unlikeable so much as they are urgently deserving of death. And you’re never, for a minute, worried they aren’t going to receive it. It’s been a good year for fun horror flicks.

X - Ti West

Except for the obvious reason--they’re both primal feelings--it’s never been fully apparent to me why these movies are always structured to be one half sexual titillation then one half slasher-horror. But while in the 80s they just pumped them out cuz they made money, now we’re getting all sorts of deconstructions and meta commentaries and sex as terror merges. Anyway, this is the most cerebral sex ‘n’ death horror movie I’ve ever seen; the most knotty, the most intellectualized, the most constructed in its creators’ heads. I felt a sourness at first--Barbarian and The Menu are two brilliant horror movies that do something genuinely new rather than comment on the old method in increasingly myopic ways--but that’s gone now. The things this movie does are just too fun and smart. I guess every one of these flicks is in one way or another punishing you for enjoying the T&A it gave you in its first hour, but this is the first to make you watch its monsters actually fuck. The final line is both a compliment to the movie I’m not sure it deserves, and an objectively fantastic last line.

White Noise - Noah Baumbach

Nothing says Fuck It Netflix money quite like the existence of this movie, an admiring adaptation of a book that’s essentially a novelization of Jean Baudrillard’s ideas. I remember liking the novel a lot, and finding it, for a book about mass hysteria over everyday life, oddly soothing. This movie is mostly faithful to the book, but it isn’t soothing. Baumbach uses chaos and claustrophobia to convey the story’s existential anxiety rather than the artificial feeling of meek contentment that is DeLillo’s chosen mode. The movie is noisy and full of static and incredibly ugly, like watching an 80s sitcom through a fishbowl. Interesting choices, but not pleasant ones, which matters when you’re watching a movie. But Noah Baumbach is an obvious fan, and he understands the ideas he’s working with. He even gets in some pretty good Noah Baumbach jokes. It’s an amazingly timely story too, as we head into the fourth year of a global pandemic that has foregrounded our collective anxiety and shrunken our worlds to a degree that can’t not be causing long term damage. There’s a scene here where a guy in a quarantine camp riles the crowd by demanding his fear not only be recognized but made the center of the public’s attention, which if anything is quaint when put up against what the MAGA mutants in this country actually want. But here’s what I kept thinking about while I watched a movie that I liked but that never truly distinguished itself from its very good source material: in 1985 Don DeLillo wrote a book about the fear of death as a uniquely modern condition of our sad and shrinking reality. These days, that condition gets called anxiety and we validate it on social media. Our culture sucks now.

Father of the Bride - Gary Alazraki

Shit! I watched this right before I got married. I didn’t realize it was a 2022 release. It’s pretty good! Nice and warm. Andy Garcia is a boss. Recommended for right before you get married.

Elvis - Baz Luhrmann

- Here’s a movie I thought of when I was watching this one that I think would be good: young Elvis spends all his free time watching the black people in his town make the music he loves. Most of the movie takes place in churches and after-hours clubs. It’s musical performance heavy. It ends right as he’s being discovered.

- Here’s what I assumed this movie would be: A shy kid with a lot of talent gets discovered by a sleazy manager. He rises to the top, meets a girl, then money, fame, ego, and the influence of shady characters bring him down. A lot of musical performances.

Baz Luhrmann likes his spectacle, but I can’t believe how shoddy and lazy this movie actually is. There’s no structure, no real story, no actions of consequence. It's a three hour montage of events I don’t even believe really happened. Did Elvis really feel strongly about Bobby Kennedy’s death? I sort of doubt it. Bohemian Rhapsody and Rocketman were trite, but here’s a director looking his audience in the eye and saying “I know you hogs like this shit.”

Tar - Todd Field

This movie is such a slow burn I didn’t even realize she kept two houses until it was almost over. It doesn’t tell anything and it takes its sweet time showing. Some of its early scenes feel largely pointless. I wasn’t sure why at first, other than the fact that it’s a type of storytelling, but upon consideration I get it: the movie is told in the first person. It doesn’t tell you anything for the same reason I don’t wake up every morning and tell myself the address of my house. This is the story of a monster told from her point of view, and as the movie progresses you start to see the cracks in her self-image. Its slow and controlled and quiet, with an intensity hovering offscreen that peaks its head in just enough to let you know its there. Because of the narrative style there’s a ton of stuff I missed, and more than any other movie I’ve seen this year I look forward to watching this again.

All Quiet on the Western Front - Edward Berger

It felt for awhile like we were done with old fashioned war flicks, and modern war movies would all have some kind of stylistic or thematic bent. But this is about as simplistic and plain a story as you can come up with. So maybe the lesson is you can do whatever you want as long as you do it really well. This is an incredibly effective movie. A battle scene where the French close in on the Germans like an unfeeling horde of aliens will stay with me for a long time. A scene at the end which exposes the brutal evil of men who control the lives of other men will as well. Maybe I’m getting softer, but this is the most haunting and disturbing war movie I’ve ever seen. We can do terrible, unspeakable things to each other, and we can do them for no reason. One way of understanding this movie is that it’s about the humanity of a nothing special enlisted man, and follows him until he finally loses it. It’s also about the machinations of power that control his life from afar without any humanity at all. Also, it looks and sounds incredible.

The Fabelmans - Steven Spielberg

At this point, you should know what you’re getting from Spielberg. His movies are impeccably made, stories told seamlessly with warmth and craftsmanship. He’s the ultimate major key filmmaker, with an intuitive understanding of how to compel audiences that the movie says he’s had since he was a kid. The Fabelmans is, for better or worse, a Spielberg movie. My sense is that how you feel about it will be determined by how you feel about him. If you think he’s the best to ever do it, you’ll probably appreciate this career retrospective about how he discovered the power and joy of cinema. If you’re cooler on him, maybe you’ll wonder why he gets to do it but Martin Scorsese or Federico Fellini, two guys who also probably grew up with cameras attached to their hands, don’t. I guess the obvious answer is that those guys never would, which is probably one of the reasons I like them more.

Black Adam - Jaume Collet-Serra

Jaume Collet-Serra is responsible for two of the best schlock masterpieces of the century, the Shallows and the Commuter, so I am hopeful he’s just paying his dues now before they’ll let him go back to cooking those up, and not that he’s been swallowed by the Comic Book Movie Industrial Complex, which really does gobble up everything cool or interesting or unique about filmmaking. That said, like most of them are, this is a perfectly fine beer watch. The Rock, who is straight up one of the most likeable people on the planet, has been a real life superhero ever since he didn’t care what your name was.

Triangle of Sadness - Ruben Ostlund

I got big The Lobster vibes from this one. Both from the structure--part 1 takes place in a hospitality center, part 2 takes place in the wilderness--and from the overt strangeness that keeps you on your toes the entire time; both movies could go anywhere. Ostlund makes so many choices that are so fun; one highlight being a drunken mock debate over economic policy between the ship’s raging alcoholic captain and a Russian oligarch who accidentally became incredibly rich and now lives with an acutely Russian nihilistic joie de vivre. The movie begins as a pretty open satire of wealth and grows increasingly hysterical until it suddenly transforms into something else--something smarter and more deft. A bunch of seemingly useless rich people are all forced to pivot into a society where none of their material gifts will benefit them at all, and do better than expected. What is Ostlund saying? I’m not sure. But another way he reminds me of my man Yorgos is that he sets up a wild premise and then explores it as he thinks it would go in real life. Its a fun way to make movies.

Bullet Train - David Leitch

So you’re an excellent filmmaker, just dripping with talent, but you’d rather make snappy action flicks than three hour Capital-F Films about classical music conductors (I loved Tar, just making a point). I can’t believe how good this movie is. Fast, witty, bouncing through timelines and stories with a throughline that keeps expanding and gets fuller and more fun as it chugs along. This is like if Guy Ritchie took better drugs, or if Tarantino didn’t have final cut. Brad Pitt is one of the best actors on the planet if you can find interesting things for him to do. Here he plays a reformed underworld professional who speaks almost entirely through New Age self-improvement jargon as he tries to find a new life path for himself. And that’s maybe the fifth best thing this movie does. 

Argentina, 1985 - Santiago Mitre

This is a pretty downbeat movie. The dialogue is spoken at a low tone, the color palette is dark and brown, it never gets too loud. Knowledge of the country’s history would help--I needed Google for things every Argentinian already knows. Otherwise this is a very straight trial movie, all the way down to the verdict resting on the prosecutor’s ability to give a sufficiently inspiring speech. Most of the movie takes place in the courtroom or a law office. One of the protagonists comes from a comfortably fascist background and at one point has to attend the world’s worst family gathering, but otherwise there’s very little on the periphery.

Nanny - Nikyatu Jusu

The structure is fucked. This movie takes ages to get started and then rushes its ending. It feels very messy and less clear than it wants to be. I'll need to chew on it some more, but I think the idea here is the titular immigrant nanny is carried through a consuming anxiety about the family she left behind by an African spirit that is committed to her survival but isn’t necessarily benevolent. It’s really not a horror movie, and the beats it hits in service of the genre are largely unnecessary and fairly lame--I think we can go ahead and put a period on scary dream jump scares. But despite its flaws, which are all just novice direction shit, I really liked this. It looks great, and it has a control over its tone that makes it consistently engaging even if it doesn’t ever really cohere. I’m starting to think the reason why there are so many good horror movies now is because they’re cheap to make and aren’t beholden to existing IP--essentially they’re a bush league for promising young filmmakers. I suspect Jusu is more interested in exploring the African experience in America than she is in the genre. It will be interesting to see what she does next.

