#like i think it's the fact that i've known them for. going on ten years now i think

[cryolyst]

i knew they were an asshole but sometimes they do smth and i'm like. oh. right. you really are an asshole.

[trans-axolotl]

one of the reasons it's really hard for a lot of intersex people when intersex topics are on the news cycle is because the public's reaction reveals how little anyone knows or cares about intersex people, including people who call themselves our allies. almost every time intersex topics are trending, the discourse surrounding them is filled with misinformation. people who only learned today what the word intersex means jump into conversations and act like an authority. endosex/dyadic/perisex people get tripped up over things that are basically intersex 101, with tons of endosex people incorrectly arguing about the definition of intersex, who "counts," DSD terminology, and so much more. i've seen multiple endosex people say today that they've been "warning intersex people" and that we should have known that transphobia would catch up with us eventually, which is an absolutely absurd thing to say given the fact that consistently over the past ten years, it has often been intersex people sounding the alarm on sex-testing policies and also the fact that many, many intersex people are also trans, and already are facing the impacts of transphobia. there is an absolute failure from the general public to take intersex identity seriously; people seem not even able to fathom that intersex people have a community, history, and our own political resources. instead, endosex people somehow seem to think they're helping by bringing up half-remembered information from their high school biology class which usually isn't even relevant at all.

and this frustrates me so fucking much. not because i want to deny the impacts of transphobic oppression--i'm a trans intersex person, trust me when i say i am intimately aware of transphobia. this frustrates me because there is no way we can achieve collective liberation if our "allies" fail to even engage with basic intersex topics and are seemingly unaware of the many forms of intersex oppression that we are already facing every fucking day. if you are not aware of compulsory dyadism, if you are not aware of interphobia, if you are not aware of the many different ways that intersex people are directly and often violently targeted--how the fuck do you think we're going to dismantle all of these systems of oppression?

if you were truly an intersex ally, you would already KNOW that this is not new, and would not be surprised--interphobia in sports has been going on for decades. you would know that we do have a community, an identity, a history--you would have already read/listened/watched to intersex resources that give you the background information you need for allyship. you would know that although there is a really distinct lack of resources and political education, that intersex people ARE developing a political understanding of ourselves and our oppression--Cripping Intersex by Celeste Orr and their framework of compulsory dyadism is one example of how we're theorizing our oppression. It's absolutely fucking wild to me how few people I've seen actually use words like "interphobia" "intersexism" "compulsory dyadism" or "intersex oppression"--endosex people are seemingly incapable of recognizing that there is already an entrenched system of oppression towards intersex people that violently reshapes our bodies, restricts our autonomy, and attempts to eradicate intersex through a variety of medical and legal means.

you cannot treat intersex people like an afterthought. not just because we're meaningful parts of your community and deserving of solidarity, but also because intersex oppression impacts everyone!!! especially trans community--trans people will not be free until intersex people are free, so much of transphobia is shaped by compulsory dyadism, the mythical sex binary, all these ideas of enforced "biological sex" that are just as fake as the gender binary.

it makes me absolutely fucking livid every time this shit happens because it becomes so abundantly clear to me how little the average endosex person knows about intersex issues and also how little the average endosex person cares about changing that. i don't know what to say to get you to care, to get you to change that, but we fucking need it to happen and i, personally, am tired of constantly being grateful when i meet an endosex person who knows the bare minimum. i think we have a right to expect better and to demand that if you're going to call yourself our ally, you actually fucking listen to us when we tell you what that means.

okay for endosex people to reblog.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 HE'S THE SERPENTINE, HE'S MY COLLAR!

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: you're finally back in yokohama after spending three years abroad dealing with mori's foreign business. the last person you want is to see dazai osamu, the wounds of his abrupt betrayal still too fresh for comfort. unfortunately, he decides to take matters into his own hands by showing up at your office in the middle of the night.

(wordcount: 7.1k; ņsfw; fem!reader; port mafia executive!reader, f!receiving oral, gunplay, knife play (ish), spitting, pussy drunk!dazai (as always), light choking, overstim, office sex, semi-public/public sex, unprotected sex, switch!dazai, switch!reader, undertones of angst (happy ending). lmk if anything is missing!)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: guys. GUYS. i had so much fun writing this, this is finally usurping in paper rings and picture frames as my fav fic that i've written. HAHAHH. i hope you guys like it too!!

You hear the door to your office swing open, and you press your lips together tightly, irritation swimming through your head as your grip tightens on the pen you’re using to fill out your paperwork. It’s already late—you’re tired and your head hurts, but you can’t leave the building until Akutagawa comes to hand you the report for his failed mission so you can pass it up to the boss. And you know that whichever subordinate this is, it’s definitely not Akutagawa because the boy would rather claw his own throat out than walk into your office without knocking. 

Which means it’s some upstart new recruit who has no manners and is likely going to make your night worse. You think being away for so long did some real damage to your reputation—three years ago, the lower ranked mafiosos avoided your floor like the plague, they didn’t barge in like they owned the place, but then again, you also had a certain dark-haired executive (ex-executive now, you remind yourself bitterly) lurking around your floor constantly trying to get your attention, and if people weren’t nervous enough about you, they were definitely terrified of him.

“Five seconds to explain why you came into my office without knocking or I’m putting a bullet through your fucking skull,” you say, voice acerbic, not even bothering to look up, the fingers of your free hand closing around the gun you have holstered at your side. 

“There’s a few too many cameras in the hall for my liking to stand out there and wait for you to open the door.”

The fact that he manages to dodge the bullet shot in his direction is testament to his skill, but you’ve known Dazai Osamu long enough to know that when he dodges to the side, nine times out of ten, he dodges left, so you drop your pen as soon as you pull the trigger and swipe the knife laying haphazardly on your desk, launching it in his direction. You watch as his eyes widen just a bit when it impales the wall right next to his ear, just barely nicking his skin—both a warning and a threat.

“My, my, bella, you’ve gotten faster the past few years,” Dazai grins, unperturbed, smile as reckless and lazy as the day he left four years ago as he plucks the knife from the wall. “I’ve missed you too.”

“What the hell are you doing here, Dazai?” you ask, voice cold and sharp as your finger rests against the trigger of your gun. “How did you get up here?”

“Security’s gotten lax since I’ve been gone, I guess,” Dazai shrugs, but his eyes dance with mirth as he makes his way over to your desk. “You should probably do something about that.”

“Dazai,” you say, keeping your voice low and trying to reign in your temper. There are no cameras in your office, but the hall leading here is littered with them, hidden ones that were recently installed that he wouldn’t know about, if any one of them caught his face and it’s reported to Mori… “You think I won’t drag your ass to Mori myself? What the fuck are you doing?”

You’d have to, or it would be your head on the line for betraying the Port Mafia—you know better than anyone the treatment that traitors get, considering you were the one that dealt with them up until you were sent abroad three years ago to handle Mori’s foreign politics. 

“I don’t know, will you?” Dazai counters, head tilted to the side as he takes a seat on top of your desk next to you, a smile on his face that makes you think he knows something that you don’t.

“Maybe,” you answer, finger twitching on the trigger as you keep your gun pointed in his direction. 

Dazai is completely unbothered, leaning down until his nose is nearly brushing yours, lips tugged up in an unbearable smirk. 

“Then do it,” he challenges, and you glare at him, jaw tight and eyes hard. He reaches out, fingertips brushing your skin, and you feel like you’re on fire beneath his touch. You hate that your body still betrays you to him. “Don’t look at me like that, bella. I won’t even resist, I promise, as long as you promise to be the one to put a bullet through my skull, so your face can be the last thing I see. Ah, that would be a lovely death, wouldn’t it?” 

“You’re a fucking freak, Dazai,” you spit out, but make no move to get up or grab your phone. “What is wrong with you?”

Dazai doesn’t respond, only winking at you. Instead, his gaze shifts to the side and his hand drops from your face to his lap again. You hate even more that you miss his touch immediately. 

“You still have my couch,” Dazai notes to himself quietly, an odd tone to his voice as he stares at the dark couch in the far corner of your office, where he’d bundle himself up under blankets to avoid Chuuya, because Chuuya used to avoid your office like the plague when the three of you were younger.

“It’s my couch,” you say tightly, even though you know no one has touched it since Dazai left, and the ugly orange blanket he liked so much is still draped over the back of it, and it probably still smells like him. Your throat feels swollen, and you steel away your emotions and continue with, “I’ve hardly been back here since you left, anyway. What do you want, Dazai?”

“I heard you were finally back in Yokohama,” he says. “I wanted to see you.”

“Fuck off,” you say roughly. “So you decide to break into the main base of the Port Mafia and come all the way up to my office? You know where my apartment is, you could’ve shown up there. What do you really want?” 

“It’s the truth,” Dazai says easily, and his dark eyes meet yours—both of them, you note, and wonder when he decided to shed the bandages that covered his right eye. “I was at your apartment for a bit, I got impatient and came here instead.”

He’s telling the truth.

Oh, you realize—the clogged feeling in your throat is coming back, you force it away again and lean back in your chair, looking away from him to turn your gaze to the window. It’s well past midnight already, the moon is high in the sky and the stars are glittering above. In the distance, you can see the Ferris Wheel of Cosmo World glowing a bright purple color and a string of flashing red and blue lights as the police chase after someone.

“Why?” you ask finally, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the two of you. 

“I told you,” Dazai says quietly, and your eyes turn back to him. He looks… happier, you can’t help but note. A sick part of you feels jealous—you’re not sure if you’re jealous because he’s free and you’re still stuck in this place, or if you’re jealous because he’s happier and he’s happier in a life without you. You think it might be the latter. “I miss you.”

“Don’t give me bullshit, Dazai,” you snap, still trying to push away all of the feelings you’ve repressed for so long. “Get out of here before you find yourself killed. I’m not going to turn you in, but I’m not saving you if you get caught.”

“It’s not bullshit,” Dazai tells you, voice sharp in a way that it only ever is when he’s starting to get annoyed. “I-”

A knock at your door cuts Dazai off mid-sentence. Both of you freeze, Dazai looks at you as if waiting to see what you’re going to do, and you can so easily finish this now, let whoever is at your door in and drag Dazai back down to the torture room where he belongs, but instead you find yourself reaching for him. Your hand intertwines with his hair roughly, and you revel a bit in the hiss that escapes his lips as you yank him off the desk and roll your chair backward, kicking the back of his knee so that he crumples to the ground and you can push him beneath your desk. 

You lower your gun to your lap so you can keep it pointed at him and then glance down at him—he looks caught off-guard and disgruntled at being manhandled, but you think it's a bit funny how cramped he looks under there. 

“Not a single word,” you warn before fixing your chair and raising your voice. “Come in.”

Akutagawa wastes no time stepping into your office, nodding his head in respect as he makes his way over to the chair on the opposite side of your desk, a bundle of papers in hand. He doesn’t hand you the pile right away and he looks uncharacteristically nervous, and you raise your eyebrows, wondering what the issue is. 

“I am… unsure how to fill out some of the report,” Akutagawa says, unable to meet your eyes as he stares at the windows behind you. “The operation was… not a failure but not a success. The whole mission was in disarray, I do not know who was doing what at certain points.”

You stare at Akutagawa. “What do you want me to say to that?” you ask him, leaning back in your chair. “It’s your job to know that as the field officer for the mission. If you can’t handle that, Hirotsu will take back the position on the next major operation.”

Akutagawa bristles. “I can handle it,” he says, voice clipped. “This mission was just more chaotic than-”

“Than usual?” you ask idly, watching as he stiffens as your interruption. “This was child’s play, it’s unlike you to make excuses, Akutagawa.’

“I’m not making excuses,” he says immediately, “but…”

Akutagawa continues talking, but your attention is ripped away when you feel Dazai shift beneath the desk. You press your lips together tightly, stiffening as his hands rise to your thighs, spreading them a bit so he can settle between them. You glance down, he’s already peeking up at you, dark eyes glittering in a way that has you on edge. 

Don’t you dare, you warn silently, but Dazai only takes it as further encouragement, pressing his lips to your clothed inner thigh, you can feel the warmth and wetness through your slacks. It takes all of your self-control to not inhale sharply when he starts trailing open-mouthed kisses up your thigh until his mouth is hovering right above your cunt. 

You press the muzzle of your gun against his temple. 

He smiles. 

Your jaw clenches as he licks a long stripe between your legs through your slacks, making sure to press his tongue down hard over where your clit is hidden through your clothes. Akutagawa is still talking, oblivious to what’s happening beneath your desk as he airs his complaints about the mission. You could stop Dazai, place your foot on his shoulder and push him off of you, but you don’t, notably—you don’t want to acknowledge that though. You only vaguely hear Akutagawa’s issues, something about interference from a third party—the SDUP? What the hell were they doing there?— and Kajii blowing up an escape route. 

“Give me the report,” you say, cutting him off mid-sentence, and holding out your hand. You’re grateful that your voice comes out steadier than you feel with Dazai trying to tongue fuck your through your pants. 

As you lean forward to rip the papers from Akutagawa, you tense, feeling something sharp press against your inner thigh. Sitting back in your seat and glancing down, your eyes cut down to Dazai, who still has the knife you’d thrown at him and is using it to cut open your very expensive slacks.

You have half a mind to drive your foot into his face, but you refrain. If only barely.

It’s a miracle that you can keep your breath steady, because as Dazai cuts your pants, he kisses every inch of open skin that’s revealed to him. His lips are warm, wet, familiar—so familiar that your legs are instinctively spreading for him, giving him more room to work.

Your eyes scan the report but the words are just jumbled letters and not making any sense. Every time you try to understand, you feel Dazai’s teeth graze your thigh as he marks up your skin. You tense when you feel him bring the knife much closer to your cunt, to finish cutting off the material—you press the muzzle of your gun harder into the side of his head, warning him to be careful. You glance down only to see a hazy smile on his lips as he winks up at you, as if he’s drunk just off of the idea of what’s about to happen.

He works efficiently as always, freeing your lower body of your slacks and panties as quickly as possible, and he wastes no time burying his face between your legs. Your lashes flutter and the grip you have on your pen tightens dangerously, you think it might snap. Dazai’s tongue slides between your folds, lapping up the slick that had begun to pool—you know that if Akutagawa wasn’t sitting a few feet away, Dazai would be making a snide comment about how he knew you wanted him.

Dazai’s tongue flicks over your clit—you can feel him staring up at you, watching for every little reaction, the way your lip tightens as you bite back moans, the way your eyelids unconsciously start to slide shut, the way your breath is just a bit heavier than it usually is. 

This is so dangerous, you think to yourself desperately. If Akutagawa of all people figures out that Dazai is here-

You nearly choke when Dazai shifts a bit underneath the desk to kneel at a better angle, grateful that Akutagawa seems to be too busy wallowing in his own mistakes to notice your struggle. Your gaze  snaps down again, his eyes have fluttered shut as he buries his face deep into your cunt, nose pressed to your clit as he pushes his tongue into your hole and you can feel the way he lets out a silent, but shaky breath, barely holding back a moan.

You notice his free hand slide from where it was propped on your thigh down to his beige pants, fingers fumbling with the button as he desperately tries to slip his hand beneath his waistband to touch himself. You kick his wrist hard, using your foot to pin it against the side of your desk, watching him wince and withdraw his hand, looking up at you with those big brown eyes you can never say no to. 

God, he’s pathetic, his lashes are wet and his cheeks are flushed, eyes glossed over with pleasure as he looks up at you and you know you’ll let go of his wrist if he looks at you like that any longer, so you turn your gaze back up to Akutagawa, who’s staring at his lap and waiting for you to finish the report.

“Get out,” you tell him, voice sharper than you intended. Akutagawa’s eyes snap up to you, brows furrowed in confusion. “Go, I’ll handle this.”

“But-”

“Your job is to take orders, not question them,” you bite out, watching frustration flash across the boy’s face as he rises to his feet. You’re not usually this harsh with the kid, but you’re not sure how much longer you’re going to last and Akutagawa cannot be in here when you cum. You can feel the heat pooling in your stomach and that familiar hazy feeling clouding your mind. “Out, Akutagawa.”

Akutagawa inhales sharply but nods, turning stiffly on his heel to leave your office. As soon as the door to your office clicks shut, Dazai is pushing the chair backwards until the back of it hits the windows behind you, shifting into a more comfortable position as he resumes fucking you with his tongue in earnest. 

He moans into you, wanton and shameless, any restraint he had because of Akutagawa’s presence is long gone. While he was careful to not make noise before, now the sloppy sound of his tongue dragging in and out of your cunt drowns out any other noise in your office, he sucks and slurps, he’s so disgusting, like he can’t get enough of the taste of you, a man who’s been starved for years.

The knife clatters to the ground as he reaches up with both hands to grab your thighs, sliding them over his shoulders so he can push his tongue even deeper inside of you. Only sheer pride drives you to push away the creeping fog as Dazai’s tongue slides back up between your folds to draw figure eights around your clit.

“I should pull the fucking trigger, pulling this shit when he was in here,” you spit out, head falling back as a breathy noise escapes your parted lips when Dazai sucks gently at your clit. He moans again, as if the idea itself turns him on—it probably does, he’s always talked about wanting to die between your thighs. “You’re a fucking freak, Dazai.” 

He lets out a puff of air, you can’t tell if it's a laugh or another moan, maybe a mixture of both, but he’s too focused on drowning in your cunt to respond. Four years without him and you’ve forgotten just how good Dazai is with his tongue, working your body as easily as he did when the two of you were eighteen and seeking each other out before meetings and between missions for a quick fuck. You hate it—you hate that he’s treating you as if nothing has changed and you hate even more that your body is this responsive to him. 

Betrayal, you think, your own body betrays you for him. Again.

“Fuck,” you gasp the word out when Dazai rolls your clit between his teeth gently, sending a jolt through your body that throws you off just enough for that fog you’ve been fighting off to finally win. You choke over a moan, head pressed back against your desk chair, forearm coming up to press against your forehead as your eyes slide shut. Your free hand finally finds its place in his hair, tightening around his dark locks, he lets out a whimper against you, tongue flicking over your clit. “Like that. Just like that.”

You can hardly keep your head on straight as he traces letters around the sensitive bud, you try to figure out what he’s spelling but you’re too far gone. Your head is light and your chest is heaving. You’re barely able to bite back moans as your thighs tighten around his head, hips rocking against his face. You don’t even know if he can breathe, you don’t think you care, so close to the edge that your entire body is tingling and trembling; you don’t think he cares either from the way he’s moaning into you.

It takes one last suck, one last swirl around your clit, and you’re crying out his name, spots dotting your vision as your grip on his hair tightens, pushing his face impossibly deeper into you as you grind your hips against his face. God, it feels never-ending, a noise too close to a sob nearly escapes your lips as Dazai ardently laps up all of your cum, not letting a single drop go to waste. You can’t remember the last time you’ve cum this hard—with him, probably, you realize bitterly. None of the one-night stands you’ve had over the past few years have ever compared to him.

You’re still reeling even as you force yourself to straighten in your seat, not willing to let him know just how badly you’re thrown off by how intense your orgasm was. Your head is still spinning, vision still blurring, but you lift your leg and press your foot to Dazai’s shoulder, kicking him back and forcing him out from his position between your thighs. 

He grunts, looking thoroughly disgruntled as he falls back on his ass, pouting up at you as he tries to catch his breath. He looks debauched, lips swollen and wet, your cum smeared on the lower half of his face. His cock is straining against his beige pants and his eyes are still glazed over; he’s looking up at you with an expression that’s nothing short of reverent. 

God, he’s gorgeous. 

You hate him. 

You’ve missed him. 

You shift in your seat and Dazai is lifting himself to his knees, immediately leaning closer, a hazy smile on his lips as he angles his face up and pointedly parts his lips, sticking his tongue out. You know what he wants and the heat that had been slowly dissipating returns with a vengeance, breath catching as you look down at him.

“You’re gross,” you tell him, watching the corner of his lips quirk up even as he keeps his tongue out and waiting.

You don’t deny him. You never can. 

You shift forward, rising to your feet and reaching out to grab his chin, angling your face down. Your grip is too tight, it’ll leave bruises behind and you think that’s the least he deserves so you only tighten it a bit more as you lean over him. You don’t give him what he wants, not right away, letting the saliva gather on your tongue as you observe him, the way his pupils are blown wide and his chest is hardly rising and falling, as if he can’t even let himself breathe in anticipation.

Disgusting, you think again, but it’s fond this time, much to your displeasure.

You decide to put him out of his misery, letting the spit dribble from your mouth down to his. His eyes roll back as soon as it hits his tongue, and your hand slides from his chin to curl around his neck—not tight, just firm enough to feel the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

He lets out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering back open as he looks up at you, entirely blissed out. Your hand slides down more, curling around the ugly bolo tie he’s wearing in place of the black one you’re used to. You tug it hard, beckoning him to his feet; he acquiesces, albeit on shaky legs. 

Immediately, his hands find your hips as he pushes you against your desk, spinning you around to face it before his hand presses between your shoulder blades, pushing you down to bend you over it. Your eyes widen at the sudden change in demeanor, something you’ll never be able to get used to no matter how many times you fuck him; it always caught you off guard back then, it still catches you off guard now. He pulls off the remnants of your destroyed slacks and immediately is grinding his bulge against your ass, a low moan spilling from his lips. 

“How many people have you been with?” he suddenly asks, and you can hear him fumbling to unbutton his own pants. There’s an edge to his voice that you don’t like—something caught between jealousy and possessiveness, and you nearly want to scoff at it.

“What the fuck, Dazai?” you spit out, appalled and not expecting the question. “None of your damn business.” 

You turn your head to the side to rest your cheek on the desk, looking back at him from the corner of your eye. His eyes are still a bit hazy but there’s a tight expression on his face, reminiscent of the one that would be directed toward you whenever he stumbled in on you entertaining anyone other than him years ago. 

“Humor me,” he says, voice cold and eerily familiar. If you weren’t looking at him and if you couldn’t see the tan coat and bolo tie, you’d think you were talking to Dazai Osamu, Port Mafia Executive, and not Dazai Osamu, Detective. 

“A lot,” you finally tell him, feeling the way he stiffens behind you. “I don’t keep count. You?” 

You think he has some nerve asking when he’s probably slept around t-

“None.”

“Bullshit,” you snarl immediately. “How many? Don’t fucking lie to me, Dazai.”

“None,” he says again, gaze lifting from your back to meet yours, his eyes are dark—too dark, too still. Maybe he hasn’t changed as much as you assumed, because the way your chest swells with a confusing mixture of fear and arousal is far too familiar. “You’re the only one allowed to touch me.”

His gaze drags back down, with his pants unbuttoned, he lifts his free hand to caress the swell of your ass, a contemplative expression on his face as he stares down at you, his other hand still pinning you down to your desk. If your heart wasn’t thudding in your ears from sheer anticipation, you’d be irate over the fact that you were letting Dazai Osamu fuck you over your own desk in your own office, but you can’t bring yourself to care now.

“They never made you feel like this.” It’s a statement, not a question, and you want to scoff at his arrogance, but you can’t because he’s right. “They don’t know your body like I do.”

This time you do scoff. “You don’t know shit, Dazai. It’s been four years.”

Dazai’s eyes flicker back up to you, the way his lips curve up into a smile is dangerous.

“No?” he questions. 

A challenge. You never back down from one, not from him. 

“No.”

His smile sharpens.

“I know that after you cum for the first time,” he murmurs, rolling his hips forward. You bite back a moan when you feel the tip of his cock slip between your folds. “The second time comes right after.”

True to his words, your jaw falls slack and your entire body seizes as Dazai thrusts into you, splitting you right open on his cock. The moan he lets out is pornographic, and you wish you could see the way his head falls back and his eyes roll into his skull, but your own vision is white and you’re choking over a sob as you feel the familiar stretch of his cock against your walls.

“There you are.” Dazai has the nerve to let out a breathless laugh and another groan as he stills with his hips flush to your ass, feeling your walls spasm around him as you cum just from the feeling of him pushing inside of you. The hand he has placed between your shoulder blades slides up to curl around your throat. With a firm grip, he pulls you up so only your thighs are pressed against the edge of your desk, back flush to his chest as you gasp, reeling from the suddenness of your second orgasm. You can feel him smile as he nudges his nose against the side of your head, lips pressed to your ear. “The third time takes a bit after the second, but I’ll fuck you through it. Maybe a fourth too.”

“Dazai,” you gasp, eyes blown wide as your head falls back against his shoulder. You don’t know what you’re trying to say, maybe hold on, or wait, because you know you’ll embarrass yourself if he doesn’t give you a second to recover.

He hums in response, and the slow rolls of his hips, the drag of his cock against your walls, it has your head in the clouds, body trembling. Your lips part to speak but no words leave them, and right when you think you can finally force the words out, Dazai draws his hips back and snaps them back against yours hard. Your lips part in a silent moan, only the hand around your throat and the one pressed to your lower belly holds you up as Dazai fucks you at a brutal pace. 

His face drops to the crook of your neck, he moans into your skin, teeth scraping hard as he kisses recklessly up and down every available inch. He’s going to leave marks, you realize, and that’s dangerous now that you’re back in Yokohama because you don’t need any of the other executives to get suspicious, but even if you wanted to tell him not to, you don’t think you’d be able to. Whatever little coherency you had left in your thought process does not translate when you try to speak, the only things leaving your lips being shaky moans and gasps of Dazai’s name.

“Made for me,” Dazai groans. His grip on your throat tightens just enough to make the air you breathe in shallow, your head feels light and you’re not sure if it’s because of his grip or if it’s the feeling of his cock bullying so deep into you that you can feel his tip pressing up against your cervix. “Waited so many years for this, feels even better than I remember, pussy’s made for me, isn’t it?”

Dazai babbles into your ear as he fucks you, tongue just as filthy and unbridled as the day he left. Shameless. He’s so shameless. Doesn’t even care that anyone could walk into your office and catch the two of you; doesn’t care that if anyone does, he’ll end up executed. He’s fucking you in a building full of people that want him dead and all he cares about is how your cunt feels wrapped around his cock.

Your breath hitches as Dazai shifts you to bend over just a little more, still keeping your back flush to his chest but fucking you at a new angle—one that nearly sends you spiraling over the edge for a third time. 

“Gonna give me your third now?” he pants. His hand on your lower stomach slips down, lithe fingers dipping between your folds to search for your clit—your back arches against him when he finds it, a sob spilling from your lips, vision swimming with tears. Dazai laughs again, this one is strained, catching over a moan as your walls convulse around him. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, you’re so tight.” 

Unconsciously, his grip on your throat tightens, cutting off even more air. You can hardly breathe, you can hardly think—each thrust of his hips has your head spinning, ripping the little air you can inhale right out of your lungs. The tip of his cock rubs against that spongy spot inside of you every time he snaps his hips against yours, the quick circles he rubs on your clit are electrifying. 

