#The Dark Shame Fanfic

[fryeswiththat]

The funniest memory of me reading HDM has to be this

Lyra: Can I trust Will?

Alethiometer (the truth compass): He's a murderer

Lyra:

[erinwantstowrite]

All the classics and no Naruto? Haha— damn, that's a shame!

When did you start writing/posting? And where? Are you one of the fanfiction.net veterans? Or an ex-wattpad user

I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT NARUTO ○|￣|_

I watched all of Naruto and have a poster in my room and now I'm forgetting my BOY??? MY SON????

I started writing when I was really little, I think the first story I ever wrote down was when I was seven? But posting wise, I started when I was I was 12. And don't tell anybody this, but I had a very decent following on Wattpad. RIP to that account, I took like everything down and ran to ao3 instead

[takemetowonderlan-d]

Write page and pages of notes on your fanfic. Create playlists and Pinterest boards and cast lists. Create endless outlines and rants and linear notes. BOOKBIND your own fanfic to add to your personal collection. Love and appreciate your own fanfic as you would to other works. Life is too short to not romanticize your words and sentences. Fanfiction shouldn’t only be appreciated and loved when it’s something other than your own work. Realize how talented YOU are for writing and writing endlessly for a fictional world you are passionate about.

[letsgauxplay]

maybe people should hold up on saying “the banner is making them ooc” until the official banner release in game because we don’t know yet what happened why they are freaky and in a cage.

and even if they were written as truly a side of who they are and not some drug induced thing then i think that’s okay too (though i think the teaser showed something like that). people have many facets and are capable of having many sides to their personality and this is a dating sim with some fantasy elements so is it really that hard to imagine? unexpected i agree! but not impossible.

i get its not everyone’s cup of tea and can even be cringe for some but i think outright rioting to the devs to cancel is something else. if you don’t like this banner, that’s okay. you can skip and start saving for future banners.

[aberooski]

Guys.

I think I thought of a way to sneak Nightshroud into the Mario crossover 👀

[bybdolan]

god i need to be in the theon/sansa tag on AO3 NOW!!!

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

"guys I do not condone any of this in real life" "this is fiction" "consent is key. this is only fiction" "murder is bad irl" — I wish fanfic authors didn't feel like they had to clarify this in author's notes or else they might be accused of being abusers or worse (I admit that such disclaimers are also something I personally use for my own stuff because I feel like I had to make it clear). like... people used to not care if an author wrote dead dove fics because people used to understand that ao3 fics are not a reflection of someone's in real life views or morality in any way. people used to understand that fanfics mean what they mean; fan fiction. none of it is real. maybe it's purity culture that normalizes witch hunt and censorship in the past couple years, and therefore authors feel like they have to clarify that just because they write about violence or noncon stuff doesn't mean they're murderers or sex offenders in real life. and I think it sucks that these things (purity and cancel culture?) have made authors feel like they have to apologize for the art they created instead of being proud of their hard work and all the dedication they put into creating these art. artists should not have to feel like they have to apologize for creating art that isn't all rainbow and sunshine. artists should not have to be made to feel ashamed of their own art if it's not all rainbow and sunshine.

I don’t agree with the “you can write noncon and dark fics as long as you make sure your readers get the message that these things are bad” or “you can write noncon and dark fics if it’s your way of coping with your trauma” take either. because writers do not owe you anything. the message writers want to send to their readers — whatever that message may be, if there’s any message or moral of the story for readers to take from the stories at all — is none of your business. why writers write what they write is none of your business. remember “don’t like don’t read”. no one forces you to read anything you don’t like. dark and noncon fics are a form of creative writing and creative writing is a form of art. you can’t pressure artists into creating art that “fit your moral compass” nor can you apply your own moral compass to artists to determine if they can create dark art or not, if their reasoning behind creating dark art passes your moral compass. like… what artists create and why artists create are none of your business. and you don’t get to shame artists for creating art that you hate / art that disgusts you. what you can do is ignore the art because it clearly was not made for you and that’s okay. what isn’t okay is you harassing artists because you don’t like the things they created.

writers, embrace and be proud of your works. as long as all the trigger warnings are tagged properly, you have nothing to apologize for.

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 8

it's the morning after. spencer reid suspects you’re left with some doubts after losing your virginity to him. he has to figure out why—which is hard when you're keeping secrets.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, blood related to losing virginity (dramatized for the drama duh), super vague allusions to the BAU being hungover, mild blasphemy if anyone even cares, pondering god bc am I really a fanfic writer if I don’t get a little religious w it, emily AND hotch are here and nobody knows why pls don't pay attention to that bc we are imagining like season 11/12 spencer and I'm inconsistent w who is unit chief in this series apparently, spencer slut lore, spencer emotional wounds lore, Spencer is a traumatic situationship survivor a/n: DADDYS HOMEEEEE (me and dybmn not spencer) anyway missed these little guys and am happy to be writing for them again!! idk what my upload schedule will becoming back to this but pls lmk what u think of this part, I have no idea how you will respond but I'm being brave and ily

Friday morning Spencer comes into the office fifteen minutes late (he tried his best), in yesterday’s suit (everything in his go-bag had been too wrinkled), hair messy (no doubt from your fingers), coffee cold (he’s exhausted) and overall, in an excellent mood.

The rest of the team isn’t faring quite as well—Spencer gathers they stayed at the bar celebrating Derek’s birthday a lot later than he had. It shows through sallow skin and dark circles and the grimaces he receives on the way to his desk that are probably supposed to approximate good morning’s. 

Honestly, he doesn’t mind the dull mood—he doesn’t need the teasing and the prying questions that would be sure to come if his co-workers were at peak performance and were able to put together his unusually perky demeanor and disheveled appearance. At least Prentiss doesn’t appear to be paying him any mind. She’s always the one who can read him like an open book and has no shame in doing so aloud. Echoes from years of, ‘so who was the lucky girl, last night, Reid?’ Still ring through his mind and it’s like he can feel her finger prodding at his side. 

The Emily of it all makes him smile, though the rest of the memory leaves a metal tang in his mouth. Back in those days, there were sometimes a lot of girls, but even then he was consciously aware he wasn’t necessarily doing something he enjoyed. He spent a lot of time, actually, staring at his bedroom ceiling, psychoanalyzing himself. Repetition compulsion. The insatiable desire to repeat or reenact emotionally painful experiences. Maybe he thought if he could teach himself to subsist off of emotionless hookups, he could in some way heal from his experience with Elle. Though, he’s hesitant to think of it now as healing—it’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing when a few nights after she said I don’t feel the same I’m sorry he opened up his front door for her. It’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing every time after that. So, maybe heal isn’t the right word, when one doesn’t have the right to be injured. Or when the injuries are, in a manner of speaking, self-inflicted. At the very least he could tell himself that this time around, meaningless sex was a choice he was making for himself. Spencer hates when things just happen to him. 

But you—you’re different. You were a complete surprise. At first, a cute and unexpected complication. After a few painful and short-lived attempts at real relationships, Spencer decided he was simply not to be trusted with emotional intimacy of any kind, including that which inevitably develops from physical intimacy, and would resign himself to a life of celibacy. He tried not to like you, but you were just so damn likable. Magnetic, to use a trite and perfectly honest turn of phrase. All that to say: he doesn’t regret you at all. There is no filter of putrid shame or anguish over his memories of last night. 

Just you. Perfect. Starlit. Glowing softly around the edges like you’re not even real. 

I love you I love you I love you. A hymn with no melody. You, always reminding him exactly why he is decidedly not a man of faith. At least, not in the typical sense of the word. 

How God became the idol and not Mary is lost on him. That’s why, Spencer supposes, tapping an eraser on his desk, marriage and sex were forbidden for so many ecclesiastics. After all, if they knew what it was to love a woman, specifically to love you, he doubts they’d feel like spending much time in the pulpit. Love. Humans had that long before they had any gods. It’s primeval. It’s the most natural manifestation of devotion and worship. It will always have come first. Isn’t it a better kind of religion when a man realizes he can kneel in front of a woman rather than an altar?

A heavy hand falling on his shoulder jolts him from his theological musings—which are in all practicality useless. What’s that saying about blasphemous thinking on the FBI’s dime? Right. There isn’t one. 

“I’m scared to ask,” Morgan says as Spencer jumps slightly in his chair. 

“What?” He mumbles, looking up from the document he’d only sort of been reading.

Morgan just looks at him, strong brows furrowed and a ditch between them, angles his head and glances to the side as if Spencer is missing the obvious. He almost follows Derek’s eye-line. When that doesn’t work, Derek just says your name. Like your status is somehow in question. 

“Did you two work things out, or not? It looked pretty bad when you guys were leaving last night.”

People often misunderstand an eidetic memory. It’s not like things can’t slip his mind—Spencer can actually be quite forgetful. It’s made worse by the fact that last night at the bar feels like months ago. For a moment, he has no idea what Derek is referring to. 

“Oh. Oh! Right, we—right. Yeah, we, uh—we worked it out.” Before Derek has a chance to read his face, no doubt as incriminating as his fumbled speech and an ill-timed throat clearing, he turns back to his paperwork. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her at the bar. I appreciate that.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Spencer’s lips twist as he can feel the incoming inappropriate comment. 

“Is that the same suit you were wearing last night?” Morgan quips, his wide grin audible. Spencer can practically hear the cartoon gleam of his friend’s bleached teeth. 

“No.”

“You dog.” Derek is still smiling as he claps Spencer’s shoulder again. “What did you say to her that worked so well?”

Spencer clears his throat again and tries to look extremely involved in logging onto his computer, speaking quickly as if he’s beyond disinterested and can’t wait for the exchange to be over. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m actually trying to work so if you wouldn’t mind going back to your desk that would be great.” 

“Uh-huh. I’ll let you work. But I see you, pretty boy.”

Spencer tries not to blush like a teenager as he refuses to look up. 

Naturally the rest of the day is a slow descent into dread and madness as all those good feelings with which Spencer had started his morning begin to harden into something much worse, chilled by your lack of response to the text he sent you earlier. Which was essentially a rehashing of the note he left on your bedside table. 

Maybe it was too much. It should’ve been one or the other, but not both. He’s overwhelmed you. 

Okay, so maybe this is what religion is for. A last ditch effort when you can’t talk to your girlfriend so you have to try talking to God. 

But Spencer knows you, and he knows something is wrong. You wouldn’t just ice him out so blatantly if everything was okay. He catches himself glancing up toward Hotch’s window to see if the blinds are drawn, and considers faking an illness to get out of work early and go check on you. But he powers through the remaining hour and a half that he is obligated to stay at work, he bounces a pencil between his fingers, drums at his desk, and gets nothing else done. As soon as 4:59 rolls around, he’s out. 

Spencer can hear shuffling on the other side of your door as he stands in the hallway. A pot clatters. The walls hum with the rush of water through the pipes to your sink. He knocks, relieved that you’re okay and at the same time struggling with that weight on his chest—something cold that leans over his shoulders and whispers into his ear—so she just didn’t want to talk to you. 

Suddenly all sound from inside your unit ceases. For a few long seconds, Spencer’s confusion only grows exponentially. 

“Who is it?” You finally call, voice wavering. Also odd. Usually you just open the door. 

“Um… Spencer?”

“As in my boyfriend Spencer?”

He frowns, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly as he tries to decipher your sudden paranoia. “I hope so?”

The click and jingle of several locks precipitates your much-anticipated reveal. 

“Come in,” you say breathlessly, more harried than usual and not giving him the tender greeting he’s selfishly become accustomed to—barely even giving him a second to look at you. But he steps inside, watching on in concern as you do up every single lock—the one on the knob, the deadbolt, even the chain. Is this really all because of his little comment last night about anyone being able to get in? He certainly hopes not. He didn’t mean to terrify you. 

When you finally turn, he takes stock of your appearance. Big hoodie, pajama pants patterned in little hearts. Hair pulled back hastily. Your skin is sort of dull where you normally glow. But you’re beautiful, like always. It always aches just a little bit to look at you. Spencer’s always been like that. Going breathless at a particularly good piece of art or pretty girl. Like yourself. Mostly you. 

You quickly turn to hurry back into the kitchen. “I was trying to make dinner, I—”

“Hold on,” he interrupts, stopping you with a hand on your stomach that is so non-demanding it’s really mostly a suggestion. He tries to clear his head, though you make it hard. “You didn’t talk to me all day. Not that you have to, but… I was worried.”

You glance at the floor and mumble, “I lost my phone,” with so much embarrassment he believes you’re telling the truth. “Did you, um—did you text me?”

Insecurity. Spencer knows well what it looks like on you. He softens. You weren’t ignoring him—but you’d been left in a vulnerable state without any ability to contact him or anyone. That couldn’t have been comfortable. 

“Of course I did.” He pauses to observe you. Still anxious. Still prepared to run at any second. Something, and he’s not sure what, did a number on you today. Maybe it’s sheer exhaustion, maybe it was the anxiety of not having your phone. But he has to figure out what it is so he can undo it. “What? What’s wrong?”

He watches your breathing pause—watches your eyes gloss over with tears and a frown contort your features. Oh, god. He’s done something terribly wrong. It’s been thirty seconds and he’s done something wrong. 

“Can we sit down? I don’t feel very good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can. Whatever you need.”

You cast a baleful look at him and now he has to wonder what that means. Spencer sets his bag on a pulled out dining chair and follows you to the couch where you settle on opposite sides—you’re curled up in the far corner, hugging a pillow to your chest with your legs folded in front of you. Spencer’s heart is beating fast. He doesn’t know what’s going on with you and he can’t figure it out just by looking and you don’t seem eager to tell him. 

He’s exhausted all his typical ways of collecting information, and now he’s at a loss. 

Eventually, the anxiety comes bubbling up. 

“Please talk to me,” he pleads. And you do. Almost instantly, like he stepped on some sort of landmine. 

“I know it’s my own fault for not having my phone on me and not being able to see your texts, but it really sucks that I had to find out from my creepy neighbor that you snuck out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.”

The whiplash is so strong it’s almost a broken neck. Spencer reels, frowning deeply as he tries to process your impromptu speech, the sudden confrontation. What creepy neighbor?

“I… didn’t. I went to grab my stuff from the car around one, but I came right back. I left at 7:30. You don’t remember me saying goodbye?”

Your brow furrows, and your eyes dart over the design on the rug like you’re watching memories go by. He sees it in your eyes when you recall some hazy image of him holding your face, kissing your cheek more times than was necessary and whispering sweet things against your lips before he had to go. You shrink into the couch, clearly struggling under the combined weight of relief and embarrassment. 

“I forgot. I thought… he said…”

A moment passes and it’s clear you’ve abandoned the sentence. Spencer is concerned about this shadowy male figure who put malicious untruths into your head. He slides his hand under yours and twines your fingers together. Finally, finally you meet his gaze. 

“Someone made you believe I left without saying goodbye.”

And he almost wishes you weren’t looking at him as more tears pool before falling down your cheeks. You nod, and don’t make a sound. 

“No, honey. I didn’t do that. I’m sorry that’s what you’ve been thinking all day.”

“I was worried that you… or that I wasn’t…”

His chest aches. You’d woken up alone, no recollection of his goodbye, and without the comfort of even a text. 

“You didn’t see my note?”

The way you look at him then is heartbreaking. Eyes wide and wet and sad, lip trembling. 

“You left a note?”

Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will. 

It must’ve fallen off the bedside table, or maybe he just hadn’t positioned it obviously enough. 

A lost phone, a missed note, and not even a memory of his departure. While none of these things are verifiably Spencer’s fault, he feels so, so guilty. 