We’re All Going to the World’s Fair - Jane Schoenbrun

I should say that the Internet didn’t invent loneliness, and things like these online sinkholes are just a new outlet for an old problem. If more people are isolating and detaching from reality, that has more to do with our culture and our politics (which the movie knows. A shot of a boarded Toys ‘R’ Us is as grim and unsettling as any of the webcam freakout scenes.) This is an incredibly effective film about a culture I don’t understand and have anxieties about. It seems pretty documented that more people are in fact isolating and detaching, and if they’re leaning into the type of solipsism that creates this stuff, that’s a fertile topic for new filmmakers. Maybe too fertile. Jesus Christ, this movie.

To Leslie - Michael Morris

The thing is, she’s really good in this! She’s not a sympathetic character for most it, she’s a full on addict, using the people who care about her and taking advantage of the Samaritans dumb enough to feel empathy for her. She’s resentful of the help she needs and then livid when people stop helping her. This is a movie I would not have heard about were it not for the insurgent Oscar campaign, but am glad I saw it. Sometimes its nice to watch small, universal stories play out. The third act redemption maybe comes a little too easily, and I’m not sure I buy what inspired it (a Willie Nelson song, apparently), but I’m just noting that for my own memory’s sake. This is a good one.

Bardo, False Chronicle of a Handful of Truths - Alejandro Inarritu

There’s a scene here where the main character climbs up a giant pile of dead bodies until he reaches the top, where Spanish conquistador and founder of Mexico Hernan Cortes is waiting for him, and they get into a conversation about heritage. It’s a ripe scene, and its been set up perfectly, but the conversation isn’t as profound or layered as it could be, or that the height the director is reaching for suggests it should be. Then after a few minutes, some ash from Cortes’s cigarette falls on one of the dead bodies, who sits up to complain about it, and it’s revealed the whole thing is a scene from a film someone is making. Its not the first time and not the last time you want to throttle Inarritu. You’re one of the best filmmakers currently working, why do you keep fucking up your own good ideas with this jokey shit?!

I want to take my time with this movie because it deserves to be carefully considered. It is, without hesitation, the most ambitious movie of the last few years. My theory on Alejandro is that his life’s goal is to be Fellini; both this and Birdman shoot for the same surreal modernism that the Italian legend mastered back in the ‘60s. This one doesn’t get there the same way Birdman didn’t, and one of the reasons, at least in this case, is that he keeps telling us what he’s thinking instead of showing us. This film looks incredible, and the camera moves with the same fluidity it did in Birdman, but he runs out of tricks sooner than he should. His ideas could be conveyed visually, but instead he just has his characters say them out loud. 

All that being said, I loved it. I loved it more than I loved Birdman when I first saw it, before I decided it was a failed version of 8 1/2. This is also a failed version of 8 1/2, but it’s playing with a different set of ideas. Instead of being a satire of the industry, it’s considering Mexican identity, and its ultimately more interested in mortality than in the morass of being alive. It’s incredibly rare to get a director who swings this hard, who’s given the space to work out his ideas like this, or who even has the balls or vision to try. A lot of this movie doesn’t work. But the parts that do are incredibly good, and his visual sensibility is unparalleled. This should be a -10,000 lock for best cinematography, but it won’t win because no one saw it. Which is to the detriment of the discourse. This movie deserves to be debated and raged over. It deserves to have partisans and detractors who crucify each other online. The culture would be infinitely better if we got three of these a year.

Vengeance - B.J. Novak

Parts of this movie are so good I had trouble believing the bad parts could be as bad as they were. A New York journo douchebag goes to deep west Texas for the funeral of a hookup he barely remembers because she’s told her family that they’re in a serious relationship, then stays because he thinks he’s found a podcast. The parts about Texas are fantastic; his dialogue is sharp and interesting--down here we don’t have police, we have Mike and Dan--and incredibly well observed. During a scene at a rodeo somebody is eating a giant barbecue chicken leg, someone else is eating potato chips covered in queso. But B.J. is playing a guy so cartoonishly dopey it feels beamed in from a different, much worse movie (sample dialogue: “Have you ever been in a fight?” “Like a real fight, or like a Twitter fight?”) Scenes where he’s on the phone describing the story to his incredulous producer give off Hallmark Christmas movie vibes. It’s so much worse than the stuff around it that I figured it had to be intentional. Maybe he’s the villain or something. But no, he just learns to love these simple people and their small town. One other thing, Ashton Kutcher, playing a sort of deep Texas ghost, is legitimately amazing here. Easily the best thing in it. If people had seen this he’d have been nominated. It’s that kind of performance.

Babylon - Damien Chazelle

Damien’s learned how to direct. Watching the guy who’s floundered (in my opinion) ever since his his tiny little arthouse flick about ambition put him on the map get these giant scenes to work makes me legitimately happy for him. There’s a moment during the party scene at the beginning where he turns the bacchanalia into an organized dance sequence, which feels like a guy making a choice; we’re going to stick classic film elements in the middle of this chaos, because we like them and we can. As far as I can tell the idea here is simple--turn the end of the silent film era into the fall of Babylon, or the Weimar Republic, or Vichy France, or any other era of decadence that was always going to be on borrowed time. Was it really like that? Is this a story that needed to be told? Who knows? And who cares? Unlike with First Man, he’s justified his decision by doing it well. There’s a scene here where a cruel and careless death cuts to a giant party, and its more effective--drunk and sobering--than when Scorsese did it in the Wolf of Wall Street.

RRR - S.S. Rajamouli

Maybe I’d feel differently if I was better versed in Bollywood; as it stands this film represents the entirety of the industry to me. Maybe this is like showing a person who’s never seen an American movie before the Avengers, and an Indian friend who liked it tells me it is not representative of Bollywood. But it ultimately doesn’t matter. First of all, I think it’s genuinely awesome that this has become such a crossover sensation, and that more people are getting exposed to world cinema. Second of all, this movie whips so much ass. It took me a minute to get used to the style, but once I did I was all the way in. The first film ever to get me pumping my fists in my living room. And a thing I’ve always believed is that being good at dancing is incredibly manly.

KIMI - Steven Soderbergh

There are two ideas in this that I like a lot: 1. what would the kind of trauma most thrillers like this are about do to a person after the movie ends?, and 2. what does a corporation that has to pretend it cares about ethics after #MeToo and Believe Women even though it obviously doesn’t look like in the year of our lord 2022? More than any other top shelf filmmaker I can name, Steven Soderbergh doesn’t seem to have any throughline other than that his movies are all made with a certain level of quality. There’s no thematic cohesion that I can find, other than a healthy dislike for companies and governments, and not really any stylistic one either, other than that his movies are all really neat and tidy. And while he used to get nominated for Oscars, for the past few years he’s seemed to be content pumping out genre flicks like a gun-for-hire Woody Allen, which I wonder if is just him being prescient about the state of the industry now. This is a quick little film, something that comes out by the truckload in the era of Netflix, but if you watched it without knowing who Steven Soderbergh was you’d be surprised by how good it is.

Watcher - Chloe Okuno

Didn’t really respond to this one. The acting’s not great, the pacing is off--she gets pretty scared pretty quickly--and beats that should hit hard land harmlessly. High point: Bucharest seems like a cool city.

Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio - Guillermo del Toro and Mark Gustafson

Guillermo is very good at putting the things he likes in movies that are ostensibly pretty one-for-them--some of these images belong on his highlight reel. There’s also a sweetness here that’s got his name all over it. This was apparently a years in the making passion project, and I have no doubt the animation is a triumph, but its a status as a Kids Movie papers over some storytelling messiness that bothered me as a person who doesn’t care about kids movies. At its best this movie makes me wish he’d gone full tilt into del Toro creature madness. Fuck the kids, man.

Women Talking - Sarah Polley

My take on this movie was that it’s the first piece of art to explicitly lay out the tenets of modern feminist philosophy, like a No Exit for the 21st Century American leftist political moment. I have never felt less equipped to give my opinion on a film, but suffice to say I liked this and thought it was intellectually interesting. Here’s the best I can do: this is an interesting one. Less interested in anger or revenge than in compassion and the value of forgiveness, and by value I mean worth, as in what do we gain by forgiving and what is the toll that forgiving will take on us? It’s that kind of a movie, managing emotional states with a philosophical detachment. Deal with the problem first, figure out how we feel about it later. Every atrocity visited upon these women is described in a matter of fact way. Nothing is shown.

The Good Nurse - Tobias Lindholm

This is firmly in Movie of the Week territory, all the way up to a soundtrack and establishing shots straight out of Law and Order, elevated slightly by its inclusion of two of our better actors.

Top Gun: Maverick - Joseph Kosinski

Loses points with me because it sags in the middle; I don’t care about Maverick’s guilt over his friend’s death or his romantic life. It’s great when he’s in the air. This whole movie should take place in a plane. Late period Tom Cruise is beloved by many, but not by me. I feel like he should have more to say at this point in his career than lying about his age.

The Whale - Darren Aronofsky

A very strange film. I’m not sure what to say about it. I wouldn’t call it pleasant, exactly. The main character’s morbid obesity seems almost like body horror at times. The plot seems simple enough; a guy makes the decision to remove himself from life after he loses a loved one, but it’s never quite that movie. I’m not sure if he’s a good person or not, or if he’s meant to be. He left his wife and daughter for someone else and was never in their life afterwards, though if you listen to him, he tried to be. I wondered if he’s someone that seeks out the good in others and extends that to himself even if he doesn’t deserve it. But if that’s the case, why is he killing himself? There’s also a religious element that fits in somewhere, but I’m not sure where. I thought about this movie the whole car ride home. I’m still working on it. 