Your cheeks are wet, breath ragged, vision spotty. One last thrust, one last circle, and you’re wrecked, sobbing out his name as your legs give out, only held up by the way he has your thighs pinned to your desk and his hand on your neck. You cum all over his cock so hard that you think you black out for a second, your mind fuzzy and pins and needles pricking all over your body.

Dazai doesn’t stop. He fucks you through your third orgasm, relishing in the way your body twitches and trembles, too sensitive for his touch. 

“Your fourth will come quick,” he gasps. His pace is erratic now, chasing his own release. Your ears are ringing, heartbeat thudding in your ears, the wet, sloppy sound of his cock driving in and out of you resounding through your office. “I don’t think I’ll last for five. Shit, shit, I’m close.”

You have to force yourself to move. You want to see him when he finishes. Your hand wraps around his wrist, nails digging into his skin to try to get his attention. It takes all of your will power to push the two words from your lips: “Flip me.”

He does. Without any sort of hesitation, his hand drops from your throat to your waist. His cock slips out of you for a split second and your cunt aches at the loss, but Dazai is immediately pushing himself back into you as he hoists you up by the thighs, sitting you down on your desk and wrapping your legs around his waist. 

Even through your blurry vision, Dazai is a fucking sight. His dark hair is matted to his forehead, pink lips swollen and wet, cheeks flushed. His eyes glazed over and half rolled back as he chases his high. God, he’s stunning. You’ve missed him. You’ve missed him.

You’re not thinking as you lift your hand to cup his cheek, sliding around to the back of his head to pull his face down to yours, moving on pure instinct. You drag him down to press your lips against his and Dazai is gone. The moment your lips touch his, he’s moaning into your mouth, hips stuttering against you as he spills his cum deep inside of you, and he’s right, because the moment you feel his cum filling you up, warm and thick, so much of it that you can feel it dribbling around his cock, the stickiness smearing against your thighs and ruining your desk, you’re pushed over the edge for the fourth time.

This one is weaker than the rest, not a single noise escapes you but your jaw goes slack and Dazai whimpers into your mouth when he feels your walls tightening around him again. But he takes advantage of your pliancy, pushing you back gently so that your back is flush to your desk. He follows you down, keeping his chest pressed to yours as he maps out your mouth with his tongue. He rolls his hips against yours, slow and deep, fucking his cum deeper into you as the two of you slowly come down from your highs. He slants his lips against yours to deepen the kiss, hand coming up to cup your cheek, his other sliding up and down one of your thighs. 

It’s too intimate. You tell yourself that you only let it happen because you’re reeling from overstimulation but you know it's a lie.

You don’t even know how long you stay in that position with him. It could only be a few seconds, a few minutes, it could’ve been an hour for all you know, laying on your desk with him pressed on top of you, kissing you so passionately that it makes your head spin as much as the orgasms did. 

Finally, you press your hand against his shoulder, signaling for him to get off of you. He does, albeit with a reluctant sigh. You stare up at the ceiling as Dazai shakily rebuttons his pants, making his way over to the closet where you still keep your spare clothes from when you have to stay over at the office to work. 

What did you do?

You’re hyper aware of how swollen your lips are, of the marks littering your neck, of the cum dribbling out of your cunt, staining your desk. 

If anyone finds out about this-

You don’t get to finish the thought, because Dazai comes back over to you. Neither of you speak as he takes a tissue to clean up his cum from your thighs and as it dribbles out of you, nor do you speak when he shifts you into a sitting position, helping you pull on a new pair of panties and a new pair of slacks.

He stands in front of you, dozens of indecipherable emotions rocketing across his face as his dark eyes search your expression for something. You don’t know what, and you don’t even want to look at him but you can’t draw your gaze away from him.

After what feels like forever, he finally speaks.

“I missed you,” he says, voice hoarse as he lifts a hand to cup your cheek. 

You turn away from his touch, ignoring the hurt that flashes through his eyes. 

“Why don’t you believe me? You think four years has changed how I feel about you? I thought you knew me better than that.”

“It’s been four years,” you say, and you hate that your voice wavers a bit. You blame it on still being hazy after your orgasm but you know it’s a weak excuse. You hate that he still has this effect on you after all these years. You hate that you always give into him, and you hate that you know you’ll never get enough of him. You want to hate him, but you can’t. “Knowing how to fuck me isn’t the same as knowing me as a person. I barely know you anymore. You barely know me. And it’s not like you were open with how you felt four years ago. So, forgive me if it’s a bit hard to believe, Dazai.”

“You wear the same perfume. You still shoot with your non-dominant hand for some god forsaken reason. Your lips still twitch whenever you get annoyed even though you do your best to stop it. You-”

“Stop.”

“You still talk to me like you hate me even though your eyes are all soft and you’re leaning in toward me.” Dazai doesn’t stop, and to your horror, he’s right—you had begun to lean in to him instinctively as he spoke. You try to shift away from him, but he follows, fingers grazing your cheek, chest brushing yours. You don’t pull away this time. “I still wear the same cologne you bought me for Christmas because it reminds me of you—I spent two months trying to figure out where you bought it when it first ran out. I don’t carry a gun around as often, but when I do, I still try to do that stupid flipping trick you tried to teach me when we were seventeen—I still can’t do it, almost shot myself in the knee last time I tried.”

The laugh he lets out at the last sentence is hollow. He hesitates, as if he wants to continue but isn’t sure if he should. You can feel his blunt nails scraping gently against your skin, his palm warm against your cheek. You want to pull away but you’ve missed him, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, and you find yourself sinking into his touch. You’ve always questioned why Mori sent you away for so long, angry because you figured he thought you were weak when it comes to Dazai and he didn’t want to risk anything. 

Only a few days back in Yokohama, and you’re already proving him right.

“I’m not the same person,” you tell him, something desperate edges at your tone. Desperate to convince him, or yourself, you’re not sure.

“I still love you,” he rasps, voice quiet as if he’s scared to admit it even to himself, and your heart is suddenly lodged in your throat as you stare up at him with wide eyes, the words he refused to tell you back when you were teens ringing through your head over and over again. “I’ve always loved you. Thought about you every day. I missed you so much.”

“I should hate you,” you say, swallowing thickly, unshed tears blurring your vision. “You didn’t even say goodbye. When Mori said you defected in the middle of a mission, I laughed in his face. Not because I didn’t think you’d never betray the Port Mafia, but because I didn’t think you’d ever leave me without saying anything.”

“If I said goodbye to you, I never would have left,” Dazai tells you quietly, the admission echoing in your years. “And I had to leave. I had to.”

“I should hate you,” you repeat, voice a bit weaker now, and you feel pathetic for falling apart like this in front of him. But it’s Dazai, he’s always had this effect over you. You suppose some things haven’t changed, because that certainly hasn’t. 

“I know,” he murmurs. 

You inhale deeply, shaking your head as you push yourself off your desk and straighten out your clothes, trying to get your head back on straight. You should’ve known better than to think you’d be able to come back to Yokohama and pretend that Dazai Osamu didn’t exist, for better or for worse, the two of you would always find your way back to each other. Mori was right to send you away, although you suppose the man is rarely wrong anyway.

Dazai doesn’t say anything, watching you with an unreadable expression as you search through the ruined piles of paper on your desk for the report that Akutagawa had handed you. Your eye twitches when you realize that it’s stained, realizing that you’re going to have to rewrite the whole thing because you can’t submit a cum-stained report to Mori.

Dazai snorts behind you, as if realizing your predicament. The look you give him is lethal, he silences himself quickly. 

“Don’t get yourself killed on the way out,” you tell him, grabbing your black jacket off your chair and swinging it over your shoulders as you look back at him. “If you make it out of here alive, I’ll see you at my apartment later. Then we can talk.”

His face twists. “What? Wait, don’t leave me here,” he panics, nearly tripping over his feet and your desk chair to follow after you. “Help me sneak out.”

“You got in here yourself,” you say dismissively. “Get out yourself.”

The noise he lets out is pathetic. “You do hate me,” he accuses. 

“No, I could never,” you admit quietly. His expression softens a bit, but you give him a sharp smile. “But I’m definitely not going to make things easy for you. Akutagawa is still out here prowling around. So is Chuuya, actually. Said he’d be at the office all night today. Good luck, you’re gonna need it.”

[chatsukimi]

ᴘᴀɪɴᴛ & ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ

featuring: needy!gojosatoru, childhoodfriend!gojosatoru. precious. fluff!, minute jealousy synopsis: you put makeup on your childhood best friend. you learn that he is more than you anticipated. masterlist

you think you know everything about gojo satoru. you'd seen him as a child, two years younger than you, get scolded by his parents for sending a senile sorcerer to hospital. you were there when he first activated limitless and pummelled you accidentally in the face.

safe to say, nothing surprises you anymore. not even when he teleports into your room on the night of your date without even a knock and grabs you by the shoulders to turn you and your chair around.

"oi, stop that."

you strangle him off you. he only grins.

"sure thing." he shrugs, before bending down to inspect you more closely. "what have you got on your face?"

you put the bottle of setting spray down. "makeup."

he ruffles his tousled white hair, windblown. "ah? makeup. are you meeting someone?" he grins halfheartedly, scanning your room for any changes since you last met.

"i am."

"it's about time. i've already dated loads of people," he boasts, his eyes lingering on the powder and blush on the table.

you roll your eyes. "of course you have." you lay on the finishing touches to your face. you notice him watching.

rule one about gojo satoru, when he stares, he's interested. as you grew older, it became harder under those pitch black shades of his to detect where he's staring, but when he really wants something, it's obvious.

you lift a brush. "you want me to do makeup on you?"

he shakes his head.

rule two about satoru gojo, he never says what he's thinking.

you stand up, gesturing at the bed. "sit down." without a word, the boy listens to your command, ready to try something new.

you can't say you're unhappy to try doing makeup on him. you had some spare time left and that beautiful canvas of a face is nothing but to die for. putting makeup on him would be fun.

"i'll have to take off your glasses. may i?"

he sniffs.

rule three about gojo, he pretends to hate it when people ask to take his glasses off, but he secretly likes it. you know. it makes him feel seen, more human.

"do it yourself."

you nod.

taking his sunglasses off, you revel in the familiar ocean which faces you.

another two facts about satoru is that he can't keep still and he can't stop yapping. shaking his leg in tandem with the news from his mouth, the movement makes you shoot him a frustrated glare, distracted.

half to shut him up, the other half to make him pay attention, you grip his jaw in place. your eyes lock. soon enough, he'll probably look away to inspect some other object of interest; he's known you for years, after all. nothing new.

as you work, you think to yourself.

gojo... he's really grown up, hasn't he? in careful brushstrokes, you drag the eyeliner gently to form a wing with the tip of the pen. your eyes narrowed in concentration, you haven't noticed the shallow breath which tumbles from his mouth.

"pretty."

you blink.

gojo satoru scoots closer to you, so that his gorgeous azure eyes are inches from yours. they are widened in awe.

in all these years, you can count on one hand the number of times this genius has focused on anything longer than five-ten seconds. sure, going to jujutsu high has stretched that time out slightly, but it's nothing compared to this.

you know what rule one says about his behaviour, but you couldn't believe it.

he reaches up to brush the hair from your face. unblinking, unwavering, as though memorising everything, the outline of your nose to the singular dashes which form an eyelash, he stares at you.

it is the first step from a boy to a man.

"you are... really, really, pretty."

"says you," you say, almost pushing his hands away.

he sinks his fingers against yours, clasping them in a bone-tight grip.

"you are," he asserts. "how come i've never noticed?" he mutters, furious.

um. you turn to look the other way. the heat of his stare is scalding. nevertheless, the strongest refuses to back down.

"i should've noticed, shouldn't i? and now you're all dressed up with your make-up to meet some other guy." he pouts.

truth be told, you are silenced. this is not the gojo you recognise. in a swift move, he carries you from the vanity to the bed. the display of strength startles you.

"don't go," he whines into your shoulder, shifting you with his strong arms to nuzzle himself into your chest. you did so often when you were younger but-

"stay." he pauses, letting each syllable cascade from his beautiful lips like a bell, ringing crystal clear. "stay with me."

stay with him.

you think you know everything about gojo satoru. you remember the way he begged for a break amidst his pre-adolescent training sessions. you remember the empty hallways of the gojo estate and his silent footsteps, how they left him behind to carry the world on his shoulders.

awaiting your answer, gojo feels his heart beating out of his chest. what if you leave? what if you choose your date over him? what if-

"why?"

he stares up at you again. truly shameless.

"because i want you to." he turns stern. "or else, i'll tell your friend that you didn't actually have work that day you decided to ditch her little meet-up and i'll-"

out of nowhere, a laugh breaks out of you. he frowns.

but then, you press a soft kiss on his cheek, another one on the slope of his nose, which -truth be told- didn't need the contour you'd gracefully put on it, and the strongest sorcerer in the world relaxes to your touch.

moments like these, satoru still manages to surprise you.

"i'll stay."

"promise?" he holds up a pinkie.

"come on, satoru, we're not children anymore."

his eyebrows scrunch together so you finally relent.

"ok."

you link your pinkie to his.

"promise."

getting comfortable, you shoot a text at your friend to move the date to another day.

"i knew you'd stay. you can't stand when i throw a tantrum," he suddenly begins to mumble against your skin. your eyes widen. "i know you... better than anyone..." his eyelids are dragging under the weight of sleepiness.

perhaps you didn't know everything about satoru after all.

gojo opens his eyes, seeing you fully. "i know you can't stand me being alone."

perhaps he knew more about you than you had thought possible.

on second thoughts, you grab your phone from your bedside table, typing up a message you send without a second thought.

sorry. something came up. i might not be able to meet with you next week either. thank you for your patience, but i think i've found someone who i want to stick by forever.

[mythicalmaven]

Beyond Boundaries • Oscar Piastri (PART TWO)

HERE IT IS! Part two! This time with smut, as promised <3 Hope you'll like the chapter! I hope i'll be able to post chapter 3 ASAP!

masterlist

↳pairing: oscar piastri x female!reader (norris!reader) ↳word count: 3.8K ↳↳ parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, ↳series summary: Since Oscar joined McLaren as your brother’s teammate, you two have quickly become best friends. Recently promoted to be Oscar’s physiotherapist, you both relish the opportunity to spend more time together. However, as the new role brings you closer, Oscar finds himself grappling with unexpected feelings and rising tension, leaving him conflicted about how to handle his emotions

↳chapter warnings: reader is dared to give Oscar a lap dance during truth or dare, masturbation (Oscar), bestfriend!reader, sexual content, sexual tension, NSFW, 18+ content (mdni), brother's teammate trope (reader is lando's sister)

Almost a month has passed since your first race weekend as Oscar's physiotherapist, and you have to admit that you have had the time of your life. You love your new job and are absolutely thrilled to work in the field you've studied so hard for. The fact that you get to work closely with your best friend has had a very positive impact on your mental health. You can confidently say that you are in a great state of mind.

It was the weekend before Oscar's home race in Melbourne, the race of the year that Oscar always looked forward to the most, but also put the most pressure on the young Australian driver. He felt more need to perform well when it was in his home country. 

Several drivers and their girlfriends, who were part of your friend group, decided to arrive in Australia a week early to spend some off-track time together in a big house by the sea. The group included Lando, Oscar, Daniel, Max, George, Logan, Alex, and their girlfriends. Since you were good friends with them, you tagged along as well, even though you are a driver's sister and not a girlfriend. Though, sometimes, you wish you were a certain someone's girlfriend.

That said villa is where you were currently chilling on a lounger, sunglasses resting on your nose as you were deep into a conversation with Alex' girlfriend, Lily & Max's girlfriend, Kelly about what your plans would be during the moments off on race week when you felt your phone vibrate in the pockets on your shorts. 

You grabbed your phone and took your sunglasses of your nose to check in the message that you got. The moment you saw that it was a text from Oscar, you felt a smile grow on your face. 

Osc: Hi there! Look up :)

Looking up from your phone, you scanned your eyes around and across the pool you saw Oscar and Daniel standing, both with a beer in hand. You immediately locked eyes with Oscar, who raised his beer to gesture hello, flashing you his signature smile as well as a careful wink. 

Y/n: Hi x

"What are you smiling about?" Kelly asked cheekily, already onto something.

Lily replied in a chuckle, following your gaze, which landed on Oscar and Daniel "I think it has to do something with a certain Australian and his name is definitely not Daniel" 

You scoffed at Lily's comment "Yes, it was Oscar who texted me. But it's not what you think it is" you told them. 

"Y/n, I've known you for years. I can see the way you look at him, and he's doing the exact same thing. There's a reason people call him Oscar 'heart eyes' Piastri," Lily said, raking a hand through her hair. "It's all over social media, girl. They ship you two so hard that there are even edits going viral."

Your eyes widened a bit at Lily's words, surprised that it was supposedly all over social media. It was probably TikTok, a platform you’d been avoiding for multiple reasons. "He is not giving me heart eyes," you scoffed again, downing your cocktail in one go. "And besides, I don't see him like that. He's my best friend, and I don't have feelings for him anyway." Lies

Kelly giggled and rolled her eyes "Yeah, and Max sucks at formula 1" she joked "Do you believe yourself?"

You slumped down deeper into the lounge bed, covering your face with your hands "Fine, I might have a small crush on him" you confessed, feeling your cheeks starting to flush. 

"Small?" Lily raised her eyebrows, looking at your flushed state.

"FINE, I'm in love with him, happy now?" you whisper-yelled, making sure only Kelly and Lily could hear. "It's not like it matters anyway. I'm pretty sure he doesn't feel the same, and even if he did, I couldn't do anything about it."

Kelly took a sip of her cocktail, looking at you reassuringly. "First of all, I'm pretty sure he's constantly checking you out. Have you never noticed that?" As you shook your head, she continued, "But why wouldn't you be able to do anything about it?"

You let out a sigh of defeat "Well, for starters I'm pretty sure that Lando will kill both me and him. When I started getting closer with the boys on the grid, we made the rule I wouldn't date his teammates. It would make things way too complicated if anything went wrong" you explained, trying not to ramble "And second, I'm literally his physiotherapist now. It wouldn't be very ethical to date my client, would it? I know it's different in our case because we were best friends before I got the job, but it still feels unprofessional. And I'm pretty sure my boss wouldn't be delighted with that news either."

You shrugged and looked at your lap, staring at your phone with the conversation with Oscar still open. "But it's not relevant, because I know for a fact that he doesn't feel the same. I'm pretty sure I'm not even his type."

"Well, I'm pretty sure you definitely are on his radar. But I have no clue how to prove that t you" Lily said, a smile on her lips "And to be honest, I'm pretty sure that Lando would be fine with it if you were honestly so in love. I get what you mean regarding your job tho. It might make things complicated. But to be fair, if it's real love, then it should be worth the risk. Shouldn't it?"

Another vibration of your phone got your attention, pulling you out of your thoughts. It was Oscar again, apparently he noticed the change of mood in you. So he was watching you from time to time, apparently

Osc: You feeling well? You look a little defeated. 

"Talking about the devil, aren't we?" Lily asks as she sits down beside me.

"Yup" you nodded, breathing in, trying to think of something you could reply 

Y/n: Yeah, peachy :) Just a little tired from the heat of the sun. Nothing to worry about, Osc 

Osc: Saw that your cocktail is empty, wanna make another one? I wanted to get a new beer as well, so we might as well go in together. You know, two birds with one stone

Y/n: Sure :)

"I'm gonna get a new cocktail, I'll be back in a bit" you stated with a kind smile as you stood up from the lounger, adjusting your shorts and making sure your bikini top looked presentable. 

After giving you a smile in return, Kelly leaned towards Lily. "You know, I might have a little plan to get some action going on between the two of them," she whispered sneakily, nodding towards Oscar and you.

Lily rolled her eyes and chuckled. "Oh god, what are you planning?"

"Well, you know how Alex suggested playing truth or dare tonight with drinks, right? Why not make it a little more interesting and have y/n do something to make Oscar a bit jealous? That might steer him in the right direction," she proposed.

"And what exactly do you have in mind?" Lily asked, not entirely sure if she found the idea very smart.

"We could always dare her to kiss Logan or something. They're good friends, and I'm pretty sure neither of them would mind since they've kissed before," Kelly started. "Besides, she's kissed Carlos during truth or dare before, so I know she's not too awkward for that during games."

"Hmm," Lily replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she took a breath. "I think I have a better plan." She proposed her idea, making Kelly's eyes light up in agreement.

Lily smiled back at her friend and shifted her gaze to her boyfriend. "Alex!" she called out a bit louder, her boyfriend immediately making his way over to the two girls.

"Okay, so we kinda have an idea. But you have to promise you won't tell anyone, okay?" Lily said.

•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•

Meanwhile Oscar and you were in the kitchen, deciding on what cocktail to make. Oscar was staring at the contents of the fridge, not sure what to grab. 

You walked your way over to Oscar, resting your chin on his shoulder, looking over it to see if the ingredients were there "We could make a sex on the beach?" you suggested calmly "I love the taste of those"

Oscar felt a jolt go down his spine at the feeling of your chin on his shoulder and your breath near his ear. The hairs on his neck standing up at the contact "I think we should be able to, we have all the ingredients here, I guess" 

You smiled happily "If you grab the ingredients, 'll go grab the shaker and a new straw" 

You stand side by side with Oscar, the kitchen counter filled with an assortment of colorful ingredients. The air is filled with laughter as Oscar playfully nudges you with his elbow. 

“Okay, so what should we start with?” he asks, eyes twinkling with excitement.

You grab a bottle of orange juice, and some cranberry juice. “How about starting with these? They’re essential for a Sex on the Beach cocktail.”

Oscar grins, grabbing the shaker and some ice. “Absolutely! And we definitely need to add a little bit of this,” he says, holding up a bottle of vodka.

As you pour the orange juice into the shaker, Oscar’s fingers brush yours, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. He adds the vodka with a flourish, spilling a bit on the counter, which makes both of you burst into giggles.

“Oops! Guess I’m a little too enthusiastic,” he chuckles, wiping it up with a towel.

You add just the right amount of cranberry juice, then pass him the shaker. “Your turn, mix master.”

Oscar dramatically rolls up his sleeves and starts shaking the ingredients, his exaggerated seriousness making you laugh even harder. “I take my cocktail-making very seriously,” he says with a mock stern face.

After a few minutes of shaking and playful banter, the cocktail is finally ready. You both pour the mixture into two glasses, garnishing them with an orange slice and a cherry. You clink your glasses together, eyes meeting over the rim.

“To our masterpiece!” Oscar declares.

“To our masterpiece,” you echo, taking a sip. The flavors burst on your tongue, a perfect blend of sweet, tangy, and fruity.

“This is amazing!” you exclaim, and Oscar’s face lights up with pride.

“We make a pretty good team,” he says, his smile warm and genuine.

As you both enjoy your drinks, the kitchen filled with your laughter and shared triumph, you can’t help but feel the around vibe around you grow a little more intimate, one cocktail at a time.

•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•

As the evening progresses, you find yourself in the living room with the group, playing a lively game of truth or dare. The room is comfortably cluttered with friends lounging in various spots. A few are sprawled out on the carpet, laughing and leaning against each other. Others are perched on chairs, while a couple of people, including you, are settled on the couch.

The atmosphere is incredibly enjoyable, a mix of playful teasing and shared laughter. George and Alex, seated on the floor, have already kissed for a dare, much to everyone's amusement. Max, from his seat on a chair, had to chug an entire beer in one go, eliciting cheers and applause. Kelly, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, shared an embarrassing experience, her cheeks turning pink as everyone laughed with her.

You glance around, feeling a warm sense of camaraderie. The game has been going on for a while, and each turn brings new surprises and more laughter.

Here's a refined version of the passage:

"Okay, Oscar, your turn," Max said, casting a curious glance at the Australian.

Oscar met the Dutch driver's gaze. "I'll go with truth," he decided after a moment's thought.

"Hmmm," Max began, leaning forward. "What's your biggest turn-on?" he asked with confidence.

Oscar's eyes briefly flicked towards you before he refocused on Max. "Well... I'm really into teasing," he admitted, running a hand through his wavy hair. "I like building up the tension for the real stuff. But I also can't resist a sensual massage," he added with a slight grin.

Kelly, seated next to you, shot you a knowing smirk upon hearing Oscar's response. "Well, well, look at that," she whispered teasingly "I think you remember that.. You know, for work purposes" she added with a wink.

You rolled your eyes and playfully nudged her shoulder. "Shut up, will you" you retorted.

"Lily, truth or dare?" Oscar interjected. When Lily chose dare, he grinned mischievously. "I dare you to read the last sexual text you sent Alex out loud."

Lily blushed but giggled. "Alright, fine," she agreed, glancing at Alex apologetically. She scrolled through her phone until she found the message. "Well, I sent him a picture, which I'm definitely not showing here. But the text said, 'Say my name when you come for me,'" she read aloud.

The group erupted in cheers and playful whistles, teasingly congratulating Alex. "Damn, you've hit the jackpot with her," you joked, nudging Alex's arm. "Not only is she gorgeous, but she's got skills with sexting too."

"Hey, why do you think I'm always in such a good mood" he joked back at you.

After the laughing had died down a bit, Lily looked around the room, pretending to decide who she would choose. Which was of course not necessary, since it was time for the plan...

"Alright, y/n, truth or dare?" Lily's mischievous grin focused on you.

"Dare," you replied, trying to sound confident despite the butterflies in your stomach. When it came to Lily, you could never predict what she had in mind, during games like these. 

Lily exchanged a knowing look with Kelly before turning back to you. "I dare you to give Oscar a lap dance."

Your heart skipped a beat as you glanced at Oscar, who looked both surprised and flushed, his cheeks turning a faint shade of pink. 

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you stood up and walked towards Oscar, who watched you with a mix of anticipation and a hint of disbelief. The room fell into a hushed silence, everyone waiting to see your next move.

"You sure you're okay with this?" you asked him softly, a small smile directed to him "100%" he replied, a small smile joining the blush on his face.

You leaned towards him, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's okay" you reassured him, feeling his nerves radiate beside you. "I've got this."

You knelt down in front of Oscar, catching his gaze. "I hope you're ready for this, Osc" you whispered softly, your hand brushing his cheek gently. There it was again, the nickname, that goddamned nickname made him feel things that he shouldn't.

Oscar's eyes widened slightly, his breath catching in his throat as you straddled him, feeling the warmth of his body beneath yours. Your movements were slow and deliberate, matching the rhythm of the music playing softly in the background. Each sway and grind sent a shiver down Oscar's spine, and he struggled to contain the building desire that threatened to overwhelm him. 

As the dance continued, Oscar felt himself growing hard, his body reacting instinctively to your closeness and the intimacy of the moment. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to discreetly adjust his position to hide his predicament, but the effort was futile. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he prayed no one else noticed.