“I did,” Spencer says gently, scooting closer and pulling you into him, head pressed to his shoulder as you try not to cry, and he rubs your back slowly. 

Your sulky words are muffled by his shirt. “I didn’t see it. What did it say?”

“A lot of very nice things about you,” he whispers. Spencer thought maybe he could get away with giving you all the sincere compliments you can’t accept face to face through a note you could read while he wasn’t around. That way you couldn’t refute them or stop him. It was a good plan. 

He feels the sigh of relief leaving your body against his neck. 

“I didn’t know.”

“I know. I’m sorry. That’s not… I should’ve just stayed. This is my fault.”

You keep your cheek pressed to his shoulder as you speak. 

“It’s not. You have a job. A really important job. You can’t just call out whenever I want you around.”

Logically he knows you’re right, but he doesn’t always think logically around you. 

“I could’ve made it work. I could’ve come in late, or the team could’ve called me if there was a case, which there wasn’t—”

“Spencer, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it.”

He pulls back slightly, frowning at your tone. You do look relieved, much less plagued than you’d been when he arrived minutes ago, but something heavy still weighs you down. The burden of it darkens your eyes and dulls your expression. When he cups your cheek, you glance up at him, and then away once more. 

He speaks softly. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?” 

Again he earns a moment of your eye contact, but it’s fleeting. He watches the words spin around your head as you try to figure out what to do with them—and then choose to remain silent. 

There is in fact something you’re keeping from him. 

Spencer hates to use work tactics on you, but he doesn’t speak either, hoping that you’ll feel compelled to fill the silence with the truth. Knowing how you’re not entirely comfortable with quiet. 

And you try, lips parting and the sound delayed as you wrestle with something you clearly don’t know how to talk about. 

“I… my neighbor,” you say, frowning like you don’t quite know why you’re speaking. “The one who told me he saw you leaving in the middle of the night. He also—he said…”

Spencer brushes hair away from your cheek with a thumb, stroking the high point in gentle passes as your words taper off. Now that he’s thinking about it, he did encounter a man in a dumpy robe standing in the courtyard and smoking a cigarette when he left you tangled in sheets and dozing contentedly to get his bag from the car. In fact, they rode back up to your floor in the elevator in mostly awkward silence. Spencer was sure his outfit told a story—shirt untucked and hastily buttoned only partway, no belt, shoes barely tied, duffel slung over his shoulder—he wasn’t really expecting to run into anyone at such an hour, to be honest, but he hadn’t particularly cared what this man thought of him, so it didn’t cross his mind again.

Now he remembers. 

Long night, huh? I remember those days. 

It was an inappropriate comment, but given his job he’s used to ignoring those. Mostly his mind had been preoccupied with the idea of returning to you, who gave him such a warm and sleepy welcome when he climbed carefully back into your arms several minutes later that it was like he’d never known anyone else at all. 

Now he resents that he hadn’t said anything, he hates the idea that you spoke to this man and he said something to upset you and Spencer wasn’t there. Usually he tries not a judge a book by its cover (metaphorically, of course) but he’s been around enough bad men to know when he’s looking at one. Last night he hadn’t even been cognizant enough to realize they got off on the same floor. 

“What did he say, angel?” Spencer whispers, incapable of being anything but soft with you at the moment. Even though he senses something a lot like a tide of preemptive anger rising in his chest, painted over with layers of anxiety and guilt. He should’ve found a way to stay with you this morning. 

You sniffle and let your head fall again, forehead resting against his collar. Instinctively his hand slides to the back of your neck and even at the awkward angle he finds a way to press his lips to yours hair. “Can we talk about it later? I don’t feel good.”

If it’s making you this uncomfortable, Spencer really wants to know what passed between you and this neighbor. In fact, he’d be willing to bet a lot of your strange behavior this evening stems from something that occurred which you don’t feel comfortable telling him yet. But he manages to bite back anymore questions. He doesn’t want to make you feel interrogated. 

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” he says eventually, kindly, hand tracing down the length of your back and up again. “Why don’t you feel good?”

He doesn’t miss the way you reach up to discreetly wipe your cheek. But he won’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about until you’re ready, and it seems like you’re already having a rough day. Which is not what he wanted. This is so far from what he wanted for you. He’s cursing himself for how he handled this whole situation. 

“Um, I just… I don’t know. I feel… bad. I’m sorry I’m being so weird.”

“You’re not being weird, honey. You had a hard day. You’re having a normal reaction to an abnormal set of circumstances.”

You sit up, sniffing and wiping your tears like you can just make the whole thing go away. 

“No, I am. I am. It’s all okay now, right? So I don’t know why I feel like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He watches helplessly. “Nothing is wrong with you. We’ve… it’s been a big couple of days. Mostly good, but I think you’re probably really tired. Emotionally and physically.” 

You bury your face in your hands and nod silently. He still feels like he’s shooting in the dark, but you’re not entirely comforted yet, and it’s killing him. 

“Whatever you’re feeling is okay. If this is… about last night, or this morning, or something entirely different—regardless of what it’s about, you’re not going to be… in trouble with me if you’re having complicated feelings. And you can talk to me. But it doesn’t have to be right now. We don’t have to figure it out all at once, okay?”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, and for a moment, his words sink into silence. When you do raise your head, nodding, the evidence of your discomfort is all over your face—reddened eyes, cheeks polished with wiped tears. But you take a deep breath and try to project whatever it is you think he wants to see. 

The back of your hand is soft under his thumb as he sweeps it, as if he could draw forth more information that way. People speak when they’re ready.

“Is there anything I can do?” He tries, all ramped brow and soft spoken. 

You’re looking at where he’s tracing swirls on your hand as you swallow and blink the last of your tears away. 

“Um… you can say no, but—do you think it would be okay for you to maybe stay again tonight?”

Spencer sucks in a breath, painfully aware that he’s about to let you down. 

“I… I haven’t been home in a week. I’ve been wearing this suit for two days straight and I don’t think I would want to share a bed with me again until I shower.” He watches you wilt and lifts a hand to stroke your hair. “But I do want to spend time with you… do you maybe want to come stay with me instead? No pressure—”

“Okay. Yes. Is that okay?”

Spencer’s brow knits. You seem even more enthused about the idea of going to his apartment, like now that the opportunity has presented itself you can’t wait to get out. Maybe you have some sort of black mold problem. 

“Of course. Do you wanna grab a few things and then we can go?”

“Um—I also haven’t showered today. Do you mind waiting?”

“Sure. Or you could use mine. With supervision, this time.”

Spencer is attempting to make a joke about your unplanned (and unmoderated) stay at his apartment last week after he left—but looking at your face now he’s wondering if he touched a nerve. 

“Like… one at a time? Or…”

He thought maybe you’d be more comfortable around him after last night—and it’s not like he hadn’t seen you naked before then, either.

“Do you wanna do it one at a time?” He asks gently. 

There’s this sparkly sort of longing in your eyes that he’s seen before, but you tamp it down like always. You’re so cautious. About everything. Even the things you’re curious about. It’s sweet and a little sad. 

“I’ve never… showered with anyone.”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitches as he pushes hair over your shoulder. “I know. You don’t have to. We could save like 100 gallons of water depending on how long your showers typically last, but—”

“Spencer—”

“Sorry, sorry—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not trying to pressure you. You absolutely can take your own shower. You can go first so you get the hot water.”

“No,” you laugh, and it’s like a sparkling cloud of gold has settled around you, fractals bouncing off the shine of your cheeks and eyes—the sound of your laughter, the look of it, is such beautiful relief he can’t believe how good it feels, but it fades from you quickly. “It sounds… I think I want to, I just… I don’t wanna, like… do… anything.”

For a split second your veiled language mystifies him and then he realizes what you’re trying to say without saying. Something has changed since yesterday, when you brazenly referred to it as fucking, and today, when you can’t even say sex. He’s gotten as far as it being something your creepy neighbor said. Maybe. He needs to know what. 

But that’s not the topic at hand. 

“We don’t have to. I didn’t mean to imply that we would do anything like that. I don’t expect anything from you.”

You swallow. 

“Okay. I wasn’t sure.”

About what?

He says your name. No response. 

“Can you look at me, please?”

It takes you a moment, and your head raises like you might need some oil in your hinges, but eventually you manage. Spencer hopes the way he’s rubbing your leg is comforting. 

“You know I’m never, ever going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, right?”

To his horror, your answer isn’t an immediate and resounding yes. Instead you look back down and cover his hand with your own, fiddling nervously with his fingers. 

Eventually, you reply, “Yeah… I know. I just thought… I’m not sure. Maybe it’s supposed to be different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Nothing has to be different. We’re still doing everything on your schedule, okay? And as for the next few days, at least—I think it might be a good idea to take sex off the table altogether.”

Your eyes narrow and you hesitate. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you worrying about it. And I don’t think it would feel good for you right now. I think there are things we need to talk about, but… we’ve probably tried enough for a while, hm?”

You give him a shy nod and hum your agreement. For a moment he lets his hand linger on your leg and then pulls it back. 

“Okay. Do you want my help packing a bag, or should I wait out here?”

“You can wait. It should only take a minute.” You pause, halfway up to look pensive. “Um, Spencer—do you think it would be okay if maybe I… if I stayed tonight and tomorrow? I just—I wanna get out of here, for a bit.”

He frowns but doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Can I ask why?”

“It’s just… suffocating sometimes,” you call as you turn and hurry down the hallway to the bedroom. “Feels like my neighbors are on top of me, like they’re… breathing down my neck, half the time.”

Sure, bigger apartments exist—but it’s not like you’re in a studio. And you’ve never mentioned feeling that way before. That bad feeling is starting to come back—like you’re not telling him something he needs to know. But is it worse to let you deal with it yourself until you’re ready to talk or to force it from you?

A few minutes later you return, a duffel of your own over your shoulder and full to bursting. 

“So I’m an idiot. My phone was literally in the pocket of my jeans on the floor.” You drop the bag as you bend down by the door to pull on your favorite slippers. “Oh—I think I forgot my charger, can you grab it? It’s by my bed.”

Spencer of course obliges, and is secretly pleased to be in your room again, in the light this time, so he can see better. It’s sweet. The pictures on the walls, the plants and the knickknacks and the sticky notes scrawled with messy reminders on every surface and the sweater hanging over the back of a chair—the one you’d been wearing at the cafe all those months ago—it all feels so you. He wonders why the two of you don’t spend more time here. 

He lets himself linger for only a minute before remembering his task, but as he reaches down to unplug your charger, whatever dopey smile he’d been wearing evaporates. The sheets have been stripped from your bed, and he can see why—there’s a striking stain of dried blood, and several surrounding dots, soaked into the mattress. Not much, but enough to make him feel horrendously guilty. He cringes, imagining what it must’ve been like to wake up all alone to nothing but your own blood. Poor girl. Of course he’d noticed some, last night when he was doing his best at cleaning you up, but it had been dark, and he was exhausted, and he hadn’t done enough. 

“Where’d your sheets go, baby?” He asks once back by the front door with his own bag on his shoulder, setting a gentle hand on your lower back and holding out your charger for you. You jump slightly, and he makes circles on your back, wishing there was something he could do to settle you. 

“Oh! They—they got ruined. I threw them out. It’s fine. I have others.”

So you didn’t have enough energy this morning to walk a few feet to your shower, but stripping your bed, getting dressed, and walking down to the trash chute at the end of the hall had been top of your priority list. 

You swallow as he undoes the locks and holds the door open for you, and pretend like you’re not doing surveillance to either side as you stand in the hallway, locking your door again like you can’t get out of here fast enough. 

Spencer casts a sidelong glance at you and wonders if you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact. He tries not to think like a profiler. He tries not to assign meaning to your actions, but he can’t help it. He can’t not notice. 

He can’t not worry. 

And he can’t not wonder what you’re not telling him. 

-

part nine

[planetallure]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ dark!fic recs

CW: once again, these works contain dark and explicit themes that may be upsetting or triggering to some. please use your discretion and discernment.

@cherienymphe : when i first seriously got back on tumblr and got into dark!fanfic, cherie's was one of the first blogs i found. her writing was essentially my indoctrination. it was terrifying how much i loved it/her writing. truly phenomenal. i've read quite of few of her stories (mainly for rafe cameron, jj maybank, steve rogers, and peter parker) but i'll list my faves.

"when the party's over" - its something about this series...i think about it often. if you're into forced pregnancy or corruption tropes, tap in.

"wicked games" - i actually first read this one on ao3 before i discovered her tumblr and was absolutely gagged. another one i think of often.

"amnesiac" - the first series of hers that i ever read. absolutely traumatized me and i sobbed reading it. amazing storytelling.

"the hills" - another bangerrr. a one night stand ends in complete and total blackmail and entrapment. he just wanted to give her a better life *clown face emoji*.

"his father's son" - after ward death, rafe takes over the reins in more ways than one.

"teenage dirtbag" - this series single handedly made me a jj girl. the tension??? yup yup mhm.

"the less i know the better" - ironically my favorite part of this story is readers relationship with rafe but seeing jj slowly and then rapidly descend into madness? yeah.

"claimed" - a/b/o dynamics. brought me back to my wattpad days. still eat it up.

"daddy dearest" - steve meets a single mom and decides to be not the stepdad, but the dad who stepped up.

i'll be honest, i was a non believer in dark!peter but: "she's with me", "one last time." "suburbia" and "basic training" made a believer outta me. hands. down.

@lambtotheslaughterr : it absolutely amazes me the things that come from her mind. the level of creativity and originality needs to be studied. oona, you are criminally underrated.

“rise” - the first series of hers that i read. arguably the best series i’ve read on here thus far. this is the first part to her “the day the world ended” universe and it completely blew me away. i couldn’t believe that something like it had come from some silly little boat show. just brilliant.

“when the bough breaks” - the first work of hers i read. this one for me was a heartbreaking slow burn story, but the smut…makes up for it. yes yes.

“i burn” - sex!addict reader x rafe cameron. need i say more? actually, i will. the smut and tension in this one towards the end? it was shameful how turned on i was.

“one way or another” - buckle up, grab a snack, and prepare for the ride of a lifetime. that’s it.

“something wicked this way comes” - a single mom trying to escape her past, except her past is rafe cameron. this was one very spooky scary la la.

"summit" - the second part to the tdtwe universe. its still brand new but its already feeling like another banger, i mean it's oona. tap in.

@harryspet : rae was also apart of my indoctrination and boy did she do what needed to be done. her perfectly curated moodboards alone did it for me. very mindful, very demure.

"homestead" - what can i say...i'm a sucker for pregnancy stories :( and this series was no exception. absolutely delectable. enjoy.

"well kept" - classic millionaire ceo x reader, my younger wp reading self cheered gleefully. my love language is acts of service and boyy was this one speaking my language. had me at "scheduled braiding appointment."

"bambi eyes" - this one was one of those that made me want to take a good long look in the mirror and ask myself, "is this who we are...is this what we represent?"

@sherrybaby14 : this one is for the mcu girlies. more fics than you could ever ask for. everyone say "thank you, mother!"

"the distraction" - i'm starting to notice a kidnapping/stockholm syndrome pattern here...ANYWAY! work is realllyy stressful for steve and you just happen to be the perfect distraction.

@straywords : she's no longer active but her incredible writings remain so please, peruse. its like a beautiful museum over there.

"a break" - *gasp* another pregnancy story! stucky edition.

@darkficsyouneveraskedfor : an icon, a legend, she is the moment! another infinite library for my mcu girls. roo has all you could ever want or ask for.

@perlelune

"all too well" - yes, yes, another one, its who i am. rafe cameron proving once again that you can't escape him.