Empire of Light - Sam Mendes

Sam Mendes makes almost comically beautiful movies. This one, about a ragtag group of theater employees in England in 1981, takes place mostly in a movie theater, which is lit up and shot to look like a museum exhibit. This is a perfectly decent flick. It’s well paced, a simple story told well, emotional in the right places without being manipulative. It’s pleasant when its over. Not gutting, but pleasant.

Spiderhead - Joseph Kosinski

Quick, self-contained, well made, not too expensive, fun and kinda trippy, with a neat little twist at the end. I remember watching The Discovery a few years ago and thinking it was going to be the ur-text of a new genre called the Netflix Movie, and buddy was I right. These things now are being assembly-lined out by the dozen, and most of them are largely decent if a little bloodless. Sooner or later they’ll feel so packaged AI will start writing them, but until we get there I’m fine recommending a movie like Spiderhead. It’s a little bloodless in a way the similar genre grind-out KIMI isn’t, but it’s eerie while still being fun, holds its tone almost the whole way through, and includes the best Chris Hemsworth acting I’ve ever seen as a jocky nerd charming sociopath.

Black Panther: Wakanda Forever - Ryan Coogler

The first one isn’t perfect, but like a lot of people I walked away from it thinking I’d just seen Marvel’s highwater mark. This one is even better. While the original stood above the rest by looking at real racial politics through the lens of a comic book movie, this one doubles down by bringing in a second superhero-ized colonized civilization with its own ideas about how to respond to the world at large and has the two of them meet and discuss. It even throws in for good measure a complex political dynamic at the top of the Wakanda power structure where every argument makes sense and is defensible. And while my biggest issue with the first one was that it could have used more world-building, some of the scenes here look genuinely great. All the standard Marvel movie objections apply--the dorky jokes, the dumb action scenes, the weirdly dark color palette these things are apparently mandated to have--but Ryan Coogler is possibly the only director franchised into the MCU who seems interested in making or allowed to make real movies.

Pleasure - Ninja Thyberg

A thing I learned the other day is that the movie Deepthroat was one of the highest grossing films of 1975. It is amazing to imagine the families of America lining up en masse to watch a movie, the premise of which is that a woman was born with her clitoris inside of her throat. I wouldn’t call Pleasure a return to a more sex positive past, exactly, but it’s explicitly sexually graphic in a way I’ve never really seen before outside of an actual porno. Parts of it are about the dark side of the porn industry, but other parts are about the light side, or the harmless side, and most of the characters are basically decent people. In fact one case this movie is making, maybe unintentionally, is that the ugly parts of the porn star life aren’t really any different than the ugly parts of the Hollywood life, or the sports life, or the investment banking life. The cost of success in this economy is your humanity, whether that means getting double-raw dogged in the ass or outsourcing a factory to Pakistan.

Ambulance - Michael Bay

Worth watching. Pretty fun. Basically incoherent. I will use this space for two observations: 1. Michael Bay has a fully singular visual style that if I had to give name to I would call Saturday afternoon barbecue full of hopefully not racist white men getting weepy after the fifth round of Coors Light, but its his, and as far as I can tell he created it, which means he fits my definition of an auteur. 2. Jake Gyllenhaal might actually be my favorite actor. He is incredible in this movie. I want to call it my second favorite performance of the year after Cate Blanchett in Tar. He’s not the most naturally gifted actor, it will never come as naturally to him as it does to, for instance, Cate Blanchett, but he makes up for that by going completely in on every role. He slips into raw nerve-ending panic within the first five minutes of being on screen in this movie. I think he also might be one the smartest actors in Hollywood. He has one particular line reading in this about a collection of plush flamingos that is so good, and so indicative that he knows exactly what he’s doing and what makes what he’s doing good, it singlehandedly bumps the movie up a letter grade.

[getcuboned]

See. Actualy. Yesterday I just dismissed this because you didn't actually Say anything. Now that bothers me.

You haven't actually Said much anything in response to me which is not how a conversation works.

You mumbled in the notes about not believing in ACAB, which is not how ACAB works. This "lecture" has been me talking about the thing You mumbled about. Which is me talking to you specifically. Weird how that works.

You quote authorial intent, which is entirely irrelevant even if Wildbow Thinks he can't avoid death of the author. In a Two person conversation, I would thing that Your intent and reading would be the one that's revelant, if anything.

You try to say that shorthand is counter productive. Which is only true when the shorthand in question is considered controversial, ans only because people see a controversial topic and disconnect from the conversation. ACAB is only controversial because it benefits the political systems of first world countries to make it controversial. That's a statement of fact, not an opinion. Feel free to find a way to contradict it as commentary on history, but I'm not going to listen if you try to make it opinionated. The only force painting cops in a good light is propaganda.

You make some weird jump about democracy, which lets be real here: This is not a democracy. This is a conversation, I'm not here to "democratically" change your mind. We also don't get to "democratically" alter history so that we can "democratically" refuse to acknowledge that police institutions exist to serve bad laws and shelter useful bullies.

The one thing you've said is that the PRT didn't know about Sophia's actions and that she did get punished. Which is a Half Truth! Congratulations, half truths are how people pardon institutions that shelter bad cops. Sophia acknowledged it herself that the moment she stopped being useful they threw her in juvie. Taylor thinks that part of that is Sophia herself burned too many bridges to keep her useful, but nowhere in the text is there evidence that its wrong to think that the PRT/Protectorate sheltered Sophia to the best of their ability until it was made Public that she absued a girl so much the girl ended up in a psyche ward. Once it's public, Shadowstalker stopped being a useful cop. If the PRT/Pro actually cared about vetting bad cops they would have given even half the attention that Weaver got to Shadowstalker. If Sophia hadn't burned all of her bridges maybe some other team of well intended cops would have taken her in, but she's been absolute thug so they didn't. Therefore, she's useless. The idea that the PRT "didn't know" isn't a defense for them. It's a fact for sure, but its a fact that only enhances the idea that they turn a blind eye to bad cops because they're useful.

Worm is too well structured, despite its line by line presentation, to have things be separated arbitrarily. There is a recurring theme in Worm of examining systems of power and identifying where bullies live in them and how they operate. This is because we see things from Taylor's perspective, which is the main perspective of the entire series. The heroes are just flying cops and Taylor can see that. When we see things from other character's perspectives, they fixate on different parts of the world. That's really good characterization! But it also means there's an instinct to say "that's just Taylor's perspective". Everyone's perspective contains elements of truth. Taylor's focus on bullies doesn't Make bullies, it exposes them to the audience. When you expose a system, such as the police, and observe how it shuffles truth behind curtains and turns a blind eye to abuse, you get the idea that being part of that system makes you part of the problem. Hence ACAB.

That's why Khepri could win. She could see through everyone's eyes and use everyone's perspective and ability.

My whole point with all of this. I despise TLDR's because you Should be reading what I'm saying, but my Whole Point: I will not accpet cherry picking themes and ideas. The idea of heroes being cops, with well intentioned heroes being purposefully obtuse in the face of hard truths, or being bad people behind the mask, is what ACAB means. Wether Wildbow meant it or not, he reinvented ACAB through Taylor's eyes.

As for literally anything else. Yeah. Taylor could have been more forth coming with friends, teamates, and family. I already said that. That's what she did wrong. That's what she regrets. There's nothing more to that unless You want to bring up things that were actually wrong, rather than making me do the work of identifying what is worthy of discussion.

If we, as readers, are meant to see a character as in the wrong, or see that the character's own baggages and hangups are the reason they're doing certain things, rather than a fair appreciation of the facts...

then we actually have to see the character be wrong, directly, on screen.

Like, Taylor has issues with authority, trusting authority figures, etc. This is a result of the Trio and how the school admin and teachers never listened to her, her Dad had checked out, etc. All fair, all understandable. And that absolutely fuels her own reaction to Armsmaster and, later on, other figures in the PRT and the Protectorate.

But equally, Taylor's own attempts (as Skitter) to reach out and work with the PRT and Protectorate consistently go bad, and not largely because of her. Armsmaster is useless and dismissive to her. She tries again, goes nowhere. She gets betrayed by Armsy at the Leviathan fight and sees how that goes for her. She finds out the Protectorate has been sheltering Sophia (as she sees it). The whole part where Legend ordered her chained up and was coming and no information was actually given to her as to WHY sure leaves her in no good place (Amy didn't /help/ but she didn't create the situation), and then her little confrontation with them doesn't help either.

Her attempts to get somewhere talking to the PRT/Protectorate during the S9 arcs go nowhere and again, they're unwilling to even pretend to work together -

I mean, like, consistently, Taylor's distrust of authority in the form of the PRT/Protectorate is proven to be pretty well founded, at least her experiences of it. And yes, the Interludes and stuff show it fairly clearly that she's not entirely right in her read of them, sure, but SHE never actually sees anything else.

If the narrative really does want us to see Taylor as somewhat in the wrong... we have to actually see her... in the wrong. Because Taylor just gets her own belief that the PRT just cannot be worked with reinforced over and over again, and that's what leads to her escalation in 21.1. Absolutely the wrong choice, but exactly what the PRT and Protectorate earned with their responses.

[juletheghoul]

Common Courtesies

I've been thinking about monster versions of the Pedro boys ever since I wrote this horny fever dream - and thanks to this ask from @sweetangel0069 I am back on my bullshit. I imagine this as sort of a Mr. Darcy, regency period type of thing only Demon Din is a feminist icon because that's what we do here.

Enjoy some Demon!Din.

Pairing: Demon!Din x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: (18+ NO MINORS) **pussy-eating** language, age-gap (legal, reader is of age) dirty talk, supernatural elements, sexist society, sexist comments from readers father

Let me know if I missed anything!