You could confidently state that you were very much enjoying the way you could feel his body betraying him. He's losing control and you knew it. The tightness in his jeans a clear indicator that his facade is crumbling to pieces. The calm and reserved Oscar Piastri, now a whimpering and flustered mess. It's almost like a challenge to you, trying to get him to snap.

He bit his lip, trying his hardest to hold back his moans, but occasionally a soft whimper escaped his lips, barely audible over the music. Only you could hear those little sounds, adding to the tension between you.

Finally, as the song came to an end, you leaned in close to Oscar's ear, your breath warm against his skin. "See? That wasn't so bad now, was it?" you murmured softly, planting a gentle kiss on his cheek before standing up and returning to your seat.

The room erupted into cheers and applause, everyone teasing and cheering for both of you. Oscar sat there, still slightly dazed but with a shy smile on his face, his admiration for you mixed with a feeling of desire that he couldn't quite shake. Stuck with the predicament in his trousers.

•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•

A few hours later, you found yourself laying on your bed, still thinking about the situation with Oscar. You wanted to check up on Oscar, wondering if he was not feeling awkward about it. His room was on the other side of the hallway, but you didn't wanna go there, since you were sure that everyone else was sleeping and you didn't want anyone waking up. But honestly, you wouldn't take the leap either if anyone was still awake, since you didn't want to give them the wrong impression. So you opted for a facetime call, something the two of you did very often when you weren't together. 

Oscar was currently laying in his bed as well, shirtless. Wearing nothing but his boxers. His once pale skin, now tanned from the sun, on display. He was in conflict with himself, he hadn't been able to get rid of the persisting hard on he had from the lap dance. He tried everything to get rid of it, from a cold shower, to thinking about the most disgusting things. Nothing seemed to help.  

"Screw it" he muttered softly as he moved glided his hand down his abdomen and inside of his boxers. His thoughts trailing back to the way your ass moved over hit clothed dick as he grabbed his member in his hand. He can't help but let out a small moan as he continues to work on himself, his hand moving in up and down strokes in a steady rhythm.

He can still imagine your lips on his cheek, it drives him absolutely wild. His breath is growing more and more erratic. Oscar imagines your small hands being the one to touch his dick "Oh god.. y/n.." he moans out softly, attempting to stay as quiet as possible. His heart racing with every filthy thought that raced through his mind, the feeling of his release already getting closer each stroke. 

His moment was cut short when he felt his phone vibrating on his night stand 'who would call him at this time?'  he wondered

he contemplated on ignoring the call, until he saw that it was you who was trying to call him. The slightest moan leaving his lips at the idea of hearing your voice. He took his phone from his nightstand, taking a deep breath before picking up. Hoping he could play of his flustered face to the alcohol he had consumed. 

"Hey Osc"he heard your voice echo through the phone, his hand still gliding over his cock, now in a slower and careful strokes. He tried to convince his brain to stop touching himself, but he simply couldn't, the sound of your voice too arousing.

"Hi" he mumbled softly, biting his lip to stiffle his moan. Oscar was rock hard and pre-come was already leaking from the tip. It was embarrassing at how close he already was.

You saw the flushed cheeks on his face, but didn't think much "I just wanted to check on you... I hope you I didn't make you uncomfortable earlier with the dare. I had no idea they were going to ask me to do that." you said softly, the soft vibrations of your voice immediately traveling to Oscar's throbbing dick. 

"Hey, it's okay" Oscar's expression softened, his eyes filled with warmth as he looked at your face on his screen "And to answer your question... yes, I did enjoy it." he replied, a small smirk growing on his face.

Your heart skipped a beat at his admission, a mix of relief and something more flooding through you. "Really?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"Yeah," Oscar nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Probably more than I should have." 

Oscar's fingers wrap tighter around the base of his cock, a whine threatening to escape when he starts to move his hand a little faster now. He tried his utter best to hide what he was doing during your call. He knew it was unethical, but he couldn't help himself. You made him so incredibly turned on that it almost hurt. He studies your face on his screen so intently, that he didn't even notice the moan and the soft 'fuck' that left his lips.

You felt a rush of emotions at his words, knowing there was something unspoken between you both. "I'm glad," you replied softly, unable to hide the smile that spread across your face.

"Good" he said, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper as he felt his release getting closer and closer. Oscar's breath was ragged now and heat clings to his arms, skin burning with want as he imagines your lips around his cock. He was so incredibly aroused, hot pressure rising in his dick. 

"Osc?" oh fuck, not that nickname again, pretty sure he would be able to cum with you saying his name like that over and over again.

He works over himself, hand shaking with every twist of his wrist and it’s getting him so close, he has to slow down a little "Yeah?" he pretty much moaned out. His attempt to hide the fact that he was jerking off, failing miserably.

Oscar was jerking himself desperately now, his hand moving a erratically. He was so incredibly close, another groan threatening to slip. Still completely unaware that you had already catched on to the fact that he was pleasuring himself, until he suddenly heard you speak up.

"Come for me, Osc" 

So he did. It didn't take long. Not even two desperate strokes later, his entire body started twitching and he felt a shock wave traveling through his body. The utmost erotic sound escaped his lips "Ah... fuck... y/n" he groaned as his release washed over him, his cum spilling all over his own hand and abdomen.

After the last wave had passed, Oscar tried to catch his breath, meanwhile carefully slowing down the rhythm of his movements "Fuck, that was so hot.." he breathed

previous part | next part

[meanbossart]

Okay but I would love to hear your thoughts on the other spawn

Twirling my hair shifty-eyeing to the side OKAAAYYYYY WELL IF YOU INSIST 🛀

(This is a continuation of this post where I go into some detail about my thoughts on Dalyria, Violet, and Leon ((or "Leonard" as I apparently dubbed him as by mistake))

Let me start with the one I love the most after my sweet well-meaning-child-murdering-doctor Dalyria: Pale Petras.

First of all, just look at this fucking guy. What a goober.

I pretty explicitly go off-canon when it comes to my theories about Petras. According to him, he has been with Cazador for a hundred years - I find that very, very difficult to believe. Whether I would scrap that line entirely or just tack it as hyperbole is irrelevant - though he does seem to have a knack for the dramatics, or at least he tries to.

Petras immediately strikes me as a newcomer in the group. He's the most lively out of the spawn we chat with and seems to still retain what is a pretty strong, bold personality. He's antagonizing towards Astarion and pretty much sides with Cazador up until his life is on the line - and, most interestingly to me, his immediate reaction after being freed if you instruct them to lead the spawn into the Underdark seems to be one of fear and reluctance, unlike Dalyria who almost immediately takes the responsibility upon herself and seems warm towards Astarion and the player for what they've done.

Abusive relationships don't start abusive. If you've ever been friends with someone who's hooked up with a known serial abuser, chances are that you have had to sit through their attempts at justifying their behavior as foretold by previous partners - "oh, they just weren't a good match", "they both enabled abuse towards each other", "his ex was just crazy, man." This honeymoon period can last anywhere from a few weeks, to several years - until said friend inevitably finds themselves in the exact same cycle that said ex escaped from.

That's Petras. Petras is fresh meat. He's compliant. He's gullible. As a human in a world where you're surrounded by races that live up to several hundreds of years, he's attributed power to longevity - he loves being a spawn. He loves knowing that he will never lose his youthful looks and that his newly-acquired "curse" makes him desirable in it's own, odd way. He thinks this gig is easy - go out, get laid, get fed, rinse and repeat. Sure, sometimes there's a misunderstanding and he gets his joints broken or nails ripped out, but whatever! They grow back! To a vampire with powers of regeneration, dismemberment and scalping might as well be equivalent to ten belt-smacks to the backside just like his father used to give him as a child. Plus, it's never really his fault - If Master knew the truth, he would never set his goons on him at all!

And Oh, he adores Cazador. Not as a friend, a lover, or even a family member - but an aspiration. He sincerely believes that through hard work and resilience he can one day also have his status and fortune. And it shouldn't even be hard to stand out among this angsty little crew - what are they so bent out of shape about, anyway If they spent less time moping and more time working, maybe they wouldn't have such a tough time. Especially -

Astarion.

While it is likely incidental, I find it very ironic that Petras was put in Astarion's early-access outfit. And much less accidental than that: his mannerism and word-choice are a blatant imitation of Astarion's behavior. The flair, the flirting, the flattering and the abrasiveness; I've heard it theorized that this must be how all of the spawn act - I disagree. Petras is the only one we see exhibit that type of demeanor. I think he actively models himself after Astarion because as thick as he might be, he did catch onto the fact that his master has a particular interest in the white-haired elf.

And, of course, Petras hates Astarion for it. He sees him as someone who could have had it all, but gave up on it in favor of being bitter, angry, and naively wistful over his lost life. He has the looks, he has the charm, he had his master's favor, they go out and Petras watches men and women alike swoon over him and laugh at his shitty jokes, to then return home with a long-faced, bratty little shit-head of a toddler-man who would never even understand what the paralyzing loom of mortality is like in the first place - an ungrateful, nepotistic bastard whose had it all handed over to him by daddy, who was loved and fed and given a well-paid job fresh off his teens - but now he has to put a little work in. Now he has to do things that he might find unpleasant. And all he fucking does is whine about it.

Astarion is the personification of everything Petras ever wanted to be before being turned into a spawn, and he accidentally wears it on his sleeve day in and day out. I have no doubt that Astarion is blatantly aware of that fact and it makes his skin crawl - but Dalyria tells him that Petras is too young. Too new. Cut him some slack.

And frankly, I don't think he's evil, either. He strikes me as naive and star-striken. I don't know how long he's been with the Szarrs for, but certainly the light in his eyes would eventually fade over time and he would have had all the zest beaten out of him, same as the others. But, for now - he just doesn't know his own luck.

Admittedly, I have much less to say about Yousen and Aurelia. We don't hear as much as a word out of Yousen, but I've chosen to read the silence of and about his character as indicative that, maybe, he was able to hold onto his sanity and honor the best out of all of them. He had to do what he had to do to survive, but he did it while attempting to withhold any standards allowed to him for his own peace of mind - I like to imagine he had a lot of sincere empathy for all of the spawn, and, while they were never close, him and Astarion exchanged sincere words about their situation a few times during their stay at the palace; just enough to remind the elf that he wasn't alone, but never so much that Yousen would intrude into his space, or add strain to his already fragile state of mind.

And Aurelia... She strikes me as so young and already so beaten. I'd wager that what was once a sweet tiefling girl is now a terrified animal who does absolutely whatever she can to avoid pain and punishment - the snitch of the group, the reluctant ass-kisser, the one who desperately clings to any relief in whatever form it may come - be her master's approval or the shoulder of a sibling she has damned to the kennel more than once out of fear for her own life. Everybody has been hurt, betrayed, and irritated by her - but she's just so god damn pitiful that they can't push her away forever. While she would live, I believe she would have the hardest time adapting to freedom after Violet - just completely dependent on others and burdened by what she's had to do.

[randomdragonfires]

Time Can't Stop Me Quite Like You Did - Part Four, An Interlude

Text divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | The music blares and everyone’s out of it, but she turns and sees him. Detached from it all, Aemond stands on the balcony with a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips - watching the party unfold, watching her. The realization hits her as their eyes meet.

It’s him. It’s always been him. 

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Non-Con and Violence Elements; Use of Substances and Alcohol; Complicated Relationship Dynamics.

PAIRINGS | Modern!Aemond Targaryen x Reader [MAIN]; Modern!Daeron Targaryen x Reader; Alys Rivers x Aemond Targaryen

WORD COUNT | 12k

Check out the art created for this fic by the lovely, talented and so very kind @azperja here!  

AUTHOR'S NOTE | This chapter does not pick up where chapter 3 left off. This is a short interlude that looks into Aemond and Alys and how they came to be, and what it is that keeps them together. Or atleast, this is my attempt at writing a complicated relationship that was doomed from the get go. The next chapter is the last one.

I do not entertain comments that so obviously reek of hate, an intent to provoke or misogyny of any kind. The fact that I've learnt to expect this is sad as it is. Be nice, or be civil and constructive and open to conversation. It's not hard, really. This is, after all, just a silly story. :)

MORE THAN A YEAR AGO - AEMOND POV

"Of course I'm here. It’s summer vacation, and it’s only one of the biggest gallery openings in the country," Wylde said with a grin. He was still new to Oldtown, while she was heading into her final year of school at King’s Landing—but they both knew where they belonged in the world. He would eventually take his place at the top, running one of the oldest commercial institutions in the realm. She would become a prominent socialite, wielding her family’s art connections with pride and skill, possibly on the arm of one of the men in this room.

For a fleeting moment back home, he had wished that man would be him. But that had passed—or so he liked to believe.

"Hm."

"Anyway, I have to make my rounds, shake hands," she sighed, as if already exhausted by the thought. "Most of them will try to get to my father through me, hoping for a chance at our family’s paintings for their displays." She paused, her expression softening. "My plane to King’s Landing leaves soon after, so I might not catch you to say goodbye, okay?"

She leaned in on the tips of her toes, instinctively brushing her lips against his cheek, a gesture so familiar it felt natural. His skin warmed under her touch as he held onto her for a moment, before letting her go and watching her slip into the crowd.

"It was nice to see you, Aemond," she said, giving him one last smile before she disappeared among the other guests.

He watched as the crowd welcomed her with open arms. And why wouldn’t they?

Aemond stood quietly near the back of the gallery, his head turned as he swirled his wine and pretended to be interested in the pieces around him. But his focus had already drifted.

From across the room, she had become the only thing he could think about.

She was magnetic in a way that defied simple description. It wasn’t just her beauty, though he could hardly deny that. There was something in the way she moved - fluid, deliberate, as if every gesture, every glance, was part of a conversation only she knew how to conduct. Aemond watched as she floated through the crowd with an easy grace, her black dress brushing the tops of her heels - not revealing, but just enough. 

But it wasn’t her appearance that intrigued him the most. It was her detachment. The way she seemed to occupy the room and yet remain entirely separate from it. Like she knew she was better than the herd. How can she possibly not? He knew it, and he’d barely known her for ten minutes.

He studied her carefully, trying to decode the way she interacted with her surroundings. The other guests barely held her interest, even her husband - Brynden Rivers, the artist on feature - who was basking in the attention of his admirers, seemed peripheral to her thoughts. She would smile and nod at the right moments, offering polite responses when addressed, but her eyes - sharp, dark, endlessly curious - always strayed back to the art. It was as though she were in search of something she hadn’t quite found, or perhaps she was testing the art itself, waiting to see if it would reveal anything worth caring about.

He found himself wondering what she saw. What was it that drew her attention so intensely? Was she, like him, disillusioned by the pageantry of it all? Or was she simply beyond it, a part of a world he hadn’t yet glimpsed?

Aemond’s eyes lingered on her, captivated by her subtle confidence. He could tell she knew he was watching - how could she not? And yet, she gave no indication that she minded. Instead, there was a knowingness in her movements, a quiet acknowledgment of his gaze that sent a strange thrill through him.

Almost as if she moved just for him.

As she turned from the group around her to admire one of the larger paintings, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his. It was fleeting, just a flicker of recognition, but the brief moment stretched out in Aemond’s mind. She didn’t look away immediately, nor did she smile - there was something almost challenging in her gaze, as though she were testing him, daring him to keep watching.

And he did.

Their eyes met again several times as the night wore on, each moment charged with tension that had heat penetrating him through his black turtleneck. He couldn’t place it - this feeling that they were circling each other from opposite ends of the room. They had not spoken a word, yet it felt as though they were in conversation, their glances exchanging ideas, questions, provocations. What was she thinking? Did she feel this pull too, or was she simply toying with him, amused by the attention of a younger man?

She leaned in to whisper something to her husband, her lips barely moving, and Aemond felt an unexpected surge of jealousy - irrational, yes, but undeniable. She was so at ease, so unattainable, yet there was something in the way she kept looking at him, as if she wanted him to see her just as much as he wanted to understand her.

He’d never, in his entire life, felt like this before.

Their eyes locked again, and this time her lips curved into the faintest smile, not of politeness or pretense, but of acknowledgment. She knew exactly what she was doing, and Aemond, for all his careful control, felt the thrill of the chase. It wasn’t just desire - though there was plenty of that - it was the curiosity that gripped him. Who was she? What did she want from this night, from this life? And why did it feel like, in this crowded room, they were the only two people who mattered?

There was a moment when their gaze lingered just a little longer than before, the silence between them almost deafening, despite the buzz of conversation around them. Aemond felt something stir deep within him, a strange excitement, as though this unspoken challenge had a life of its own. What was he to her? Just another man in the gallery, or had she singled him out the way he had her?

It wasn’t until she broke the connection - turning back to the painting in front of her - that he realized he had been holding his breath.

Aemond had been standing in the corner of the gallery, nursing a drink that had long gone flat. His eyes drifted back to her, stealing glances, trying to untangle the mystery she presented without making it too obvious. He couldn't quite understand why she fascinated him so much, but her presence demanded his attention.

Then, it happened.

She moved.

At first, he thought she was simply changing her position to get a better view of a painting, but when their eyes met across the room for the third time that evening, something shifted. She wasn't just glancing anymore - she was walking toward him.

Aemond’s heart rate spiked. He forced himself to remain calm, to not show his surprise, but he could hardly believe she was coming up to him. The crowd of art enthusiasts seemed to blur, and the distant hum of voices faded into nothingness as she neared. He couldn't help but track every step she took, as though each one was part of a dance he hadn’t learned yet.

And then she was there, standing in front of him. Up close, she was even more striking than he had imagined - her features sharp and graceful, with an aura of confidence that was almost magnetic. She had an air of quiet authority, but not in the way the old-money elite around them carried themselves. Hers was different, more subtle, more powerful.

“Aemond Targaryen,” she said, her voice smooth and knowing, as though they were already well acquainted.

He blinked, still processing the fact that she was speaking to him at all. “You know me,” he said, though it wasn’t exactly a question. It made sense - he was a Targaryen after all, but still, something about her saying his name with such ease unnerved him.

“To no one's surprise, yes.” She smiled, the corners of her lips curling up in a way that was almost teasing. “You didn’t think I’d notice the only one in this room who's barely looked at the art?”

The comment threw him for a moment, but then, intrigued, he leaned in slightly. “A room full of some of the finest art, and yet you’ve been watching me,” he pointed out. 

Did she notice him before, the same way he’s noticed her?

For a moment, her dark eyes sparkled with amusement. “Alys Rivers,” she began, letting the name roll off her tongue slowly, as if inviting him to puzzle it out.

Aemond’s brow furrowed. "Rivers?" he muttered, almost to himself, trying to jog his memory. The name wasn’t entirely unfamiliar, but he couldn’t quite place it. And then it came to him - he hadn’t heard that surname in relation to anyone important in his world. 

“Strong,” she corrected softly, the name falling like a small bomb between them. “My maiden name is Strong.”

Aemond’s eyes widened as the realization hit him. Strong. Of course. Lionel Strong, the headmaster of the school he attended for years. Harwin Strong, whose presence in Rhaenyra’s life had always been whispered about, and whose children were a constant point of rumor and speculation.

She is a sister to them both. How had he not known of her all this time?

His gaze snapped back to her face, searching for any sign that might have connected her to that family before, but there was nothing immediately obvious. “Lionel Strong...” he said aloud, piecing it together, more for himself than for her benefit.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Lionel is my half-brother. Harwin, too.”

He exhaled slowly, letting the weight of it sink in. It was like a secret door had been unlocked, revealing more about her than he ever could’ve guessed. She had roots in his world, in his life, that had been there all along, just hidden beneath the surface.

Alys smirked, clearly enjoying the way his mind raced to catch up. "Surprised?"

“More than I’d like to admit,” he replied, a slow smile pulling at his lips as he found himself even more intrigued than before.

Aemond leaned back slightly, still processing everything. His mind, usually so sharp and analytical, felt slower than usual in the presence of Alys Rivers - or Strong, as she had just revealed. But as much as her family ties surprised him, it didn’t change the allure she carried. She was still an enigma, now with even more layers to uncover.

Alys shifted her gaze to the painting nearest them - a sprawling canvas of abstract forms, colors bleeding into one another in what he deduces as an intentional mess. “So, what do you think of the work?” she asked casually, her eyes tracing the chaotic lines as if she already knew exactly what he was going to say.

He tilted his head, not willing to offer anything up too quickly. “It’s… bold.”

“Bold,” she repeated, her lips quivering. “That’s a safe assessment.”

“I suppose it is,” he conceded, allowing himself a small smile. “But it’s honest. What about you? You seem like someone with stronger opinions on art.”

“I do,” she admitted, folding her arms across her chest as she took in the piece again. “This one... it’s my husband’s.”

Her words hung in the air, and Aemond couldn’t stop the faint sting of jealousy that crept into his chest at the way she said ‘husband’ - with a sense of familiarity that only came from many years of being tied together. He glanced back at the painting, trying to find some reflection of the man behind it.

“Your husband’s quite the artist,” he said, keeping his tone even, but his interest was undeniable.

Alys nodded, her gaze still on the painting. “Yes, he is. Brynden is one of the best, I suppose, but you don’t need me to tell you that. Everyone else here already has.” There was something dismissive in her voice, a casual indifference that caught Aemond off guard.

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “And what do you think of his work?”

Alys tilted her head and gave a half-smile, as though considering the question for the first time. “It’s... fine. I appreciate what he’s trying to say, but it doesn’t speak to me in the way art should.” She paused, then turned to him, her dark eyes finding him with a sharpness that left him momentarily breathless. “But you already guessed that, didn’t you?”

Aemond smirked, amused by how easily she read him. “It’s a little obvious. The way you talk about him, about his work… It’s almost as if you’re disconnected from it.”

She met his gaze, unflinching, her smile growing. “You’re observant, aren’t you? That must be exhausting.”

He chuckled softly, unable to help himself. “I’ve been told as much.” There was something thrilling about it - this mutual understanding, this wordless challenge.

“So,” he said, redirecting the conversation with purpose, “if your husband’s work doesn’t speak to you, what does? What kind of art do you appreciate?”

Alys turned away from the painting, her attention fully on him now. “The kind that demands something of me. Something that won’t let me look away. I want to be moved, even unsettled. The sort of art that makes you question everything you thought you knew.”

Aemond’s eyes flickered, intrigued. “You mean the kind that unsettles you in the same way a person can?”

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Exactly. Sometimes, the most impactful art is the kind that forces you to confront things you’ve been avoiding. It’s messy, uncomfortable, but unforgettable.”

He found himself nodding in agreement, feeling the conversation dip. “I suppose that’s why art and history are so closely linked. Both make you confront uncomfortable truths. The more you understand the world, the more you realize how fragile everything is.”

She sighed softly, as though she’d found someone who shared her exact thoughts. “Yes, and that fragility - that’s where the beauty lies. When you can’t control it. And when it’s gone, you’re left wondering why you didn’t appreciate it enough.”

They weren’t just talking about art anymore, and both of them knew it.

“And history,” she continued, her voice softer now, “is like the ultimate piece of art, isn’t it? Layered and complex, full of contradictions. No matter how much you study it, there’s always something more to uncover.”

Aemond nodded, his gaze intense. “It’s a reminder that nothing is permanent. Not power, not legacy, not even love.”

The way he said it, the quiet certainty in his voice, made Alys pause. She studied him for a long moment, as if searching for something behind his words. “You’re quite young. Do you really believe that?” she asked, her tone challenging, though her smile remained.

“Of course,” he replied easily. “Everything has its limits.”

As their conversation deepened, they moved through the gallery, eventually stopping in front of a painting that caught Alys’s attention. The piece was striking - two figures, intertwined in an abstract embrace, their forms blurring at the edges, as if they were dissolving into one another. The colors were bold, almost chaotic, bleeding into one another in a way that suggested both unity and dissolution.

Alys tilted her head, her lips curving into a thoughtful smile. “What do you make of this one?”

Aemond studied the painting, the mingling figures, the way their outlines seemed to waver as if they could hardly contain themselves within the frame. It was both intimate and unsettling, a reflection of connection and the inevitable loss that comes with it.

“It’s fascinating,” he said, voice measured. “There’s something about the way they’re almost… becoming each other. But it’s not peaceful, is it? It’s like they’re losing themselves in the process.”

She nodded, eyes still fixed on the canvas. “It’s about boundaries, I think. How much of yourself are you willing to give before you start losing pieces of who you are?”

Aemond glanced at her, sensing the weight behind her words. “Isn’t that what love does, in a way? It strips you down, forces you to let go of your boundaries until you’re not sure where you end and the other person begins.”

Alys met his gaze, her eyes sharp, thoughtful. “But that’s dangerous, isn’t it? Giving up so much of yourself. Maybe that’s why so many people cling to the idea of monogamy - one person, one connection, to keep things simple. Less risk.”

Aemond raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Do you think monogamy keeps things simple?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “Not at all. Monogamy is just another way of complicating things, if you ask me. The idea that one person can meet all your needs… it feels like an illusion.”

He considered her words, watching her closely as she turned back to the painting. “So you don’t believe in it?”

Alys shrugged, her smile a little mischievous. “I believe in connection. But I also believe in freedom. Sometimes, those things don’t go hand in hand.”

Aemond’s gaze lingered on her, his mind swirling with the implications of her words. “Is that why you don’t believe in monogamy?”

She didn’t answer right away, instead turning to look at him with that same sly, knowing smile. “I didn’t say that - I can’t, given that I am married. But I don’t think it’s the only way to live.”

Aemond chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “I think monogamy works for some people. But for others... perhaps it’s just another form of control.”

“And what about you?” she asked, her gaze locking with his, challenging him again. “Do you crave control, Aemond?”

He didn’t answer right away, but the intensity of her gaze made his heart race. “I think we all do, in some way. It’s human nature.”

Alys took a step closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But sometimes, the most exhilarating moments come when you let go of control. When you surrender to something - or someone - you can’t predict.”

Her words sent a shiver down his spine, and for a brief moment, he felt the air between them grow charged. The flirtation between them had evolved into something far more potent, far more dangerous.

“Are you speaking from experience?” he asked, his voice lower now, the distance between them shrinking.

She didn’t break eye contact, her lips curving slightly. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Aemond glanced around the bustling gallery, the laughter and chatter of art enthusiasts fading into a background hum as his focus narrowed back to Alys. The way her eyes sparkled, the slight tilt of her head, and the intoxicating warmth of her presence drew him in like a moth to flame.

In a bold, instinctive move, he reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. The contact sent a jolt through him, a mix of excitement and nervous energy. Her skin felt warm against his, soft yet somehow grounding, and he marveled at how effortlessly their hands fit together.