"lucky" - best friend!rafe x reader. he didn't know what he had until it was almost gone

"tag, you're it" - never read a scream fanfic before this one but boy did i have fun! chad is so pookie in this too :(

@honestsycrets : back when i was in my miguel era, sy single handedly kept me fed.

"starved | mio" - "mio", in which you babysit mayday and it gives miguel baby fever and "starved", in which he made you a mom...but its left less time for other activities.

"stung" - sex pollen/abo. reader gets bitten by an anomaly causing a reaction that only miguel can cure

"amor y respeto" - he just can't love you the way you need to be. so you and miguel break up...at the worst possible time.

"exclusive" - you and miguel are fuckbuddies. you want more, but miguel can't bring himself to give it to you. so you find company in hobie, who's there for you in all the ways that you need. miguel's not happy about that.

"canary" - you're a singer in the 1920s who's fallen in with the dangerous o'hara brothers.

"grande" - sex!worker miguel x assistant!reader. think...a pepper x tony kinda dynamic. except, miguel doesn't take kindly to certain slights. :)

@starfxkrinc : last but certainly not least! moony is a ridiculously talented writer and a mutal of mine. i found her early on during my resurgence on here. this is her new side blog (rip lovesickbrat and starfxkr!!) luckily she was able to salvage a lot of her past works and is back like she never left. i recommend her "western nights" series (really just the trailer park!jj tag in general) and her "ode to eaters" au. a queen of all things taboo. she does it for the girls who are drawn to the dark and scary. the gross and weird. <3

[goodomensafterdark]

NOS??

OF ALL PEOPLE???

YOU????

THIS CALLS FOR RETALIATION.

GOAD GOBLINS, SHAME NOS WITH YOUR BEST MEMES

@isiaiowin @ineffablecrankshaft @gleafer @daneecastle @elenthyaolyenths @theonewiththeshippinggoogles @gaiaseyes451 @trebol-negro @sixbynine-da

TAG MORE PEOPLE, BRING THE SHAMING ARMYYYYYYY

Congratulations on finishing by the way <3

~Kotias

🕊️ The Season of Nightingales 🕊️

🍾🎉! FIC COMPLETE !🎉🍾

IT'S DONE. 🥹

This is it. 

This is the end of the story that made me get my AO3 account. 

I've had this thing burning in my brain ever since the end of S2 came out in the summer of 2023, prompting the immediate need for resolution. 

And now I finally have it. I hope you've enjoyed it too.

Read it from the beginning here:

🕊️The Season of Nightingales🕊️

Fic Summary:

The Second Coming looms large. In this tale following the season after affection's seed is planted with a kiss, Aziraphale must keep his vow to fix Heaven before it’s too late, without asking the impossible from Crowley. As the effort is complicated by unexpected friends, an ex-Inspector Constable, a guileful Metatron, and a Heavenly floor full of the Blessed Dead—Aziraphale and Crowley find navigating their relationship is not mutually exclusive from saving the world from Armageddon. Somewhere, somehow, there is an outcome where the Nightingales sing in Berkeley Square. The angels just need each other—and maybe a little help—to find it.

Final Chapter Excerpt:

Curtains of blossoming flowers and ivy fell over the window, casting leafy shadows against the opposite wall. The trim had been completely taken over by lengthy wandering branches that erupted from the gap beneath the door. Telescoping circles of sunshine cast a dreamy glow into the room. Angelic and demonic eyes adjusted to it, absorbing the yellow-green dawn with growing awe. 

🕊️Finish the Fic from Chapter 36!🕊️

and with that... I'm done!

🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤✨🖤

🖤Time for a MASSIVE list of shoutouts!🖤

First, thanks to @addledmongoose, my first beta and one who helped me correct some of my long errant grammar stupidity and encouraged me when this fic (and my AO3 account) was just a wee baby. 

Next, r/GoodOmensAfterDark, the GOAD Writers Guild, and @whickberstreetwriters, and all the lovely mods and modlings who have made those communities thrive!

Next, I bow low at the feet of my beloved betas — u/blackjeans93, @dbacklot99, and @demonsandpieohmy. Thank you from the bottom of my black heart, for putting up with my late ass updates while providing all the TLC I needed throughout these last few months. 🖤🖤🖤

Shoutout to @wiblywoblytimeywimey754 for her linguistic skills on Agnes Nutter!

And finally, thanks to the rest of you. To you GOADers, you GO tumblrs, you readers who leave comments and kudos and encouraged me to complete this instead of leaving it at chapter one. Thanks to the ones who were cheering me on from the sidelines. 

Thanks to all of you.

I owe you all a glass of Talisker 🥃 and a mighty cheers!

To the world, lovelies!

...

Fin.

Hm....

Something feels unfinished.

But what could I be missing...?????

🤔🫣🤭

Pspspsps.... @kotias......... did I do it right? 😇

[thebiggerbear]

where is she?

Summary: Soldier Boy only has one thought in mind when Homelander wakes him up: you.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female!Reader

A/N: Wrote this on July 29th. This was meant to be a drabble and I was going to experiment with a different format at the time but after taking another look at it close to a month later, I decided against it. I haven't seen Season 4 of The Boys yet but I did see a gif on here of something from the finale in regards to SB. This idea popped into my head that day and I wrote it out. Starts from the Tower scene in 3x08, an AU. Unbeta'd. Full dialogue in text is from 3x08.

Warnings: drug use; violence; violence against a woman; choking (not Butcher/Boys friendly)

Word Count: 1019

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187; @rieleatiel

SB Taglist: @birdiellie; @heartlessdelusions; @brightlilith; @muhahaha303; @just-levyy

@solacedthistest; @deansimpala; @foxyjwls007; @onlyangel-444; @faephoria

@believeinthefireflies95; @globetrotter28

Jensen Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat; @deansbbyx; @lyarr24; @rebel-paladin; @deans-spinster-witch

@bts24; @roseblue373; @nancymcl; @c1gs-coffee; @peachhiz

@kickingitwithkirk; @fanfic-n-tabulous; @illicithallways; @mentallyillandgae

You can also read on AO3

You burst into the room from the stairwell, finding Ben trying to fight three of your new supposed teammates off, his eyes full of fury and a slight tinge of fear immediately finding you as they slipped a mask over his face. “I’m not…going back…in that fucking box!”

“Get off of him! Now!” You angrily yelled, energy pulsing from your hands as you tried to rush them when Butcher caught you off guard and knocked you into a wall on his way to get to Ryan. 

“Sorry, luv.” His expression was full of trace amounts of remorse as he turned from you but you didn’t care. Your attention was on Ben alone.

When Ben saw you slam into the wall, even more fury seemed to emanate from him and he was finally able to push everyone off. His chest was a bright pulsing red that continued to get brighter and brighter; he was charged up and he was about to blow.

“You’ll kill everyone!” Starlight implored.

Ben’s expression didn’t change and you knew you had to get to him before he went off. You didn’t care about any of them, especially now, and you didn’t care for yourself. But Ben you cared about and you wouldn’t let him do this — not again. 

“Ben!” You called. 

Within the seconds it took for you to get to your feet, Maeve was already launching herself at him and they crashed through the window of the high rise, plummeting stories below. “No!” You rushed to the edge, watching their freefall in horror. “BEN!” You screamed before the impact of the explosion sent you careening backwards.   

When Soldier Boy was woken for the second time, uncaring who was there to greet him, he only had one question. “Where is she?”

America’s Asshole of a Son, now suited up, stared out at the city from Homelander’s newly renovated suite. His own son watched him, keeping his hands clasped behind his back.

“It could all be ours, you know.”

“Don’t care,” Soldier Boy growled out. “Where’s Butcher?”

Homelander sighed in disappointment and approached. He didn’t know much about the man whose blood he shared but one thing was for certain: Soldier Boy was laser focused when it came to revenge. He just happened to be focused on the wrong thing.

When he reached the older man, he studied him for a moment before nearly rolling his eyes. “You actually loved her.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised when Soldier Boy turned a lethal glare onto him, his pupils dilated from the drugs coursing through his system that he’d just snorted, but it still caught him a little off guard. Homelander didn’t feel shame or remorse; those were human feelings and he was a god. But right then, he felt like a small child scolded by that dark gaze and his shoulders subconsciously lowered an inch.

“Find me Butcher or I will find him on my own,” the Supe threatened before walking away. Homelander watched him go, angry that even while dead you somehow still managed to fuck with his plans.

Right before Soldier Boy was about to strike a killing blow to Butcher, Hughie yelled, “She’s alive!” The Supe froze and turned a scowl onto Butcher’s dickrest. 

“I promise,” the bitch insisted. “I can tell you where she is! Just don’t kill him. Please.”

Soldier Boy’s glare dropped to the man swaying in his hold, his face bloodied, bruised, and swollen. The supe's jaw tensed and he dropped the man to the ground, making him a silent promise that he would still pay for his betrayal, before his eyes landed on Hughie. “Take me to her. And you better be telling me the fucking truth or you’re never going to get to feel the warmth of this fucker’s mouth again.”

Hughie’s eyes widened but he gave a nod. A hint of a smirk teased the corner of Soldier Boy’s lips for a moment and then disappeared completely. Before following the bitch out the door, he gave Butcher one last kick for good measure.

Soldier Boy tightened his grip on Grace Mallory’s throat and lifted her body higher up the wall. He ignored Hughie’s whiny pleas of not hurting the old bitch. “Open it,” he ordered. “Now.”

Hughie did just that. The supe could hear a whirring sound behind him and he intensified his glare at the woman he was currently choking out before turning to look over his shoulder. Out of a drawer, a cryotube emerged, looking quite different from the one he had been in when his pussy of a son had found him. His breath caught in his chest when he saw you inside, slumbering peacefully, tubes wrapped around your barely dressed body. Rage began to flow through his veins when he realized that you had been stocked away inside a fucking sock drawer like a second thought — like you had never mattered. You were the only thing that mattered.

He turned back to Mallory, gritting his teeth, and his body shaking with fury. He saw the lack of fear in her eyes and in a split second, his decision had been made. He flung her across the room, not caring about the sickening cracks he heard when she made impact. For good measure, when Hughie tried to run to her aid, he brutally knocked the kid aside and made his way towards you. Within seconds, he had the cryotube open and he ripped the wires from your body. He curled his arm around your shoulders and carefully hoisted you up into his lap.

A few heartbeats later, your eyes slowly began to open, your lashes fluttering repeatedly as you returned to consciousness. Your gaze struggled for a minute to focus on the image in front of you but when it did, you rasped out in disbelief, “Ben?”

A soft smile played upon his lips as he ferried your hand to his bearded cheek. “Yeah, doll. It’s me.” 

When you attempted to return his smile, he leaned down to whisper, “I found you,” before he gently pressed his mouth to yours.

dividers by @firefly-graphics

[unconventional-lawnchair]

There's not much Barty Crouch Jr content out there. If you don't mind writing about him, can I make a request? After escaping Azkaban, he serves his Lord to the best of his ability, but there is someone from his past that he still can't get out of his mind. A Slytherin and from a family of followers of the Dark Lord. They had a relationship during their youth. After many years, he finds her again. He always had a soft spot for her. But the reader (like Snape, a sort of spy) is secretly thinking against the Dark Lord and stays away from these things as much as possible, but she is definitely in danger. Things are complicated, but the strong attraction and longing between them cannot be ignored...

The Boy I Knew

Barty Crouch Jr. x Black!Fem!Reader

Cw; Y/N, obsessions, one sided love(Barty pining), Barty being unhinged. Reader is morally grey, Remus Lupin onesided love (Rem pining), sexual themes and scenes, mentions of murder}} Please tell me if I missed anything!

AN- this fanfic is now well over what it should have been. I am posting a fraction of the proofread bits as of now, as I realize this is probably not at all what you wanted and if so I am SO sorry. If you want more I have a pouch that just needs to be beta read

Wc-5670

Taglist: @defnotfrey @au-ghosttype

{. 1972 - Barty’s Year 1 .}

Bartemius Crouch Junior couldn't have been older than eleven when he first met {Y/N} Walburga Black.  A cool upperclassman, if only by a year. 

Bartemius, at that ripe age, knew only a handful of things, and two of those was how badly he wanted to be seen and known. He wanted to be seen for who he was, and known for what he would do. That's likely what drew him to you. 

At only twelve, you and your brother had made a name for yourselves, in much different ways. Your brother was popular, for his quick tongue and clever quips, his innate ability to get under anyone's skin and stay there. Those traits could be forgiven, and they always were, for his big heart and intense sense of moral. 

You, however, were known for harboring a few very non Black traits, like your intense empathy and your crazed thirst for knowledge. Even as a Slytherin, your loyalty and curiosity rivaled the students around you tenfold. Your bravery knew no bounds, even with all the wrongs you had been done, you were forgiving and understanding. You were seen by everyone, you were known for everything.

As he got older, he wondered where that forgiveness went. You grew cold.

When he was innocent, when he had done no wrongs, you cradled him in your hands like he was a gift. You looked at him with eyes you shared with everyone, so much care and patience, so much understanding and kindness. So if those eyes were shared with the masses, he struggled, but was determined, to keep them focused on himself at any chance given.

It was obvious to anyone who saw the two interact. Barty wanted to be witnessed by you. The halls filled with the judgeful and teasing murmurs when he found you in the halls.

“There goes {Y/N}’s prodigy.”

“Barty is off to find his guru.”

“That boy will never learn.”

“How annoying.”

Barty had never been ashamed of his declarations for praise. He knew most of the voices were bitter with jealousy. He would be jealous too. You were both so young, and yet even some older students looked to you like you were twice your age, yet every Friday when the tests were returned, you sat in the courtyard and waited for him. Your personal underclassman.

You would meet in the yard and he would brandish his flawless marks, you would praise his abilities in absolute pride. He had never had someone prideful of him before. Everyone knew him to be a mother’s boy, but he would challenge any of those claims. He was a {Y/N}’s boy, he'd tell them, no shame as students snickered and made their fun of him. He was never afraid of how much he liked you. How much he admired and respected you.

He would turn from the RavenClaw table and look to you after his announcements everytime, you would be eating with Lily Evans and the other girls of her group, but your eyes would be on him. You would give him a soft smile that drove him mad. He would return it with his own, the smile he would save for you. Just you.

When he was only eleven and you were twelve, everything was perfect for him. You focused your attention on studies, your friends, and of course, Barty. That's how it stayed for years.

He would reminisce in his cell, running his dulled nail along the jagged stone walls, carving intents of every minute that passed. Remembering all of the things he regretted most in his life. Losing your trust was where his spiral began. He was a foolish kid.

{. 1974 Barty’s Year 3 .}

“It's getting embarrassing.”

Barty was eating lunch with one of the many friends he had made during his years at Hogwarts, Evan Rosier. He was once again bringing the conversation back to you, as he had been for the past few days.

“You trail after her like a loyal dog. Has she even given you a hint that she may return your feelings?” 

“What feelings?”

Evan and you did not get along. You never had. When he first found himself growing closer to him, you voiced your distaste for Evan the very next day. Barty always trusted your judgment, he obeyed you without much of a fight in most cases. This was not one of those cases.

He figured you to be biased, your brother thought him to be a Death Eater and you despised them. Something he could never understand, you were a pureblood, a Black, you were a powerful witch, and you would never have to worry about falling for a half blood or muggleborn, or Merlin forbid, a muggle. You were smarter than that. He always figured. You wouldn't taint your legacy.

Not like your useless brother, who he could see even now, describing his entanglements with witches and wizards of any kind, to the other Marauders.