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist ask prompt

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The moon was full and bright, it drew your eye as you finished the small glass of water in the silent kitchen.

The manor was blessedly quiet at this hour and you took advantage of it. Everyone was asleep and it felt as though you could steal a few blessed moments of peace. No mother hovering and nagging about your lack of a suitor. No sisters gossiping or bickering - no overbearing father to deal with and just like you’d been doing since adolescence, you dallied.

You wandered through your empty halls, wondering if your guest was sleeping comfortably in the rooms your father had provided him. Whether the bed was to his liking, if he had enjoyed the view before succumbing to sleep.

You thought about him a great deal.

There was something about him, something… different.

He was polite, exceedingly so. He was attentive, listening with genuine interest to what you and your sisters had to say. Most of the men your father invited into your home had courtesy to be sure but it was different. Whereas they listened, with a stiff upper lip and forced smile - he engaged. He cared about what you had to say.

Your mother had been wary at first. A handsome man of his age, unmarried and unattached - there had to be something wrong but much like everyone he encountered in your presence - he won her over.

Now she was determined to marry him off to one of you, it didn’t seem to matter which one and she wasn’t shy about presenting each of you to him in such a manner. He dodged her advances on your part gracefully.

“Oh I would make a terrible husband, believe me.”

A creak just inside the drawing room froze you in place for a moment and it was difficult to pick up any new sounds through the booming in your ears. A few breaths to steady your nerves was all the preparation you gave yourself before creeping over to take a peek inside. What you’d do if it was someone with ill-intentions, you hadn’t decided.

With baited breath and clammy palms you chanced a glance, doing everything in your power to make as little noise as possible.

It was your guest. Mr. Din Djarin, sitting comfortably in your fathers chair -facing the moonlight. You frowned.

What are you doing awake?

You knew it was him, but the longer you looked - the less it looked like him. He seemed much taller, the chair looked almost small with him occupying it. He turned towards where your head was poked around the open door and it took everything in you not to gasp.

This couldn’t be the man you knew? His eyes were black jewels, his fingers were long, with nails that you knew would be like razors. His teeth glinted and they were too white, too sharp. The horns were another matter completely and for a moment you felt like a fly trapped in honey. You held your breath as he scanned the room, hoping he didn’t see you. How you managed to silently step away you’d never know.

The vision of him, of the transformation he’d gone through played through your mind endlessly. Until exhaustion finally claimed you.

-

It was hard not to yawn the next day. Hard not to conjure up the image of him, of what you’d seen when he sat at your table. When he smiled politely at catching you staring.

He looked ordinary now, back to the visage you’d been accustomed to and too late you realized what the topic of conversation had been.

“Surely you must be looking to marry Mr. Djarin? Don’t you want children to carry your name? Any one of my daughters would make a fine wife I assure you.” You perked up despite the embarrassment, curious as to his answer.

“I wouldn’t want to inflict any of your lovely daughters with me. Believe me - they are better off but you are kind to think me worthy.” He held her hand in his, mollifying. Charming.

“How old are you Mr. Djarin?-” You saw the scandal on your mother’s face at your impolite outburst, a lady doesn’t ask that. “-I’m sorry to be impolite - I was merely curious.” You tried to look braver than you felt and he smiled, a twinkle of mischief in his eye.

“I’m older than you think.” He winked, enigmatic.

“My apologies for my daughter’s rudeness.” She spoke to him, but her eyes were focused on you.

“Think nothing of it, ladies should be able to ask what they please. We are well aware that men do so without impunity.” Your father tutted at his response, obviously unhappy at the comparison. He raised his eyebrows slightly at your father. “You disagree?” It was asked offhand but there was an undercurrent of confusion.

“Well, there is a place for everything, and women should be aware of theirs - just as men should.” He drank the tea as he spoke, imperious. “There are times when women should be seen and not heard.” It wasn’t said maliciously, despite the implications. Your father’s view was frustrating - but sadly common within the social circles your family ran in.

“I wholeheartedly disagree.” His eyes were a rich brown, nothing like the inky black you thought you’d seen the night before. “It seems to me that men have inflated their importance to a laughable degree, it’s not up to them to dictate what place women should take up within society. Everything would be a great deal better if everyone was equal.” Your mothers mouth hung open, your father looked almost angry. If it hadn’t been for the vision that was dominating your thoughts you might have been dumbstruck also.

“I suggest we change the topic of conversation Mr. Djarin.” Your father warned and Din smiled contentedly, unbothered and unafraid. His gaze kept returning to you though, kept catching you staring, wide eyed with trembling hands.

You couldn’t help yourself, your eyes lingered on his fingers, on the seemingly hornless forehead; his mouth.

“Are you well?” He dipped his head, pulling your eyes down from their focus.

“I-yes, yes. I am quite well thank you.” You kept eye-contact with him despite the pounding of your heart, the exchange lasting a few seconds, or possibly a few hours before your sister broke the tension.

“Will you be in town for long Mr. Djarin?” Her soft voice pulled his eyes away and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding in.

“I never linger too long, I haunt for a time, and then I move on.” He smiled warmly at her, he never went into detail - never gave more than he had to. You were determined to find out who, or what- he really was.

-

The hours ticked by in uneasy silence. The normal sounds of everyone winding down and making their way to their beds found you sitting on the edge of yours, waiting for the right time to go looking for - what? A monster?

This is insane, am I really expecting to find a creature masquerading as a handsome bachelor?

A heavy footstep down the hall snapped you out of your circling, doubtful thoughts - the servants made almost no noise. It was usually easy to tell who was walking around but you were sure you’d never heard anything like this before, whatever it was it sounded massive. It hardened your resolve and with fear prickling at your skin - you ventured out of the safety of your room.

Your footsteps were light, as light as you could make them - the skirts of your nightdress and dressing gown were clutched within your iron grip as you made your way towards the drawing room. A few steadying breaths was all you gave yourself before you peeked inside.

Again you found him, sitting in your fathers chair - staring up at the night sky through the window.

“So you did see me.” His voice was deeper, richer - full of something. “..and still you came to investigate.” He turned towards your place at the door, his head a slow swivel that was synchronized with a bead of icy sweat skating down your spine. His eyes, two bright flames in a sea of black. “You must be very brave, or very foolish.” It was said without cruelty. “We mustn't linger in doorways, come in.”

It both shocked, and annoyed you that he would invite you into a room within your own home, that alone moved your legs towards him.

“Are you going to hurt me?” You stood just inside, hands fisted at your sides to hide the tremble in them.

“Why would I hurt you?” His head tilted. “I have no reason to, here - I think you would be more comfortable if I were to present myself how you’re accustomed to seeing me.” He scrunched up his face in obvious discomfort, slowly shrinking down.

“Wait-” The words bubbled out of your mouth almost without thought. “I would like to see you.” You couldn’t help but fidget under his eye. “Please…”

“As you wish.” Within a moment he was ‘himself’, the look of relief on his face wasn’t lost on you.

“Does it hurt?” It was your turn to tilt your head.

“It is uncomfortable to make myself small for such long periods, come- sit.” He gestured to the chaise in front of him and despite your momentary hesitation, you did as he asked.

He let you take stock of him, let you stare at your leisure. He was content to soak in the moonlight while the gears in your brain ran and ran. Eventually though, you felt impolite.

“I’m sorry to stare, I am at a loss for words.” Your voice seemed loud in the peaceful silence of the room. “Would it be rude to ask what you are?” You brought your knees up, wrapping your arms around them as best you could.

“No, I don’t think you’d know even if I told you. You can think of me as an incubus if you like.” He smiled at the shocked look on your face. His teeth were sharp, bone white but oddly attractive. “I am not a danger to you.”

“Incubus.” The word was strange in your mouth. “You don’t look or act like what I’ve read about.”

“No, I don’t. I’m not here to haunt anyones dreams or rape sleeping women. I merely feed off sexual energy.” He raised his eyebrows, amused by the novelty of speaking frankly if you had to wager a guess. “I do so with a willing partner but lately, it’s been harder than you’d think. People have turned into such prudes.” This surprised you.

“How so?” Your eyes ate him up greedily, never focusing on one thing.

“The concept of purity and virginity, saving yourselves for marriage. Nonsense.” He scoffed and it took you aback.

“Why is it nonsense?” Not all of the girls you knew growing up saved themselves - but there was a very clear difference between who did and who didn’t. Most of all in their prospects and how society treated them. “Why is virginity nonsense?” You couldn’t help but press.

“That a human man would believe that being the first one to have sex with a woman would somehow fundamentaly change her is the very height of avaris. The very audacity for men to think that highly of themselves is ridiculous.” Dark waves of anger blurred the edges of him and it thrilled you slightly, despite the hairs raising on the back of your neck.

“Are you not a man though..?” You didn’t understand - he looked vaguely man-shaped, he sounded like a man, was he built like a man? Your skin heated to imagine it.

“No, I am not. Men resemble me.” It occurred to you then, how old he must be.

“You mean to say men are made to look like you?”

“Well, I was here first.” He said it offhand and the absurdity of it almost didn’t fit within your mind.

“How old are you Mr. Djarin?” It was almost funny to call him that.

“...Old…”

“How long have you been around?” You tried a different tactic, but he smiled.

“I have always been around.” He looked back up towards the sky, his throat bobbed and you suddenly imagined yourself running your tongue up the long column of it. Your nipples pebbled in your shirt, your thighs clenched together. “It’s normal. You’ve been around me in my natural state. I would have an effect on your biology - feel free to run along to bed. I will stay a while longer.” You didn’t want to leave him.