Without a word, he began to lead her away from the crowd. They slipped through a doorway and into an empty stairwell. As they stepped into the dim light, Aemond turned to face her fully, their hands still clasped. He felt a rush of exhilaration, the act of holding her hand feeling significant, almost intimate. 

“What now?” she asked, her voice low and playful, her gaze unwavering.

He hesitated, caught in the intensity of the moment, the gravity of her presence. He reached into his trouser pockets for a cigarette and lighter, and soon there was the ashy smell of smoke around them. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I want to find out.”

The smoke from Aemond’s cigarette curling lazily into the quiet space. He took a drag, exhaling slowly as his mind raced, the sharp taste of nicotine mingling with the tension. He kept his gaze on the blank space ahead, the smoke filling the air around them. She, however, hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He could feel it—the way she watched him, measured him, waiting to see what he would do next. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable; it felt charged.

He took one last drag before carelessly flicking the cigarette to the floor, grinding it under his boot without a second thought. The small, defiant gesture felt freeing, as though he was stamping out a part of himself—his restraint, his hesitation. He turned to face her again, her gaze steady, her lips slightly parted as if she was waiting for something.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world outside the stairwell ceased to exist. Then, with a low exhale, he stepped closer, his eyes locking with hers. It was a split second of tension before he leaned in, his lips brushing against hers. The kiss was slow at first, exploratory, testing the boundaries between them. But the moment her lips parted, the intensity between them flared to life.

Aemond pressed her back against the cold, hard wall, the warmth of her body against his heightening his awareness of every touch, every breath. His hands moved with purpose, one sliding up to cup her face, the other finding her waist, pulling her closer. As the kiss deepened, his fingers traced the line of her neck, her collarbone, before they slipped lower, teasing the hem of her dress.

She let out a soft gasp as his fingers found their way between her thighs, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth. There was no hesitation, no awkward fumbling—only the smooth, practiced confidence.

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as he continued, the rhythm of his fingers drawing soft moans from her lips. He could feel her tightening, her body trembling as she reached the edge. His thumb brushed over her in just the right way, and that was all it took. Alys stifled a cry as she came, her body arching against the wall, and Aemond kissed her again, this time slower, more tender, as if savoring the moment. Her breathing slowly evened out, and Aemond felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. Neither of them spoke. There was no need for words. 

They simply stood there, foreheads pressed together, sharing the stillness as the world outside continued to move without them.

Aemond had spotted her almost immediately as he entered the courtyard of the university, the gathering of faculty and students milling about in conversation. He had been here long enough to know some faces but not enough to blend in completely. Most of them were talking about papers and projects he couldn't care less about, not today.

And then there she was.

Alys Rivers. Standing among a group of intellectuals, professors, and lecturers—all older, some of them even more seasoned than she was. They looked at her with respect due to someone who held both knowledge and authority. But Aemond? He couldn't help but view her through a lens far removed from the polite deference that the others offered. He could still taste the memory of her kiss, still feel the warmth of her body beneath his fingers.

From where he stood, he could tell she’d seen him, even though she was pretending not to. Her posture had stiffened slightly, her smile at whatever quip had been made by one of her colleagues was just a bit too strained. But it was her eyes that told him the truth—fleetingly, they flicked in his direction, locking onto him for the briefest of seconds before quickly darting away.

And in that brief glance, Aemond knew. Something had changed.

The gaze she gave him wasn’t the smoldering intensity he remembered from their night in the stairwell. It wasn’t the playful challenge or the simmering heat. No, it was something colder, more distant. Her eyes held a reservation that hadn’t been there before, a guardedness he couldn’t quite place.

It made him want to tear himself apart.

He could feel a knot of frustration building in his chest, knowing what that look meant—she had figured it out. That he was just a student here, not some intriguing enigma from outside her world. She had likely put it together: that he was young, still tethered to his academic life, and most probably someone she could regret ever getting involved with.

His feet carried him forward on instinct, not even aware of what he would say or do. He just needed to close the distance between them. But as he approached, he could sense her retreat, even from across the courtyard. She didn’t move away physically, but in every other way, she had already begun to pull back.

The light in her eyes when she’d looked at him the night they first met—the spark that had drawn them together so easily—was dimmed now, like she was shielding herself from it. He could feel the walls she was putting up, the distance she was trying to create. And he hated it.

Aemond finally stopped a few feet away, his eyes fixed on her, willing her to look at him again. To acknowledge that this wasn’t over, that what they’d shared wasn’t something she could just forget. But Alys barely glanced his way, her attention deliberately on the conversation around her, offering a polite smile to some professor who was undoubtedly droning on about some obscure piece of art history.

She wasn’t ignoring him. That would have been easier to handle. No, she was acknowledging him just enough to let him know that she had seen him—but not in the way he wanted.

It was a calculated withdrawal, a signal that this—whatever this was—couldn’t continue.

He clenched his fists at his sides, frustration boiling beneath the surface. He didn’t understand. She was Alys Rivers, confident, self-assured, worldly. And now she was shrinking back, locking herself behind the very walls he thought she had long since broken down. He knew she was regretting it, regretting him. Regretting the way she had let herself lose control with him.

But Aemond couldn’t let that be the end. He wouldn’t let her slip away that easily, not after what they’d shared.

His jaw clenched as he took a deep breath, watching her from across the space. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. This was a woman who had opened a door in him he hadn’t even known existed, and now, she was shutting it without so much as a word.

He wouldn’t allow it.

Not yet.

Three nights.

Three nights had passed since that brief, fleeting glance across the courtyard. Alys had been there, wrapped in her distant composure, surrounded by those professors and intellectuals as though nothing had ever happened between them. But the space between them had spoken volumes—more than any words could. She had pulled back, retreated into the safety of her old life, her mind likely full of regrets.

But Aemond couldn’t let it go. The memory of her—of that night, her breathless sighs, the way her body had responded to his touch—had been burning in the back of his mind since. He had tried to shake it, tried to focus on the mundanity of university life, but the tension gnawed at him, unraveling him from the inside.

Tonight, it was too much.

Driving through Oldtown’s winding streets, the engine of Vhagar thrummed beneath him, a low growl matching the storm raging inside. He knew where he was headed before he had even set out, his body moving on instinct. He had to see her again. He needed answers, something more than that cold look she’d given him.

He parked down the street from her house—small, secluded, the same one where they’d fucked for the first time. His hands gripped the steering wheel for a moment, the echoes of that night replaying in his mind. He remembered every touch, every word, the way her laughter had turned to breathless gasps.

But tonight would be different. He wasn’t sure what he would say to her. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted from her. All he knew was that he couldn’t let her fade away like this—not without understanding.

The quiet crunch of his boots against the gravel as he approached her front door made his pulse quicken. His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he almost turned back. But his hand was already lifting, knuckles tapping lightly on the wood.

When the door opened, she stood there, looking nothing like the composed and untouchable woman from the gallery. Her hair was down, soft and tousled, falling around her face, and she wore sleep clothes—an oversized, faded shirt and loose pants. Glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She must have been reading. He had to know what she’d been reading. What had captivated her mind enough to distract her tonight, of all nights? He so desperately wanted to ask.

But he couldn’t.

Because when Alys saw him standing there—her face wilted. It was like watching her defenses crumble in slow motion, a mixture of resignation and regret playing out in the slight downturn of her lips, in the way her shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

“Aemond,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but before he could speak, she grabbed him by the arm and tugged him inside, glancing quickly at the dark street behind him to make sure no one had seen.

She closed the door with a quiet click, sealing them both inside.

His eyes followed her, drinking in every detail. The loose fabric of her shirt, the way her hair moved with each step, and the quiet way she carried herself now, so different from the confidence she had exuded at the gallery and that night in the stairwell.

She moved to the kitchen, her steps quiet but purposeful. Aemond stood behind her, watching as she reached for a small coffee pot, her movements practiced and deliberate, as if she were stalling for time. The familiar hiss of the coffee beginning to brew filled the silence, but Aemond’s eyes remained fixed on her. His heart still pounded in his chest, an anxious rhythm that echoed in the quiet space between them.

He wanted to ask why she had pulled back. Why did she change so quickly? He wanted to know everything—why she had retreated, why she was here now, brewing coffee in the middle of the night as though they were nothing more than casual acquaintances.

But most of all, he wanted to know if she regretted him.

Aemond stood there, watching her small, quiet movements. The coffee pot sputtered softly, the scent of fresh grounds filling the kitchen, but all his attention was on her—the way her shoulders rose and fell with each breath, the way her fingers tightened momentarily on the countertop as though she was trying to steady herself. He couldn’t resist the pull any longer. His body moved before his mind could catch up.

Slowly, deliberately, he crossed the space between them, closing the distance. His chest brushed against her back, and he could feel her tense, though she didn’t pull away. His hands found her waist, fingers tightening just enough to hold her there, to ground both of them in this moment. She exhaled, a soft sound that almost broke him.

Aemond lowered his head, his lips grazing the delicate skin at the nape of her neck. He could feel the faintest strands of her hair brushing against his face, tickling his lips as he kissed the smallest, most intimate part of her. His breath was warm against her skin, and he felt her body shift—just the slightest tremor beneath his hands.

Her grip on the countertop tightened as she whispered, “Aemond… this isn’t right.”

He paused, his lips hovering above her skin as her words cut through the haze of desire between them. Slowly, she turned around to face him, her expression a mix of guilt and something more difficult to define. Her eyes searched his, lingering for a moment before she looked down, as if she couldn’t bear to hold his gaze for too long.

“I teach at Oldtown,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “You’re a student. I didn’t know... I never knew.”

She was visibly conflicted, her hands pressing flat against the counter as if to steady herself against the weight of her own words. “This... this isn’t right.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed, his jaw tightening in frustration. “You teach art history,” he countered, his voice sharp, but controlled. “I’m in economics. You don’t teach me.”

Her eyes flicked back up to his, but there was still a shadow of doubt there. “It doesn’t matter. The lines are blurred, Aemond. We’re from the same world, the same institution. It complicates everything.”

“And what?” He leaned in closer, his voice low and heated now, laced with frustration. “Because we’re in the same place, suddenly this—” his hand tightened on her waist, “—suddenly this isn’t real? Or doesn’t count?”

She shook her head, but her breath hitched as his grip became firmer. “No, it’s not that—”

“Then what?” He demanded softly, his mouth inches from hers, his words a mix of desperation and desire. “What is it that makes you think this is wrong?”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her hesitation, the conflict in her gaze, only fueled his frustration.

“I need you, Alys,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I need you to make me feel alive.”

The vulnerability in his words hung between them, raw and unguarded. For a moment, neither of them moved. The kitchen was filled with the quiet hum of the coffee pot, the only sound punctuating the thick tension.

Alys exhaled shakily, her gaze softening. She reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, her hand lingering there as though she was holding herself together. “Aemond...” she began, her voice quieter now, more fragile. “You don’t understand how dangerous this is.”

“I don’t care,” he whispered, stepping even closer, his lips brushing against hers. “I don’t care about any of it.”

Their lips collided with a fierce, almost desperate need. His hand slipped from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, while her fingers gripped his shirt, pulling him toward her as if she couldn’t fight it anymore. The kiss was electric, a surge of everything they had been holding back. All the conflict, all the tension melted into the heat between them.

When they finally pulled apart, their breaths were ragged, their foreheads pressed together. Aemond’s heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel hers too, fast and erratic against him.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, though there was no conviction in her words. “I can’t…”

“You can,” he murmured, brushing his lips softly against her cheek, his hand still resting on her back. “You can.”

She let out a soft, conflicted sigh, her head resting against his chest for just a moment before she stepped back slightly, enough to put some distance between them. “I hope you’re right,” she said softly, her eyes searching for his once again, though this time, there was a trace of hope.

Aemond lay on his back, his chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of contentment. Beside him, Alys stretched languidly. The sheets had slipped down, revealing the smooth curve of her back and the hint of tattoos peeking along her spine—small, deliberate symbols that only made her more intriguing.

Months have passed since they began what she calls a clandestine affair, and yet, he supposed he’d never get used to the feeling of being able to hold someone as exquisite as her.

He turned his head slightly, studying her in the faint light, the way her hair fell messily over her shoulders, the way she seemed completely at ease in the quiet space between them. 

She shifted, rolling onto her side to face him, propping her head up on her hand. Her eyes, dark and sharp as ever, flicked up to meet his, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I was thinking,” she began, her voice low and languid, “about the mural at the Starry Sept.”

Aemond raised a brow, his lips curving into a small smirk. Of course she would talk about art history after a night like this. “Oh?” he prompted, turning fully to face her, his arm resting beneath his head. “What about it?”

Alys leaned closer, her voice dropping into that tone she used when she was fully in her element—an intoxicating mix of mystique and allure. “The mural depicts Aegon’s Conquest, but what most people overlook is the subtle inclusion of symbols that reference the Valyrian Freehold’s decline. It's not just a celebration of Aegon's victory but a commentary on the fall of an empire—and, perhaps, a warning about the fragility of power.”

He watched her intently, captivated by the way she spoke, her words moving effortlessly between history and art, tying together themes in a way that made even the most obscure details seem relevant, significant. She was always like this— her intelligence wrapping around him in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“You think it was intentional?” he asked, his tone genuinely curious. “The decline of Valyria, woven into the heart of a Westerosi victory mural?”

Alys smirked, her fingers tracing small, idle patterns on the sheets. “I do. Art isn’t just about what’s obvious—it’s about what’s hidden, what’s suggested. Power, love, history—it’s all layered. And those who know how to look will always find more than what’s on the surface.”

Aemond chuckled softly, shaking his head in amusement. “You’ve quite the understanding of it all.”

Her smile widened, a little more playful now, her fingers brushing over his arm. “Maybe. I should, given that I teach it.”

He felt a rush of admiration for her, this woman who could so effortlessly transition from a fierce intellectual to someone who could make him feel utterly insignificant and yet completely seen at the same time. She was unlike anyone he had ever met.

“You’re wasted in Oldtown,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter, more serious. “You should be part of the think tank at the Citadel, teaching them all how to see the world the way you do.”

Alys laughed softly, shaking her head. “The Citadel doesn’t want women like me, Aemond. They want their history clean and simple. But the way I see it… history is messy—it’s complicated, just like everything else.”

He couldn’t argue with that, not when she had such a profound grasp of the chaos beneath the surface of things. He reached out, his hand sliding into her hair, tugging her just a little closer. “Messy can be beautiful,” he murmured, his voice a little rougher now, his thumb brushing over her cheek.

Her gaze softened slightly, her sharpness dimming just a little in the warm intimacy of the moment. “You’re full of surprises, Targaryen.”

He smirked, leaning in to kiss her softly, their lips brushing in a slow, deliberate way. When he pulled back, he caught the way her gaze lingered on him, as though she were sizing him up, trying to decide if she should let him in a little more.

“So,” she said after a moment, her voice softer but still holding that edge of curiosity. “If Westerosi art is a reflection of its history, what do you think it says about you? About the Targaryens?”

Aemond tilted his head, considering her question carefully. “It says that we are a people obsessed with legacy. Everything we do is about ensuring our names, our houses, are remembered. Even our art is full of dragons, of conquest and fire—it’s about showing power.”

“And what about you?” she asked, her eyes locked onto his, searching. “What do you want your legacy to be?”

He paused, the question hanging between them. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to answer. His whole life had been spent chasing power, chasing recognition. But here, in this moment, with her, he felt something shift. Something deeper, more personal.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter, more vulnerable than he had intended. “But I think I want it to be more than just a name in the books.”

Alys studied him for a long moment, her expression softening. She reached out, her hand resting on his chest, just over his heart. “Maybe that’s the first step. Realizing there’s more to life than what the world expects from you.”

Aemond’s heart beat a little faster under her touch. That’s when it hits him. For the first time, he wasn’t chasing power, authority or perfection.

He was chasing her.

“There's always this sense of danger, of forbidden pleasure. But people are drawn to it.”

She set her plate aside, her fingers brushing absently over the arm of the sofa. “In most of the stories, it’s either villainized or fetishized. Affairs are always catastrophic, or they’re seen as something scandalous, and yet… they’re everywhere. The stories, the songs, the histories—they all revolve around love triangles, mistresses, lovers. It's as though the idea of being with more than one person is at the center of so many lives, but no one ever talks about it openly.”

Alys turned toward him, her eyes sharper now, more focused. “That’s because monogamy is a construct. It’s a way of controlling love, of organizing it into something neat and manageable. But love isn’t manageable, Aemond. It’s messy. It’s wild. And sometimes, it doesn’t fit into one person, or one life.”

There was a quiet intensity in her words, the kind that made him listen more carefully. “And you?” he asked, his voice soft, probing. “What about your own life?”

Alys sighed, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she set her plate down on the coffee table. “Brynden and I—we’re not monogamous, though we were, once upon a time. We’ve been married for over a decade, but we realized early on that there were things we both wanted, things that didn’t always align.”

Aemond frowned slightly, not quite understanding. “But if you love each other…”

She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness in her expression, a kind of resigned wisdom. “We do love each other. We care deeply about each other, we love each other. But we’re not in love. Not in the way that most people expect or demand from a marriage.”

Aemond’s eyes darkened, a flicker of something dangerous passing through his mind. “So, you just… see other people? Without it affecting you?”

Alys shook her head, leaning forward slightly. “It only works if both people are one hundred percent okay with it. That’s the thing, Aemond. You can’t force this kind of relationship. Brynden and I have different things we need out of life. There’s very little I can do to satisfy myself if I have to compromise for him. The same goes for him too. He’s my best friend. We’ve found a balance, a way to live together and still have space for ourselves.”

She glanced at him, watching his reaction carefully. “But it’s not easy. It takes a lot of trust. And it doesn’t always make sense to people who see love as something that has to be exclusive.”

Aemond sat back, his lips curling slightly in that familiar way when his mind was working through something, his ego surfacing. He couldn’t help himself. “I suppose I’m lucky, then,” he said, a faint note of arrogance in his voice. “To be the one who gets to benefit from that.”

Alys’s expression froze. Her eyes widened, and for a moment, the warm, intimate atmosphere between them cracked. She stood up abruptly, her voice sharp with disbelief. “Lucky?” she echoed, her gaze piercing. “You think this is about luck? Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain something like this without everything falling apart?”

Aemond realized his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. He shot to his feet, his hand reaching for hers. “Alys, I didn’t mean—”

But she pulled her hand back, shaking her head, her frustration evident. “No, you don’t get to reduce my life, my choices, to something as simple as luck.”

He stepped closer, his hands moving to her shoulders, his voice softer now, more genuine. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, leaning in closer. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Alys stared at him for a long moment, her chest rising and falling with restrained emotion. He could see the tension in her, the wariness that came with it all. In a rare display, her years showed.

Without a word, Aemond leaned in and kissed her, his lips capturing hers in a way that was both apologetic and filled with longing. She responded, hesitantly at first, but then with more intensity, as though she were letting go of something. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer as the kiss deepened.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the quiet space. Aemond held her close, his fingers brushing over her sides, and he spoke softly, almost reverently. “I meant what I said, Alys.”

Alys closed her eyes for a moment, her breathing steadying as she absorbed his words. She sighed softly, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest. 

“I know.”

Aemond lay beside Alys, his shirt barely clinging to her, the fabric slipping off one shoulder, exposing her pale skin. She moved beneath the sheets with a languid grace that only made her more irresistible. His fingers skimmed over her body, memorizing the dips and curves, the way her skin felt like silk under his touch. Every breath she took was a silent invitation, every brush of her lips against his a reminder of what had just transpired.

Her scent—something faintly floral and utterly intoxicating—clung to the air, mixing with the musky scent of sweat and sex. Aemond felt suspended in the moment, tethered to her in a way he hadn’t anticipated. His gaze drifted from the ceiling to her face, watching as she nestled deeper into the bed, her hair splayed out across the pillow like a dark halo. The way she looked in his shirt, the way she wore it so effortlessly, made his pulse quicken. Everything about her was sensual, down to the simplest gestures, like the lazy curl of her fingers as she reached for him, grazing her nails along his chest.

Her lips brushed his once more, a teasing kiss that made his head spin, like she knew just how far she could push him before he crumbled beneath her. There was an ease to her movements, a confidence that drove him wild, made him want to lose himself in her all over again. She shifted slightly, her thigh brushing against his, the heat of her skin sparking something primal within him.

But then her voice cut through the haze, soft and matter-of-fact, as if she were commenting on the weather. "I’m going to see Brynden tomorrow."

The words struck him like a slow-burning match, igniting something deep inside. The stillness in the room suddenly felt suffocating, the heat they’d shared now turning into a simmering tension. His hand, which had been gently tracing the curve of her waist, stilled. Aemond’s pulse quickened, but outwardly, he gave no sign of the fire starting to rage inside him.

Brynden. Her husband.

He tried to keep his breathing steady, but the thought of her with someone else—him—was enough to send a surge of possessiveness coursing through him. Aemond prided himself on his ability to control his emotions, to keep them tightly reined in, but this was different. 

She wasn’t just anyone. She was Alys. And the idea of her in another man’s bed, even if it was her husband's, twisted something deep inside him.

A thousand thoughts raced through his mind as he stared at the ceiling, trying to keep his jealousy in check. He didn’t have any right to feel this way. She had made it clear from the beginning. He knew what this was, knew the rules—yet none of that mattered in this moment. Not when the image of her leaving his bed for Brynden was clawing at him, filling him with a need he could barely control.

Alys shifted beside him, her fingers trailing lightly down his chest, as if she were unaware of the storm brewing inside him. But she always knew. She was far too perceptive not to notice the tension that had settled between them.

She tilted her head up, her eyes locking onto his, and there was a playful glint in them. “Are you jealous?” she asked, her tone teasing but laced with curiosity.

Aemond’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn’t respond, his fingers now gripping her waist with more intensity than before. He swallowed hard, the words tasting bitter on his tongue, but he couldn’t hold back. “I just fucked you, and you’re telling me you’re going to see someone else tomorrow.”

Her laughter was soft, almost like a sigh, but it stoked the flames inside him. She pulled away slightly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “You always knew what this was,” she murmured, her voice gentle yet firm, as if she was reminding him of the rules they had both agreed to.

He turned his head, staring down at her. She looked so effortlessly beautiful, so at ease, but the casualness of her words only intensified the gnawing jealousy inside him. You always knew what this was. Maybe he did, but hearing her say it aloud, hearing her reaffirm the boundaries that she had always been so careful to maintain—it made him feel helpless in a way he hadn’t expected.

His mind couldn’t help but wander, the images of what tomorrow would bring gnawing at him. He thought of her with Brynden, imagined them together, tangled in sheets that weren’t his. Would he touch her the way Aemond did? Would he know the places to kiss that made her gasp softly into his mouth? Would he know the way she liked to be held, the way she would bite her lip when she was just on the edge of ecstasy?

Would he even care?

Or worse, did he know better than him?

Aemond’s grip on her waist tightened, his possessiveness flaring, and before he could stop himself, the words tumbled from his lips. “Are you seeing others as well? Or is it just me and Brynden?”

Alys paused, her fingers stopping their idle movements as she looked at him, her gaze thoughtful. She didn’t seem surprised by his question, as if she had been expecting it. “Right now,” she said slowly, “it’s just the two of you.” Her lips curved into a small smile, one that sent a thrill through him despite the jealousy simmering just beneath the surface. 

The fact—that men would come running if she wanted them to—remains unsaid.

Aemond’s lips pressed into a tight line as he absorbed her words. Of course they would. She was magnetic—her beauty, her intelligence, the way she moved through the world with such ease—it was impossible not to be drawn to her. But even knowing that didn’t make the tightness in his chest any easier to bear.

He sat up slightly, his hand trailing up her back, fingers brushing over the exposed skin where his shirt had slipped down her shoulder. He wanted to pull her close, to keep her here with him, but he knew he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to be the only one, to claim her in a way no one else could, he knew the limits of what he was allowed.

This arrangement works because everyone knows where they stand.

She smiled softly, pulling him down to her for a kiss, her lips warm and inviting against his. But as she pulled away, her gaze lingered on his, and there was something knowing in her eyes, something that told him she understood all too well.

“I meant it,” he whispered, his voice low, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “I am jealous.”

Alys didn’t say anything, but the soft look in her eyes said enough. She knew. She had always known.

And he should have too.

Aemond had spent days trying to shake the feeling, trying to claw his way back to the control he’d once prided himself on. But the jealousy gnawed at him, a constant, gnawing tension in his chest. He hadn’t seen Alys since that night—had barely even let himself think of her—but she was everywhere. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her lying in his bed, felt her skin beneath his fingers, heard her voice as she casually mentioned her husband’s name, as if it were nothing.

He tried to drown himself in distractions—meetings, late-night study sessions, endless hours at the gym—but none of it worked. The silence of his apartment felt louder than ever, and every time he glanced at his phone, he half-expected to see a message from her. But it never came.

Not until Wylde’s name appeared on his screen.

He was standing by the window, mindlessly staring at the city lights when the familiar vibration startled him from his thoughts. He glanced down, and for a brief, disorienting second, his heart stopped. The photo of her flashed on his phone—a candid shot she had sent him months ago, a sunlit snapshot of her by the cliffs, her eyes gleaming with mischief and an easy smile that always made him feel lighter.

His stomach flipped, warmth spreading through him at the sight of her name.

It was as if all the heaviness he had been carrying suddenly lifted, the fog of jealousy and frustration dissipating in an instant. Without thinking, he grabbed the phone and answered, bringing it to his ear.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low, a hint of surprise in his tone.

He leaned into his pillows on the bed as she talked, her singsong voice making him feel lighter with each second. His cigarette burned idly between his fingers, ash falling unnoticed to the floor as he listened to her voice on the other end of the line. It had been days since they’d last talked, and the sound of her now felt like a balm to his burned heart.

“So, I tried that new coffee place you told me about,” Wylde said, her voice light, teasing. He could hear the smile in it. “The one with the ridiculously overpriced pastries.”

He smirked, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. “And?”

She sighed dramatically. “Never again. I’m convinced you only recommended it for the aesthetics.”

Aemond chuckled softly, the tension in his chest loosening just a fraction. “Maybe. The coffee’s not terrible though.”

“Not terrible? I’ve had better instant coffee.”

There was a pause on her end before her tone shifted, more thoughtful now. “So… Daeron talked to me today.”

Aemond’s fingers stilled on his cigarette. “And?”

“I don’t know. He apologized, and we talked. One thing led to another and I told him I loved him.”

The warmth that had spread through him a moment ago began to ebb as she continued.

“I asked him why he never said anything, and he said he didn’t want to hurt my feelings.”

“Hm.” He lit another cigarette, the click of the lighter distinct even through the phone. He could picture her so clearly, lying in bed with the phone pressed to her ear, her face soft with thought. He flexed his knuckles as he always did when he needed to keep his hands busy, the tension creeping back into his muscles.