As the years went on, you and Barty’s meetings became scarcer and scarcer, they went from Fridays to every second Friday, finally, you now only met every last Friday of the month. Still, Barty clung to you with a desperation he never would give anyone else.

Recently, you had gotten into a fight. One where you expressed your worry for what could possibly happen to him if he got involved with the wrong crowd. Barty, admittedly, didn't respond in kind. He was furious with you. You questioned his company but pushed away from him, you questioned his morals and his standing on the war. He told you there was no war to him, there was no fight.

At the end of the day, he would be standing by you.

The answer seemed to distress you further. It turned into a match of shouts and desperate pleas of compliance. It caused a scene, people watched as you defended your standing on your side of the war, this fight you were having with yourself he assumed. There was no war. This was a power struggle.

Evan’s scoff snapped him out of his thoughts and he looked up from his plate to his eyes. 

“Barty, half the school knows you've been in love with her since first year.” He hissed and Barty frowned. Would he call it love? He didn't think about it long before he had his answer. Love wasn't something he looked for, but he found it constantly. From the love he shared with Pandora, to the love he shared with Regulus, even the love he was nurturing with the brutish Evan.

No love in his body burned hotter then his love for you. 

He never thought about it because he never had to. Why would he? He knew you loved him too. He knew what you two shared was never anything that could be challenged. He was your prodigy. He was your prodigy. He didn't care for much, as long as he was yours. 

Evan snapped his fingers in his face and drew his attention back to him. He gave a slick smirk and wet his lips. “Come on, Barty, she's just a girl. You're wasting talent. Talent that could be used for someone who actually appreciates you.”

“She does appreciate me.” Barty challenged immediately, before Evan smirked and gestured to the Gryffindor table. “Does she?”

Barty turned just in time to see you, he never had to stare at a crowd too long to find you. 

You were sitting with your brother and his friends, side by side with Remus, sitting far too close for comfort. He was whispering something in your ear, making you giggle. Turning to look at him with the truest smile he's ever seen you make. Flashing your beautifully uneven teeth, your cheeks dimpling and eyes seeming to sparkle. Your eyes met Lupin’s and he took in your expression like he could die in that moment. 

Barty had never seen you smile like that before. He had never seen you look that way before. You had never looked at him like that before.

He hadn't even noticed as he began to bend the fork in his hand, fist tightening as he watched as Remus lean in and stole a kiss against your cheek. You gave a bigger laugh at this. Moving in to kiss his lips carefully. 

The wonderful moment you were having was interrupted when a loud snap sounded threw the cafeteria. Your eyes snapped over to the RavenClaw table, as did a lot of your peers. Barty had snapped a fork in half with his thumb alone. Before a professor could scold him, he got up from his seat and stomped out of the grand hall, and your eyes followed them.

You muttered a quick apology to Remus and he nodded in understanding as you scrambled to your feet to follow after him. 

He wished he could take every word he called you in that hall back now. He wished he had been smart enough to know that loving you with you in his life would of been far less torture then loving a girl who hated your guts. 

“You blood trader!”

“This! This is what I meant, Bartemius! My Barty would never-”

“You don't have a clue about me, you insolent heartbreaker! What of us, Black?”

“Us? What Us, Barty?”

That night he realized that no matter how genuine his love was for you, how deeply it ran, those times spent alone meant far more to him then it ever meant to you. You did stuff like that for everyone. 

He wasn't entitled to your love. Running his nail down until it was blunted against the wall. Azkaban could no longer do more harm then it already had.

{. 1974 Barty’s Year 4 .}

An entire school year. You and Barty didn't speak for an entire school year.

He kept his tabs on you, of course, because no matter what you said to him that day, you were still his person. Knowing how ignorant and how dangerously minded you could be, he took it upon himself to look over you. You may have been older, you may have sworn him, at one time, your loyalty and protection. But now, he had power of his own. He would repay you. He would repay and reeducate you, given the chance. With all the training him, Evan, Muliciber, Avery, even Snape had done? By Merlin’s beard he could do anything.

He had the mind to back that up, but he kept his power under wraps. You were always frightened by what you didn't understand, the last thing he wanted was for you to fear him. He wanted everyone to know him as fear, not you.

Never you.

When the school year started Barty noticed the shift instantly. He knew you like the back of his hand, far more than he let on most days, but it didn't take a genius to see that {Y/N} Black sitting with Regulus Black at the Slytherin table was odd. 

He soon learned of what happened between Sirius and his family, a right disgrace. Then to learn Sirius scorned you from his life for choosing to stay with Regulus, that was probably what started Barty’s absolute disdain for your brother. You had gone through training per Regulus. Saying before Sirius left he let it slip about you and Remus, trying to entice you to leave with him. You refused and your mother lost it. Walburga was a stain on this earth for what she had done. Even then…

It was all for the better, as he saw it. You don't need the impressions of Sirius Black, Lily Evans, Mary Macdonald, Remus Lupin, or any others that pour their venom into a perfect witch as yourself. He would make sure it stayed that way, even if it hurt you. However, he couldn't lie.

You always looked your best when you knew your worth. 

It wasn't just your routine that changed, you became cold to your old friends, dropping the Muggle borns and staying weary of the half bloods. You started to associate mainly with more influential Purebloods.

That meant him. 

He knew his father was good for something.

“Crouch? Would you like to accompany me to the library?” Your voice sang out to him, despite your listless monotone and drifting eyes. It was the first sentence you muttered to him in 13 months. Your voice was more reserved, your back straightened and your lips pouted. You didn't look like that 12 year old he knew, you were 16 now. Even in his depravity, he took notice of every lovely advancement you had taken in care of your appearance. Your mother instructed you with glamours and proper wear, even now wearing a black feathered choker and brandished a black quill. A family heirloom, Regulus would tell him.

Now, he hated your mother, there was no question about that. What she had done to Regulus was unforgivable, what she had done to you was cause for retaliation in his eyes. But Merlin, did she put you back on the path of greatness.

“Crouch? {Y/N}, my love, it will always be Barty to you.” He lit up like a child, voice sugary sweet. It was your turn to take notice of his change. He was still the same boy you met in first year. Endlessly obsessive, devoted, and excelling at all the things you liked about him. Unfortunately, also the things you hated. 

But, he was still your Barty in your heart. The boy you loved, the boy you cherished, the boy who charmed your soul in ways you didn't know possible. If you had to pick anyone to fill the hollowed out ache in your chest, you chose dangerously, Barty Crouch Jr would be your reprieve.

He was just older now. He was becoming a man.

Everyone knows what they say, about a boy and a girl, coming into their own together. Barty figured this was your love story, you weren't one to argue any longer.

He didn't care that you only seemed to speak to him out of necessity. When he heard from Regulus that your mother was making you pick your friends based on their social standing, any males to soon be a suitor, he was ecstatic.

He was remarkable. He was seen. He was valuable enough to you to not be a mere pawn but maybe even a queen on your chest set. To be used by you? It was worth every moment of the ache. All of this because his father just so happened to keep his filthy hands to the purest bloodlines.

That was his value to you. His blood, his sweat, his labor, and his mind. They were yours, no questions asked. He clung to your heel with new found determination. He would keep you on the right track, the promised one. The one that would ensure your children had the same opportunities. 

He knew he wanted this the moment he walked in on you and Severus arguing in the courtyard.

“You dare call her a Mudblood, you incessant pompous Half Breed?!” Your voice echoed through the halls. People watched in horror, some in absolute shock, the sweet kind girl they had grown attached to was a right monster now. Barty, however, was loving it. You were a proper pureblood.

“{Y/N}-” Severus spoke carefully, something about his tone was far too familiar for Barty’s liking, him addressing you by first name made his jaw tighten. He didn't have to say a word. You rectified it.

“Do not address me as anything other than Black, you dirty mutt!” You screeched. Severus looked stunned, the usually stoic boy looked broken. Barty watched as your eyes trailed over a shocked and watery eyed Lily Evans, he almost didn't catch you muttering, “You lost that privilege.”

He, of course, came to your rescue, as he always promised. Hand around your back and escorted you away from the fight. As you both walked down the corridor your path was blocked. 

Barty almost laughed, Remus Lupin. He was standing with Sirius Black, both staring threatening daggers at Barty. When you both kept walking, Barty shoved a path between the two boys, you hand a fistful of his cloak so as to not be left behind.

He didn't like how Remus’s eyes softened at the sight of you. He didn't like how Sirius reached for you. He walked faster, putting your sniffling form in front of himself.

After that, he knew he had you. 

You were becoming who you were meant to be.

~~~

He took his mark that summer, standing alongside your brother Regulus Black, Lucius Malfoy, Beatrix Black and Evan Rosier. They were at your cousin’s manor, in the ballroom standing side by side. He was as straight as a board, brimming with pride, smirking to himself and brandishing his left arm.

He could feel your eyes on him, from where you stood, next to Narcissa, your aunt and your mother. Waiting for him. 

Evan was first, standing beside Barty and holding out his wrist. When the wand hovered over his wrist and the Death Eater began to mutter the incantation, Evan let out a blood curdling sound. Pure brutish pain shot through him, leading him to fall back. Quickly held up by two other death eaters behind him.

When the wand brushed Barty’s wrist next, he hardly flinched. Tilting his head back as sweat gathered around his temple and neck. He bit his lip and let himself feel every sharp intrusion the spell took, letting himself succumb to the blissful pain.

When he returned to you, not standing to wait for dismissal like the rest of them, he wrapped his arm around your waist and yanked you in. He stole your lips for his own, making you give a slight gasp. You don't fight it, so he pushed further, letting himself taste your bottom lip and pulling it punishingly between his teeth. Through his high he was able to recognize and memorize the feel of your lips and the taste, in his mind, it was the closest to the gods he'd ever get. What was true heaven, however, was when you took his cheeks in your hands and kissed him back.

“Enough.” He heard your mother hiss from beside you. She shooed Barty away like he was some stray dog. He backed down from where you stood, licking his lips and admiring just how shaken and red you looked. Your mother, the hag, pushed you behind herself and hid you away from his eyes.

When you looked away and covered your mouth, he almost didn't notice how you also licked your lips clean. That drove him mad.

He had come to the conclusion early on, you were a temptress. A vixen. A damned Siren as far as he knew. 

Memories of that night, your first kiss, the moment he could see you falling for him. A proper man, worthy of the worship he planned to give you. Worthy of serving a goddess like you. It kept him up most nights, it was a high even the dementor's couldn't take away, but they did manage to warp his obsession from what he believed to have been holy, to the truth.

He was brought on this earth for you. Without you, he was nothing. He was rotting.

{. 1976 Barty’s Year 6 .}

The next year he took your hand and promised you the world. To his delight, you responded in kind. You began dating his sixth year and it was absolute bliss. 

It didn't last long, that bliss. It became a thrill.

Despite his power and loyalty to the dark lord, your mother favored another's for your hand. Particularly, Avery. His father came to your mother with the proposal, your mother liked his offer of the estate and your own power over the house.

You, however, much to Barty’s delight, were way too far gone. In your now secret meetings, where you would take you strolls along the city street, to the shop or to the boutique. You made a show of it; but you only truly left for Crouch Manor.

Where Mr. and Mrs. Crouch turned their other cheek as you snuck your way to Barty’s chambers. Behind those locked doors your love was dangerous. His whispers and promises of treachery against your family name were met with nothing less than desperate devotion and promises in kind. As your palms glided over his bare chest and his large hands found their way under your skirt.

His favorite memories were all locked away in that room. The room he made you his own, where his hands grew familiar with your skin in ways no one else ever could, where he found an affinity for you breathless, and where he heard you let out sounds no self respecting Black heiress should ever let out. 

He claimed what was his birthright, between your legs. Bruised your lips numb and left marks you had to charm away when you made it back home. Just in time for supper.

With the feeling of him still fresh on your body. The pureblood heir your parents thought so lowly of. The heir they didn't see fit to sit at that very table, was still there. His lips were on the rim of the cup you sipped from, his hands were on the arm rests you relaxed against, and his teeth and claws were buried into their perfect daughter.

{. 1978 .}

By the time you both graduated, you took your place at the table. Having fought to hold off your engagement to Avery, Barty took it into his own hands to get between the two of you. Every time you glance in the boy's direction, he shrivels in on himself.

“Barty?” You whispered between his greedy kisses, in the halls of the Malfoy manor.  The only times his hands could find your hips and his lips could find yours outside of his own room now. He was starting to see less and less of you. The war was in full swing and with his desperation for you was all that was driving him most days. 

Thinking now, he wondered what drove you. Even now, having spent a year in Azkaban, you were still the light he flew to, no matter how much it hurt him. He could have sworn, at one time, it was him.

“Darling.” He whispered low against your lips. You tangled your fingers into his hair, before pulling him down. He rested his chin against the curve of your chest and looked up into your eyes.

You bit your lip, running your thumb along his own reddening ones. “Do you love me, Barty?” You cooed.

“I do.” He affirmed, licking the skin you touched along his Cupid's bow, “I do, more than anything.” His voice was raw and rough, he pulled at your hold, trying desperately to kiss you again.

“Do something for me, Barty.” 

“Anything, Darling. Anything.” He muttered, eyes still on your lips.

“Be within my reach. Always.” You whispered before releasing him. He took your lips once more, pushing you back against the wall like the very prospect of not touching you in some way was physically painful. His hand traveled up from your hand to rub over the mark you took just days earlier.

Every moment like that seemed fleeting. 

The very next year, Regulus Black passed. He had gone MIA and your mother, despite her loyalty to Voldemort, commanded you home. It got worse when they officially announced his death.

You stayed locked in those walls, by order of your mother. He missed you dearly. Barty never wanted to be your hero, some great commander, he couldn't care less now about who else even knew his name anymore. He was older now, and he just wanted to be yours. 

So, it pushed Barty to work even harder. Anything to appease The Dark Lord, get this war over with, so he could return to the only true person worthy of his reverence. 

Without you, his life went by in simple clips of reality. When Voldemort fell, he was imprisoned in this hellhole, and even now, he found himself unable to let anything else consume his mind.

The dripping of water from the rusting metal doors drove him mad. No other sounds but the miserable screams of inmates and slamming of bodies against pavement. It was a torturous and hopeless place, some people preferred punishment by their own hands. There was suddenly a loud clanging of keys that cut his thoughts.

He looked up from the corner of his cell, putting his thumb in his mouth and sucking on the bleeding torn skin. The marks he had made on the cell walls marked his 354th day in this nightmare. His eyes locked with his father and his mother, furrowing his brow as he stood.

His mother two out two veils of a slug colored potion, his father had another potion in his hand.

Barty didn't stay in that cell to see his 355th.

~~~

{. 1994 POV Shift .}

“It's a bit cold, don't you think?”

Remus Lupin's voice cut through the fog of your mind like a knife through butter. He was right, of course. Even as the year grew warmer with the summer months growing closer, the astronomy tower always gave a pleasant and persistent chill. 

You were used to it, by now. Being the Astronomy Professor for almost twelve years. About the same amount of years you managed to avoid coming into contact with Remus himself. 

You had to give him credit, Remus Lupin, he was persistent. Doing everything in his power to get you alone. As if one conversation would melt away years of what you had done, the people you deceived, the lives you took, the lies you told… all in the name of a crazed boy long lost to the history of the wizarding world. For the family who was as faded as the family tree you used to tend to with your brothers, painting names and burning faces. 

As if speaking to you would somehow bridge a gap. A gap in his heart that still ached for you. It was never something he was able to understand, your persistent and endless love for Crouch had come out of nowhere for him. He couldn't look Sirius in the eye for a long time, learning he had outed your budding relationship. 