“Why do you watch the moon?” You ignored his dismissal, craving his presence for as long as he allowed it.

“This is my time, this is when I feel the best - when I don’t have to hide.” You could see the pale, almost full moon in his eyes.

“Let us take a walk then.” You rose tentatively, hand nervously outstretched towards him, hoping that he’d take it. He stared in confusion before smiling a wide sharp smile, and engulfing your small hand, with his large, clawed one.

-

He towered over you, forcing you to crane your neck to meet his gaze as you walked through the grass outside your home. It was a cool night, lovely and fresh compared to the heat of the day. Soft breezes ruffled the fabric around your legs and his hair around his horns.

You were content to follow him quietly, to enjoy the serenity of the night, crickets chirped nearby; a brook bubbling just down the hill.

“It feels nice to be myself.” His voice was soft, carrying on the wind.

“It must be awful to hide most of the time.” You stopped within a little copse of trees that hid you both should someone glance out a window.

“Mostly It's fine, but after a while- it’s not pleasant.” He stretched out on the soft grass, long and lean, both natural and completely at odds. You couldn’t help but stare at him, his skin was golden and almost luminescent, darkening around the horns and darker still when it reached his hands. Your body was responding to his presence, blooming for him. “You smell wonderful.” He smiled to himself. Caught.

“I do?” You inched closer, your knee brushed against his ribs.

“Oh yes, you smell like honey.” His eyes were closed but his face turned towards you slightly. “You’re dripping.” Your eyes widened, an ache was steadily building between your thighs, begging for relief. You said nothing, instead you watched him, your body bringing you closer and closer until your legs were pressed up against him. “What are you thinking?” He turned to watch you then, a small smile on his lips.

You gulped, sweat beading along your hairline as you licked your lips. Your heart raced as you imagined him kissing you, would his teeth prick at your lips? Did you care? Not even a little bit.

“I am thinking wanton thoughts, things I’ve only ever thought about within the confines of my bedroom.” It both shamed and thrilled you to say these things aloud.

“Would you like me to accompany you back inside? You can go to sleep and forget you ever saw me this way.” A way out, a reprieve from the want and the craving for him, this is what he offered.

“No. I’d like to stay out here with you.” It came out less sensual than you’d hoped it would and now that you’d said it- you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

“Would you like me to touch you?” It sent a thrill through you, to possibly know what his hands would feel like on you.

“Yes- but please, be gentle with me.” Your heartbeat pounded in your ears and in your cunt, all of it calling to him and when he rose your stomach fluttered.

Wordlessly he lay you down on the downy grass, his hands much gentler than they appeared. With a soft touch he lifted the skirts up, grazing the skin of your thighs on his path towards the juncture of your thighs. He didn’t reach it though, instead he ran his hands along your skin, up towards your hip.

“Can I touch you?” You’d raised your hand towards his face, but stopped just short. He pressed his cheek into your outstretched palm, nuzzling into it like a touch starved cat. You traced the lines of his face, the pad of your thumb smoothing his brow before threading through the soft brown waves of his hair. He smiled before curling those long fingers around the waistband of your undergarments, letting you lift your hips to help pull them down.

Your breathing sped up when he pressed his face against your sternum, careful not to hurt you with his horns. The nightdress was paper thin, letting you feel his breath against your skin. He found the pebbled peaks of your breasts poking through the fabric, a small gasp escaped when he bit at one softly. The sensation shot straight to your cunt, the ache intensified, your legs rubbing together to alleviate it but he just made it worse. A whine from your throat made him smile as he moved to the other side.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it all better.” The smile widened when you saw his tongue was forked, your eyes big as saucers. “You’ll enjoy it, believe me - I can smell how wet you are and I’ll make your little pussy come so hard. I’ll make it good.” His tongue swirled around the bud through the fabric, soaking it before biting gently.

His words lit a fire within your belly, they ramped the arousal further still and soon you were writhing in the grass like some animal. He tsked softly, his hands mapping the path down towards where you wanted him most. His lips pressed against the soft skin of your thighs, of your fluttering belly.

The considerable breadth of his shoulders had your legs spread wide and being so open made you unsure of yourself. No one had ever seen this part of you, no one had ever been this intimate with you before and before you could say anything he was lifting his head.

“You are divine. So lovely and I am ravenous for you.” He ducked his head to kiss your mound. “Can I taste you?” His hand rubbed from the top of your knee, down towards your dripping folds.

“Yes - please.” Your voice was a breathy whisper, unrecognizable. He smiled before diving in.

His tongue dipping to the source of your slick, circling the rim of your opening before gliding back up. It was a strange but intensely pleasant sensation, completely different from your fingers. You shuddered to feel the two sides of his tongue surround the pearl of your pleasure, you felt him groan into your skin.

“Oh my darling, I could eat your gorgeous little cunt for centuries.” He spoke almost reverently before kissing you where his tongue had just been, open-mouthed and passionate. The pleasure was unlike anything you’d ever felt in your life. It rendered you speechless, reduced you to a puddle of arousal there on the lawn of your home.

Your body climbed higher and higher, waves of arousal radiating out from where his tongue flicked against you - out towards the tips of your fingers and toes and when he pulled you closer, when he flicked faster - it exploded. Your legs strained against his iron grip but he held you open, held you vulnerable for his mouth.

“That’s it, you took that so well.” He smiled - kissing your mound while you caught your breath.

“That was - that was really good.” The words seemed tawdry and inconsequential compared to the pleasure he’d just given you. “Your skin…” You hadn’t noticed but he seemed brighter, somehow lovelier than before.

“You’ve fed me well my darling.” He continued kissing you as he spoke. “I want more though, I’m not done with you yet.” He dipped low again, collecting the slick that drooled out of you with a groan. Your hands grabbed at his horns before remembering yourself - unsure if that was rude.

“I’m sorry-” He growled into your skin before you finished your sentence, putting your hands back onto them.

“Guide me.” He moaned out the words, relishing the way you gripped him; the way you ground your hips into his mouth.

It felt like he ate your cunt for hours.

He pulled climax after climax out of you. Some of them quick - others slow and torturous and by the fifth or sixth you couldn’t take anymore.

“Please- please Din, no more,” You pushed at his face weakly, your body was a raw nerve. Your pussy was puffy and over sensitive, reluctantly he pulled away.

“I was being serious-“ He nuzzled against the little patch of curls on your mound, the skirts of your dress moving with the push of his face into your skin. “-I could just keep eating you. Just want to bury my tongue in this perfect little cunt forever.” His tongue flicked against your clit once more before helping you dress.

You half expected him to have his way with you, to bury himself inside you right there on the lawn but he didn’t. Instead he led you back inside on shaky legs, his form adjusting down to human size.

When you finally made it to your bed, you fell asleep almost instantly, and dreamt about the moon.

--

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[preemshots]

the definitive post of WHERE IN THE WORLD IS JOHNNY SILVERHAND’S BODY?

AKA the post of HERE’S WHY I WANT TO BELIEVE WE ARE GONNA GET JOHNNY’S BODY BACK IN DLC. 

buckle up, gamers. it's time for some lore. this is a very long post. 

warning: this will contain a million spoilers. both for details of multiple game endings, a wee bit of the “where’s johnny” comic, and the cyberpunk RED book. if you want a sparknotes version this is the post for you. my main source here is the cyberpunk RED book as well as as some references to the cyberpunk 2077 world book to cross examine the lore. 

i have no idea if someone has made this post before or what anybody else has been finding in their own lore diving. this is just me documenting my own findings from the sources i’ve been using.

it would be disingenuous not to preface this with the ways in which cyberpunk 2077's telling of the arasaka assault differ from the version told in the TTRPG books. the books =/= the game. pondsmith acknowledges in the intro of RED that this is a bridge between the old cyberpunk world and the new world of cyberpunk 2077. 

we also know that johnny's an unreliable narrator and his memories presented to V are often different than real events. but on top of that we don't know if the reason why many elements are changed is simply CDPR editing/adjusting/condensing the storyline for their own canon, or if it's due to johnny's construct being manipulated by outside influences such as arasaka.

some of the main differences you need to know from cyberpunk RED canon:

in 2023 johnny doesn't bring the nukes to arasaka tower. he's solely there to free alt.

johnny and rogue and their team from the atlantis/the aldecaldos are actually hired by morgan blackhand. 

morgan blackhand is the one who plants the nuke, unbeknownst to many members of the team. 

morgan blackhand promptly disappears after this event and no one knows if he's alive or dead. (claire confirms this fact to jackie and v before the heist in 2077 canon)

johnny's silver cybernetic arm is its own character, separate from himself. it seems to have a mind of its own and johnny interacts with it and/or is influenced by it.

when he, spider murphy, rogue, thompson, shaitan, and a team of los lobos from the aldecaldos (who are there in place of santiago, as he’s busy as the leader of the aldecaldos at this point) are attacked by adam smasher, johnny and his arm actively choose to draw smasher's fire in a deliberately suicidal move. smasher downs him instantly, but the distraction is enough to also save his friends.

spider murphy shoves a mysterious chip in johnny's dying head as they escape that alt had downloaded to her a long time ago.

johnny's body is later "rumoured" to have been retrieved from the rubble by a full-body borg groupie that was a first responder to the ground zero of AHQ and then hidden away in a nearby garage.

here comes the political lore that makes my eyes cross, so hopefully this accurately summarizes it: the 4th corporate war begins to end. arasaka is ultimately blamed by the NUSA government to have nuked themselves in a political move to protect their secrets and promptly banished from the USA. arasaka denies this all the way back to japan, then eventually returns to “liberate” night city in the unification wars.