“And then we just… I don’t know. We just sort of sat there for a bit.”

“Hm.” He inhaled slowly, letting the smoke fill his lungs, waiting for her to continue. Aemond had never been one to rush her, especially when it came to things like this. He imagined the awkward silence that must have hung between her and Daeron, and it stirred something low in his chest.

“We didn’t say much after. I was too embarrassed to continue, and he seemed tired. We just finished our drinks and then he insisted on walking me home.”

Aemond didn’t respond right away. He let the silence stretch between them, processing her words. His thumb absently flicked at the filter of his cigarette as he stared out into the dim city skyline, feeling the familiar weight settle on him. The thought of Daeron, after everything, still having a hold over her – it bothered him more than it should. He knew it was irrational, but knowing didn’t make it any easier to shake.

He shifted in his seat, the leather of his jacket rustling faintly. 

A slight creak of her bed sounded through the phone as she shifted. “Are you still there?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Yes,” he replied, his tone quiet, more subdued than before. He hesitated for a moment, flexing his knuckles again before asking, “Are you… do you still have feelings for him?”

The question was out before he could stop it, and immediately, he regretted how vulnerable it made him sound. He tried to keep his voice even, but he wasn’t sure if he succeeded.

There was a pause on her end, the kind that made his chest tighten. He could almost picture her expression—surprised, maybe, but not angry.

“It hasn’t completely gone away,” she finally admitted, her voice measured. “There’s always going to be something there. But no, not quite as I used to.”

He took another slow drag, the smoke clouding his vision as he exhaled. Good. Maybe it’s time to focus on other things. Other people.”

He hoped his voice sounded casual, like it didn’t matter much to him either way.

“Yeah. Maybe it is,” she replied, her voice softer now, as though she was giving the idea some real thought.

Aemond let the silence stretch between them again, and this time, it felt a little lighter. He could feel the tension that had gripped him earlier easing. The jealousy that had been simmering for days was still there, but now it felt manageable, less like a gnawing ache and more like a dull throb he could ignore.

“Speaking of other people,” she said, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Have you made any new friends at university? Met anyone interesting?”

Aemond felt his jaw tighten for a second before he forced himself to relax. He could almost hear her smirking through the phone.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause, his voice deliberately noncommittal. “A few people.”

“Oh? Anyone special?” she pressed, clearly enjoying the chance to prod at him.

He hesitated, and the pause was long enough that he knew she’d pick up on it.

“Hm…”

“Aemond,” she said, exasperation seeping into her voice, though he could tell she was smiling. “Is that a yes?”

“Perhaps,” he replied, knowing it would drive her crazy.

“Come on! You can’t just say ‘perhaps’ and leave it at that. Tell me!” she urged, her voice rising with excitement.

He sighed, trying to hide the smirk playing at his lips. “There’s someone. But it’s nothing serious.”

“Someone? What’s their name?” she asked eagerly.

“No.”

Her laughter bubbled through the phone, warm and familiar. “You’re no fun.”

“Nothing much to say,” he countered, taking another drag. “It’s… too soon.”

She sighed dramatically, though he could hear the smile in her voice. “Fine, but you owe me details eventually.”

“Maybe,” he said, his tone lighter than it had been in days.

“I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

Aemond couldn’t help but smile this time. He could picture her so clearly, lying there in bed with that mischievous glint in her eyes. “We’ll see.”

“I’m tired. Good night, Aemond,” her voice was soft, gentle, as though the day’s weight had finally eased off her shoulders. There was something warm in the way she said it, something familiar that made him pause.

“Good night, Wylde,” he murmured back, his own voice laced with a quiet fondness he hadn’t meant to let slip.

As the call ended, the stillness of the room settled over him. Aemond leaned back in his chair, staring at his phone for a long moment, her name still glowing on the screen. The corners of his lips lifted slightly as he thought of her. Even now, after everything, she could still make his chest tighten with just a word. He flicked the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray, watching the embers smolder and fade.

For a moment, his mind drifted back to last summer. How he almost told her when they sat in her bed before he left, how the words had been on the tip of his tongue so many times. The late nights they’d spent talking, the stolen glances when she wasn’t looking—he’d convinced himself it was just a crush, a fleeting thing. But the way his heart would flip whenever she smiled at him, or how his pulse would race when her hand brushed his... Maybe it was something more. He’d wondered if, just maybe, she’d felt it too.

But then he left. And in Oldtown, everything changed.

Alys.

Aemond closed his eyes, feeling a familiar heat coil in his chest at the mere thought of her. Gods, Alys. She was unlike anyone he’d ever known—intense, dangerous, and undeniably captivating. He remembered the first time they met, the way her eyes had seemed to see right through him, peeling back layers he hadn’t even known were there. And before he knew it, he was tangled in her, in whatever it was they had together. It wasn’t love, no, but it was something—something that gripped him hard and wouldn’t let go.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. Even now, his heart still flipped when Wylde called, but it didn’t beg for her the way it did for Alys. With Wylde, it was soft, warm, comforting. But with Alys... oh gods, with Alys it was something else entirely. The heat between them, the way his body craved hers—it was raw, electric, and it consumed him in ways that were almost terrifying.

And yet... he thought of Wylde, her soft pining after Daeron, how she still held onto the hope of something that had never truly been hers. It infuriated him in a way he couldn’t explain. He hated that she didn’t see how beneath her it was. Daeron, who despite being his own brother, would never be someone who would give her what she deserved. She didn’t see it, and maybe she never would.

His thoughts flickered back to Alys, to the way he’d let himself get caught up in her. He hadn’t intended for it to go this far. He didn’t need commitment, he didn’t need to belong to anyone. Not when he had someone like Alys—someone who didn’t ask for anything more than what he could give. What they had worked for him. It was perfect, just the way it was. So why did his mind keep slipping, why did the thought of Wylde still linger, hovering just at the edge of his thoughts?

He clenched his jaw, pushing the thoughts aside. It didn’t matter. Wylde was still tied up in Daeron, in whatever heartbreak she was clinging to. And Alys... Alys was what he needed. She gave him exactly what he wanted without the complications, without the demands.

The next night, Aemond found himself standing at Alys’ door, barely able to breathe as she opened it. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and before she could say anything, he was on her, slamming the door shut with a force that echoed through the room.

His hands were on her in an instant, pushing her back against the wall, his lips crashing down on hers with a hunger he hadn’t realized had built up inside him. The kiss was fierce, unrelenting, and she barely had time to gasp before he was lifting her, his fingers digging into her skin, his body pressing against hers.

He didn’t stop to think, didn’t slow down, didn’t give her a moment to ask what was happening. He just took the way he liked. Her breath was ragged, matching his own, her nails digging into his back as she responded with equal fervor.

This was what he needed.

She twirled a strand of dark hair between her fingers, her eyes locked onto him as he talked about the upcoming summer trip to Valyria. Aegon’s relationship with Sara Snow had opened doors that were otherwise sealed shut for nearly everyone else. A summer expedition to the ancient, forbidden land—one that was so deeply tied to his heritage—felt like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and yet the anticipation thrummed through his veins in a way that was almost... understated.

“You’ll see things no one’s seen for centuries,” Alys said. Her gaze flicked over him as if she was sizing him up, wondering how deeply the land’s mysteries would affect him. “If you’re lucky, they’ll let you wander off the program. See the real Valyria, not just the parts the academics have planned out for their research.”

Aemond’s lips twitched in a half-smile. “Sara Snow runs a tight ship. There’s not much leeway. But Aegon mentioned there might be an opportunity if I slip away during one of the less critical site studies. She’s obsessed with the subterranean temples. It’s the landmarks I’m after—those that would bear the sigils or icons linked to House Targaryen. Dragons. The Three-headed Beast.”

Alys leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, intrigued. “You think the old sigils might still be there? Carved into stone or etched into relics buried beneath volcanic ash?”

“I have a feeling they would be,” Aemond murmured, his eyes flickering with a hint of excitement. “The Targaryens came from there. It’s in our blood, our bones. The architecture, the ancient monuments, it would all tie back to our origins. Even if some of it’s eroded or destroyed, Valyria’s foundation was built on the backs of dragonlords.”

Alys’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Keep your eyes open for anything that seems... too deliberate. Valyrian artisans were methodical. They hid their secrets in plain sight, but only for those who know where to look.”

He nodded, his mind already racing through what he’d studied about Valyria—the imagery, the symbolism, the deep-rooted history he was about to walk into. His excitement was tempered, though, controlled as always. Aemond’s passions ran deep, but they were guarded.

As they continued to speak, his phone buzzed softly in his pocket. He almost didn’t reach for it, but something told him to look. The moment he saw the name on the screen, his expression softened, the tension in his body easing in a way Alys had never quite seen before.

“Who is it?” Alys asked, noticing the subtle shift in him.

Without answering, Aemond gave her a brief, almost apologetic smile as he slid his thumb across the screen and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Wylde,” he greeted, his voice warmer, softer than it had been in the last few hours. “What’s up?”

Alys raised a brow, watching as he leaned back in his seat, a trace of amusement flickering in her dark eyes as she observed the man in front of her transform into something gentler, less guarded.

More so the boy that he is.

Her voice was muffled, but Aemond listened intently, nodding along as if she could see him. His eyes brightened subtly, the corners of his lips twitching as she told him about her graduation gown fitting.

“Finally packing for Oldtown, huh?” he asked, a rare note of quiet excitement in his voice. “Good.”

There was a pause as Wylde spoke again, and Aemond’s gaze flickered toward Alys for a brief moment, remembering that he wasn’t alone. “I’m with someone right now, but I’ll call you later, alright?”

She said something else, something lighthearted, and Aemond’s lips curled into a small, barely-there smile as he ended the call.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, and when he looked up, Alys was watching him with that same knowing smile that made it clear she’d picked up on everything.

“Wylde?” she asked casually, though her tone was tinged with curiosity.

Aemond didn’t answer immediately, his features slipping back into the cool detachment he was known for, but Alys could see the faint trace of warmth still lingering in his eyes.

“She’s an old friend of the family,” he said, his voice measured, but Alys didn’t miss the way his fingers flexed slightly, as if he was still holding onto the echo of the conversation.

Alys leaned back in her seat, smirking. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you smile like that before.”

Aemond’s gaze met Alys’s, cool and steady, the warmth from moments before already fading as if it had never existed. His fingers absently flexed against the edge of the table, and he gave a small shrug.

“It’s nothing,” he said, his voice returning to its usual controlled cadence. “Doesn’t matter now.”

Alys didn’t say anything for a moment, just continued to watch him with that knowing smile, her lips curving as if she saw right through him. She leaned forward slightly, her dark hair falling over her shoulder as her eyes locked onto his, sharp and unreadable.

“Doesn’t it?” she asked, her tone teasing but with an edge of curiosity, probing.

Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. “No. It doesn’t.”

He picked up his cigarette from the ashtray and took a slow drag, the smoke curling lazily between them. Alys tilted her head, her smile widening just a fraction, as if his denial was amusing to her. She didn’t push further, though. That wasn’t her style. Alys knew when to press and when to let things be. She had him figured out well enough to know that some things were better left unspoken.

“Alright,” she said finally, her voice soft, almost soothing, though the amusement in her eyes never quite left. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs casually. “If you say so.”

Aemond exhaled slowly, the smoke dissipating into the air between them, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. But Alys’s smile lingered, just on the edge of her lips, like she knew something he wasn’t ready to admit even to himself.

Two months later, she stood at his doorstep in Oldtown.

“Hey, missed me?” Wylde said, her voice light, that familiar carelessness in her tone that always managed to put him at ease. The way she looked at him—like nothing had changed—made something in his chest shift, the way it always did.

She stepped forward to hug him, and he held her for a moment longer after, his hands resting on her shoulders. "Have you moved into your new place yet?" he asked, trying to sound casual, as if her being here wasn’t undoing everything he had told himself.

As if he hadn’t spent months imagining this exact moment and wondering how it would feel.

"The boxes are in," she replied with a shrug, her eyes meeting his, bright and untroubled, unguarded in a way that made him feel like he could breathe again. "I should probably start unpacking soon."

He nodded, a small smile forming. "Let me know if you need help."

Her eyes softened, and she leaned back slightly, as if assessing him. “How was Valyria?”

And then, it all unraveled. The way she said it, like she genuinely wanted to know, like she’d missed hearing about his life. He began talking, and for the first time in what felt like a year, he felt that spark of excitement again, the kind that came naturally around her. He found himself smiling in a way he hadn’t in months, feeling the weight lift off his shoulders as he told her about the trip, about the ruins and relics, his voice lighter than it had been in so long. She listened, leaning in, her eyes tracing his face like she was searching for something she’d missed.

He didn’t even realize he was still holding her. He hadn’t let go, and his hands were warm where they rested on her, like something slotting into place. And suddenly, for the first time since he’d moved here, everything felt right.

Lighter. Like home.

He was fucked. Completely. He could feel it now, the rush of everything he’d tried to bury for months rising up, all at once.

How did he ever convince himself he’d gotten over her?

MASTERLIST

NO TAG LIST. PLEASE FOLLOW AND TURN ON POST NOTIFS FOR @randomdragonfics for fic updates!

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

I have request for Spencer Reid x Plus size fem!reader. Maybe her and Spencer are good friends and she gets stood up on a date or her date leaves after seeing her and Spencer swoops in and love confession.

p.s I love you work. <3

༉‧₊˚. 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 || 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

― pairing: spencer reid x plus size!reader

― summary: admitting that you got stood up on a date would be like admitting defeat, too bad spencer's too good of a best friend to let you go through this alone, even if he was the last person you wanted to see.

― warnings: best friends to lovers, getting stood up on dates, a red flag named chris (sorry to all the chris' out there), mutual pining, requited love, love confessions, and implied dates!

― wc: 1457

⋆ a/n: OH, MY GOODNESS IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE I'VE WRITTEN AN ACTUAL ONESHOT. i got hit with a random bout of inspiration out of nowhere and i have a bunch of fanfics that already have banners made but they're unwritten and rotting in my drafts so i'm trying to clean them out first. thank you for this and i hope you enjoy some best friend!spencer reid!!

masterlist | AO3

Leave it up to you to be stood up on a date you didn’t even want to go on.

You weren't even looking for anything serious with someone, you just needed a distraction, you needed anything that would help you move on from him. It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that you were in love with him – well, it actually kind of is – but that’s beside the point.

There was no way you could continue to sit there and allow yourself to wallow in self-pity over the fact that your feelings for your longtime best friend weren’t reciprocated. You were a grown woman for God’s sakes! And as a grown woman, it was up to you to make grown up decisions. One phone call to Derek was all it took for you to get hooked up with some dude that he knew.

“He’s a good guy,” He said.

Yeah, right. Good guy your ass.

Not only did you look stupid, but you were left stranded in a sports bar surrounded by a bunch of strangers – no, scratch that! Almost all of the patrons in this bar tonight were men, it was football season. You were practically asking to get murdered! What kind of FBI agent would you be if you allowed yourself to be murdered over the fact that some guy’s team lost.

With a sigh, you gazed at your chat between Chris and you. You had sent him a text thirty minutes ago asking where he was when he was ten minutes late, but even that message had been left unread.

The only reason why you were still here was because you were oh so painfully embarrassed, and you hoped that others around you couldn’t tell that there was supposed to be a second person joining you at your very barren booth that you had somehow managed to score.

Now that you think about it, how in the hell had you allowed this man to talk you into going to a sports bar instead of oh, I don’t know, a restraunt with a calm, and comfortable atmosphere?

Maybe it was the fact that the only person’s face you could see in your mind as you discussed where you were going to go together was Spencer’s. As ashamed as you were to admit, you mostly imagined a disappointed look on his face when he realized you were going out with someone else, but even you knew that was damn near impossible.

It wasn’t your failed date that was the shit show – even though it is a close second – it was you that was the main attraction. How could you have allowed yourself to be this childish? You weren’t in high school anymore, and you hadn’t been in some years, but old habits die hard, you guess?

It didn’t have to be common knowledge to tell that your romantic life when you were in school was very, very sad. You often found yourself alone on most weekends, ample amount of time to study right under your fingertips. You figured that when you had gotten older things would have gotten better but… nope.

You didn’t know who to call.

Would you call Derek and blame him? No, he couldn’t have known, but you could totally get him to beat Chris’ ass. The thought of your favorite and very muscular chocolate thunder roughing the piece of shit up helped to easy your nerves, badly enough. There was just one person you couldn’t bring yourself to call, and that was Spencer.

Calling Spencer meant that you were giving up, that you were waving the white flag, that you were still in love with him and no number of blind dates, good or bad, could change that.

You bit the inside of your cheek in thought, at least you had dressed up in something comfortable.

“Can I sit here?” You heard someone ask over the bustling noise of the bar.

“Honestly, you can just have the thi–” You spoke without looking up, but when you did, your words died in your throat.

There Spencer stood in his full glory; tall, lanky, nerdy, and extremely uncomfortable, but nonetheless, he slid into the sticky seat across from you with an awkward smile.

“Spence? What are you doing here?” You asked in shock, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“I uh- Morgan called me. He said that Chris told him to tell you something came up, but I uh- I figured that wasn’t true.” He explained sympathetically. You scoffed, your body slouching along with the noise. “Yeah, no shit.” Your words were bitter and harsh, which caused you to squeeze your eyes shut.

“Fuck, Spence. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to talk to you like that, I’m just… frustrated.”

He reached out his hand, albeit reluctantly seeing as though the table was in the same state as the seat, maybe even a bit worse. You looked down at it then at him before relenting, your full hand slipping into his lithe one perfectly, as if it belonged there.

The fact that this felt so right made your stomach twist sickeningly, fingerings twitching in desperation to pull away. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced yourself to stay. You did not have the mental compacity to dig yourself out of another hole.

“No, it’s okay. I understand.” He reassured, his thumb caressing the back of your knuckles gently. “I came as soon as he called,” He then looked around, “Especially after he told me where you were.” You laughed a bit at his concern, your body feeling lighter as it finally straightened.

A soft grin graced your features.

“Thank you, Spence. Really. I know how uncomfortable these kinds of places make you. I just- I really thought tonight was going to go differently.” I thought that things between us were going to go differently, is what you really meant.

“I’m sorry, I know you liked him.”

You grimaced at the word ‘liked.’

“I think ‘liked’ would be the last word I would use to describe how I feel for Chris.”

It was his turn for his eyebrows to furrow. “What do you mean.”

You huffed. “What I meant was that I didn’t even want to go on this stupid fucking date anyways, but I had too… I had too…” You allowed your words to trail off when you had caught yourself about to admit something you had fought years to keep under wraps.

“You had to what?”

Goddamn him and his never-ending curiosity.

“Just leave it alone, please?” You pleaded. You looked up at him from beneath your eyelashes, your gaze soft and vulnerable. “Okay.”

A silence – what was an equivalent to silence – settled over the both of you. The air was thick with unspoken words and feelings, an invisible line was drawn that the two of you were too scared to cross.

“I would’ve never stood you up, you know.” Spencer piped up quietly, his grip that had gone limp in yours tightening. “What?” Your breath hitched. “And I would’ve taken you to someplace nicer than this.” His voice was shaky and forceful, as if he was forcing himself speak in fear that if he didn’t, he wouldn’t say anything at all.

“What are you saying?” You were breathless, the butterflies that fluttered around in your gut making you nauseous. Hope bloomed at a dangerous rate in your chest.

“What I’m saying is that if I were to take you out on a date, it would be a lot better than this.” He had finally gotten the courage to raise his gaze instead of focusing on where your hands were interlaced. “I would take you anywhere you wanted to go, then I would try my best to make it memorable for you because I…” He gulped. “Because I love you.”

Your ears were ringing. There was sweat beginning to form on your hairline.

“You’re being serious?” The question sounded more like a plea. “Because if you’re saying this because you feel bad, I-” He cut you off. “I don’t feel bad.” He lowered his head to where yours was in an attempt to connect your gazes deeper.

“I really do love you. I- I have for a long time.” Spencer confessed.

You breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thank God.” You said through a wobbly smile. His smile matched yours. You could feel the fact that both of your hands were extremely clammy with nerves, but none of you could find it within yourself to care.

“Can I cash in that date now?”

“Now?” He asked incredulously, lifting his free arm to check the time on his wrist. “It’s pretty late.”

You gave his hand a squeeze.

“I’m pretty sure we can figure that out.”

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood @their-love @fandomsarelifee @theendofthe70s @nomajdetective @mgg-theprettiestboy @phoenixblack89 @murdadixon @hallecarey1 @zippertwat @alixwriter

[dazaiandhislovelybandages]

Would love to see a TR Drabble or one shot about Draken having a little sister, and Mitsuya falling head over heels for his twin dragons sister. Just imagine how annoyed Draken would be at first until it’s brought up he’s dating Mikey’s little sister ☠️

Touché {Mitsuya Takashi}

A/n: that was such a cute idea ngl. Hopefully what I wrote is to your liking! Thank you for your request 🥰

Pairing: Miysuya x fem!reader

Tw: none just pure fluff

Draken should have known. All those random visits at the brothel with the excuse of 'being here to see my best friend', Mitsuya always carrying an extra cardigan whenever you were out with them... Not to mention all the clothes he would give you 'just because he made them to see how his design would look like'.

The signs had always been there, so why on earth was Draken so surprised when Mitsuya told him that he liked you? Maybe it was an attempt to protect you, his sister. But why was he angry?

"You're acting like a child!" It was the first time you had seen Mitsuya argue. And after a few glances between you, Yuzuha and Hakkai you were sure that outside of the battlefield they hadn't either.

"Surely they'll resolve this like two calm twenty year olds." Yuzuha sighed and continued walking.

"I sure hope so because once we meet with Takemitchi, Chifuyu and Emma whatever those two are fighting over will be on the news." You laughed, reaching out to take a handful of chips from Hakkai.

"I think this is the first time I've seen Taka so... confused." Hakkai turned to face you and Yuzuha.

Noticing that your attention was on them, the two boys lowered their voices almost immediately. For the next ten minutes, none of you could even eavesdrop on what they were saying.

"They're been at it for like a day now." Yuzuha and Hakkai's eyes widened at the new piece of information.

But you weren't lying. Yesterday morning, Mitsuya had texted Draken. Your brother had been exercising nonstop to let off some steam after that. It was strange. Really strange. Mitsuya and Draken were the twin dragons of a once glorious Toman. They had never fought with each other.

"Oh I get it!" Mitsuya's voice rose once again out of frustration. Neither you nor the Shiba siblings turned around. "It's fine when you date Mikey’s sister but I can't even ask out yours!"

Was it possible for someone's eyeballs to fall down just like that? You weren't sure but by the looks of it you were going to find put pretty soon because Yuzuha's, Hakkai's and your eyes were as wide as they could get.

But it wasn't Mitsuya's sudden confession that made you turn around. No. It was the fact that Draken hadn't actually come up with a comeback.

"Touché." The three of you muttered along with Draken. "And a good one at that." Your brother sighed.

[lemoncrushh]

Heartstrings

Summary: You become One Direction's new guitarist and you and your best friend Harry realize you have feelings for each other.

Warnings: None, this is just cute fluff.

Word Count: 5971

A/N: This was a special request I'd received in 2016. It was originally three parts, but I've combined them into one.

I need to talk to you

You must have stared at the text for ten minutes. Harry never said he needed to talk to you. He just talked. Whenever, wherever. The most he might do is ask if you were busy before immediately going into what he wanted to talk about. Even if you were busy, he knew you'd get back to him when you could.

But this...this wasn't him. This wasn't light-hearted, cheeky Harry Styles that you'd known since he was sixteen. The best friend, the confidant. The one person who could make you laugh even when you were at the lowest of the low. This? This was a serious text.

The truth was you had started to develop feelings for Harry. Feelings that surpassed those of mere friendship. It had started out as a little flutter in your chest about a year ago when you'd gone to his house to hang out. You'd watched a movie that was one of his favourites but you'd never seen, and you were enthralled by his enthusiasm. You'd sat on the sofa next to him, your legs tucked underneath you as you watched his mouth while he spoke. Then your eyes travelled down the length of his body, his torso and long legs both clad in all black. You'd blinked and shook your head. This was your best friend. When you'd gotten home that night, lying in bed and thinking of Harry in a different light, you dismissed it as a crush. That was all it was. It would go away.

One year later, and it hadn't gone away. In fact, the feelings were stronger. But you resolved never to let him know.

Finally, shaking your head, you texted Harry back two letters.

Ok

Your phone immediately rang, startling you. Seeing Harry's name displayed, you swiped to unlock it.

"Hey," you said apprehensively.

"Hey, remember when I said the band was gonna need a new guitarist for this tour?" Harry asked, barely giving you time to breathe.

"Uh...yeah?"

"Well, I got the most brilliant idea. And I ran it by the guys and the rest of the band. And they'd like you to come by the studio some time next week."

"What?" you asked incredulously.

"You know, to run through some songs. See how comfortable you are," explained Harry.

"What- What d'ya mean?" you swallowed what felt like a ball of cotton in your throat.

You heard Harry chuckle. "I mean, you might be our new guitarist."

"Harry!" you exclaimed. "Are you serious?"

"Well...if you're good enough."

"Oh my God!" you fell back on your bed, your head hitting the pillow as you kicked your legs in the air.

Harry laughed harder as you bounced on your mattress with glee, telling him thank you over and over again.

Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as you grabbed the neck of your guitar and slung the strap over your head, handing it to one of the crew. Stepping off the stage, you felt a surge of adrenaline - the same feeling you'd been getting night after night for the last two months.

"Great show, lads!" you heard Louis exclaim behind you. "You too, Y/N, absolutely incredible."

You turned around, grinning at him as you walked backwards. You nearly tripped until Harry grabbed your arm, steadying you.

"Careful, love," he said. "Don't think we have you insured yet."

You rolled your eyes at him, despite the electricity that his touch ignited on your skin. "Very funny."

Harry's lips turned up into his signature grin, and as you walked backstage together, you made note that his hand had slid down the length of your arm until dropping beside his hip.

"You were on fire tonight," he commented.

"Me?" you raised your eyebrows.

"Yeah. Like...really alive."

You sucked in your lips, hoping your blushing was masked by the already apparent heat on your face from exertion.

"Thanks."

"I like having you here."

The commotion backstage made it impossible to give a response then, but you stood frozen in your tracks for a moment, staring at Harry as he shifted his gaze to observe the hallway. As far as you were concerned, however, the hallway was empty. And you and Harry were the only ones there.

You weren't really sure how you managed to get to your dressing room. But an hour and a half, a shower, and two burritos later, you re-entered the hallway, now virtually empty. You watched as a few crew members carried things out the back door until seeing another dressing room door open across from you.

"Hey," grinned Harry, the wet ends of his hair dripping on the shoulders of his t-shirt.