He took every chance he could, to reach out, to speak to you, it was met with closed doors and a reminder of remaining professional. 

“It is. Heading out, Lupin?” You muttered to him. You couldn't lie and say having him here didn't make you feel, in some ways, nostalgic. To the loving, caring, respectful girl you once knew. One with so much patience and kindness you shared it with all kinds of souls. Souls you've watched drop like flies under the man you swore your life to.

“I am.” Remus muttered but didn't turn to leave. You shifted on your heel to look back at him from the entrance of the tower. He had his hand resting on the railing, his palm thudding against the railing as he tried to gather the courage to continue.

“I heard you gave Snape quite the earful.” He hummed, walking deeper into your classroom. You thinned your lips and shook your head, turning away from him. He gave a weak scoff. 

“Could you at least look at me?” He pushed, his voice wavering. You closed your eyes and gave a deep sigh. Your hands moved to grab the railing.

“What is it, Lupin?” 

“It's not too late.” He whispered and you closed your eyes. His words were exact, aimed to cut deep and retrieve from you the heart he knew was there; it just had grown cold. “You could come back. With me, tonight, we can meet with Padfoot and-”

“And what, Lupin?” You spoke calmly as you turned to face him. He went rigid at your stare. “Live this wonderful life you have weaved out for us? Pretend that everything is okay and the last few years never happened?” You pushed and he closed his eyes. 

Anger bubbled in his throat with something familiar, jealousy and bitter melancholy. If he could hear you any clearer you would be cotton in his ears. Your words were empty because he knew you could. Put Hogwarts behind you and come back to him, come with him and Sirius like you should have done back when you wore uniform and not cloaks like proper professors. Nothing was proper about you two aching hearts anyway. 

Yet history repeated itself.

It always would.

“You know he's gone.” Remus started slowly and your breath caught in your throat. You felt your eyes grow glossy with grief and you placed your left hand over your heart. 

“I never thought I would be someone's second choice. To Bartemius Crouch Jr.” He continued. “I see I never measured up, did I?” 

“... I am sorry, Remus.” You whispered, your voice, for the first time in years, was vulnerable. It was careful.

Because of course you loved Remus. You loved him dearly, but no man would own you like Barty had. You were terrified to let yourself be loved with anything less than what he had shown you. Steadfast and faithful love. No one could challenge the status of Barty in your life.

Even in death his ghost reminds you of your place. Next to him. 

Once this was over, once Dumbledore had seen and used his worth in you, when you were no longer under his wing like a servant, you would go back to 12 Grimmauld Place. You would retire. And you would wait for Barty to take you back home. Let it be a year, let it be ten, you would return to him as promised.

“... What have you become?” He whispered to you, and your eyes finally raised to meet him. You caught your tears and quickly cleaned your face. Shaking your head you put back on your practiced and perfect pout.

“.. A Black.”

Your exchange ended there. 

Remus returned to your brother, you presumed. You forged ignorance when you were questioned by the Ministry of your brother’s whereabouts. It didn't take much for them to let you be, especially with Mr. Crouch Senior’s particular protectiveness of you. Probably a gift from Mrs. Crouch, oh, how you missed her.

When Barty was taken and your mother was far too weak to control you, you visited the Crouchs’ daily. You helped Winky with taking care of his parents, particularly his sick and fragile mother. You grew a weak repore with his father, though you despised him. 

As a proper pureblood you just silently reaped the benefits of what the world had gifted you.

Including your wealth. With the house of Black fallen you were left to be the soul heir. Though, the moment you heard of Sirius Black’s escape, you reopened your joint account. Soon, you heard someone was able to access it. It was true; your brother was alive and well.

That was the only olive branch you extended to him. 

Once the school year was officially over you returned home. To your modest house down in an old town just a broom ride away from Hogwarts. Feldcroft.

You returned home, it was uneventful. Until you opened your door. 

You were greeted by Winky, the Crouch’s house elf. That wouldn't be unusual, Barty had preached to her about how you were both intended. How she should attend to you, how she attended to him. So she would appear at your house from time to time, with gifts and food she had prepared for Crouch Senior that she made just too much of.

“Winky?” You called out to the figure in your hall. The sheepish girl turned to face you with a careful smile.

“Madam Black has returned! How happy Winky is to see you, mistress.” She declared and hurried up to you. Her path was cut short as Creature stepped in front of her, snapping away your bags. He seemed in a foul mood. Fowler then usual.

“Your mother would not approve of your company, Ms. Blaaaack.” He warned and you furrowed your brow. “Nor would she approve of this home-”

“Kreature.” You demanded and he huffed. Winky was always coming in and out, Creature never voiced displeasure with her company and your mother, well, she could care less. “What company?”

“The noisy Crouch, Ma'am.”

Your heart dropped. He apparated away, assumingly to unpack your bags. Your eyes widened as Winky appeared in front of your full view. Showing off the black quill you had most definitely left at home. Your mothers old quill. You took it carefully from the house elf.

“Winky..” You spoke carefully and slowly. Holding up the quill between your fingers. “Who gave this to you?”

“I think you know, Darling.” 

Before Winky could answer, a voice lost to time spoke first. You knew it before you even turned around. 

Still, you jerked your entire body to face him. Your eyes locked, full of longing and hope.

 And there he was. Your Barty.

He was holding a newspaper, licking his bottom lip but his eyes were on you. His eyes were just how you always remembered them. So full of danger and appreciation for your simple presence. He stepped towards you and you took a step back. He tsked at that, reaching out to grab your waist. “Darling..” He whispered.

You were still in shock. Staring up at his brown eyes and waiting. For anything. “Barty?” You whispered.

When he kissed you, alarm bells went off in your head. You didn't listen to any of them, grabbing him just as greedily as he held you. Both of your eyes closed and you held each other like you might perspire. 

He was home.

He truly was.

[lizzyiii]

His Lady Love (5)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

taglist | to be added to the taglist just add your username to this DOC

word count | 6k words

summary | aemond goes to reader for comfort after murdering luke. aegon throws a feast and reader and aemond sneak out.

tags | mentions of death, angst/comfort, vampire powers, tensionnnnn, mentions of incest, SMUTTTTT (MDI), oral (f), unprotected sex, vaginal sex, p in v

note | born to give aemond heirs, forced to write fanfics about him. also I loved writing aemond's pov, though it is way more difficult than reader's. also I might be projecting with that finn incident.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

In the dimly lit chambers of the Red Keep, the oppressive weight of the night enveloped you. The velvet drapes fluttered slightly with the soft summer breeze that whispered through the open window, a rare moment of tranquility. However, your slumber was a mere illusion, your mind cloaked in the abyss of darkness, devoid of dreams and visions that now troubled your sleep.

But your heightened senses—bathed in the echoes of vampiric instinct—felt the air shift, heard the soft footfalls quicken in the shadows. The atmosphere crackled with apprehension, jolting you into awareness. You turned, just as the chamber door burst open to reveal a figure cloaked in night and anxiety.

“Aemond,” you breathed, relief washing over you as you recognized him despite the disarray surrounding his presence. Yet, the relief was short-lived, for the anguish etched on his face struck you like a dagger of ice.

Without a second thought, you flung the silken covers aside, the fabric whispering against your skin as you stood, a vision of natural beauty in your nightgown. It was a modest garment yet beguilingly elegant, the way it clung to your form had no intent to seduce, but it still felt unseemly for him to be here.

“Aemond,” you intoned once more, your voice laced with concern that echoed in the silence of your chamber, frantic to breach the bubbling tension, “What troubles you?”

He remained mute, his expression haunting—a specter in the moonlight. Each heartbeat that passed deepened your worry, and so you closed the space between you, tenderness guiding your hands to cradle his sharp, angular cheeks, your thumbs brushing against his skin with a gentle intimacy. You sought to anchor him within your presence, as if your connection could dispel the shadows that clung to him.

“Please, Aemond,” you urged, your voice softening with each plea, like a lullaby meant to calm a frightened child, “Speak to me.”

At your touch, something flickered in the depths of his violet eye, swirling with shock and unutterable things. “I… I did not mean to,” he stammered, his breath coming out in ragged bursts, as though each word was a struggle against a tide of despair.

“Mean to what?” Your heart raced as you searched his gaze, desperate to uncover the truth beneath the turmoil. “Aemond, tell me what you have done that weighs so heavily upon you.”

He leaned into your touch, surrendering momentarily to the comfort you offered. “I have damned myself,” he breathed, a confession laced with the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

“Please, Aemond, tell me,” you implored, your heart thundering in your chest.

Aemond shook his head violently, his silver hair cascading like a waterfall of starlight, wild and untamed. “I cannot! You will condemn me.”

You withdrew your hands from his face, your fingers intertwining with his as you drew them toward your heart, your palms cooling against his warm skin. “I could never. Please, reveal it to me, Aemond,” you whispered, your voice insistent yet tender.

His breath hitched in his throat, a harsh swallow betraying the turmoil within him. As tears glistened in his violet eye—he turned away, shame etching deep lines into his brow. “I did not mean to. I did not mean to take the boy’s life, you must believe me.”

The air froze around you, a chill creeping in as your breath caught in your throat. You slowly led him toward the intricacies of your bed, pulling him with you into the sanctuary of silks and shadows. “What boy, Aemond?” you pressed urgently, your heart aching for the truth, a desperate need to understand the depths of his torment.

His voice broke, drowning in hysteria, a stark reminder of his usual composed personality made from steel, “I didn’t mean to— I swear, I didn’t mean—” he stuttered, desperation pouring from him like the dark tides of the sea.

Frustration welled within you, sharp and biting as the chill of autumn winds crept into the chamber. You pulled him down beside you, urgency fuelling your movements as you grasped his face, forcing his haunted eye to meet yours. “Aemond,” you said firmly, your tone dripping with the magic that came naturally to one of your kind. The allure of your compulsion wrapped around him like a silken trap, gently commanding his frayed emotions to still. “Calm yourself and tell me.”

Gradually, his breathing steadied, though the tremors of his fear still lingered. You held his gaze, and through the dark storm of pain reflected in his eye, he managed to choke out the words. “Lucerys. He was at Storm’s End. When I laid eyes on him, all I felt was fury—so I chased him through the skies, on Vhagar’s back…” His voice cracked like the thunder that often heralded the tempestuous nights, and he swallowed hard, “And then… I did not know Vhagar would react so violently.”

Your heart plummeted at the mention of Lucerys—Rhaenyra's beloved son. The weight of his loss hung heavily in the air, and the grim reality sank in; Aemond had killed him. The Blacks would demand retribution, blood for blood. "Tell me you lie, Aemond," you pleaded, your voice barely above a whisper, desperation seeping into every syllable.

He turned his gaze from you, shame encasing him like a shroud. There was a slow shake of his head, and it felt as though the world around you had muted, the chaos outside overshadowed by his revelation. "I cannot bring myself to lie to you. There is no penance that could ever atone for what I have wrought."

The sadness in your heart twisted anew as you murmured his name, "Aemond," the pain manifesting in your voice like a lamentation for the boy lost beneath the weight of his rage.

In the stillness that lingered between you, it seemed he had finally drawn a breath of composure, yet he refused to meet your eyes, speaking softly as if confiding a terrible secret. "I went to Aegon first, and he laughed... whilst Mother..." He faltered, the memory flickering like a dying candle. "She looked upon me as if I were a stranger, as if I were no longer her son."

Your heart ached for him, your hands clasped in his, both a comfort and a tether to the boy he had once been. Finally, he looked up, his eye reflecting a glimmer of vulnerability. "May I stay here with you?" he asked, almost timidly, as if fearing your rejection.

In that moment, you were transported back to another time, a fleeting memory of innocence—of the boy who had fled from the ignoble raucousness of a brothel, a shadow of the boy who once sought solace in your presence. You nodded, and the words flowed freely, tenderly, "Of course."

Yet, unease lingered in the air, evident in the way he fidgeted, lost amidst his thoughts. So slowly, you knelt before him, taking his leather boots in your hands, gently easing them from his feet. He remained poised on the edge of the bed, lost in his struggles. Next, you reached for his finely crafted doublet, peeling away the layers that held the weight of his distress. He remained clad only in his trousers and a simple cotton shirt, the stark contrast highlighting the tension etched into his features.

Your fingers found their way to his tousled hair, and with a tender caress, you could sense him leaning into your touch, a semblance of solace in the storm raging within him. But when your hand drifted towards the eyepatch concealing his scar, he recoiled instinctively, shaking his head as if to banish the very thought.

“Please, Aemond,” you urged softly, noting the flicker of resistance in his eye. “Remove it; it cannot be comfortable.”

His response was a stubborn shake of his head, reminiscent of a petulant child, “No, it is… hideous. You will turn away from me, repulsed.”

A sorrowful smile etched across your face as you cupped his cheek. Your thumb traced the remnants of his scar. “I have seen your truth before, Aemond,” you promised, sincerity tethering your words. “I swear on my mother's grave, it will not scare me.”

There was a moment of taut apprehension, then, led by both fear and a flicker of hope, he slowly lifted the eyepatch. You fought against the shock that threatened to break through your calm facade, for nestled where an eye once was, a sapphire gleamed—brighter than the sky itself. It was an iridescent gem, the very one you had gifted him just before you had left.

Slowly, you led him with great care to lie beneath the sanctuary of your blankets, cocooned in the warmth of your bed. After a moment's pause, you nestled beside him, drawing him close to your chest, his face instinctively burying itself in the curve of your neck, your arms enveloping him in a protective embrace.

After a time, Aemond's voice broke the silence, a mere whisper against your collarbone. "Do you hate me?"

A heavy sigh escaped your lips, your grip tightening around him. “I could never hate you, Aemond.”

He offered no reply, but the silence spoke volumes as you held him resolutely, the weight of his unspoken thoughts pressing down upon both of you. In that moment, it felt almost surreal, how intimately connected you were to his emotions.

Gently, you began to hum, your voice weaving through the stillness like a soft breeze. The lullaby your mother once sang to you, a sweet melody birthed in the warmth of her embrace, flowed from your lips as if casting a spell of solace.

You wished, with every fiber of your being, to take all his sorrows and put it upon yourself, so he might find peace at last. You longed to envelop him fully, to draw him into the depths of your heart, to safeguard him from the malevolence and peril that lingered just beyond your chambers.

Aemond Targaryen loathed this wretched place, the shadowed halls of King's Landing, where the very stones seemed steeped in whispered betrayals and the lingering scent of ash. The oppressive weight of recent events pressed upon him like a heavy cloak; the death of Lucerys Velaryon hung in the air, suffocating him with its bitter aftermath. His beloved mother, Queen Alicent, having made her choice, had cast him aside, suspending him from his seat on the small council as if he were some wayward pup rather than the proud dragon prince he was.

Now, as the flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows upon the walls, Aemond found himself trapped within a feast thrown by Aegon — a disgraceful celebration in honor of Aemond’s brutal deed. The hall was alive with the raucous laughter of lords and ladies feigning joy, their revelry a cruel mockery of the bloodshed that had transpired. How could they toast to this, when the realm itself was a tapestry of grief and strife?

Aegon, reeking of wine and folly, reclined upon his gilded seat, a silver goblet clutched in his hand as he guffawed with a drunken abandon that made Aemond’s skin crawl. With each passing moment, the king grew more intoxicated, rejoicing in his own foolishness while the kingdom itself threatened to unravel under the weight of his incompetence. Aemond could hardly bear to watch. How could they hope to usurp Rhaenyra and her support when Aegon was unfit to rule, lost in a haze of mead and merriment whilst the fires of war devoured their domain?