but what the public doesn't know is that kei, saburo's oldest son, had actually hidden an EVEN BIGGER MORE DEVASTATING NUKE at the bottom of the tower to, well, do exactly what they were being accused of doing, even though blackhand was the one who actually dropped the smaller nuke on them. and luckily the bigger one didn’t go off.

arasaka tries to find their nuke in the rubble so they don't get in even bigger trouble, only to discover that it was moved and hidden away to... surprise! a nearby garage.

to compare with 2077:

in RED: we have no johnny loading the nukes into the elevator. no johnny being carried off the premises. no meeting saburo. no johnny getting soulkilled.

in 2077: there's a parallel moment to RED's version of events right after johnny uploads "liberator" from alt's old cyberdeck with spider's help into the arasaka mainframe in saburo's office. adam smasher comes for him as he's trying to escape, knocking him off the second floor of the atrium into the rock garden below.

visually this is the same atrium we always meet alt in in cyberspace and also where V meets johnny for the first time. hmmm. meaningful, perhaps.

not unlike what happens in RED, johnny unloads a clip into smasher at that point, but from there the scene instantly cuts to him running to the roof attempting to board the AV with rogue, where smasher shoots him down again. it’s possible johnny actually died to smasher in the atrium and we have some fabricated memories going on. 

either way, in 2077, we lose the character beat of johnny dying for his friends, and the current-day general consensus from rogue and others is that he’s perpetually a selfish asshole with ulterior motives. 

and, just to wrap up the politics of it all: morgan blackhand is rumoured to have been secretly hired by the militech-backed NUSA government to help end the 4th corporate war by... you guessed it! nuking arasaka.

HERE'S WHERE JOHNNY'S BODY ENDS UP IN CYBERPUNK RED (SPARKNOTES VERSION):

RED ends with a story called "black dog" set in 2045. black dog is the last song johnny recorded right before the assault on arasaka tower, but the final copy is a bootleg copy of the song and only a fraction.

we're introduced to a fun group of cybernetic-enhanced characters that represent the classes in the TTRPG and based on/designed by real people in collaboration with CDPR.

this group includes trace santiago, santiago's son, who is a media that is curious about the mystery surrounding the circumstances around his father and the arasaka bombing. 

just connecting lore here: if you talk to saul at the aldecaldo camp in 2077, he confirms that santiago was killed for his involvement with johnny and the bombing, something that rogue and johnny reference when they talk about their now-dead crew from the afterlife, and in chippin in, santiago is a friend that johnny lists as someone he had disappointed.

the group sets off to find any info about black dog, and meet up with a full conversion chrome woman named samantha in a garage who is blatantly a johnny silverhand fangirl. trace discovers she has a history with johnny, having rescued him from a studio fire at some point in 2015 and speculates she could have been a groupie also.

she mysteriously has a more complete recording of black dog, though not perfect, and offers to trade it for a service: she wants the group to transport a large crate to a facility in new mexico, asking them not to open it.

shit goes down. evidently everyone in night city wants to kill them for this package once it starts moving. eventually they open it. it's the arasaka nuke that had been hidden and never went off, emblazoned with warnings.

trace inquires about the circumstances surrounding the arasaka assault with an older member of the lobos who had been present with rogue and johnny. the man mentions that it was weird, because morgan blackhand organized the whole thing and then ran off immediately with a mysterious bag that we now know contained the nuke. 

michiko arasaka intercepts the gang, explaining the situation around the bigger nuke, that other factions in arasaka want to utilize it for their own goals (presumably hanako and yorinobu) and her father's legacy, that she feels responsible for. she escorts them to new mexico so that the nuke can be dismantled once and for all.

they meet up with a woman named angel in new mexico that takes the crate from them, at a facility that specializes in nuclear material. she gives the group the full recording of "black dog". the group leaves successful.

this woman is also a johnny silverhand stan. once alone, she calls up samantha, who says, "i promised i would get him to you in the end" and reveals that she had already gutted/dismantled the original nuke and discarded the material into the bay.

angel opens the "nuke" to reveal a hidden cryochamber, and greets the face of the person inside with, "hello, my love."

i mean, holy shit. okay! so that’s DEFINITELY johnny’s body. cool!

now let’s go into all the references to this story in the actual game of cyberpunk 2077 that SUGGEST we are going to pursue this story AND johnny's body since it’s such a HOT FUCKING TOPIC. 

and i know many of the following can just be considered easter eggs. but my personal interpretation of this game is that it has a really delightful way of intentionally glossing over important story details—and not by ONLY putting them in shards (which people tend to dislike because lol reading) but by also hiding them in plain sight, constantly deferring to V's own ignorance, distracting us with shallower, shinier things, encouraging us to actually play as the fool hero of this story. 

so here's the fun list of “””evidence”””:

this one’s a reach, but fun. in the initial arasaka assault flashback in 2023: we can interact with the groupies at kerry's show as johnny. samantha doesn't appear to be present, but the first person and groupie you can encounter in the flashback has a passing resemblance to angel in that she has a cybernetic arm.

in chippin' in, where we go to johnny's "grave" in the oil fields: if we are to take the 2077 retelling of events as truth, the story could instead be pretty easily be changed that samantha procured his body from there.

mike pondsmith, who wrote these stories and created the TTRPG can be heard on the radio narrating various conspiracy theories. and sure, these can just be easter eggs, intended to reference the differences between the TTRPG lore and the game, so take it with a grain of salt:

johnny. bro. tell him it was morgan blackhand

to top it all off, mike also directly references the actual WORSE nuke arasaka had hid in another arasaka conspiracy: 

SPOILERS FOR GAME ENDINGS AHEAD.

in the rogue ending of the game we discover rogue has a son. it's possible her son is trace (edit: nvm NOT LIKELY, since in RED’s black dog story rogue is listed separately from santiago’s mom in conversation) OR possibly one of the other characters. she tells her son to "pull over and look at the stars" or something along those lines. maybe just details, so that screams nomad to me.

rogue also has a photo of herself and johnny with mike pondsmith in her apartment/office in the afterlife. i initially read this as a delightful cameo but it also can mean mike the CHARACTER knew johnny and rogue, and rogue therefore has some kind of relationship to him and these conspiracies on the radio. and why the fuck not make him a full on character? we have a smattering of streamers and personalities already integrated into quests in the game. the creator of all this should be no exception. fuck it! 

rogue and johnny constantly dance around this accusation of her “selling out”. it’s repeated over and over that she and adam smasher worked for "the same people". i'm beginning to wonder if this wasn't meant to imply only arasaka since smasher mysteriously disappeared after the AHQ assault in 2023 and returned to SOMETIMES take jobs from arasaka... but possibly morgan blackhand and/or by extension, the NUSA or any other greater influences. (like nightcorp? we still don’t know where all this shit with nightcorp/the peralezes/sandra dorsett’s discovery about their research into mind control is gonna go) this also doesn’t account for the multiple factions inside arasaka with VERY different motives. 

morgan blackhand and adam smasher are rivals in the TTRPG, a role that appears to be at least partially filled by johnny instead in 2077. in relation to the arasaka factions, it’s worth nothing that smasher specifically works for yorinobu as his bodyguard at the beginning of the game, in part i assume because yorinobu is avoiding working with arasaka security details as he stole the relic and is plotting against his father. he is then promoted to head of security by yorinobu when yorinobu assumes power. 

in the ending as you work your way through arasaka tower with rogue and shaitan and johnny, rogue remarks:

michiko at this point in 2077 is the leader of the more “liberal” faction within arasaka, so it’s possible we’re seeing that while rogue and smasher work for the same people/family, they couldn’t be more different. 

you can also encounter rogue more than once on the phone fighting with wakako, who has apparently crossed her. wakako also seems to have her own ulterior motives and works mainly with the arasaka-backed tyger claws. she notably gives v/takemura the parade security info for “play it safe” without asking for anything in return, enabling hanako’s kidnapping. my theory is that yorinobu intentionally leaked the parade info to her to give away to put hanako in danger or at least continue to destabilize arasaka. 

in the takemura/devil ending of the game, there is a point where violence breaks out at the arasaka board room meeting when yorinobu-allied security open fire on them. one of the only people that survives along with hanako is michiko arasaka, who was at odds with hanako’s decisions, but  very involved in the preceding discussion.

and now for is my favorite detail! in the afterlife AT ALL POINTS IN THE GAME (but it can only really be inspected in the rogue ending when we are allowed behind the bar), we can find a photo of the squad that transported johnny's body from samantha to angel on the shelf below johnny's tequila, of them hanging out in front of the afterlife sign:  

this implies rogue has some relationship with them, and sentimentality, if we're to judge by the placement. she maybe even took the picture. i don't know, it's charming, it could be all easter eggs. who fucking knows.

either way, rogue and these kids both have in common that they worked with or at least interacted with michiko arasaka. 

and you know what my final evidence is? more wishful thinking! black dog plays on the radio in game. we got a full recorded version of it by refused. if not an oversight, i go ahead and take it to mean the final version was finally released to the public by those kids that were looking for it. 

i haven’t the slightest idea how this is gonna wrap up in future DLC. who has johnny’s body now in 2077, decades after it was dropped off in mexico? what is the truth?? where the fuck is morgan blackhand?? from the devil ending, we know that arasaka stole jackie’s body and put his soul into mikoshi, so the idea that they would just toss johnny’s corpse has always been laughable. the “where’s johnny?” promotional comic was even about thompson unsuccessfully trying to find johnny’s body. i know i am biased here but i cannot fathom all this talk about johnny’s body ending off with us NOT finding it, whether it’s just to bury it, shove johnny’s engram back in it, make out with it, or WHATEVER.

if you made it through this slog, congrats. thanks for reading! 