"Hi," you yawned, though you didn't feel the least bit sleepy.

"Gonna sleep well tonight, yeah?" he winked, walking past you toward the exit.

"Probably not, I never do," you let slip before thinking.

Harry looked back at you as you followed him.

"Why not?"

You swallowed hard. You weren't about to tell him the reason you had sleepless nights was because you were crazy about him and thought about him every second of every day. And you lied awake night after night in your bunk on the bus doing the same until you finally let the night consume you.

"Um...just don't sleep that great on the bus," you shrugged.

"Oh," you said when you reached the doorway leading outside. "Actually, neither do I."

"Really?"

You walked side by side out to where the buses were parked. You shared one with the rest of the musicians, while Harry and the other boys shared another.

"Yeah. I usually end up staying up reading or playing games on my phone until I can't keep my eyes open. Sometimes until we get to the hotel. Then I crash."

"Ah," you nodded. "So that's why I never see you all day."

Harry chuckled, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Sorry."

You saw Niall climb onto the bus then, followed by Liam and Louis. You knew Harry would be next, but for some reason he was still standing next to you. You continued to stare straight ahead as the wind whipped through your hair, the dampness causing a slight chill.

"Would be nice to spend some more time together," you heard a voice say, and for a moment you didn't even think it was Harry's.

"What?" you asked, jerking your head to look at him.

"I said it would be nice to spend some time with you. You know, off stage."

"Oh," you mouthed. You bit your lip to keep from grinning, though inside you were screaming.

"If I try not to stay up all night, you wanna do something tomorrow?"

"Um...sure. Yeah." You silently cursed yourself for sounding so moronic. When did talking to Harry, your best friend, suddenly become so difficult?

"I mean, I don't know if we'll be able to go anywhere, we'll have to see. Might just hang out at the hotel."

"That's fine," you nodded.

The sudden noise of the buses being cranked up made you jump, and you felt your heart sink.

"Guess it's time to go," you gestured toward the buses. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Night, Y/N," he lifted his hand in a slight wave.

You gave him a tight smile before turning for your bus. Just as you reached the bottom step, you heard Harry call your name again. You looked over at him, his hand on the side of his bus.

"You were great tonight!" he yelled over the engine.

"Thanks!" you beamed at him. "So were you!"

Harry's dimple dipped deeper into his cheek as his booted feet climbed the steps and he disappeared onto the bus.

A loud obnoxious sound woke you up, and it took a minute to realize it was a knock on the door.

One good thing about being the only female in the band was you always got your own room in any hotel you stayed in. Even when you'd offered to stay with Lou and Lottie, it was insisted that you get your own room. You still weren't exactly sure who's decision that had been, but you weren't about to argue.

Throwing the massive duvet aside, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and made your way to the door. You opened it a crack before you saw Harry standing on the other side.

"Morning," he grinned at you, his eyes momentarily shifting to your pajamas before returning to your face.

"Hey," you cleared your throat. "What time is it?"

"12:30," he replied. "So not exactly morning."

"Morning is any time you've just woken up," you argued with sleepy eyes.

"Did I wake you? I'm sorry."

"It's okay," you scratched your head. "I needed to wake up. I'm actually surprised your awake."

"I promised I wasn't gonna stay up on the bus. I got a couple hours before we arrived here. Then slept like a baby."

The way he was smiling just then reminded you of the early days of your friendship. He looked sixteen again and you couldn't help but smile back.

"So what's the plan for today?" you inquired.

Harry shrugged. "Didn't really have one. Just playing it by ear."

"I suppose it's too late for breakfast," you said.

"Lunch then?"

"Give me twenty minutes?"

He nodded. "Sure. Meet you downstairs."

"You're being ridiculous," you shook your head.

Your stomach and cheeks hurt from laughing so much. After lunch, you and Harry had decided to just go back up to your room to chat - his idea as he said the two of you had been so busy lately that you hadn't really had time to catch up on just being...Harry and Y/N.

He was being his old self, cracking corny jokes and making you laugh like a hyena. You hadn't felt such joy in a long time. Other than the joy you felt on stage. But that was different. That was an adrenaline rush, a feeling of self-worth and pride. Knowing you were getting to live your dream doing what you loved. This...this was the best kind of joy. Being with your favourite person and just enjoying each other's company.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, your back against the bed as you held your acoustic guitar in your lap. You'd been strumming absent-mindedly for the last hour throughout your conversation, though never really playing anything.

As you caught your breath from the giggling, your fingers found a G chord, followed by an E minor as your other hand strummed them both. Then you began to finger pick, not really conscious of what you were playing until you realized you were singing along to "18".

When you'd finished the first chorus, you lifted your head to find Harry watching you, a gentle smile on his lips. Embarrassed slightly, you continued with the second verse but didn't sing.

"Why'd you stop?" Harry asked.

"I didn't," you smirked. "I'm still playing."

"I meant the singing."

You shrugged. "I'm not a singer."

"I would say you are," remarked Harry. "You have a lovely voice."

You hummed before shaking your head. "I'll just stick to guitar."

"If you say so, Y/N," Harry rolled his eyes, rising from the floor and crossing to the bed.

He sat down next to where you were, his long legs in your peripheral view. You heard him sigh and you knew he'd laid back on the bed.

"So, kiss me where I lay down, my hands pressed to your cheeks..." you sang softly.

You finished the rest of the song, accompanying yourself. Then you sat in an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds (although it seemed like forever) before standing up and putting your guitar back in its case.

"Probably about time to head to the venue," you declared. "Soundcheck soon."

It wasn't until you turned around that you realized Harry was staring at you, his arm behind his head. It was a strange look. Not a bad one necessarily. Just one you hadn't seen before. At least not when he looked at you.

"What?" you asked.

Harry blinked though his eyes were still focused on you. It made your stomach do somersaults, and you weren't sure what to make of it. Finally, he shook his head.

"Nothing." You watched as he sat up, slapping his hands on his thighs. "See ya later."

With that, he opened the door to step out into the hallway. But you didn't miss it when he turned to you once more, that same strange look on his face, before heading down the hall to his room.

You sat on your hotel bed, playing your guitar, a classical piece that you'd learned at university. You were a little more than halfway through when there was a knock at your door. Stopping, you laid your guitar on the bed before rising and crossing the room.

"Hi," a beanie-capped Harry greeted you with a grin which you returned.

"Hey," you said. "What have you been up to?"

You noticed the hoodie that Harry had gripped in his hand, his t-shirt marked with sweat.

"Just got back from a run. I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner."

"Um...dinner?" you blinked.

"Yeah. After I shower of course."

Harry's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as he spoke, the same grin still on his face. You couldn't help but bite your lip at how attractive he looked at that moment.

"Sure," you breathed. "Sounds good."

"Great, I'll be back in half an hour."

You nodded and sucked in your lips as you watched him walk away. Shutting the door, you leaned against it.

Since that day in your hotel room a week ago, you and Harry had continued spending more time together. A couple of times you'd ventured out of the hotel into whatever city you'd happened to be at that time. You (or rather Harry) had been recognized, but you didn't mind standing back while he took selfies with fans. You enjoyed your time together, even if it was just sitting in your room watching television.

You reminded yourself that this was how it had always been. Yet you couldn't deny that your feelings were growing stronger with each moment.

Watching him in his element on stage, in front of the massive audience of adoring fans, you felt a burst of pride. He was a rockstar. But the moments you spent alone...these were your favorite. Your stomach flipped at the sight of him, your face felt warm as you became aware of your smile growing wider. You couldn't help it. He made you happy. This was no longer just a crush.

You stared at the guitar on the bed. This was one of your free days between shows. You'd seen Harry earlier that morning at breakfast, but when he hadn't divulged his plans for the rest of the day, you'd decided to retreat to your room, spending some quality time with yourself.

The thought of going to dinner shouldn't have been a big deal. You'd eaten with him many times. But suddenly you were nervous.

Grabbing your suitcase from the floor, you dropped it onto the bed next to your guitar. Rummaging through it, you tried to find something suitable to wear for this dinner - something casual that didn't look like you were trying too hard, but still looked nicer than the joggers and t-shirt you were wearing.

Finally opting for your favorite jeans and a soft jumper in a dark plum shade, you changed quickly, touching up your make-up and running a brush through your hair. You'd just slipped into your shoes when another knock sounded. Opening the door, you saw Harry in a black t-shirt and a satin jacket, his long legs covered in his ever present black skinny jeans. He looked amazing to say the least. You almost had to stop yourself from mouthing "wow."

"Hi," you smiled as you noticed his own stare. "So where are we headed?"

"Um..." Harry cleared his throat, refocusing his eyes on yours, "there's a restaurant down the street. I thought we could walk there."

"Fine with me," you said.

Grabbing your bag and your card key, you stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind you. As you walked to the lift with Harry, you could feel his eyes on you. Shifting your own gaze, you saw the same look on his face that he'd had a week ago in your room.

"What is it?" you asked with a chuckle, trying to play it off.

"You look lovely," he replied, his eyes serious.

"Oh," you muttered shyly, looking down at your ensemble. "Thank you."

"I don't think I've seen you in that colour of lipstick before. Matches your jumper."

You automatically sucked in your lips as the elevator doors opened and you stepped in. Gripping the strap of your bag, you stood like a statue on the way down. You mentally told yourself to chill out. This wasn't even a date or anything. This was still your best friend.

Your best friend who'd picked you up at your door and told you you looked lovely and commented on your lipstick.

The sun was setting, the cool night air giving you a calm feeling as you walked next to Harry down the sidewalk. You gazed up at the tall buildings next to you and across the street, a couple more hotels mixed in with businesses and boutiques. You and Harry made small talk, chatting about the band and the next city on your agenda for the tour. Finally, at the end of the block, you crossed the street to find a restaurant at the corner. Harry held the door open for you and you stepped in to be greeted by a tall, ginger-haired maitre d. He gave you both a smile before telling you to follow him.

You sat across from Harry at a small table against the wall. After ordering drinks and taking a gander at the menu, you shook your head, feeling ridiculous about the butterflies that had taken up residence in your belly. You repeated to yourself over and over - This is not a date. It's just Harry.

"So how was your run?" you inquired, setting your menu down in front of you.

Harry snickered, practically rolling his eyes.

"What?" you asked, your eyes wide. "What'd I say?"

"You wanna talk about my run?"

"Sure, why not? How far did you go?"

Harry licked his lips before leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. "Y/N," he said, his voice low. "Why are you acting weird?"

You blinked. "What do you mean? I'm not acting weird."

Harry smirked, shaking his head. "You looked straight ahead in the lift, as though you were frightened of something. You talked about the weather and the band on the walk here, without even looking at me. Now you're asking me about my run? I've known you for years, Y/N, you've never asked me how far I've run."

"Really?" you played dumb, looking down at the silverware. "Well, maybe I should have."

Harry chuckled. "You wanna know what kind of shoes I wear, too?"

"Sure," you shrugged, thumbing the edge of the fork. "Why not? You're my best friend, you'd think I'd already know these things."

"Y/N," said Harry. "Look at me, please."

Lifting your head, you saw the confusion on his face. "What's going on?"

In a split second you decided you were being foolish and there was no way you were going to give any hint as to your feelings for him. You shook your head, giving him a smile.

"Nothing," you promised. "I'm sorry if I was being weird. I guess it's just odd...you know, being on tour with you."

"How so?" Harry raised a brow.

"Because...I know you. But I guess I never really knew this part of you."

"You've seen me on stage before," he remarked.

"I know, but this is different. I'm with you on stage. I'm with you at the hotel. I'm with you now."

"We're having dinner, love. We've done this before, too."

Just then, the waiter came to take your order, momentarily freeing you from the awkward conversation. When he left, however, Harry returned his gaze to you. You chewed on your bottom lip before lifting your water glass to take a sip.

"So are you gonna tell me what's wrong?" he asked.

You shook your head again. "Nothing's wrong, Harry. Can we just drop it?"

"Fine," he sighed, dropping his shoulders.

You released your own sigh, but one of relief. At least temporarily. You had a feeling Harry wasn't going to let it go completely, but at least you could bide some time and enjoy your dinner.

Once again, your cheeks hurt from laughing. You and Harry were back in your room, lying on your massive hotel bed watching a stand-up comedian on the TV.

"Be back, I have to wee," declared Harry as he rose from the bed.

When he shut the bathroom door, you sat up, trying to catch your breath, wiping your eyes. It felt good to be back to your old self, the same goofiness that you and Harry shared as friends. You wanted to push away the non-friendship feelings you were having, because apparently Harry was getting some sort of vibe from you and it made both of you uncomfortable. You weren't about to lose his friendship over this stupid...crush-thing...whatever the hell it was.

Muting the television, you grabbed your guitar. Playing always calmed your nerves. It had been your escape, your therapy since you were thirteen. You began to play the same classic piece that you'd been playing earlier when Harry had knocked on your door. You closed your eyes, letting your fingers do the work while your brain painted pictures in your head. You heard the door open, but you kept your eyes shut, focusing on the music and the colours that made up the picture.

You could hear his breathing when you stopped, but he didn't say anything. Finally opening your eyes, you saw Harry leaning against the door frame, his eyes not on the guitar, but on your face.

"I heard you playing that earlier," he said.

"Mmm hmm," you nodded.

"I remember that one. It's one of my favourites."

You gave a small smile, grabbing your guitar by the neck and preparing to lower it back into its case.

"No," Harry held up his hand. "Don't stop. Keep playing."

"It's over," you shrugged.

"Then play something else," he requested, walking towards you. "I like watching you play."

Biting your lip, you scooted back a bit on the bed, the guitar in your lap. You began strumming a random chord progression before settling on "Blackbird" by the Beatles. You caught Harry's grin as he took another step forward and crawled back onto the bed. The bed shifted a bit as he laid back in the spot he'd been before, situating onto his side, propped on his elbow.

You sang along softly, feeling slightly nervous that he was watching you. When you plucked the final chord, and turned your head, you almost jumped at his expression.

It was a version of the same look he'd given you earlier only with wider eyes and a dimpled smile. His eyes blinked softly as he shook his head.

"You're amazing," he declared.

"Thanks," you nearly whispered.

"I could listen to you all night," he added, lying on his back, his hands behind his head. "In fact, go ahead and sing me to sleep."

You chuckled, nudging him in the hip. "Sorry, I don't do lullabies by request."

"Bugger," he muttered, his eyes closed.

You giggled again as you finally put the guitar back in the case. Then you laid back against the pillow.

"Wanna finish watching this?" you asked, grabbing the remote.

"Nah," Harry replied.

"Okay."

You stared at the ceiling in awkward silence until you suddenly felt Harry's hand touch yours, threading his fingers through. You dared to turn your head to look at him, but his eyes were still shut.

"I'm so glad you're here, Y/N," he said softly.

"Me too," you whispered.

Harry's eyes fluttered open then. It was hard to read his face this time. But one thing was certain. He wasn't peeling his gaze away from yours.

Rolling onto his side again, you felt the nerves tenfold as you anticipated his next move. You swallowed hard when he brought his over hand up to grip your hip, pulling you closer to him. You shifted onto your side then to face him as he lifted his hand to your cheek. His eyes seemed to sparkle when you looked into them, getting lost in the green. How did you never notice how green they were?

"Y/N," Harry whispered.

"Yes?"

Your heart was beating so fast, you thought surely it would beat right out of your chest. Harry's hand slid down your cheek, his fingers and thumb gripping your chin. Your eyes fluttered closed, waiting patiently. Then ever so gently, he lowered his mouth, pressing his lips against yours.

You bit your lip as you silently cursed yourself. Turning for the backstage area, you handed one of the crew your Strat, trading it for your acoustic guitar. You were having an off night. And you knew why.

That kiss the night before in your hotel room.

Okay, it was more than a kiss. At least it was to you. To you it had only confirmed your feelings for Harry. No longer were you teetering on the fence. You'd fallen for him.

Stepping back out onto the stage, you listened to Liam's chat with the crowd though your eyes were on another certain lad. Your heart thumped in your chest as you watched him wave to the audience, preparing to start the next song. On cue, you began strumming, though your skills now were automatic. You weren't even aware of what you were playing. All you could think about was that kiss...

His lips were incredibly soft. He took his time, careful not to rush. After the first few kisses, you felt his tongue swipe across your bottom lip. Opening your mouth slightly, you invited him in, your tongue meeting his. You felt a sound rise from your throat as you slid your hand up his chest and around to the back of his neck. He pulled you closer to him, his hand grazing the bit of exposed skin above the waistband of your jeans.

His touch felt electric. You thought you heard him hum against you as he continued to devour your lips. You couldn't believe this was happening. Every fiber inside you was on fire, a buzz zig-zagging down your body.

Your lips separated for a moment and your eyes opened slightly to see his mouth still nearly touching yours. His breath tickled your face as you continued to focus on his lips, almost afraid to meet his eyes. Suddenly, you saw his mouth form a word and it took you a second realize it was your name.

You blinked as you shifted your eyes up to look at his, the green seemingly darker than before.

"I...um..." Harry hesitated, swallowing hard. "I should probably go."

You opened your mouth, ready to ask him why, but you stopped yourself. "Oh."

"I mean...it's late and...I have an interview in the morning..."

"Oh yeah," you nodded vigorously. "Yeah, sure."

You watched as Harry climbed off the bed, grabbing his jacket that he'd tossed in the chair before walking to the door. You stayed in your spot, too nervous to move. When he looked back at you, he had that same strange expression on his face. You wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but your mouth was suddenly dry.

"I'll uh, see you tomorrow," he said.

You blinked and nodded. It was all you could do.

"'Night," Harry added before opening the door and slipping out.

You sat up then, looking around the room as though it held the answers. Your stomach flipped, only this time with a different kind of feeling. The worried feeling that Harry had regretted that kiss.

The song was over but for some reason you hadn't moved from your spot.

"Y/N" you suddenly heard, and you looked around before you realized it was coming from your ear monitor.

Completely flustered and embarrassed, you turned around once more to exchange guitars with the roadie. Slinging the strap over your head, you heard the bass drum kick in and you counted off for your intro to the next song. Trying your best to stay focused this time, you completed the rest of the concert, watching Harry and the other boys give the fans what they wanted.

Walking backstage, you handed off your guitar, wiping the sweat from your brow.

"Y/N," you heard again, this time coming from Niall who came jogging up behind you.

"I know, Niall, I missed my cue. I'm sorry," you told him, dropping your shoulders in defeat.

"You alright?" he asked with concern.

"I'm fine," you explained. "Just an off night, I guess."

"No worries, love," said Louis as he passed you, tapping you on the shoulder. "You were great."

You sucked in your lips, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. You shouldn't have let the memory of the night before distract you from your playing.

You continued down the hallway and were almost to your dressing room when you heard your name once more. Stopping in your tracks, you turned to see Harry walking towards you.

"Everything okay?" he inquired, his brows furrowed.

"Yes, alright?!" you exclaimed throwing up your hands. "I know, I fucked up a couple times! It happens! Aren't people allowed to make mistakes in this band?"

"Hey, easy," said Harry in a firm yet calming tone, gently grabbing your arms. "Yes, it's allowed. I was just making sure you were okay."

You shifted your eyes everywhere to avoid his gaze. "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm just fine."

Pulling away from him, you turned around and walked into your dressing room, slamming the door behind you.

Your chest was heaving with sobs. You weren't sure how long you'd been lying on your hotel bed crying. You hadn't bothered to say goodnight to Harry or anyone else when you'd left your dressing room and bolted for the bus. When you'd made it to the hotel, a very sleepy Harry and Niall had followed you into the lift, but no one had uttered a word and you'd avoided eye contact. As soon as you'd made it to your room, you'd pushed it open just as you heard something that sounded like your name, but you hadn't bothered to acknowledge it.

You hadn't even gotten undressed. Your suitcase sat just inside the door where you'd left it. You'd gone to the bathroom and left the light on, too exhausted and upset to turn it off. The light shone underneath the door, giving the only light in the room.

Why did one kiss have to turn you for a loop? Everything was fine before that kiss. You and Harry were still in the friend zone. He'd taken you to dinner, which had been a bit awkward but then you'd come back to your room and were having fun like old times. Why did he have to kiss you? And why did you have to let him?

Because I'm in love with him, you told yourself.

A fresh set of tears began to fall at the silent confession, just as you heard a knock at the door. Your body jolted, confused that perhaps you were hearing things. But when it sounded again, you knew someone was on the other side.

Quickly wiping your eyes, you rose from the bed, inhaling and exhaling deeply before opening the door. You blinked as the light from the hallway temporarily blinded you before you realized it was Harry standing there.

"H-Hi," you whispered, not sure what else to say.

"Can I come in?" he asked, his voice deep.

"Um...it's nearly four in the morning, Harry, I-"

"I don't care," he interrupted. "I need to talk to you."

You raised your eyebrows then. The last time he'd used that phrase had been in a text. But you recalled how nervous you had been then. The next thing you knew, you were One Direction's new guitarist.

"Yeah," you stepped back, allowing him to enter the room. "Sure."

Closing the door, you walked to the lamp to turn it on instead of flooding the room with unnecessary light. When you turned back around, Harry was standing at the foot of the bed, that odd look on his face. Dropping your shoulders, you let out an exasperated breath.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" you asked him.

"Like what?"

"Like...that," you pointed. "Like you're confused about something, or trying to solve me like some long math problem."

Harry took a step toward you. It looked as though he was about to reach out to you but changed his mind and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I am confused," he admitted. "Because I never thought..."

His words trailed off as he looked down at his feet which you now noticed were bare.

"You never thought what?" you whispered.

You watched him bite his bottom lip before blowing out an embarrassed chuckle. He shook his head and looked up at you.

"I never thought I'd feel this way about you."

Your heart went still in your chest. "You mean the kiss?"

"Yeah, I mean..." he nodded, stepping even closer, "I mean the kiss. But I mean everything else, too."

"Everything else?"

Harry lifted his hand to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your bottom lip and down your chin.

"I enjoy being with you, Y/N," he cooed. "I know we've been friends for a long time, but... I feel like it's more than that now. Don't you?"

You nodded silently, raising your hand to touch his arm.

"I was kinda hoping I could get you to admit it last night," he grinned slightly. "At dinner. I could tell you were nervous."

You sheepishly looked down. "I was."

Harry lifted your chin with his finger. His eyes burned into yours and your stomach did a somersault again.

"I'm sorry I left last night like I did," he declared. "I was kinda nervous, too."

"You were?" you breathed.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. I know you probably think I regretted that kiss, but I didn't. Far from it, actually."

"Hmm," you sounded, biting your lip.

Harry swiped his thumb up, tugging your lip free from your teeth. Then slowly tilting his head, he lowered his mouth to yours. You lifted your hands to his neck, tangling your fingers in the back of his hair. The kiss deepened, making you weak in the knees. Harry's other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you to him. When he finally released you, you were both breathing heavily, his forehead rested against yours.

"I think I'm falling for you, Y/N," he confessed.

You half cried, half giggled as your hands slid down his shoulders and pressed against his chest. You felt your eyes well up with tears again, only this time they were happy tears.

"What's the matter, love?" Harry inquired, wiping away two stray tears with his thumbs.

You gazed into his eyes once again, your chest falling as you let out a breath.

"I've been wanting to hear you say that for so long," you conveyed.

"Baby..." Harry whispered, his nose nudging yours before pulling you in for another passionate kiss.

This gave me the feels as I read this again. Sometimes I just really enjoy some sweet fluff and declarations of love.

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[whydon-twego]

Courtship

"I want to court you" Merlin, lying naked beside him, sighs heavily and turns to look at him. "We've been over this, Arthur" Arthur remains silent for a few seconds, his fists closed and his teeth biting his lower lip because Arthur does not want to blurt out on the matter, not this time. "If I could woo you openly the nobles would not be piling like lions on a carcass!" Merlin raises an eyebrow and looks at him with an amused air "Am I a carcass now?" "You know what I mean!" Merlin sighs. "Is it because of Lord Smith?" Arthur does not reply and that is an answer in itself. "Arthur, you know perfectly well that I have no interest in anyone else, in any way, ever. And you know perfectly well that since you made me Court Sorcerer I can say no to anyone I want. So Lord Smith, like all the other Lords before him, got a resounding no for an answer." Arthur now turns to look at him, his eyebrows furrowed in contrition. "But there would be no need for all this if only we could say publicly that we are together" Merlin is tired of this talk, he is tired of Arthur bringing it up at every opportunity, and he is tired of always having to be the one to say no. "You need a queen by your side, Arthur. You need someone who can run a kingdom and help you run it and that someone is not me, more importantly, you need someone to give you an heir, and that someone is certainly not me." Arthur jumps out of bed and Merlin misses his presence, misses the warmth radiating from Arthur's body, his smell.

"You've known this about me for as long as we've known each other, Merlin, I will only marry for love and, above all, I will not have a Favourite, a lover or whatever the hell you want to call them"

Arthur is angry, wandering around the room always in his nudity and seems to have no intention of dressing even for this (umpteenth) speech.

Merlin's heart breaks a little.

"Yes, I know."

Of course Merlin knows, of course he is more than aware.

At that, Arthur's sky-blue eyes rise and go to rest on Merlin and Merlin has never seen him so serious.

"So you… so you think I'm going to get out of that bed one day and wake up a changed man? You think I'm going to wake up one day and think 'well, I'm not in love with Merlin anymore, I can move on'?"

Merlin's throat went dry and his eyes wide.

"Don't you dare, Merlin. You can't make that face, you can't be surprised to hear me say I'm in love with you. What did you think this was all about, a little game?"

"Hearing you say it is still different, alright?"

Arthur raises his arms to the sky and shrugs at him, starting to walk back and forth across the room, Merlin gets up to sit on the bed.

"You've been sleeping in my bed for over a year, Merlin. It's been more than a year that I've made you Lord, it's been more than a year that I've been going on and on asking you to begin a courtship in the light of day. What did you think that meant? Was I supposed to say it out loud? Well, I'll say it out loud: I'm in love with you, Merlin. For over ten years now if memory serves and I don't think it will be such a passing thing, your continued refusal of a courtship will only lead to a King ruling alone, unbelievably unhappy and sad when he has what he desires just a few mere steps away."

Merlin has brought his knees up to his chest as self-defence, because his heart is hammering so hard that he is afraid it might burst out of his ribcage.

Arthur approaches and in a few strides he is back on the bed, next to Merlin who is looking at him with pleading eyes.

"Arthur…"

"In fact, you know what, Merlin? I am your king and I am an incredibly fed up king, I command you to accept my courtship!"

Merlin stares at him for a few moments, astonished, and then bursts out laughing.

"You know it never did any good to order me anything."

Arthur is lying beside him now, looking at him hopefully.

"I am ready to accept any responsibility for it"

Merlin leans down to kiss him because otherwise he might do something as stupid as cry.