As the raucous clamor swirled around him, Aemond's thoughts turned treasonous. He was the prince with blood of the dragon coursing through his veins, rider of Vhagar, the mightiest dragon in the skies; he had wrested mastery over sword and word alike. His studies had taken him deep into the philosophies of Targaryen history, strategy, and the art of war — all knowledge he wielded like the sword strapped to his side. Why must he remain the second son, languishing in the shadow of a brother who was more a child than a king?

The Grand Hall was stifling, heavy with the clamor of lords and ladies engaged in mindless revelry, their laughter slicing through the air like blades of Valyrian steel. The goblet of deep red Dornish wine— he had forced down his throat—now boiled in his stomach. He stood abruptly, ignoring the wary glances of curious courtiers, and stormed toward the moonlit balcony, pursued by a dread that felt all-consuming.

Upon stepping into the cool night air his breath hitched in his throat as his gaze fell upon you. There you stood, framed by moonlight, leaning against the aged stone balustrade of the balcony as you gazed at the stars above. In that moment, the world around him faded, the cacophony of the court silenced, as if the realm had been reduced to just the two of you—two souls adrift in the sea of night.

The moon cast a silver halo around you, illuminating your features as though the Seven themselves had blessed you. You appeared ethereal, a vision of solace amidst the tempest of his thoughts. You were an otherworldly being, a divine presence—you reminded Aemond of an angel gazing longingly at her heavenly home.

You wore a divine gown of crimson, its fabric clinging to your curves and accentuating your remarkable beauty, stirring memories of the first time he had beheld you in childhood innocence. Your hair was artfully braided, interwoven among the strands were glimmering rubies, and nestled between your breasts hung a necklace bearing your family’s sigil, a house still entirely foreign to him.

The last time his path had crossed yours was after the wretched deed had been done—when he had barged into your chambers, a storm of pain and regret in his heart after slaying Lucerys Velaryon. You had held him tight, drawing him into the warmth of your embrace, while your gentle whispers—sweet reassurances—had washed over him, as soothing as a dragon’s breath on a winter’s night. He recalled the way you had traced fingers through his hair, the delicate caress of your breath against his skin, and how he had surrendered to your comfort.

When dawn had broken and shadows had retreated, he woke before you, overwhelmed by that precious moment, and with the lingering scent of lavender and warmth still clinging to him. He had kissed your forehead tenderly and slipped away, haunted by what he had done and striving to shield you from the darkness that threatened to engulf you both.

"Are you not enjoying the feast?" Aemond murmured, his voice a soft cadence as he moved closer to you.

You turned, meeting his gaze with a fierce intensity. "Am I meant to revel in a celebration held in honor of someone's death?" With a sharp breath, you averted your gaze, a flicker of regret crossing your features. "Forgive me."

Aemond’s eyes remained locked on you, the truth like a weight upon his heart—he had taken Lucerys' life, a shadow he must now bear. “You speak only the truth,” he admitted, the gravity of his words mingling with the cool night air.

You shook your head slowly, those captivating eyes piercing through the veil of his turmoil. “It is Aegon’s folly to throw such a feast given the circumstances,” you replied, your tone laced with a mix of frustration and sorrow.

Aemond couldn't suppress the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth at your disdain for his brother's decision. "You tread upon treasonous ground," he teased, though there was an undercurrent of approval in his tone

With a resolute lift of your chin, an unbidden smile danced upon your lips, illuminating your beauty, "Do you intend to tell?"

In that charged moment, Aemond closed the distance between you, the space that once separated you now laden with tension. He leaned closer, whispering with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine, "You know I shall never."

With a soft sigh, you began to turn away, “I think I shall retire to my chambers now.” Aemond feigned indifference, though he struggled against the urge to let out an exasperated breath at your obvious attempt to distance yourself from him.

“Then I shall escort you,” he declared, a hint of determination flaring in his violet gaze. He noticed the way annoyance shadowed your features but sensed no protest forthcoming.

The two of you slipped away from the feast, indifferent to the lingering glances that followed your hasty exit. Festive laughter faded into the background as you walked side by side through the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep,

As you walked side by side, silence hung heavily between you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of your dress against the stone floor. Aemond cast furtive glances in your direction, grappling with the right words to breach the gap between you. The tension was palpable, and eventually, he settled on candor. “I wish to know more about you."

“Aemond,” you replied, and he could detect the undercurrent of hesitation in your tone as you reached your room.

With a sudden, almost frantic motion, Aemond pivoted to face you, his fingers brushing against your forearm, a firm yet gentle grip that sent a shiver down your spine. “Why do you persist in keeping yourself at a distance from me? You are like an angel I am forever barred from touching,” he implored, desperation edging his voice.

You yanked your arm away from him, your gaze fierce, betraying no hint of the storm brewing inside. “You must not perceive me in such a way! I am not the paragon of virtue you think I am.”

“Then share something,” Aemond pressed, his violet eye locking onto yours with an intensity that threatened to unravel your resolve. “Something dark, something impure.”

You scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “Is that what you seek? So you can soothe your own conscience?”

“Perhaps,” Aemond admitted with unvarnished honesty. He was, after all, a man well aware of his own self-serving tendencies, and he would not shy away from using emotional manipulation to achieve his desires. “But if you hold any affection for me, you will grant me this.”

Your eyes blazed with righteous indignation, and for a fleeting moment, he questioned if he had ventured too far. Yet, as the heat in your gaze began to dim, he felt an uneasy tension settle in the silence.

You drew your arms around yourself, a familiar gesture that he now observed closely. Your gaze fell away as you began to speak, “The Targaryens... Your customs are indeed strange. Some might even call them sinful or abominable. Yet there exists a rationale behind them, no matter how obscure.”

“There can be no justifiable reason for my desires,” you whispered, Aemond's brow furrowed in confusion as he sensed the shift in your tone. But when the next revelation slipped from your lips, it left him reeling with disbelief. “I once harbored unnatural feelings for my eldest brother.”

A surge of jealousy twisted in Aemond's chest at the mere thought of you harboring feelings for another. He cleared his throat, the taste of bile rising, and asked, "Did anything come of it?"

"A fleeting kiss—one I initiated. He loathed me for it thereafter," you murmured, your gaze falling to the ground in shame.

A grimace contorted Aemond’s features. "Loathed you?"

"He could scarcely bear to look upon me after that moment," you replied, your voice heavy with sorrow. Aemond felt a visceral urge to take vengeance upon your brother, to avenge the hurt he had caused you. "That was the moment I realized I had lost the only one who truly loved me."

"I recall you speaking of your mother’s grave," Aemond said softly.

You nodded, a glimmer of sorrow passing over your face. "She is gone," you said, and a bittersweet smile flickered briefly. "And I dare say, my family may be worse than yours."

Aemond shook his head with an amused glint dancing in his violet eye. “Impossible,” he replied, the word rolling off his tongue like the soft murmur of waves against the rocky shore. Then, in softer tones, he pressed, “Do you still harbor affections for your brother?”

“No,” you murmured, the admission barely escaping your lips, “Not anymore. Not for ages.”

Aemond studied your features, the interplay of moonlight illuminating the subtle lines of your face. A low chuckle escaped him, like the rustle of leaves in a breeze. Your brow furrowed, an indignant spark igniting within you. “What?"

“A mere infatuation does not alter the truth of my feelings, nor my perception of you,” he said with an air of certainty, the tension between you thickening as he took a step closer, almost as if the distance between your hearts diminished with every passing heartbeat.

“Then you must be a fool,” you whispered, breathless and yet emboldened, as his presence encroached upon you like the tide reclaiming the shore.

“A lovesick fool, indeed,” he replied, his lips tantalizingly close to yours, a mere heartbeat away. The memory of your last kiss flared in your mind— so in that fleeting silence, Aemond’s voice lowered, almost reverent. “May I kiss you?”

He could see the tempest of emotions raging within you, wrestling against reason and desire, your heart at war with itself. Aemond, sensing your internal struggle, began to withdraw, the flicker of disappointment clouding his striking features, but in a sudden rush of bold resolve, you seized the collar of his embroidered doublet, drawing him close, your lips colliding in a swift, fervent embrace.

His breath hitched at the warmth of your touch, and he instinctively cupped your face, anchoring you both in this stolen moment as if the world around you had ceased to exist. Tentatively, his tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entry, a question hanging palpably in the air—one you answered with the soft, desperate parting of your mouth.

Aemond’s heart raced, a primal longing igniting within him as he explored the depths of your mouth, each caress of his tongue inviting a sweet sound of pleasure to escape from you—a sound that intoxicated him, filling the air with a heady blend of passion and unanswered yearnings.

In that dimly lit hallway of the Red Keep, time lost its meaning, turning to mere whispers around you. The world outside faded, and all that remained was the intoxicating exchange of breath and soul, each sweet caress a vow sealed in secrecy and yearning. But the moment was fleeting; the distant sound of approaching footsteps pulled you both back to reality.

Without hesitation, Aemond seized your hand, urgency painting his every movement as he pulled you into the sanctuary of your chambers. You could not stifle the startled gasp that escaped your lips at his haste. Before you could utter a word, his mouth found yours again, this time with a fervor that struck like wildfire. It was wild and fervent, a collision of passion tinged with desperation.

He broke the kiss, his breath mingling with yours, heavy and frantic. "I need you," he murmured, his gaze dark and intense, searching your face for any trace of doubt.

But all resolve melted away in the warmth of his presence, and you nodded quickly, breathless and eager. "Take me, Aemond."

Though reason whispered for him to temper his passion, to shield you from the storm he bore and not taint your innocence, the dragon's need screamed louder still. His lips found yours once more, his hands exploring the fabric of your gown, tracing the soft curves beneath the layers of silk and lace.

A soft whimper escaped your throat, the sound intoxicating him as it echoed in the chamber. You tugged at his doublet, your voice a barely contained plea, “Get this dress off me, Aemond.”

A wild grin spread across his features, the kind that promised mischief and fervor. “With pleasure,” he declared, the words a fervent vow rather than mere amusement. In a swift motion, he spun you around, deftly severing the laces that bound your dress. You gasped as the fine fabric slid away, pooling at your feet, leaving you clad only in a tantalizing shift that clung to your form like mist in the moonlight.

Without hesitation, Aemond gathered you into his arms, your surprised laughter ringing like bells in his ears as your legs instinctively locked around his waist. He carried you with ease, the weight of expectations and honor forgotten in that moment as he made his way to your bed.

He laid you down gently, his gaze a blend of fierce devotion and raw desire, like a dragon surveying its treasured hoard, and he leaned closer, whispering a question that weighed heavily on his mind. “Tell me, sweetling,” he began, his voice a low rasp, “are you still a maiden?”

You nodded, your wide eyes sparkling with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The confirmation sent a bolt of need through him, further arousing him as he hastily shed his own garments, baring himself to you. He crawled over you, a predatory grace to his movements, and as you reached out to caress his face, he halted, your touch grounding him.

"I wish to see all of you, Aemond," you whispered.

His lips twitched with a mixture of hesitation and determination. With a deft movement, he removed his eye patch, exposing his scar and sapphire. In response to his bravery, you leaned forward, claiming his mouth once more, the warmth of your kiss wrapping around him like wildfire.

As his lips trailed away from yours, they descended to your neck—his warm breath sending shivers cascading down your spine. His hands roamed freely over your body, caressing and squeezing as if memorizing every curve. His fingers brushed against the hem of your shift, lifting the fabric with deliberate slowness, savoring the moment.

As his hand ventured beneath the fabric, his fingers brushed against the delicate curls of your mound, a low moan escaping your lips, raw and unbidden. "What treasure lies hidden here? Hmm?" he murmured against your skin, his voice low and intoxicating.

His smirk deepened as your hips instinctively lifted, surrendering to the ghostly touch of his fingertips gliding over your wet slit. In a moment of tantalizing tension, he withdrew slightly, seated back as he used two fingers to part your folds, exposing your glistening cunt to his keen gaze.

He was captivated by the sight—your essence glistening, beckoning him forth like a siren’s call across the sea. His breath hitched as he lowered himself, savoring the intoxicating scent that wafted from your cunt; it was a heady blend of desire and vulnerability. With a swift flick of his tongue, he brushed over the tender bud of pleasure, eliciting a startled gasp from your lips as your hips jerked in delightful shock.

Aemond’s dark laughter rumbled softly in his chest, a sound that resonated with satisfaction at your response. He ventured further, dipping into the folds of your drenched warmth, his tongue dancing along your slit as if tasting the sweetest of wines. Each movement of his mouth sent shockwaves of ecstasy through you, prompting your fingers to clutch at the silk sheets in desperate need of tethering.

You were ambrosia made flesh, a divine fruit of the gods that rendered him intoxicated with longing. He lost himself in the act, the rhythm of his tongue reflecting the primal hunger within him, driving him to worship at your altar without restraint or decorum. There was no pattern in his movements, merely the frantic need of a man raised in the crucible of ambition, now reduced to a ravenous beast by your taste.

His low moans vibrated against your skin as your fingers tangled in his silken hair, urging him closer, deeper. Each sound that escaped your lips heightened his fervor, sending him spiraling further into a haze of lust, where only the two of you existed.

He thrust his tongue deeper, igniting fires within you that threatened to consume all sense. A tremor raced through your body, a shuddering gasp escaping as his tongue flicked over your most sensitive peak. The intensity of the moment left him breathless with longing as he stole glances at your rapturous face, seeking the delight in your face as he skillfully coaxed you towards the precipice of ecstasy.

In one final surge of fervor, he took your pearl between his lips, sucking with fervent need. Your voice rang through the air, calling his name like a battle cry as your release washed over you, your body clenching and shuddering beneath his eager mouth, leaving him lost in the euphoria of your pleasure.

Spent and quaking, you fell back onto the sheets, your chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut as the final ripples of ecstasy coursed through you. Aemond watched you with an entranced intensity, his lustful gaze drinking in the sight of your debauchery, before he positioned himself between your thighs, claiming his rightful place.

With a swift, possessive motion, he grasped the neckline of your shift, ripping the fabric asunder with a growl that echoed his primal desire. The cool air met your flushed skin, and a fresh wave of longing washed over you, eliciting a soft moan as your hardened nipples strained against the chill. Aemond, unable to resist, descended upon you, drawing one of your peaks into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, relishing the way your whimpers filled the air. He felt your fingers weave into his silken hair, tugging him closer, urging him on with your breathless pleas.

He reveled in the contrast of your previously cool skin, now warming deliciously beneath him, the heat of your body igniting a primal fire within him. He pressed his hardness against your lower belly, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through both. “I could be so good to you,” he murmured, his voice low and sultry as he nipped at your shoulder, “So fucking good. So why do you deny the need that lies between us?"

Your breath hitched, interrupted by a soft moan as he pressed against you with deliberate intent. “I do,” you gasped, desire flaring within you as his cock pressed against your pearl. “I do need you.”

“As I need you, sweet girl,” Aemond murmured, a predatory glint in his eye as he continued to grind against you. Though he was no man of debauchery, the fiery knowledge instilled by whispered secrets and that one fleeting encounter coursed through him.

You responded to his movements with an intoxicating sigh, rocking your hips to match his rhythm, a melody of desire unfolding between them. Aemond’s breath caught as he pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, and with a slow, deliberate thrust, he breached the sacred barrier that had kept the two of you at bay. A yelp escaped you, sharp and sweet, and he immediately softened, pressing featherlight kisses across your face, murmuring apologies as he reveled in your warmth.