[punemy-spotted]

The Price You Pay Chapter 3: Counteroffer

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader, Senator!Andy Barber x Reader

Warnings: Rape/Non-Con elements, Dub-Con, Dark!Fic, Abuse of Legal System, Murder, Character Death (minor, possibly major), Love Triangle, Political AU, Mafia AU, Workplace Sexual Harassment, Abuse Mentions, Possessive/Obsessive Characters, Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply, Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat

Chapter Warnings: Rape/Non-Con Elements Continue; Dub-Con; Angst; Politics; Possessive/Manipulative Behavior; Spanking; Choking; Crying; The Dove is Probably Dead: Do Not Eat

Chapter Summary: The return of an old friend brings back the ghosts of old memories.

Chapter 1; Chapter 2

Notes: Shorter chapters my ass, these outlines are getting unreal. Andy Barber has arrived, Steve Rogers does not approve, the Reader bears the consequences. Things are going to be angstier from here on out and I can feel it in my bones. Please don’t yell at me — or do, your feedback is well-loved and appreciated even if it’s yelly.

Not beta-read, these sins belong to me and me alone.

You met Andy Barber fresh from the ashes of his divorce, escaping the gossip and scandal and pain of his past life only to dive into the gossip and scandal and pain of politics. Senatorial campaign, in need of an aide and a law student desperate to do more for the people than hours in clinics and mock trials. Hungry for something grassroots, angling for the impossible.

A match. Whether made in Heaven or Hell feels irrelevant now, long ago as it was.

It was then. This… is now.

Hey Sunshine, didn’t think you’d be able to make it.

He looks the same. Keeps the same beard. Same hair. It’s uncanny and familiar and safe all at once and you slide into the booth with your purse by your side and feel genuinely smiley for the first time in a long time.

It’s been a while since I heard that name.

Yeah? It’s been a while since I got to use it.

The silence is heavy, unwelcome, unwieldy, a reminder of the space between what was and what is.

How’re you doing? Last I heard you were making a name for yourself taking down the…

He trails off, eyes fixed on the slide of your gaze, the sudden interest in a drink menu you wouldn’t normally touch, the tremor of your lips. A man doesn’t serve as Assistant District Attorney for the many years he has without picking up tells.

Sunshine.

Andy…

It’s a warning, a plea, a… confession, all at once, and all the dogged determination in the world can’t hold against the break in your voice, in your control. You’ve cried more in the past few weeks than you can recall and now here he is, soulful eyes and a worried expression and he’s never hugged you really, but suddenly you might want it just that much more.

Don’t be an idiot.

It’s dangerous, your stress, and you know it.

Dangerous enough to send you into the arms of the next safe thing — this is why you don’t do this, isn’t it, this reaching out bit, but no advocacy group on the planet is going to save you from yourself today.

I saw… I saw you win that case. Pretty brutal, standing up to the Syndicate, and getting what you did. He steamrolls past the way you wince, his thumb on that metaphorical bruise and pressing, the Prosecutor’s dogged determination demanding answers, I have a friend in the office, he was convinced you’d be climbing the ranks.

Every word is a twist of the knife, couched in quiet concern, gentle admonition, a warm hug in a smoky tenor and you want to tell him everything, you want to break down in his arms and tell him every word, every buried piece of you he never learned, everything that’s led you to this.

You don’t.

You know better than to trust him too. No one’s going to take care of you but you so instead you shake your head and wave it off and Decided going into the private sector was the better option — one big win doesn’t really make up for the stress, you know.

Private sector. That’s what you’re calling the SHIELD Syndicate now? C’mon, Sunshine…

Look. It’s the Syndicate’s New York, when he made the offer it was… safer than saying no. It’s a cushy position anyway, and I didn’t want anyth—

He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t believe you and you’re digging a hole trying to explain your way out of it so you just… shut up, shaking your head, It’s not important. I’m fine. I’m more curious about you — what year is it now, your fourth? What are you doing in New York?

The deflection works, but the look on his face is obvious — you’re not getting out of this so easily. He gives in for now, just for now, for you.

Almost fifth, gearing up for re-election. Had a meeting up here… about the organized crime situation for both states, and I remembered you were in the area.

Oh. You… it’s been a while since we talked, you remembered?

You expect me to forget you, Sunshine?

That stops you in your tracks, or whatever road your mind had been racing on, thoroughly not enjoying the defensive you’ve been on since you met with Steve, constantly under watch and waiting for yet one more shoe to fall on you.

That’s fear, sweetness.

Andy…?

You were the best campaign aide I had — I told you then too, I would have made you Chief of Staff if you’d let me.

It’s a good save. A clever save, and you want to believe it more than anything, want to believe it was all business and no pleasure because the alternative makes your nails bite into the table and want to turn tail before he can say another word and he… sees that panic flicker over your face so keenly it’s almost embarrassing.

You’re not used to this.

You’re not used to the warmth of his eyes when he searches your face for the answers you can’t give voice to. You’re not used to the way he reaches for your hand and rests it over your fingers, curling around your palm like he might actually keep you close and keep you safe and keep you free of the demons you made a part of yourself too.

Sunshine, why does his voice have to be so soft, why does it have to sound like molten honey on your senses, why does he have to say your name like it’s the very definition of the word hope, If you’re not safe…

No. No you’re not, tell him tell him the truth, tell him you’re atoning for the girl you could not protect tell him you aren’t worth it tell him this is your penance tell him you signed a death warrant tell him tell him tell him.

Andy, really. I’m fine. It’s a good job.

It’s a shit lie.

He drops it. Drops it just long enough for a waiter to finally come by, for his hand to leave yours while he talks through the wine menu. Drops it long enough for you to check your phone, realizing with horror that you must have silenced it absentmindedly sometime on your way here.

Ten missed calls.

All from Steve.

And one text, stamped from just five minutes ago.

[SMS] Either you pick up your phone or I pick you up, Counsel.

The next one comes right before your eyes, a picture of a map and a GPS pin. Your location.

You glance up at Andy, still talking to the waiter about the small plates options, feign a smile and Go ahead and choose, you have better taste than me, and return to staring at the picture and the three dots at the bottom of your screen, waiting to see his next message.

[SMS] Make your choice.

The haptic feedback of your keyboard feels like an electric shock with every letter, hurried fingers until you manage to tap out something that won’t immediately put the man in front of you in the crosshairs of the most dangerous organization in New York.

You can’t do that to him. You can’t.

[SMS] I’m at a dinner with a friend.

[SMS] And since I know there’s no emergencies pressing, I’d like my time, thank you.

You have the good sense to set it next to you this time, watching your screen light up with whatever furious response he sends next, glancing over only occasionally every time another one comes through. Don’t let him control you. Don’t let him think you’re at his beck and call.

You’re not.

You’re free, you’re free and you’re going to prove it.

Sunshine? What’s going on?

His voice cuts through the haze of panic like a knife and you swear you don’t mean to jump but you do and there’s no denying what he notices, eyes narrow and lips turned down in a sharp scowl, Sunshine…?

You are not that girl. You cannot be that girl, never again.

Steel. Steel yourself, flash him a smile, take a sip of the ice water left in front of you while you’d been checking your phone, reset yourself. Steady. Steady on.

Don’t let them know.

Nothing, nothing, just the boss — let him know I was busy.

Why is he texting you after hours? The Syndicate can’t be that busy.

He’s too watchful for your own good. Probably just making sure I’m staying out of trouble.

Are you?

Are you calling yourself trouble, Senator?

You like this. You can handle this, the trading of jokes, the crooked way he smiles. His eyes are a little more distant than you remember but you can still see them sparkle softly when he suppresses a laugh, lighting up properly when the joy reflects in them.

Briefly, you wonder when the last time he really laughed was.

By the time dinner is over, his hand, warm and steady, is back on yours as you talk — and for a moment you almost enjoy the way he runs his thumb over your knuckles absently, like he’s making careful appraisal of each one. Could use your skills for the re-election campaign, you know.

Really? You’ve got a gorgeous approval rating, what are you afraid of?

Not having my good luck charm on the staff.

Andy…

I’m dead serious, Sunshine, you ran that ship. You were what, a 2L? Rising 3? You had canvassing down to a science. We need that energy down on the Hill.

The curve of his fingers is a little tighter now, squeezing yours, like proof of his earnestness and oh, you want to keep believing him. You need to keep believing him.

There’s so much in New York I have to get done first. And besides, you know me. I want a life on the bench.

Justice Sunshine, and it sounds absurd when he uses your nickname and it sounds so real when he uses your nickname and in the warm smoke of his voice those contradictions can live together all at once.

That’s the one. Closest you’ll see me to Washington is when I’m appointed to the Supreme Court. It’s a dumb, arrogant, silly joke but it’s the same one you used to make with him over drinks, teasing him about his political goals and making him promise to “go easy on you” at your eventual Senate confirmation hearing.

It’s the one that makes him crack that too-beautiful crooked smile while he takes a sip of his drink — hiding the curve of his lips behind the rim of a heavy glass.

Well. If you ever decide to ditch—

Ever decide to ditch what?

The world moves in slow motion: hearing the low growl from behind you; Andy Barber looking up and rising to his feet, his hand slipping from yours with just the ghost of his comfortable touch to assure you; Steve Rogers coming into view as you turn, flanked by the not-entirely-unfamiliar faces of two of his enforcers — it looked like Wilson and Banner had been selected this evening — and the sudden pressure of knowing you’ve done something terribly, terribly wrong.