"I love you, too" he whispers.

"I know, because apparently I'm not the dollop-head in this relationship."

Merlin throws a pillow at him.

Arthur gets up and goes to announce to the court that he is about to begin a courtship with his Court Sorcerer.

"Put your clothes on at least, before you go out!"

Arthur does not. Merlin is madly in love with this too.

[gadriezmannsgirl]

I have this idea for a fic and you are the very best to write it🥰.

Sports journalist reader and Pedri being in a private but no secret relationship, she is ok with it until people start commenting that Pedri surely wants to keep her private bc he wants to keep his image of being single and linked with ig models, and maybe it gets worse whe he fucks it up with a public comment along the lines of him not being in a relationship and she is like "ya basta de estupideces" and we get drama. Here I don't know what could happen but it ends with our beloved reader doing the post match interview with the players, when it's Pedri's turn they do the questions as normal but at the end he knows the mic is on and he says something like: "me esperas para llevarte a casa amor?".

It's Enough -P.G8

Summary: You're tired of people assuming things that are not true while your boyfriend shuts them up

You loved your work, you loved being a sports journalist, you were happy when you got the job at Sport and you loved being able to make people see a different point of view from what other journalist do, make players feel comfortable around you and ask them different questions than: "How was the rival team? Any thoughts on winning a certain trophy this year?"

And that's how you met and eventually make Pedri, your ten months boyfriend, fall in love with you, you being yourself even while working.

You had let people known you were in a relationship together two months ago and while everybody knew that, you both liked your privacy and you both tended to keep things on the low. And mostly, Pedri.

Everything has been great, both of you understanding each other, talking of anything, making time to be together, rarely fought but this one... it was the biggest one, you could ever have.

"I'm sorry"

"You really just think a simple sorry will cut it? I have my best friends asking me if you take this relationship seriously! My mom's calling me like crazy because she saw the video and my co-workers are sending me <<I'm sorry>> kind of texts, my brother wants to hit you in the face and I would gladly let him!" You shook your head "Why did you do that?!"

How on earth will he say "I'm not seeing anyone at the moment" when he clearly has you?!

"Y/N, amor-" You cut him off

"Comments about you with other girls have been going on and on lately, I honestly don't care about them, I know you and I know you wouldn't do that but then, you went ahead and said that shit that sent everyone into madness, it makes me rethink of everything I thought I knew about you once!" You admit with tears at the verge of falling "Did you lie to me? Do you really love me? Or you want me just to keep you company at nights?"

"Hey, no. Please, don't think that" Pedro shook his head "I've never lied to you, I'm in love with you, you are the girl of my dreams and the love of my life"

"Si lo soy, entonces ¿Por qué carajos dijiste eso?" (If so, then why the hell you said that?) Your voice broke lightly and the first tear fell down "You just embarrassed me in front of everyone, Pedri. There's nothing you can do to take it back, people think I'm good with open relationships, with you cheating, people are saying that you are hiding our relationship because you're embarrassed of me, people are saying you broke up with me just because you had what you wanted, people are saying shit about us, about me and it's all thanks to you"

"No, I didn't wanted that. I didn't- I'm not ashamed of us, of you, I just wanted to protect you, I-"

Your phone ringing interrupted him, you looked down at your hand and your boss's name flashed across the screen, you sighed in fear. You were news and bad ones.

"I gotta answer this"

"Please, amor-"

"Don't call me that, Pedro. In fact, don't call me, don't text me, don't even look at me, nothing at all because if you do I will do something I will later regret on"

"Like what?" He asked softly

"Like breaking up with you" You said strongly looking at him "I really can't bear with you right now, Pedro. We'll talk later" You shook your head and answered the phone going upstairs

Pedri felt like crying.

He knew he screwed up the second those words came out of his mouth, but it was as his body just blurted them out before his mind could process it. He just wanted to keep you safe.

But what a way of doing so, right?

He tried to do something else to shift his attention to the small office he set up for you at his house like washing the dishes, play some NBA, laundry and eventually get ready for his match.

He went upstairs with the intention of going straight into his room but his body tricked him and he ended up at your office, his heart breaking up when he heard you sniffing while speaking to your boss.

"You're giving us bad reputation with those news, Y/N" He heard your boss say

"I know, sir; my apologies" You said "He must have been really tired, you know he isn't like that"

"Whatever it was, it's done"

Pedri closed his eyes, his hand on top of the doorknob ready to come in and defend you but his phone interrupted him

Tiburón🦈

"Ya vamos a empezar a calentar. ¿Dónde estás?" (We're starting the warm up. Where are you?)

He sighed and went to your chat: "I love you, always have and always will. I'm truly sorry about everything, my love. But I'll make it up for you, I swear to God"

And leaving a kiss on the door, he left the house quickly, his body was on his way to Lluís Companys but his mind and soul stayed with you at his house.

You sighed, coming out of the shower. You had to go to Barcelona's match because you were scheduled for tonight's interviews, looking at the watch on the wall, you saw you were a bit early but still needed to go so you could make it on time.

You weren't in the mood for anything today. From being called names, to have all of your contacts worried about you and your relationship, to have your boss onto your neck wanting for you to dissolve any rumor but won't even knowing how to do so.

You wanted to simply disappear but you never had powers back in high school and you won't grow powers now being an adult. So the only thing you did was buckle your pants up and act as if nothing was affecting you.

Calling a cab, you went to Lluís Companys and with the help of Aaron, the cameraman you started the reportage in which ended up with Barcelona being the winner. 2-0. Both goals from Pedri.

Both goals that were dedicated to you.

Your heart beating incredibly fast at the gesture of your boyfriend who changed his glasses celebration for your name on a personalized Barcelona jersey, still with the 8 number

"Te quiero" he had said before giving the jersey to one member of the staff and return the game.

You felt extremely proud knowing he was the MVP however your happiness slowly turned sour because as he was the MVP of the match you had to interview him, you wanted it or not and you weren't ready to face Pedri yet.

"Buenas noches, Pedri" You said with a small smile, professionalism running through you

"Buenas noches" (Good night) He said softly

"Vamos a ser un poquito rápidos que sabemos que tienes que irte... Enhorabuena por la victoria de esta noche" (Congrats on the win tonight) ", 2-0 against Getafe How do you feel?"

"Well... Good. We played very well, we had control, we managed to knock the rival mostly from the sidelines, we knew we had to be strong since Getafe is a great team as well. And well, it was a very good game which we won and now to focus on the next game"

"Both goals from you with amazing assists of Fermin and Raphinha. They were amazing, by the way"

"Gracias"

"And you are the MVP for tonight's match. Congratulations as well with that, Pedri. How do you feel about that?"

"Good, good. It feels amazing, my goal is to score more and make more assists this season and hopefully I'll be able to help the team in any way I can"

"That's good to hear, Pedri. Once again, congratulations. Have a good night!" You said quickly wanting to get over with everything. "¿Lo agarraste?" (Did you got that?) You ask Aaron who nods and goes to show you a bit of the footage.

"Amor, ¿me esperas para que vayamos a casa?" (Babe, you wait for me so we can go home?) You heard Pedri asks "Por cierto, esto es para ti" (By the way, this is for you) He hands you the jersey

"What? Why?" You receive the jersey looking at it

"I'm dedicating goals to my one and only girl, is it bad?" And as much as you wanted to refuse a smile slowly came up to your face. You shake your head softly coming over to him to hug him "Te amo" (Love you) He said "And I'm sorry" You smiled and kissed his lips before kissing his sweaty, dirty but rosy cheek

"Don't do it again please" You whispered watching his big brown and beautiful eyes

"Never. You're my girlfriend, I'm in love with you and I see the rest of my life with you by my side, amor" He whispered back before pecking your lips softly "Entonces... ¿Me esperas? Voy a bañarme y a cambiarme rápido para que vayamos a casa y descansemos" (So... You wait for me? I'll shower and change really quick so we can go home and rest) You nod softly

"Better be quick, I really want to go home" You smiled untangling yourself from him

"I'm off right now"

"Y/N..." Aaron called you softly with a panicked look to his face

"What?"

"Football players mic was on and that was live" You open your mouth in shock, troubles keep coming at you.

"Don't mind" Pedri said "Let everyone know I'm taken by the best girl ever" You looked at him and he winked at you squeezing your hand.

What a sneaky boy he was.

°°° °°° °°° °°°

Taglist: @gaviymarcsbride @stuckinaf4nfiction @elijahslover @azzpenswrld @http-isabela

[wososcripts]

I've Been Getting Lost In Translation (Part One)

Stina Blackstenius x Reader

Summary: You finally get to meet your girlfriend’s parents, but you aren’t sure they’re aware the two of you are more than just friends.

Word count: (nearly) 5.5k

A/N: Okay so we’re all gonna have to expand our minds and suspend disbelief for this one, especially if you speak Swedish (I do not lol). This idea was originally formulated in German, and then altered - so cut a bit of slack for the author <3 As usual nothing I write is meant to represent or speculate about players’ personal lives in any way, it’s just for a bit of fun.

For context, in Swedish the word for girlfriend is flickvän, or väninna but the latter is a bit outdated and used by older people (according to google, and my one Swedish friend) while friend is just vän. However väninna is also used to refer to a "female friend" not just a romantic partner.

Also, everything written like this in italics is spoken in a language other than English (just not written as such to avoid too many translations)

Warnings ⚠️: none, a bit suggestive in some parts.

------------------------------------

“Söt, it’s time to wake up, we have to be at the airport by ten.” You were awoken by your girlfriend’s soft voice in your ear.

You groaned, wrapping your arms around her and burrowing closely into her chest, ignoring her protests.

“What time is it?” You complained, noticing it wasn’t even light outside.

“Nearly seven.”

You pulled her closer, making your displeasure known.

“Nearly seven? Stina, how long do you think it takes to get to the airport?”

You felt her plant a kiss on your head.

“With you? There’s no telling how long.” She indulged your drowsiness for a moment, rubbing your back softly and pressing her cheek to your hair.

Stina was always more of a morning person than you were, and she was certainly more used to getting up while it was pitch black than you ever wanted to be.

“Okay, I’m getting up now.” She announced, peeling your arms off of her and rolling away from you.

You opened your eyes to get a look at her barely illuminated silhouette, messy hair and strong shoulders stretching before she got up to face the day. Her night shirt hid the muscles that you knew rested beneath, as well as the nail marks you had left a few nights ago that she had scolded you over. Well, if she didn’t want them she shouldn’t fuck you so well, (apparently not a good enough excuse in her book).

You resigned yourself to the fact that there was no going back to sleep and sat up yourself. You checked your phone, making sure you had your boarding passes ready and that the flight was leaving with no delays. The two of you were lucky with the weather this year, and you hoped it would continue. Flying back in a snowstorm wasn’t something you wanted to deal with.

“Are you up?” You heard Stina call from the bathroom.

“Yes, Stina!” You replied, swinging your feet to the floor and grimacing at the cold wood beneath them.

Stina laughed at your unhappy face as you cringed at the light of the bathroom. She brought a hand up to pat your cheek affectionately. You gave her a sarcastic smile and began brushing your teeth.

-------------------------------

It didn’t take all that long to get ready, double check your bags, and get dressed. Certainly not get-up-before-seven long.

You watched Stina braid her hair from where you were perched on the counter, admiring the concentrated look on her face. Tea was brewing in the kitchen and you had already cut up some fruit for breakfast.

“What are you staring at me for?” Stina teased, pulling a hair tie from her lips to finish her braid.

“I’m looking at you because you’re beautiful.”

Stina shot you a look, already catching on to what you were doing. But the blush still rose on her neck all the same.

“We don’t have time for that, älskling,” she said, though you knew she didn’t have much resolve where you were concerned.

You made a point to check your phone.

“Since you made sure we were up early, it’s only 7:30.” You shot her your best smile, tugging slightly on her shirt.

She moved towards you with little resistance, only an exasperated face for show. But she had no problem following you into a kiss, her hand resting on your jaw and your legs around her waist. Her warmth surrounded you, encasing you like a blanket. You almost forgot there was anything to do today at all other than kiss her.

You could tell Stina was getting turned on by how her hand slipped under your sweater and pushed your undershirt out of the way so she could press against your bare skin. Once she threaded her fingers into your hair and lifted your head so she could move to your neck you knew it was over.

“Are you sure we’ve got time?” You mumbled, putting a hand softly on her chest.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” she replied, lifting you up off the counter with ease.

------------------------------------

“Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck…” you cursed, downing the last bit of your tea and pulling a brush through your tangled hair.

“Stina!” you called out into the other room where your girlfriend was getting (re)dressed. “Katie is waiting outside!”

You heard the distinct sound of your girlfriend swearing in Swedish and couldn’t help but let out a laugh in disbelief. You shot Katie a quick text that you’d be right out—thanking her again for coming to pick the two of you up. She was flying out later in the afternoon for Ireland, and had suggested carpooling to the airport. Any opportunity to skip the price of parking at Heathrow was a good enough reason for you.

Stina came into the kitchen with her bag in hand, looking frazzled.

“Remind me never to listen to you again.” She grumbled.

“You can’t help it,” you said smugly, handing her a mug of coffee and a wrapped bagel for the car. “Look, I even made you breakfast.”

Stina continued to mumble her complaints as she handed you your jacket and put her own on. You chuckled along, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Katie was on her phone mindlessly as you knocked on the window, making her jump in her seat.

“Fuck, was that necessary?”

You shot her a grin, reaching in the now rolled-down window to unlock the door.

“Good morning to you too, Katie.”

“Sure looks like you’ve had a good morning to me.” Katie laughed, noting the slight warmth to your face. “Stina’s never late.”

As if on cue, your girlfriend appeared outside. Katie greeted her kindly as she put the suitcase in the trunk and settled in the backseat. No mention of your morning shenanigans came out of Katie’s mouth sparing the embarrassment you both know would ensue.

Stina was private. Very private. Of course, once she let someone in, there were few things she found necessary to hide. But for most of the world she preferred to keep a low profile. That meant no social media posts, no PDA, and only a few people on the team were privy to the fact that you two were together. You didn’t really mind it, especially since it seemed like everyone Stina cared about knew. You didn’t think she was trying to hide you—or, at least, no more than she tried to hide the rest of her personal life from prying eyes.

The car ride was mostly quiet, Katie had her Spotify connected and the three of you chatted sparingly over it. She was going back to visit her family for the first time since her nephew had been born, something she was over the moon about. Though it wasn’t a particularly long break—just over two weeks—you were going to miss her and her infectious energy. Even Stina, reserved and introverted, was a bit more gregarious when Katie was around. Everyone joked easier with Katie in the room.

------------------------------------

Stina hopped out of the car the second the three of you pulled into the lot at Heathrow. You were running a bit late, nothing worrisome, but you needed to get a move on to ensure that you would get on this plane.

“It’ll be fine,” Katie assured you, putting a hand on your shoulder.

She knew you were a bit nervous to be meeting Stina’s parents for the first time. You’d been doing a lot to try and prepare, studying Swedish to try and impress them (and tell if they were talking about you when they thought you weren’t listening), fussing over the gifts you brought, the clothes you picked out. You hadn’t told Stina because it was silly, you knew. Her parents were lovely, they had to be if they had raised someone like Stina. But still, you were a bit stressed about it.

“They’re gonna love you. There’s no way. You treat Stina like she fell from the sky, you’re smart, you’re kind, you have a wicked left foot, what else could they want?” Katie squeezed your shoulder reassuringly. “Just don’t mention you’ve never been to IKEA, that might get you kicked out.”

You gave her a small smile, a bit too nervous to joke back. And you hardly had time to, because by then Stina had gotten the bags and was waiting. You pushed open your door and took one of the bags from her, shooting her a smile. She seemed to know you and Katie had been talking about something sensitive because her eyes searched you with a bit of concern and she laced your fingers together.

Once Katie had paid for parking the three of you were off, ready to embark on your afternoon of traveling.

You weren’t a big fan of planes, but thankfully you managed to sleep almost the entire flight to Stockholm. It helped that you were able to lay your head in Stina’s lap, never more thankful for the size of business class seats and the salary that allowed you to afford it. She played with your hair gently, knowing it was a guaranteed way to relax you.

You came to as the flight attendant announced you’d soon be landing in Sweden.

“Sorry I left you alone for most of that,” you apologized, sitting back up in your seat.

Stina waved you off, giving your hand a squeeze. You suddenly felt quite nervous about this whole ordeal. You were really going to meet Stina’s parents in about an hour. This was a big step, you knew it. What if they didn’t like you? What if they thought you weren’t good for Stina? Was there something about you you could improve so they’d accept you more? What if you just didn’t fit in, plain and simple. You knew that it was mostly your anxiety talking, but it was difficult to quiet the questions in your head.

“Söt,” Stina nudged you, pulling you out of your reverie, “What are you thinking about?”

You shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your crewneck. Stina stilled your hands, her eyes boring into the side of your head until you met her gaze.

“I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all.”

“To meet my family?”

You nodded.

Stina smiled softly, rubbing the back of your hand.

“You don’t need to be. They know how happy you make me, and that’s what matters. You’ve made London feel like home. And besides,” she turned to whisper in your ear, “I like you enough for them all.” She pressed a quick kiss beneath your ear, pulling away before anyone’s eyes could linger on the two of you.

------------------------------------

Getting off the plane and through security was fairly easy, and before you knew it you were waiting in the arrivals hall for Stina’s parents. Your heart was beating out of your chest, your palms sweatier than normal. Stina was beaming, her head swiveling as she looked around for her family.

Finally, she spotted them.

You hadn’t seen them outside of photos, but immediately you could see the resemblance between them and their daughter. They were tall, much taller than you, and dressed warmly in heavy coats and scarves.

“Mamma!” Stina called, waving her hand to call them over.

Their faces broke into wide smiles at the sight of their daughter, something that made you miss your own family a bit. Maybe next year you could convince Stina to come to Germany for the holidays.

“Stina!” The two of them wrapped her in a big hug, squeezing her tightly.

Once she was given the chance to breathe, Stina pulled back and ushered you forward, introducing you.

“We’ve heard lots about you,” her father said, shaking your hand firmly.

“All good things, I hope,” you joked lightly, still trying to get over your nerves.

“Of course.” Stina whispered as her mother shook your hand too, the both of them giving you polite smiles. Usually Stina would put a hand on your back to reassure you, but it stayed firmly by her side as you did your best to fight down your anxiety.

“Okay, let’s get out of here! Traffic is horrible!”

Conversation in the car quickly dissolved into Swedish, spoken faster than you had ever heard it before. Amanda and Lina certainly didn’t speak with each other this quickly—did they? You did your best to reply to the questions you caught directed at you, and keep up with the rest of the conversation. Words flung around your head as you tried to make sense of them in time for the next.

“Is it too much?” Stina asked quietly, leaning over to whisper it to you, “I told them you had been learning Swedish.” You shook your head, giving her a quick smile.

The house Stina’s parents lived in was about an hour and a half from the airport, outside of Stockholm. It looked like something out of a children’s christmas book: snow blanketing the roof, warm light streaming through the windows, a few strings of lights decorating the railing along the porch.

You were introduced to the rest of the family staying for Christmas: Stina’s half-sister, her brother and his wife, their little boy, Stina’s aunt, and her grandfather who mostly sat on the couch and watched ice hockey. It was a bit overwhelming, but in a pleasant way. Everyone seemed kind, and perfectly welcoming to you, which slowly made your nerves settle. By dinner you felt almost comfortable chatting with her brother about how Eintracht Frankfurt’s season was going (after finding out he was a fan) and listening to the tales of her father’s trips to Germany for work when he was younger. It wasn’t ideal that Stina was seated across from you, and the fact that you two had barely talked all evening, but you chalked it up to her enjoying getting to be with family. Hell, she saw you practically every day.

Once you were all finished with dinner and dessert (a wonderful small chocolate cake that melted when you cut into it) you helped to clear the dishes and wipe the table with Stina’s mother and aunt. Stina had been whisked away by her father so he could show her something new he’d built for the basement, and you were left with a mouthed “sorry” and a sympathetic glance.

You didn’t mind much though, the quiet monotonous task was actually quite soothing after the intensity of the day. You weren’t even really listening to the conversation between Stina’s mother and aunt in the other room where they were cleaning, too focused on your own thoughts until you heard your name.

"Jag är glad att Stina verkar ha hittat någon som är bra nog för henne"

"Ingen är bra nog för min tjej," Stina’s mother joked, "Men ja, hennes väninna är söt. Lite tyst kanske."

"Det är svårt att träffa föräldrarna, släpp henne lite"

You didn’t catch all of the conversation, or even much of it if you were honest. They continued chatting, your name and the word väninna popping up intermittently. You wracked your brain to try and remember what the word was, you’d definitely heard it before, but couldn’t for the life of you remember where.

So you pulled out your phone and sent a text to Amanda asking her what it meant. You probably should’ve been able to understand more, but a headache was beginning to brew behind your eyes and you were well and truly exhausted. It was fairly early, but you were hoping you would be able to excuse yourself from after dinner nightcaps. With a night’s sleep you would feel better.

Your phone dinged, a message from Amanda already lighting up your screen. You wiped your wet hands on a towel and quickly unlocked it, frustrated that you couldn’t remember yourself what it meant.

“Lol It’s like a female friend, not many people use it anymore” The message read. Amanda began typing again. “I hope you’re enjoying Sweden❄️ Merry Christmas!”

Your heart sank a bit. You were confused. Why would Stina’s family be referring to you as her “female friend”? Was this the fifties? You sent a thank you message back to Amanda and assured her that you were enjoying yourself.

You finished up the dishes, unable to stop thinking about the conversation you had overheard. Maybe you had misheard? But then again, the word had come up multiple times. Maybe Stina’s family misunderstood her and thought the two of you weren’t dating? Maybe she hadn’t told them?

The last thought surprised you. You couldn’t think of a good reason why Stina wouldn’t tell her parents the two of you were together, not after almost a year together. Why invite you to Sweden in the first place if not because she was ready for the next step? You thought things were pretty serious.

“Hi älskling,” Stina came up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist.

You leaned back into her embrace, having missed the contact. It helped soothe your racing thoughts a little, having her this close.

“Hey,” you replied, twisting to place a quick kiss on her jaw.

“If you keep doing the dishes I’m not sure my mom will let you leave.”

You chuckled, the sound catching in your throat unexpectedly, sending you into a coughing fit. Stina rubbed your back, grabbing a cup to fill with water from the tap.

“Are you feeling okay?” She asked, stroking your face softly, “You look a little run down.”

“I’m just tired…” you explained, “and I can feel a headache coming.”

It wasn’t a lie. Maybe not the whole truth, but part of it. Your confusion still weighed on your mind.

“It’s been a long day.” Stina agreed. “I think I’ll join you for an early night.”

------------------------------------

You tried to hide your surprise as Stina’s parents opened the door to the room you’d be staying in.

Two twin beds.

“This used to be Stina and Linnea’s room when they were little.” Her father explained, showing you the pictures of the two of them as young girls that hung on the wall. You smiled at the image of a ten year old Stina in her handball kit. Next to it was a photo of her lounging at the beach, probably seven or eight.

“I thought we were getting Nils’ room?” you heard Stina whisper to her mom.

“And this is Stina’s first football trophy.” Her father continued, showing you the small gold statue that rested atop the dresser. “I said that day, I knew she would be on the Swedish team one day!”

“You did not, Papa. You wanted me to go out for basketball.”

“Well you were so tall—”

You tuned out the rest of their playful bickering, deciding to take a seat on one of the beds and take a look at the room around you. It was kind of sweet, being in Stina’s old room. It was like seeing a different side of her. Old posters still adorned the walls, messy handwriting still littered sticky notes on the desk.

“Well, we’ll see the two of you tomorrow. Sleep well.”

And with that the two of you were alone. You pulled your backpack over to the edge of the bed and found the ibu that you had brought with you, popping one in your mouth and swallowing it dry. You felt the bed beside you sink and a hand run gently through your hair, soothing the pulsing of your temples.

“Come here,” Stina motioned, pulling you into her so you could rest in her lap. “Is it bad?”

You shook your head.

“It’ll be fine in a moment, it’s just been a long day.”

You weren’t sure how long the two of you sat there, her stroking your hair, you listening to the sound of her heartbeat mixed with the noises of her family celebrating outside. The thoughts in your head trickled through every now and then, but Stina did a good job of beating them back just by being there. She loved you, she loved you, she loved you. You clung to those words.

Eventually you both had to get up and get ready for bed. There was an adjoining bathroom that the two of you had to yourself, thankfully, which made everything much easier. You didn’t have to leave the little bubble you’d created for the two of you.

Then there was the problem of the beds. There was no way in hell you were going to sleep on the other side of the room from your girlfriend as a grown woman. Stina suggested pushing them together, which you did with a bit of struggle. It worked well enough, as long as nobody rolled into the middle. Essentially it was still sleeping in two beds, but it was the best you could do.

“Good night,” you mumbled, trying to get comfortable in the small bed. You reached a hand out for Stina’s, managing to find her fingers so you could lace them together.

“Good night, jag älskar dig.”

“Love you too, Stina.”

------------------------------------

The next morning you awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of the news playing in the other room. Your headache was gone—a small miracle—and your girlfriend’s back was visible next to you along with a mess of her blonde hair on the pillow. You rolled over to see what time it was, seeing that it was barely eight o’clock.

You quietly got out of bed, hoping to let Stina sleep a little longer. You usually didn’t get more than nine or ten hours maximum, but you knew Stina could sleep from 8pm to 9am easily if nobody was there to interrupt her.

You brushed your teeth and used the bathroom, enjoying a bit of peace with your thoughts before you faced the day. Katie had sent you a message, a photo of her with her nephew on her lap. She looked ridiculously happy, the smile on her face threatening to eclipse the rest of it. “You’ve gone soft, McCabe,” you wrote to her, smiling down at your phone as well.

Stina was still sleeping when you snuck out of the room, having changed into more appropriate clothes to face her family in.

“God morgon,” Stina’s mother greeted you as you walked out into the kitchen.

You wished her the same, settling down in one of the chairs at the island.

“Would you like some coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee, please.”

A mug of black coffee and a carton of milk were placed before you, along with the promise of oatmeal in fifteen minutes or so.

“Is Stina still asleep?”

You nodded.

“She’ll probably be up soon, it’s 8:30 already.”

“Here she is,” Stina spoke, rubbing sleep out of her eyes as she walked into the kitchen.

She kissed her mother on the head and settled into the chair next to you, shooting you a smile as she poured her own coffee. You internally frowned: usually, Stina always gave you a kiss to greet you in the mornings, whether it was at your place or hers. You tried to tell yourself you were overthinking things, but already you could feel the weight in your stomach returning.

“Did you sleep well?” Stina’s mother asked.