Gripping your hip with a fierce intensity, he drew a sharp breath through his teeth as he buried himself deeper, engulfed in the sensations of your tight, welcoming embrace. You were exquisite—so wet, so warm, so perfectly crafted for him. Aemond began at a measured pace, savoring the glide of his cock within you, the exquisite stretch as you enveloped him, but the fire within quickly ignited into an unquenchable blaze.

Once he'd found a rhythm, he succumbed to the recklessness of desire, thrusting with urgency, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing in the chamber, a rhythmic drumbeat of passion. His hips snapped against yours with fervor, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure cascading through both of you, an unravelling of control as he sought to claim you in the way that dragons claim their territory.

Your moans echoed within the room, each sound a sweet melody, a heady mixture of fervor and abandon that filled the space with a primal energy. You had long since discarded any pretense of modesty, your voice rising like a songbird caught in a storm. His name spilled from your lips, fervent and loaded with longing.

With an urgency born from need, you surrendered yourself to him, your touch igniting a fire along his torso as your hands freely roamed, fingers tracing the hard lines of his muscles. You clung to him, wrapping your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his with reckless abandon. Your lips found the curve of his neck, the warmth of your breath a tempting promise. There was a strange thrill to your bite, and Aemond swore your teeth felt unusually sharp, as you nibbled delicately at his skin.

Yet even in the throes of ecstasy, an insatiable hunger gnawed at him, a need for greater possession. He withdrew slightly, capturing your gaze with his own smoldering gaze. His hand gripped the delicate expanse of your throat, sturdy yet tender, while his other found purchase on your stomach, fingers pressing into your soft skin. “You are mine,” he growled, the primal command taking on a life of its own as he increased the fervor of his thrusts. “Say it.”

The intensity of his possession ignited a fire within you; you instinctively pressed against his hand, urging him to hold you more tightly, to claim you wholly. “Yours,” you breathed, “all yours.”

“Good girl,” he groaned, the phrase rolling off his tongue like a hot brand onto your skin. Your body responded eagerly to his words, an electric shiver rippling through you as you arched your back, another desperate whimper escaping your lips.

It was not long before the dam broke, your body convulsing around him, the tension unfurling like the petals of a flower awakened by the sun. Your breath hitched in a final, breathless moan, and in that moment of exquisite surrender, you tightened your grip around him, pulling him deeper into the abyss of pleasure. And with a primal roar of ecstasy, he followed you into that dark, consuming void, painting your insides with his seed.

@barnes70stark @izabell26 @urdeftonesgrrrl @helo1281917 @strangefunthornqueen @hueanhdang @elenapri0502 @goest-and-fuckest-thyself-blog @caged-birdies-blog @lenavonswartzschild @writtenbyhollywood @gl4ssw1ngp1xy @goddesslilithmoriarty @filmflux @esposadomd @littybeech @gyneve @https-kokomi @void21 @baby-w3-ar3-infinite @baby-i-can-see-your-reylo

As the last waves of pleasure subsided, your smile glimmered like the stars beyond the castle walls. Reaching out, you traced your fingers along his jaw, drawing him back into a kiss that spoke of unbridled passion and afterglow—a sigh of contentment escaping your lips as you two joined once more.

[fangdokja]

Rivals, fanboys, and haters all agree: your fanfic is a masterpiece… in the worst way.

♡ Yandere! Stardom x Fem. Reader. Fanboy, Producer, Rival, Hater

♡ Word Count. 494

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who has dedicated his life to success, power, and the complete monopolization of your existence. Who is, by all means, an untouchable CEO, a name that inspires fear and admiration alike—except behind closed doors, he’s the most dedicated, sleep-deprived, and utterly deranged fan of you to have ever existed.

♡ Yandere! Fanboy who owns every single piece of merchandise, every illegally obtained behind-the-scenes clip, every audition tape, and an archive of interviews that not even your own company has access to. Who can quote your lines better than you can, analyze your performances with the depth of a seasoned scholar dissecting philosophy, and who has, in his spare time, written a multi-chapter, 500k-word slow-burn angst fic of you that is currently the number one trending fic on AO3.

♡ Yandere! Producer who absolutely loathes fanfiction. Who has spent years perfecting your brand, crafting your public persona, and micromanaging your every move only to find out that some hormonal keyboard warrior had the audacity to make you submissive in a fic. Who is two seconds away from tracking the IP addresses of these degenerates and making sure they never write a single word again.

♡ Yandere! Rival who finds it hilarious. Who screenshots the most ridiculous fics and sends them to you at 3 AM with messages like "LMAO THIS U?" Who has no shame and will absolutely read smut aloud to your face just to watch you suffer. Who, after discovering Yandere! Fanboy’s fic, has immediately made it his mission to ruin his life by reading it in the most obnoxious voice possible.

♡ Yandere! Hater who pretends he doesn’t care. Who sneers and calls it cringe but has, in reality, read every single one of them and even left anonymous comments because he needs to correct these brain-dead interpretations of your character. Who treats it like a full-time job, dissecting each fic, criticizing bad dialogue, and complaining when a writer gets your personality wrong. Who definitely had an aneurysm when he found out Yandere! Fanboy wrote the number one fic.

────────────

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth , @elloredef , @mjsjshhd , @lem-hhn , @yuki-istired , @lilyalone , @starryperson , @yandreams-storageblog , @tiffyisme3760 , @songbirdgardensworld , @yune1337

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology ♡ Book 2. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. ♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World. ♡ Book 4 [you are here]. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. ♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams. ♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Disclaimer. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution—these tales explore obsession, madness, and devotion in their rawest forms.

[queenendless]

♡♥︎ STANDING NEXT TO YOU ♥︎♡

A/n: Yall ... when you meet the guy that voices THE Sung Jinwoo, your admiration and affection becomes a full blown one sided infatuation that leaves you all messed up inside. So writing really helps vent out those entangled emotions. And I know for a fact I'm not the only one that does this so no shaming down below yall pls n thnx.

Pairing: 25 yr old Sung Jinwoo x 27 yr old Fem!Reader

CW: 21+ MATURE CONTENT INVOLVED. Outdoor smut, some degradation, possessiveness, established relationship, and use of Korean terms.

DON'T REPOST, TRANSLATE, PLAGARIZE, COPY, EDIT MY FANFIC WORK. RATHER REBLOG LIKE AND FOLLOW PLS N THNX.

Sorry for the late post but HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY~!

Nae Sarang — my love

Bogo Sipeun — Miss you

Jagi – baby or sweetie between couples

Sarangkkun — a lover or someone affectionate

Banjjak – other half/significant other

Naui Haneul — my sky/someone who encompasses your world

Naui Bit – my light/clarity and joy

Naui Cheonguk – my heaven/make life blissful

Gijeok – miracle in your life

The dipping weight beside you on the bed stirs you up slightly.

Velvety lips decorating your face helped pull you along further.

The low purring lull of your name in your ear by that oh so familiar voice got your heart aching, racing, seeking solace in that comfort. Enough to where you hummed as your tired eyes opened to the shadows with daylight sneaking in through the gap of your dark curtains, highlighting the pair of amorous light grey gazing intensely at you from above.

“Good morning, nae sarang.”

That encompassing form of Sung Jinwoo melted against your smaller form, submerging you in the faint scent of his earthy smoky cologne ingrained in his clothes. Your hands paw at his back, serving as an anchor to help pull you both closer.

“Bogo sipeun.” You murmur against his addicting lips, feeling him smiling, hearing his deep hum, when his elbows were sinking deep on both sides of your pillow, weaving those lithe fingers through your hair, cradling your noggin as the new tilted angle gave him the chance for his tongue to dip right on in. The creamy taste of coffee filled your mouth, bringing pleased hums at the forefront.

“You're learning well.” He crooned. Your Korean was still a work in progress, yet your cheeks burned deliciously nonetheless, earning you tender pecks to both of them when he finally pulled away. “I made you breakfast.”

He patiently waited for you to sit up enough before he carefully set down the loaded tray from your nightstand to your lap, all your favorites presented pristinely. “I'm supposed to be gift giving today, not the other way around.” You murmured, rubbing your eyes, when his sneaky suckling mouth latched onto your neck, making you giggle at the ticklish sensation.

“I know … but worshipping you is my year long holiday.” He grinned seeing the nice mark he left on your skin. “Now, would you rather I feed you myself? Because we have a long day planned out.”

You grabbed his scarred left hand, nuzzling your cheek along his warm rough palm, smittently smooching all over those permanent burn marks, cradling that weary damaged hand as an extension of your lifeline to the man before you.

His thumb instinctively brushed your bottom lip, when those e/c eyes fluttered up in that entranced sense that spurned his inner beast on. “What do you think, sarangkkun~?”

The many glowing violet eyes of the Shadow army widened from the trembles coming their way as their master growled hungrily against your neck, leaving a possessive bite on your collarbone, you squeezing his scarred hand sending a jolt of painful pleasure through his limb.

“Careful jagi. Come tonight … I'll make sure we both have our fill … I promise you~”

Despite those words full of dark anticipation, you were astounded at how you were able to eat after that. Then again, feeling his burnt hand brushing your skin as it cupped your cheek felt too nice to let go of, your pretty flustered face locked onto his calm, smiling one that wouldn't let up on giving you butterflies, your heart pounding in painful pleasure itself.

After that, freshening up and getting dressed for the day felt like quite the tizzy with the enriching laugh he left you with as he took the emptied tray to wash, still rattling in your eardrums.

A day out in the bustling Korean city awaited you.

Many eyes on you, full of couples and singles mesmerized by the presence of the 10th S ranked hunter in the country walking through the decorated streets, displays of hearts and flowers keeping the theme of the worldwide holiday apparent to all. His arm hugged around your waist with his gloved hand squeezing your hip tightly, face neutral but senses alert in case anyone dares try anything, hence him claiming you for all to see. Your hand overlayed his own, squeezing him gently released his tensed nerves, if only for a reprieve.

However, aside from the usual fan greetings and words of thanks for all his hard work as a hunter protecting their country, it was smooth sailing.

While the norm was chocolate gift giving, you were given a shopping spree. Your attempts at refuting such a generous offer was silenced by Jinwoo's many insistent kisses.

“You're impossible.” Your mumbling recession at just going along with it as you spun about in oh so many new clothes that caught your eyes, fashionable and comfy, as he lounged in the cozy waiting chair with crossed legs, reminding you of the sight of the Monarch posed in his throne, infatuated with the sight of you getting more lovely with every outfit you tried on.

“And you're breathtaking. Remember that.”

“I still can't help but feel deep down that I don't deserve any of this. That you chose me out of everyone else … even someone of your age like Cha Hae-In.” Twiddling with your hands did little to push down the doubts.

Humming deeply, he squeezed your shoulders supportively, startling you right out of your skin. “Age is just a number, though.”

His chin rested atop your head, stubbornness reflected back at you from the body length mirror in the private dressing room, wolfishly grinning.

“You're more than enough for me. You've always been."

Your docile face turned around enough, angling just right to land an appreciative peck on his cheek; your newly bought lipstick decorating his cheek, crinkling as he chuckled.

Anxious awkward nerves rattled you as you two ate out next. The high class restaurant overlooking the buzzing plaza, the late afternoon highlighting the city skyline and beyond. His other, bare hand squeezed your other hand across the table, reminding you you weren't alone.

“Sorry. You went to the trouble of booking this place for us and I'm dampening the mood.”

“Don't be. I know being out and about is a lot for you to take in. If you want, we can go someplace less … grand.”

“No. I want to stay. We have the place to ourselves after all, my gijeok.”

You gasp at seeing him pull something hidden away in his shadow, presenting a bouquet of variety flowers to you with that charming smile of his. “For you, naui bit.”

Accepting the flowers with gratitude, his foot slyly brushing yours had you biting your lip, his silver eyes darkening at the display. Your bashful return of it had you two playing footsie underneath the clothed table, your nerves settling down as you clink your filled glasses in a toast, drinking before settling in for your late lunch meal. And yes, you ordered more than enough to have leftovers for later.

Any and every gaze sent your way from any passerby after was overpowered by the penetrating stare, scent and strength of the strapping man claimed as yours.

The rare chance you had while traversing through the busy market was when Jinwoo was sought out by some kids turned fans of his, able to slip away to buy from a booth selling velvet boxes and bags filled with your intended gift to him from the start.

The curious raised brow look thrown your way when you returned to his side had your insides doing flips, but he stayed silent, his arm returning to pin you right by his side.

However, the moment he led you both back to his parked car and got in with your bags, his very shadow engulfed you both, clinging onto him from impulse at this twist.

The whipping airs of the chilling darkness dissipate as fast as they appeared when you arrived at a new destination.

Whether it was an actual spot in the real world or you were in another reality altogether, you were speechless, getting out of the car to take in the view. The outdoor pool of shimmering waters teeming with such a mana esque aura mesmerized you at first sight. The surrounding flora and fauna were all in cool shades of violets. The full moon rays casting its highlights among the shadows.

“I recently discovered this place during my travels. Figured it'd be a nice final stop for today. Think of it like our own personal mineral bath. The healing properties are quite rejuvenating. Can't do much for this hand, though.” Him flexing said covered limb with gloom overtaking his face at the sheer memory of it.

Being the one to give his hand a reassuring squeeze brought a tint of pink to his cheeks. “Well, I love your hands, scars and all.” Your honest open emotion made the rest of his restraint finally crumble.

His hands enveloped your frame immediately, easily stripping you out of your attire, the merging of blue and purple mana undoing his own apparel for him, as he laid an onslaught right into your welcoming caverns.

Above and below.

Your senses heighten as the waters seeped into your body, bringing forth your desire in such palpable degrees. Tongues clash, sloppy smacking of lips devouring one another, and hands exploring as he leads you two into the sparkling oasis.

He leaned back against the edge of the lake, weaving a handful of your hair through his fingertips all to keep a grip, arrogantly admiring the view of you straddling his lap while making out with his pecs, practically chewing on them, teething on his perked up nipples, dragging his quavering groans and sighs right outta him, pride swelling within at you claiming him as yours. Your tongue scorched down to his six pack before giving them the same special treatment, his firm muscles flexing from how your sweet mouth created goosebumps along his canvas.

Tugging your hair insistently, you get smothered by his all encompassing mouth, easily lifting you up with one arm underneath your thighs just to get you hugging his slim waistline, raising you high, the moon casting you in its lunar blessing, crafting your vulnerable beauty to be Jinwoo's alone to cherish and ravish. The magic infused waters serve as a lubricant, luck working in his favor to have his veiny thickness getting slowly but surely into your already gushing gummy walls.

“Naui Cheonguk~” He moaned in the crook of your neck, greedy hickeys decorating your skin from your neck to your shoulder blades. Scratching his undercut had him rutting more feverishly, devouring your velvety boobs next.

Your wind swept head craned back, trained on the galaxy of stars painting the midnight sky, believing this place to be paradise itself, scorching rapture unraveling your very core brought forth by the marbled crafted adonis thrusting vigorously into your womb from below. “Naui Haneul … all mine.” His hefty pants hit your swollen marked breasts jiggling right in his face before suckling them like the starving animal that he is.

“Your cunt is sheer bliss. You relish being my cocksleeve, don't you? My touch starved whore? Filled to the brim, clenching on tightly, as I stuff up your needy quivering hole. Your horny cries won't let you deny it. Tell me, does your pussy love being on my cock?” Those half lidded eyes looked up at you, his nose nestled in the valley between your mounds, that all consuming gaze of his had you squirting harder along his shaft.

“Mmmh yes~! S – nngh – so m – aaah – so much~!”