You stood me up, Counsel. Steve’s voice is a threat, a half-drawl as you stand up and face him, Andy right behind you, Something wrong with taking my phone calls?

She was busy, the sound of Andy’s voice is a balm to your soul and fuel to Steve’s fire, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he grits his teeth and resists the temptation to throw the first punch — you can see the fingers of his right hand curling into a fist, can’t you? The slow curve, the watching, wondering if you’ll make the right choice now that someone has chosen to try to lead you astray.

And who the fuck are you? If he can’t get you to respond, he’ll get something from the man talking for you, eyes trained on him like he’s debating whether his own frustration will make this interloper turn to nothingness and return you to his arms where you rightfullybelong.

Do you? Rightfully belong?

Senator Andy Barber. The title practically knocks the wind out of Steve’s sails and you can see it — he may be the Captain here, King of New York, ruler of his domain but he’s not stupid enough to openly attack a man with connections beyond the Syndicate’s web of influence. It’s a comfort and it’s not, all at once.

The room is still, vibrating with tension, the two men staring daggers at one another and you caught in the middle. I worked on Senator Barber’s campaign when he first ran for election, you manage out in some vain hope it might explain and mollify, only to be thoroughly disappointed — and judging by the way Banner winces, only to dig your grave further.

We’re talking about this later, Counsel. You’re coming home.

And what gives you the right to give her orders? You really are going to have to look back at Andy and beg him to not make this worse. You really are going to have to let him see your face, see that you’re afraid, sweetness. He’s not going to let you go easy and this should not terrify you as much as it does.

Senator Barber. It’s fine. Something must have come up,turning to face his burning eyes, until his face softens like he’s seeing you for the first time. And is he? Is he seeing how you just need him to let it go, let you go, drop the protectiveness and step back?

He has to, because he does, nodding before he grabs his coat and glances to the host station. If you say so, Sunshine. Take care of yourself. He doesn’t press, not knowing when he’s beat but knowing when you don’t want him to. When you’re not safe.

And Steve Rogers offers you his hand to walk you out.

And just what the hell did you think you were doing!?

Oh, and you control my time off the clock now too?

He dragged you back home.

No. Not to your apartment, that sanctuary away from all this you’d been allowed to keep as part of the “deal.” His home, the bedroom where you signed yourself away, the space he unraveled you and left you tangled in your new life.

He dragged you back home, in the grim silence of the backseat of his car and you waited. Waited for the inevitable explosion, the one prefaced by Wilson’s nervous looks and Banner’s cautious stare.

This explosion, where he rounds in on you, where livid is still too tame a term.

Meeting with a Senator? Ignoring my calls? I told you, you were mine tonight.

And I told you I had plans.

After I told you that you were mine, Counsel.

Okay. That’s true, even if you’re loathe to admit it.

Plans adjust. Andy wanted to—

Oh, Andy now? I thought it was Senator Barber? You’re really familiar with him, aren’t you, Counsel?

Just what the fuck are you implying?

Maybe you need a reminder of who you belong to.

He loves to do this. Wrap his big hand around your throat, remind you just how easily he can impose his power onto you, watch your protests die behind your eyes when you realize how useless words are in the face of his violence.

The furious look in your eyes is something to behold, the way you embed your nails into his wrist to try and drag him off you, all soft snarls and indignant huffs, You fucking asshole…

You’re mine, Counsel, and don’t you forget it. You gave yourself to me, remember?

Like I… like I had much of a choice, breathy, furious, and clawing at him.

Doesn’t matter. You’re mine, and clearly I need to make sure you know it…

Steve—!

Captain, sweetness, Captain, and don’t you forget it.

There’s a moment, when anger becomes transcendental, when it turns into something cold and calculating and prepared, when a plan forms behind his eyes and you watch as he looks down at you, so full of fury and fear all at once and you watch as he leans in so close and you feel his hand slide until he has you by the back of the neck, until his thumb is the thing pressing under your chin to keep your eyes on him, until the heel of his hand is the thing keeping you from shouting at him further. Such a stubborn little bitch…

You can almost see the words forming in his mind, the ones his mouth won’t say, I could be so good to you, but he doesn’t say them, sliding his lips over yours instead and it is… soft. A capturing of your mouth with his, not caring that you protest, only insistent on leaving you breathless and hazy-eyed from each tug of his lips on yours and there stokes the warmth of more than your rage, a different fire rising in your core, unbidden and unwelcome but yours to own and his to play with.

He can sense it, practically feel it, that mad serum racing through his veins and making his nostrils flare as he pulls back and watches you, lets the scent of your perfume fill his senses like a drug he can’t get enough of and, I should hate you too, for this, whispered low and hushed and you barely catch it, don’t you? Barely, but enough, enough to remember it was said just before he pulls you down with him into the depths of his own lust.

And into his lap, it seems, as he drags you down, sitting on the bed with you draped over his lap, an effortless shift in his skillful hands. You can protest, and you do, even daring to try to pull away with a kick of your legs and an indignant, What the hell do you think you’re doing?But you know it’s all futile, useless as he places one heavy hand on your back and lets the other slide over the smooth chiffon of your blouse, tracing a line along your spine with careful, practiced ease.

Would have preferred this with a little more… circumstance, sweetness, but you need to learn a lesson now and drastic times call for drastic measures.

You can turn your head slightly, to look at him, that wild-eyed fury so sweet on your face and you are still a wild creature he needs to tame but he is patient and he can do this for as long as it takes.

But you’re a sight like this, draped over his lap in a pencil skirt and blouse, so put together and proper and now so prone to him, helpless under the appraisal of his hands and the way he takes no time in hiking your skirt up around your waist. Captain! Your protest is met with a low chuckle, especially as he lets his palm curve around the round swell of your ass, before leaving a light swat on the soft flesh, to draw a yelp from your furious mouth.

If that’s all it takes to get you shouting, sweetness, you’re going to hate what comes next, smug and cruel, as you try to hold yourself up enough to look at him, met with his smirk and the simmering fury still bubbling in his eyes. To say you’re in danger still is an understatement, no doubt, and you know it.

I won’t make you count this time, but piss me off again, sweetness, and we’ll just see how much you can take, you hear me?

Oh you loathe him, really and truly loathe him, hissing with anger and embarrassment, so close to twisting in his arms and clawing at him but remembering his size and just how much worse it could get — but then there lies the undercurrent.

The one you loathe too, more than you hated him, that warmth. Seeping into your core, a low heat kindled by the sly softness of his lips on yours and the sure tenor of his voice, low and soothing even as he promised damnation. The one that — just like now — leaves you flushed and writhing while he purrs threats to you, massaging the soft skin and sliding the lace of your panties down to remove all barriers to the sex he owns so surely.

You open your mouth to argue with him but as you do, you feel his hand lift from your flesh and then the resounding SMACK of palm on skin, turning words into nothing but a sharp cry of pain, surprise, and lust. The heat rises just as your body tenses, reacting to the sudden attack on your delicate form, cheeks flushed. Even as your eyes well with tears your sex strives to betray you and — Oh do you like that, sweetness? — damn him for noticing.

Let me go, Captain, the threat is shaky, your voice wavering with something like want and panic all at once, and all it does is draw another laugh as he soothes the stinging mark left on your cheek, gentle as a lover and four times as cruel.

Do you know what I think, sweetness? And another raise of his palm, to strike you once more, listening to the way that cry of pain and surprise turns into a soft, involuntary moan the moment he begins to soothe the ache, I think you need this. Always so uptight, trying to be the head bitch in charge, aren’t you? Just looking for someone to take over, take control, remind you where your place is.

His fingers slip further, more interested in exploring the soft slickness of your sex, listening to your protests die in your throat with every press of his fingers into your plush folds. That’s why I’m here, to keep you in my lap, all fucked and soft, sweetness. Don’t you worry, I’m going to take care of you. Even if I have to teach you just like this.

You should hate the way he talks, hates how he finds your center with effortless ease, like he’s known your body for years. Holding you down in his lap still as he draws mewling moans from you with every curl of his fingers, finding the proof of his accusations in the slick need coating your thighs, soaking his fingers, You’re making such a mess of me, sweetness. Are you going to be good?

Hiss at him. Snarl at him, buck your hips and twist in his arms, push him away. Do something more than what you are now, with red-rimmed eyes and tears staining your face, do more than listen to him talk, feel his cock pressing against you as you lay in his lap, I’m going to ask it one more time, sweetness. Are. You. Going. To. Be. Good?

He punctuates each word of his question with a harsh smackagainst your ass, leaving little time for you to do more than cry out, until the last spank draws something like a moan from your perfect lips and therein lies your surrender for tonight, that soft mewl of pleasure born of pain and he soothes you again with soft shushes and gentle touches, back to inspecting the renewed slickness of your cunt, back to enjoying that plump tightness wrapped around his fingers and back to trying to control the shift of his own hips and you can feel him, hard against you, needing you as much as he is compelling your body to need him.

Captain… a low, desperate sort of mewl, the squirm of your body less to escape and more to enticeand he notices. Notices the way your fingers try to cling to him, notices how you look so very sweet when you’re so very desperate and in some way this is your own game of control, a push and pull and the curl of his fingers is suddenly so much angrier, driving you to the precipice of the fall and you are tumbling, tumbling down into a darkness of want you may never recover from.

Say it again. Tell me you need me, sweetness, tell me you need me and I’ll give you everything, and there’s an edge to the way he says everything, like he might meanit, like he might give you the world if you just gave in and you hate him, sweetness, you hate him but you need the things you hate once in a while and you can’t keep bearing his fury on your body and so you sob out your surrender and whine—

I need you, Captain, please…

And that is enough.

Let him believe you.