You nodded politely, deciding not to comment on the fact that your room had two twin beds. Do you know I’m dating your daughter? As in, we’re romantically involved? As in, we sleep together like grown adults? You imagined yourself saying, but you kept your lips closed.

Slowly the rest of the Blackstenius family trickled in, minus Stina’s brother who was staying with his family at home in Stockholm and would be joining them later in the day. You all gathered around the dining table where a large pot of oatmeal sat, fresh fruit, cinnamon, and sugar adorning the space around it. You sat next to Stina at the end of the table, accepting her offer to serve your breakfast for you.

“This is delicious,” you complimented.

The table was soon full of light chatter in a mixture of Swedish and English. You made light conversation with her sister about her studies, and her decision between going straight to pro or attending school first. You’d done the latter, wanting something to fall back on in case you were injured. But getting your degree while playing had been a difficult task, you warned.

You placed your hand lightly on top of Stina’s where it rested on the table, hoping just to get a bit of reassurance for yourself. But perhaps it was the wrong move, because Stina quickly pulled her hand away, offering her father the bowl of cut apples in front of her for his porridge.

You pulled your hand back into your lap, feeling ashamed and embarrassed. Was Stina so worried about what her parents might think that she couldn’t even touch you for more than a few seconds at a time in front of them. You did your best to continue your conversation with Linnea, ignoring the lump in your throat that was forming. Each time you tried to tell yourself you were overreacting, the voice in your head got less and less convincing.

You didn’t meet Stina’s eyes for the rest of the meal, nor did you try to talk to her. There was a bit of you that was angry and indignant. Why would she treat you like this? You knew you didn’t have the full story, and you wouldn’t until you asked her, but it didn’t feel good on the surface. You just counted the minutes until breakfast would be over and perhaps you could have a second to yourself to calm down. Otherwise you weren’t sure how you would cope.

Your chance came not that long after, as Stina offered to help clean up after breakfast with her mother while you got ready. The eight of you were supposed to go ice skating before it got dark, which meant you should leave by 10:30 for the rink.

------------------------------------

You locked the bathroom door behind you and took a deep breath in through your nose and out of your mouth. You knew you were already on the verge of tears. Your head was getting the better of you, and there was only one person (other than Stina) you wanted to talk to right now.

“Hallo?” Laura’s voice came through the phone.

“Hey, Laura.”

“Was ist los?” She replied, immediately sensing your tone over the phone.

You and Laura had known each other for years, having played for the same club and German national teams since you were barely out of high school. There wasn’t much you could hide from her, especially not when she could hear your voice.

“Ich bin in Schweden, zu Stina’s.” You continued in German, not wanting anyone to be able to listen in on you. Even Stina would have a hard time understanding once you spoke quickly.

“Is everything okay? Did something bad happen?” Laura asked you. “Can we switch to video? So I can see your face.”

You switched on your camera, allowing Laura to see your teary-eyed face. You were sure you looked pathetic, especially over such a small thing.

“What happened? Did Stina do something?”

“No, of course not.” You defended your girlfriend, even though you weren’t completely sure it was true. Had she really not told her parents the two of you were together? Was she hiding it, trying to slowly introduce you as a friend first until they got used to you? You just couldn’t make sense of it.

“Then what’s wrong? And don’t try to say it’s nothing, or it’s little, because if it’s making you cry clearly it’s worth talking about.”

Laura always seemed to know the right thing to say. She was fiercely protective over you, no matter the situation. She reminded you of Katie in that way.

“You know Stina is private… and that we haven’t told many people we’re together on the team.” You heard Laura’s grunt of approval, “Well I got here, and it just seems like she hasn’t told her parents we’re together. I would’ve thought since we’re in her parents home she would be a bit more affectionate, like she is at our apartment or when we’re around Katie or Amanda, but we’ve hardly touched the entire day.” You took a pause. “I know it probably sounds silly—”

“Nope, hush with that. It doesn’t, keep going.”

“Well, you know I’ve been learning Swedish for a few months with Amanda’s help and obviously I’m not great yet, but I’ve been practicing so I could try and understand more while I was here… I’m not positive but I think when they talk about me they call me Stina’s friend. I don’t know if I’m being paranoid, I probably am, but combined with how Stina’s acting…I just don’t know what to think.”

By this point your breathing was uneven, the emotion you’d been trying to clamp down spilling over. Tears leaked out of your eyes and you swiped at them roughly. Your breath came in shallow bursts, unable to fully fill up your lungs. You just didn’t want to fuck this up. And now you were left questioning where you even stood with Stina—you were okay with some privacy, but not with this. Your parents knew about her, she had met most of your friends, even those in Germany over FaceTime since you couldn’t physically be together. Did you occupy the same place in her life that she did in yours?

“I need you to take a deep breath for me.” Laura said, her voice calm. You tried to follow her directions. “You need to ask her, be up front about it. Otherwise you’re going to drive yourself crazy the whole time you’re there, trying to analyze everything. Just ask. And if she hasn’t told them… then figure out why. Maybe there’s more to it than you think.”

You nodded, still trying to breathe. You got in the bathtub, as you often did when this happened as a teenager, and kept Laura on the line.

“Can you just talk about something for a little while? Anything really. I’m sorry to interrupt your break but—”

“Don’t worry about that. Of course I will.”

So you laid there in the tub as Laura went on about the new coaching staff at Frankfurt, about the train problems that had made her three hours late to her parents’ house yesterday, about her photo book that had just come out and how it was doing. Not long after you felt yourself drifting off, heart beating normally and your tears mostly dry. Laura didn’t let you off the line until you had promised that you would keep her updated, and let her know if she needed to come and rescue you and “take you back home with her”.

The universe’s timing seemed to be on your side, because only a few minutes after you had reapplied a bit of foundation around your eyes and washed your face, Stina knocked at the door.

“We’re going to head out in fifteen minutes, could I get in there?”

You opened the door and gave your girlfriend a smile, beckoning her in as you stepped out. You didn’t quite trust your voice yet, so you stayed silent.

“Is everything okay?” Stina asked, cocking her head sweetly.

You knew if you said anything you’d start crying all over again—and you hated yourself for it. So you just nodded, smiling again before slipping back out into the bedroom. There you threw on a nicer outfit and steeled yourself for the next few hours to come. Everything would be fine, no matter what. You had dealt with worse—more heartbreaking things, more disappointing things, you’d had your heart broken before and you had survived. You’d endured pain worse than anything that could happen in the next few hours.

[jerreeeeeee]

"Don't think I didn't notice you slip out when we had Lucretia over yesterday," Lup says. She and Barry had a nice enough lunch with her, did their best to pretend they weren't all drowning, but the third member of their household had made himself conspicuously absent all afternoon. In fact, this is the first time she's been able to catch him still, not in between some task or other. He's kept himself busy lately.

Taako rolls his eyes, trying, in the way he does, to hide the way his shoulders start to creep towards his back-angled ears. "It's not really a secret I don't want to see her."

Lup sighs. "Taako, she's already apologized. What more do you want from her?"

"I don't want anything from her," he says, voice tight, eyes down. "I thought I made that pretty clear."

Lup flinches, despite herself. "Then what, you just.... never talk to her again?" Could he really just cut her out like that? After everything? Could they really go back to how they used to be? After everything?

His eyes stay on the floor, and he shrugs like he doesn't care. Maybe he really doesn't anymore. "That's the idea."

Read on ao3 or continue below

"That's awful," Lup says. "For both of you. That doesn't make you sad?" She wants to believe it does, but she just doesn't know anymore. Her brother has always had hidden depths, but they've never been hidden to her. Is his anger and hurt really stronger than the bond he and Lucretia had built? What if—

"It makes me less sad than the thought of you left to rot in an umbrella for ten years. I robbed your body, Lup." Taako only meets her eyes then, and his are so anguished, she knows there's no convincing him. From the tiny slivers of the intensity of his hurt she's seen—all that he's allowed her to see—she's starting to understand why.

Still, she tries for defense. "She didn't mean for any of that—she couldn't have known—" It's weak, and she knows it.

Taako scoffs, carefully avoiding her gaze. She wishes he'd just look at her. "It still did, though! It all still happened!"

Her heart sinks in her chest and she tries one more time. "She only did what she thought was right!"

His eyes would be ablaze, if she could just see them. "Well, she was wrong!"

"Stop blaming her for my mistake!" Lup finally shouts, and it all comes rushing out. "I came up with the relic plan in the first place, Lucretia only did what she could in the face of my mess! It was all me! I disappeared! I left you!" I'm the one you should be angry with, she doesn't say. I'm the one you are angry with. You just can't say it.

Taako can only stare at her, openly shocked. "No," he says, "no, Lup, I don't blame you—" He does, though. Everything he'd said was true of her, too.

"It doesn't matter if you blame me," she says bitterly. "It's still true." Of course he doesn't want to blame her. Of course it's easier to foist it all onto Lucretia and then cut her off—but it's not quite the full scope of the thing. He was left alone before Lucretia ever made her mistake.

Taako looks at her helplessly. "Well. I... I will make up with her. If that's what you want. I don't—I don't think I can forgive her. But I will move on. For you."

"I'm not—I’m not asking you to do anything you aren’t ready for," Lup says, regretful. She should've known this is what he'd say, but she wouldn’t ever try to pressure him into anything. "Your relationship with her is your business. I didn’t mean to make you think you have to do anything for me. I just—I've already lost too much from my mistakes, and gods know you have. So I don't want you to push her away as—as a proxy. She did her best with what I left her."

"She's an adult, Lup," Taako says, his eyes flinty and cold. "I know you have a hard time seeing her as anything but the Starblaster's baby, but I got to know Madame Director. She made her choices. And she knew the consequences. For all of us.”

“Yeah. So did I.” Lup looks away, eyes watering. “Gods, don’t you get it, that’s why I feel so bad for her—she didn’t know how bad it would get, she didn't know the consequences. ‘It’s only for a little while,’ that’s what I told myself, too.”

“But you—no,” Taako says, “no, I don’t see it that way. You didn’t betray us. Lup, it’s not the same. If everything had gone right you would’ve been right back. And it's—you sacrificed yourself, you know? I don't think it was a good decision, but it was your decision. You and your fucking martyr complex—" It's meant to be teasing, but now's not the time, and it comes out bitter.

He continues, "But she made the decision for everyone else. Lucretia always knew what she was doing. She doesn't get to do that to us. To me. Take away everything good I've ever had. Even if it had only been a year—even if it had only been a day! I’m not only angry because she took time I could’ve spent finding you, because she's the reason you were trapped so long, I was fucking miserable, too, it hurt like half my fucking life was missing, like everyone I loved was gone, all the time, and I couldn’t even understand why—"

He cuts himself off, eyes wet, jaw set, and looks away, like he doesn't want her to see. Like he can’t bring himself to let her see how badly he’s wounded; and it's her fault. "And she saw how it left me, she could've ended it any time, and she didn't. It’s not the same, Lup, it’s not.”

“It’s close enough,” Lup says, swiping at her eyes. “We both hurt you. You wouldn't be so angry—so hurt—if I'd stayed. You can say you would, but we both know you wouldn't. I didn’t betray you, but I abandoned you, she and I both thought we could fix things alone and we were both so stupid for it—“

“God damn it, stop!” Taako shouts, flings his arms out from where he'd been still and tense, takes a step forward, and another, closing the gap between them, the gap Lucretia left, the gap Lup left, shrinking it by explosive force of will. “Fucking stop. You don’t get to decide, Lup! You don’t get to decide if I forgive Lucretia and you sure as hell don’t get to decide if I forgive you. Stop pitying yourself and just fucking listen to me!"

His eyes are wide, he looms as she shrinks back, and isn't that an odd reversal. She's almost glad he's angry with her. She knows she deserves it, and he certainly deserves to get it off his chest. It's just more volatile than she'd expected. She's not afraid of him, she never could be, but she is afraid for him. Something's broken and wild in him now, and she doesn’t know how to restore it.

So he just raves, untethered, "It’s not up to you! It’s too late! I already forgave you! I forgave you as soon as it happened! Just fucking let me!”

“Taako,” Lup gasps, finally weeping, as he takes the last step to bring them together, and she lets his arms sweep around her, falls into them. Her eyes squeeze shut and she wipes her tears in his shoulder, lets his words sink in.

“It’s over,” he says, holding her tight. “It’s all over now.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, one last time.

He only grips her tighter. “Stop being sorry.”

They stand there for a few minutes, and Lup does her best to quell the guilt that threatens to rise like bile in her throat. It won't do any good to hold on to it. Taako said he forgave her. She should believe him. She still feels she shouldn't be letting him hold her while she tries to get her tears under control. He's more hurt, she shouldn't be making him comfort her, it's not fair that he always has to be the one propping her up, holding her together while she falls apart, just like before, and then she just went and left him all on his own—

"I said, stop being sorry," Taako says quietly, after she's been silent.

Lup becomes aware of herself, like waking up for the first time, like being in her body for the first time again—it happens sometimes, she doesn't realize she's been caught in her mind until she's back. But she's here now. This is real. She feels her soft sweater, Taako's arms around her pressing the fabric into her back, his hair tickling her face, a little longer than she's used to, and she realizes she's gripping the shoulders of his shirt in tight fists.

"It's not that easy," she mumbles, unwinding her hands. "But. Thank you."

"'Course." He pulls away and holds her by the shoulders, looking suddenly sheepish. "Uh, sorry for yelling at you." He softens for her, makes himself gentle as best he can, like always, though it's slow and awkward now. He's out of practice.

"Nah," she says with a small smile, reassuring, "I needed to hear it." He's spent too long not being listened to. They both have.

"I did mean it," Taako says. "I'm not angry at you. I'm really not. I should've—nothing I said about Lucretia was about you. I didn't mean to make you think that. And I... I will make up with her, someday."

"You don't have to, Taako," Lup says. "I shouldn't have come at you about it. You're right, it's not for me to decide."

"Yeah, but..." He trails off and then switches to another thought, sure she'll be able to follow, and she does, of course she does. "I just have a hard time getting it into my head that Lucretia's the same person as Madame Director, you know?"

"Yeah," Lup says. She almost knows, but she only has the one memory, and even after everything she still can't look at the old, weary woman without seeing their Lucy.

"I just—I might take a while," Taako says, squeezes her shoulders even as his eyes drift away. "I don't know."

"That's okay," Lup says. "Babe, you don't have to rush anything."

"I do, though, don't I?" He frowns, face open, eyes flicking toward her. "We're mortal now. Most of us," he gives her a fragile smile.

"Some of us are also grim reapers, bud," she says, and takes his hands, holds them between the two of them. "And Lucretia looks older than she is. From stress, not just magic."

"Yeah," he says, unsure. "Maybe."

"Are we..." she starts, suddenly afraid, her ears tilted back, and this time it's her that glances away. "Are we okay?"

He gives her a strange look. "Yeah, I just said so."

"I mean, in general," Lup says, voice gone thin. "Everything's different, it's..." She can't express it. After a lifetime of profound understanding, the tiny space still left between them feels vaster than words.

But even still, after everything, Taako understands her. He tugs on their clasped hands, pulls her closer, and step by step, the gulf shrinks. "We're gonna get there," he says. He lets her hands go, and for a moment she's lost again, floating in endless darkness, but then she's shocked back into presence as his hands cradle her face, and he's right there in front of her, eyes locked to hers, trying for a reassuring smile. He presses their foreheads together and she finally feels solid, real, safe.

Lup tries to push her uncertainty down, and then thinks better of it. Taako's never cared about nobility. Martyring herself hasn't ever helped anyone she loves. He'll never be able to lean on her if she doesn't trust him enough to lean on him first. She lets her voice be small and scared. "Promise?"

"Yeah," he says, quiet and something approaching gentle, only a little hoarse around the edges, but he's getting there. "Yeah, Lup, I promise."

[aromantic-diaries]

In honor of the first ever aromantic visibility day I dedided to share my own story

A lot of the time I talk about how I should have known earlier but I guess we can say no one really told me anything. For as long as I can remember I never understood the way people fell in love. As a small kid I thought marriage was just a milestone that everyone had to reach in order to start a family and everyone just picked out a person they liked. A lot of the boys in kindergarten had crushes on me for whatever reason but I didn't really care, none of them ever caught my eye. I was focused on my best friend

The overwhelming presence of romance in the media never failed to annoy me. Why are all the songs about love? I complained about this and my friends shut me down. Why is everyone so obsessed with shipping? I guess I don't get it. Romance is everywhere and I was sick of it

When I was about 10 I randomly decided it was time to develop a crush. So I looked around and picked out a random boy that I previously had no interest in and decided I liked him. It was nothing more than a few daydreams and sometimes we spoke to eachother but I never pursued him. One time we talked about dreams and he told me about how cool it was whenever he'd have dreams about stealing cars and influenced by him I had a dream where I stole a car. I forgot about this brief crush and later I looked back and realised I never really liked him

Me and my best friend stayed in touch for a long time. Throughout our friendship she had a lot of crushes which she would get really invested in. I never did. I listened to her go on and on about whatever boy she liked while thinking about how I've never been in love. I didn't want to fall in love but some part of me wondered what it was like. I assumed that I'd grow into it one day and someone special would come into my life and I'd finally fall in love. The years went by and anytime I had any potential crush I hated the idea of it and ignored it until I forgot.

I was about 12 when I first started questioning my sexuality. For the longest time I believed I was straight but then the thought of liking girls came up. I was scared of this idea but I couldn't help but wonder if I was a lesbian, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself I liked boys. But I didn't really like girls besides thinking they were pretty. Then I learned about bisexuality. It made sense to me and I was relieved that I didn't have to choose after all. What followed was a long internal struggle of self acceptance, then I came out to a few of my friends and the idea of bisexuality became central to my identity, regardless of the fact that I had never actually been attracted to a boy or a girl in my life.

I was 13 going on 14 when I thought it finally happened and that I had fallen in love. With whom? My best friend that I had known for my whole life. It just made sense because she had always been there for me, she had been my closest friend for ten years. At first I was infatuated with this idea but later on it became a burden and I just wanted to get over it. Eventually I told her and as I should have expected, she didn't feel the same way. I didn't try to push her to like me. The rejection hurt and for a long time I couldn't get over it but I let the idea go. But was I really in love with her or was she just the most important person in my life? I never wanted more than what we already had. Regardless, this was the closest I ever got to being in love

By this time I was already on tumblr and making friends online. A little while after my heartbreak I made friends with three people who shared my interests. To cut a long story short, two of the people in the group both admitted to shipping me and the other person, which struck me pretty suddenly but we both played along with it. I started wondering if I actually liked them and after a short while they confessed and I said I liked them too, so we started dating. It was actually a really pleasant relationship but throughout it I couldn't help but feel like I was leading him on or lying. Usually I'd either act way too flirty with him as if I was exaggerating, or I just spoke to them like they were my best friend rather than my romantic partner. I liked him a lot but not romantically.

I eventually learned the term 'aromantic'. I didn't really think it could ever be me. Surely I wasn't. Even though I related to an awful lot of what aros on tumblr talked about, I remained in denial. Over and over I told myself I'm not aromantic, I've always wanted romance, right?

As I got older the idea of romance became less and less appealing. I used to like it but eventually I started to feel put off by the very idea of it. I thought a lot about things I had learned in the aromantic community and began to realise that I didn't quite understand the difference between romantic and platonic love. Was romance really that great? Was I just afraid of being vulnerable? Or did I just convince myself that I even felt romantic attraction because I was afraid that if I didn't, I would be left out or incomplete. I remembered just how disinterested I was when I was younger. That surely would have meant I was aromantic, right? I reminded myself of all the "crushes" I had and that I was in a romantic relationship, and still it didn't feel right. But I didn't want to admit it. It came up again and again over the years but despite that I never wanted to think about it.

Cut to one night before my 17th birthday. I'm still scrolling mindlessly, even though my brain is barely awake. I should go to sleep. Then out of nowhere it comes up again, I'm too tired to filter my thoughts. What if I am aromantic after all? I can't be. I'm just about to jump to my alibis when another thought crosses my mind. What if I tried to think it over without trying to disprove it? I give it a shot and the more I think about it the more it makes sense. Oh god. I jump onto discord and start rambling about it in the vent channel of a server I'm in. It all makes so much sense. I go to bed

The next day. I am now 17 and since I don't have plans I go out to buy myself a birthday present with the money I received. I have a lot of time to myself and I think about last night, now awake. It all makes sense. Everything that felt odd before now adds up perfectly. Then the guilt kicks in. I have to tell my partner. I feel awful, but I decide that I would rather be honest and potentially hurt them than keep up a lie and feel even more guilty. I finally spill it and though surprised, they're accepthing. Suddenly everything feels amazing and I'm so overjoyed I almost forget it's my birthday. I come out on tumblr and I make an aro bracelet that I start wearing every day.

And so life goes on. It took me a while to fully accept myself but I got to learn a lot about myself and eventually I was no longer mourning the fact that I don't feel romantic attraction. Some people are very understanding and supportive, others don't quite get it, but I'm happy. One day I decided to start a sideblog for sharing my thoughts and feelings about aromanticism, and that's how we got aromantic-diaries. At first it didn't get much attention but it's gathered a following in the past months which never fails to make me happy because it's absolutely amazing to see that I can be a source of comfort for people like me

So there's my story! If you read it all the way through, hi! I hope you're having a great day today!

[abyssalzones]

What's your comic writing process like? I'm starting to get into making my own comics and I really admire your work!!! Any advice?

Ah, intrepid traveler, you've done well to journey to this secluded mountaintop spire, in search of the answers you seek. I indeed can provide such forbidden comicmancy knowledge... at the cost of your mortal soul...

coughs. anyway, I'm going to warn you immediately that what works for me does not work for everyone else, and in my experience the way I do things can prove very slow and discouraging for anyone who is more interested in the actual "drawing the damn comic" part of the process. I only do it this way because I enjoy weaving a narrative web that feels not only fully contained but re-readable, but my projects are often so long and my memory so shitty that I can't just keep all of it in my head! It would spill all over the place and make a really embarrassing mess of brain-juice. Not ideal.

but as for my own process, uhh... I suppose a comic would be fitting, right?

a little choppy but you get the idea.

as for turning words into art, I've been experimenting with figuring out the best way to do that for a little while now. Originally what I was doing for something like Ad Astra Per Aspera was to take my "script" and sketch it out on paper very loosely, before transposing that onto my canvas and working from there:

...but, I've found that can make it kind of difficult to space everything around on your standard page-size, and the thing I'm having the most problems with currently seems to be finding the sweet spot of panel-size proportions. So, I've taken to printing out standard thumbnail templates (you can just find these on google) and sketching very tiny panels in those, which seems to give me a slightly better sense of scale... (mild chapter 5 spoilers, sorry ad astra fans)

but I have yet to totally pull through on this, so who knows, maybe I'll try something else in the future!

As for advice, this is probably most applicable to me, but as a disabled artist I have a very hard time managing my workload without literally working myself into injury. I don't think I talked about this publicly but when I was working on that ten year anniversary comic I was literally drawing every single day for 3 solid months. Sometimes, in my case, I really can't bring myself to stop once I've latched onto an idea, and sometimes I find the most rewarding thing I can do with my time is to draw- but I seriously cannot overstate: Do not fucking do this.

You will fuck up your wrist, your back, your neck, your eyes, and probably your mental health. It's a well-known fact that mangaka have a lower life expectancy than the average japanese person due to the intense workload imposed on them by deadlines and personal expectations. Comics are a very demanding artform, and even though I'm not on any sort of mandated schedule there are times where I've toiled away at something when I likely should have been exercising or taking vision-breaks. Therefore the best advice I can give you is to chill the hell out.

Namely, find parts of the process you can be lazy about, and embrace the laziness! You don't like digitally sketching? Don't do it! Skip it, or maybe find a way to traditionally sketch things out in advance like I do. Hate lineart? Don't fucking do it. You really don't feel like wasting your time writing 72k words of comic scripts? ...then, don't be like me. skip that part. I'm a flawed human being and what works for me might not work for you.

The second most important piece of advice I could give is to read comics. Of all kinds. The reason for this is pretty self explanatory: In order to figure out your own comic-making style, you should first pick out bits and pieces from the artist's buffet to add to your plate. Manga, graphic novels, american comics, european comics, weird niche little webcomics, funny papers, anything and everything. This advice rings true of pretty much any art form, but I find it to be essential to honing comic-making skills because so many things you feel will just come intuitively often don't. and that's okay! nobody is born knowing how to leave space for speech bubbles or shape their panels in a way that imitates stretches of time. The best way to figure out stuff like this, in my experience, is to study the "masters", and then after becoming well accustomed to the basics, figure out what rules you want to bend or break to create your own style.

I consider myself to be in equal parts a writer and an artist, which lends itself well to making narrative comics, but maybe you're a bit more of an artist and want to focus on panel-by-panel visual storytelling. Or, conversely, maybe your talents lean closer towards writing, and the art itself is more of a secondary skill. Regardless of your unique blend of talents you can and should make a comic, you should just also be aware of your strengths and try to hone in on those- there will always be opportunities to build up skills you lack, but focusing on what you do best will always lead you in the right direction.

Anyway, that being said, here are some recommendations in no particular order:

Monster, Naoki Urasawa (!!)

Bone, Jeff Smith

Witch Hat Atelier, Kamome Shirahama

The first IDW run of Transformers comics (namely More Than Meets the Eye and Lost Light)

Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi (!!)

Through the Woods, Emily Carroll (really any Emily Carroll comics)

Kill Six Billion Demons (webcomic) (!!)

Akira, Katsuhiro Otomo

The Third Person, Emma Grove

Tintin, Hergé (can be super racist please be wary)

Dungeon Meshi, Ryoko Kui

Calvin & Hobbes, Bill Watterson

Maus, Art Spiegelman

Cucumber Quest (webcomic)

Jellyfish Princess, Akiko Higashimura

Golden Kamuy, Satoru Noda (!!)

Note that I did not grow up with manga so I am seriously behind on a lot of extremely influential japanese comics such as Dragon Ball, One Piece, basically any of the original Shonen Jump comics, but they're widely considered building blocks of the genre so if you love the artform I think you should give them a try! Same goes for classic non-shonen manga genres like various Shoujo, Josei, Yuri, Gekiga, ETC.

same as above applies to a lot of classic DC and Marvel works, I unfortunately am just not a big fan of superhero comics... but I'm sure there's good stuff in there. a couple of my mutuals talk about booster gold and the blue beetle all the time so I'm assuming there has to be something worthwhile.

...and many, many, many more that I'm forgetting! I noticed as I made this list that, to my knowledge, hardly any of these are made by black or just non-japanese-mangaka BIPOC artists, which makes me sad about the gaps in my own comic collection. Therefore, anyone is welcome to add their own recommendations in the replies!

now go forth, and combine images with text!!!!!!!!!!!