“So sexually deprived, so touch starved, that you genuinely questioned if you were worthy to be by my side.” His hand fondled and smacked your rumbling peachy cheeks, leaving a faint handprint along one, thriving off your sharp moans as he fingered you between those cheeks in tune with his spread ravishing your insides upfront. “When these– aah – past few months – mmmh – have been – nngh – utter bliss~” His canine teeth pearly smiled up at you, licking those swollen lips. “I'll never let you go.”

His primal ferocity clashed with his sense of speaking through the electric rush coursing through his mana filled veins; literally popping out along those flexing biceps of his.

“Y/n … my wicked angel … you're mine.” That heavy, gruff tone his voice became, the predatory glare of those glowing blue irises had you clutching unbearably so. Raising you until only his tip stayed within, bringing you back down to take him in full.

“I love you, Jinwoo~! All of you~!” Your watered up eyes spilling trails of hot tears down that flushed face he adored so much had him kissing those tears away, licking away that salty goodness.

“Then come for me, love. ARISE.”

That word, in that deep low resonance, would make anyone bust hard. It reverberated straight to your bundle of nerves, clawing his back deeply, crashing down in blinding euphoria.

The white hot seige of his seed flooded through your gates straight after, his well endowed balls slapping you feverishly, unloading all that he had, his strangled moan cuffed to your breathless shrill cry. Rutting up savagely to chase that high with you, cum encircled his shaft, as streams of your juices spilled down your spasming thighs and his sturdy ones.

Yet one orgasmic rush wouldn't be enough to satiate the second Shadow Monarch, the absence of him through your folds, the rush of hot air giving you whiplash, as he got your upper body sinking in stomach first along the earth like ground, your fanny waving in the air, now filling your asshole to the brim with his coated schlong, the new angle got you mewling madly. The nasty squelching sounds he pounded into you stirred him back to semi erectness.

Clawing at the grass, leaving indents in the ground, arching your back against his soaked chest, his arm hugged your squirming waistline. His scarred hand abusingly rubbed your neglected clit, fisting right into your sensitively pulsing cunt, his other hand grasped your neck to force you to look right at his gorgeous, groaning self.

“I'll spend every waking moment, in this lifetime and the next, until you can feel and think of nothing else but my profound devotion to you, banjjak~” He was so damn close to edging over again.

Your orgasmic yell busted all over his jacked forearm, the trigger to him following suit, pulling right outta you just to witness himself ejaculating all over your backside.

Collapsing carefully and slowly atop you, these heaving bodies took their time to finally catch a breath, his hand releasing your neck to clasp your shoulder, your own face buried in your arms to rest if only in those moments.

His cream covered hand pulled out to your whining dismay. Tilting your head back, you obscenely watch him lewdly licking it clean, drops of semen dotting your drooling face with your tongue sticking out shamelessly. Another sloppy shower of smooches to clean up that breathtaking face of yours.

Igris, Iron, Tank and even Tusk were bashfully averting their eyes the whole time, laying out blankets for you two to sit upon, some to help clean you up, and others to drape yourselves in, before returning to their inky domain.

Helping you both out of the soiled waters, you sat on the already laid out blanket as Jinwoo cleaned you both up gingerly, tossing the soiled cloth aside then wrapped a new clean blanket big enough to cover you both, sharing body heat to battle the cool breeze arriving.

“So,” A mini shadow creature popped out from the side to deliver your bought gift straight to Jinwoo's awaiting hand, slinking back to join its comrades. “How's about sharing this with me, you sneaky little minx~?”

The next half hour was spent in each other’s arms, feeding each other chocolate covered strawberries one at a time, resting your head against his shoulder, taking in the sounds of crickets and cicadas, relaxing in the calm night, exchanging cocoa berry tasting kisses.

“I love you too, Y/n. More than anything. I'm honored to be standing next to you.”

It would be another half hour until you two would dress back up and return to your plane of reality, straight to your shared abode to spend the rest of the night into the following morning conked out in bed.

For now, this is how you spend your Valentine's Day.

Together.

[heyitstam]

dr. robert chase x reader - the chase itself (smut)

hi guys :D i know i haven't posted in a while, but i recently asked a VERY good friend of mine to cook me a fanfic of this very beautiful man, and HE DELIVERED. like all out jaws on the floor type delivered. i love this man fr, so i'm posting it here with his permission. it's his first fanfic ever, and in my humble professional opinion he overdelivered - so have fun reading this beautiful smut fic of reader and dr. chase <3

I. Humble Beginnings

Taking place in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, New Jersey, you are a fairly new nurse who pursued a medical career in quite a common way. The way being that it was more so your parents’ wish for you to go to medical school than your own, but you don’t necessarily hate that fact; at least it gave you a direction, so to speak.

It’s early in the morning, so there’s not a whole lot going on. You went around doing your usual checkups already and what not, therefore you decide to go on your well deserved coffee break. However, right as you are are on that, and you step out of the cubicle you are in, you glance over to an unfamiliar face through an operating room.

Some would call it love at first sight, but it really is more than that. It’s the kind of tingly sensation no one could forget. It’s almost shameful, but you can’t be bothered by that feeling right now. As if you physically couldn’t take your eyes off of them, you lose all sense of purpose, standing there, unable to think. Suddenly, someone bumps into you, which wakes you up from your total amusement. You feel the need to know more, so as you squint your eyes, you can read their name off of the shirt they are wearing.

“Dr. Robert Chase..?  I need to.. have a talk with him. I just need to.” – you think to yourself, ponderingly.

You go back to working with a saturated mind, unable to concentrate.

II. The Chase Itself

As days go by, you’re quite hesitant to reach out to him, but you seriously feel the need to. Why is that, really, you ask yourself. You ache to even have a talk with him at this point, but you long for more. Way more. You can’t think of anything else.

After contemplating for a good while, you decide to ask around to know what time he gets off from work, since you want to surprise him at the last minute. That’s the only way you see that you could have a one-on-one with him anytime soon.

With that out the way, you now know everything you needed to know. The only thing that divides you from your desire is to actually act up on it, so you gather all your courage. You look at the time, and you’re actually pretty shocked how caught up you were thinking about him. If you don’t hurry then you’re going to miss him that day entirely, so you start sprinting.

You notice him as he is turning around the corner, all dressed up, ready to leave, and you stumble right into him.

“I need to tell you something inside, it’s.. it’s important, alright. And it might just take a while” – you tell him, struggling with your words. “Great. I was just about to leave, you know. Whatever, show me, I don’t have much time for this. Is it really that important?” – he answers abruptly, being quite impatient.

You suddenly catch a rush of excitement. This is all that you were planning for the past few days or so, to get close to him, and it looks like you’re on track.

III. An Uneasy Start

Chase swings open the door of the office he’s just been in, ushering you in and closing the door behind him, since there’s quite the commotion even late into the night, it’s a hospital after all. It’s dark inside, the only light sources being a dim lamp he accidentally left on and the Moon seeping through the closed blinds faintly. The room has a surgical bed, a cabinet behind it with all kinds of training supplies, a desk with an office chair and a hanger stand. He puts his white coat on the stand, then undoes his tie, putting it into his pants pocket in a really apathetic way, with most of it hanging out.

Seemingly being quite contempt with the situation, he sits down onto the office chair, facing you, and he seriously doesn’t look like he wants to be there.

As a last effort at trying to ease up the situation, you grab the glass of water that is sitting on the desk and you splash it at him, in a playful way.  Not surprisingly, this backfires, since he doesn’t seem too happy about, not in the slightest. He stands up from his desk and goes on to wipe off his shirt to make it slightly less messy, all without even muttering a word. You do feel pretty stupid for that.

With another attempt at getting his attention, you arousingly start to cut the strings off of a few upper buttons on your blouse with a surgical knife, as he turns back to you, giving him a snarky look.

“Was that really necessary? What was so important about any of this? Can we get to the damn point?” – he asks you with a loss of temper. “I might have lied about that important thing.” – you answer him not so bravely.

He's visibly frustrated at you, and with a change of demeanor, he stands up and is now closing distance between you in a rush, as you are backing up. He halts as he catches up to you, towering over you.

With both hands on your shoulders, clenching them hard, he asks you, in an almost belittling tone: “Is this what you wanted? “ “I don’t know, is it?” – you answer him in a pretty similar way.

Like the kind of tease you tend to be, you start gliding around your fingertip on his chest, which he.. seems to enjoy, and lets you do for a short while, for then to push you to the nearest wall.

IV. Lust

Fueled by lust, you immediately grab his chin and assertively start kissing him, which absolutely catches him off-guard. In reaction to the advancement on him, he forces your body onto his as he caresses your back. After this goes on for a bit, he grabs you by the thighs, lifts you up and tosses you onto the surgical table.

With your arms behind you, you’re sitting halfway up as your legs are pulled up. You lock eyes while he is still holding you by your thighs. He leans over, drags you closer and is now standing between your legs.

You clumsily unbutton Robert’s shirt, one by one. In contrast, he carelessly tears off a few more of your buttons, making the blouse slide off your shoulders, which then falls onto your lap, flustering you in the process.

He then puts a hand on your lower abdomen, which feels surprisingly soft, even though his hands are quite firm. Most notably, it’s warm. So warm in fact, you feel like you could melt into him, and you are all about that feeling. Starting from your thighs, continuing to your hips, he brushes his both his hands across all the way up to your chest in a painstakingly soft and throughout way, but at the same it’s quite the calm moment.

An intrigued nervousness starts to pile in you as he suddenly starts to unbuckle his belt, which was undoubtedly the loudest noise in the room so far. In the meantime, like the obedient girl you feel like you are, with each rattle, you can't wait to obey. As if you were a household maid, you’re more than ready to satisfy the head of the house, as if he shook a bell around.

He tosses aside his pants and boxers and you feel like you can’t catch up with your heavy heartbeats as he rests his rigid cock on your stomach. It all just feels so sudden, and it’s starting to grow on you in a pleasurable way. He goes onto removing your bra, while you’re simultaneously stroking him slowly and briefly, before he goes down on you again.

You can feel it throb against you, and it’s just as, if not hotter than his hand is, which he has below your stomach again. He needily grinds against you over and over, lifting your skirt up with it every time, and rubbing against your inner thighs.

He doesn’t wait around before removing your panties, which are drenched by this point, and neither does he wait to penetrate you, as he is inside you now.

“Maybe I did need this.. “ - you hear him talk out loud quietly.

At once, as he is slowly, but forcefully thrusting into you, you see him pulling out the tie out his pocket, which he puts around your neck now, instead of his own.

It’s tightened real well, and he’s gripping it by the base, close to your neck. In the meantime he’s constantly pulling on it upwards, as it’s digging into the back of your neck, scraping your chin against it’s band, making your head tilt backwards considerably. With every moan you make, he tightens more on it, leaving your neck all bruised up. As he is fucking you, you’re nails deep in the sheets. You can’t help yourself but feel pleasured.

As he’s starting to get rougher on you, you begin to develop second thoughts and try to resist him, but as you’re doing that, he immediately tugs you closer, rendering your attempt futile. As you look at him, he seems to be way too into this, as his eyes lose all focus and glare, and you can only watch as his control over himself fades, railing you without a care in the world. This creates even more neediness in you, as you cross your legs behind his back, clinging onto him.

You can barely even keep your eyes on him, and you’re not even resisting his pull on your neck anymore, so you fully commit into tilting you head back in joy. All this sexual fulfillment demands you to do so, as you are slipping out of control more by the second. You feel like you could finish at any time, and as he’s also getting close, he’s painfully grazing your stiff walls more and more, with your moans sounding pitifully more helpless.

Ejaculating with a quiet grunt, he blasts the majority into you, leaving two strings across all the way up your body, all for you to feel ecstatic about. You really do feel like you owned up to it with your services, as if it was his way of rewarding you. Not to forget about you, he pushes you over the edge too, as you’re desperately gripping his shoulders. No matter you could barely take a break after your climax, he leans closer over your stimulation filled shivering body, and goes for a deep passionate kiss. Not even bothered by the fact you are still desperately panting and gasping for air along with him.

V. Not So Aftercare

After standing up from the bed, he comfortably hugs you by your hips, to which you endearingly put your hands onto his. After romantically rocking you slightly around with his hug, he leaves his hands off of you to start dressing up. It’s getting quite late.

As he is about to button back his shirt, he looks at you still standing there, still looking a bit shocked from everything that happened so far. Deciding to help out, he steps besides you, getting your bra back from your bed, and putting it on you. He’s slowly buckling the back together, and you are simply just unable to look him in the eyes, since you're becoming increasingly shy in a sudden way, blushing like you never have before.

"You.. didn't have to, you know.." - you tell him in a higher pitch voice.

You really enjoy his care, it does fill you with joy. Then you reach out for your panties, but as you are pulling them up, he slides his hands under yours, taking the lead again, which surprises you even more. You are so overwhelmed with emotions at this point, you shake right into his hand as he pulls it all the way up, giving you a slight friendly chuckle, and blowing you a kiss right above the lining of your briefs, gaining him an immediate gasp from you. You're truly mesmerized by him.

He continues dressing himself, and as you calm down, you rush into his arms, facing his chest. He caresses and pets your face and head with one arm, for him to go onto groping your ass, and going down to your thighs. His hand lifts your skirt away from time to time, letting colder air in. After he finishes clothing up, he swings you to his other side and pushes you right to the desk.

“I need more of you. I need to feel you in more ways.” – he tells you with a shaky voice.

You almost even stumble, and with an utterly scared look on your face, you glance at him. Without precaution, he pushes you down onto the floor. You look down onto your legs. Your knees are together and your feet are far apart, completely side-tracking you. You even put your hands on your knees in a cute way, but as you lift your head, his cock gets into view, poking through his pants fly, which takes you aback.

Your first and immediate reaction is to press your lips all around him, kissing and licking his shaft as it pumps against your mouth. After growing tired and wanting more, he puts his thumb in your mouth, and with a few fingers latching onto your chin, he pushes downwards on your jaw. With closed eyes, you stick out your tongue, waiting for him to enter. He lets go off of his fingers from your face, following up with exactly what you expected. It feels way bigger than what you anticipated, leaving your mouth sore in the first minute, already. He’s being frantic with you, mouth fucking you without relent. You’re huffing for air as you whimper, but you aren’t getting any. You start to sob as he goes deeper down your throat. As you move your tongue in a swing like motion, from side to side, you circle the bottom of his shaft as he shoves himself in an out. You soak his cock with your saliva, blending with his precum. No matter how much of it you gulp down, It’s flowing out your mouth.

Resting his elbows and head above you on the desk, he looks down at the top of your head, as you suck him off. From the table, as he rocks you around, all kinds of documents fly off. Not that he cares, really.

Without even telling, he comes into your mouth, throbbing against your lips. You stomach it all as you look up to him, initiating eye contact, and smiling. After spewing out his cock, you grab it by the base and gently rub it off with a napkin. He pulls his zipper up, and kneels down. He parts your hair slightly and greets your forehead with a last smooch.

Looking back at you for the final time, he waves at you, winks in a mocking, yet sweet way and leaves though the door. You can only wish to meet soon in a similar fashion.

VI. Reflection

You’re at a loss of thoughts. He’s been so careful, yet so careless with you at the same time, and that’s just messing with your brain right now, so you lean your head against the desk, you close your eyes and give into the bliss once again.

Even after he left, you’re sitting in the dark, in the same position he left you in, with his tie still around your neck. You feel embarrassed, but you can’t help yourself as you take in the scent of his tie, pleasuring yourself through your clothes, while thinking about him. He has a hold on you, and you know that well.