#I’m just a pawn in the argument

[rubywolf0201]

Remember back when BUCCHIGIRI?! was airing, there were numerous hate towards Arajin and to some extent Matakara so much to the point that ppl wished death on a teen who is annoying or in the case of Matakara, blamed him for being manipulated by an evil force that has the upper hand on him and said evil force gaslight him by using his childhood trauma if he doesn’t follow his order?

I remember.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

Hiiii I absolutely loved you Max fics I don’t know if you ever would want to do that but if your interested please do a mafia storyline with Max or Mick! ❤️

Little Lion Man || MV1 & CH16

Pairings: dark!Charles Leclerc x fem!reader, Max Verstappen x fem!reader Summary: you find yourself caught in a war between the mafia families that ruled Monaco. Warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, guns, murder, pregnancy, slight non con/reluctant vibes, forced marriage WC: 3.5k

For a nation so small it was hard to believe that Monaco could be home to not one but three mafia families. There was the Leclerc famile, Verstsppen familie and the Sainz familia. The Leclerc’s had always called Monaco home but the Dutch and Spanish families had made their arrival known in the 90’s, almost burning the city in the war that broke out.

Just over 30 years later, it looked like history was going to repeat itself as the prodigal sons took over the family businesses.

“You are my daughter, if I say you will marry Charles then you will marry him. End of argument.” You would hardly call it an argument when you weren’t even given an opportunity to say your piece but your father left no room for a rebuttal as he slammed the door closed behind him. There was a reason the Sainz’s called him the Peacemaker.

You were a bargaining chip, a pawn in your father’s arsenal to end the war between the Leclerc’s and the Sainz’s before it could spill out into the street and affect everyone’s bottom line. The last thing anyone wanted was to lose their men, their money and their product.

Two weeks later you were shoved into a wedding dress that could have been a film prop for any 80’s rom-com, puffy sleeves and all. It was hideous.

“You are quite beautiful,” Charles said as you reached the dais where the priest waited. “I suppose that will make this easier.”

By ‘this’ you assumed he meant the moment the reception was over and you found yourself stepping into his bedroom, your bedroom too now. Charles had been quiet for most of the evening, indulging in a handful of whiskeys over ice as he mulled over what his life had become, but he found his voice as he tugged his tie off. “On the bed.”

Your fingers tightened around your waist as you hugged yourself, trying to fight back the tears you thought you had finished shedding when you resigned yourself to your fate. “You don’t have to do this, we can come to an arrangement.”

Charles scoffed and continued to unbutton his dress shirt. “This is the arrangement.”

You swallowed as he shucked the shirt over a leather armrest and you saw the dark tattoos that curled over his biceps and down his forearms. A snake moved with his muscles and entwined around a gothic cross. Beneath it, thorny roses with blood drops splattered over the petals decorated the otherwise sun kissed skin.

“I don’t know what my father told you but I-”

“Your father said you would be an obedient wife,” he interrupted as he pointed a ringed finger to the bed. “I’m only as terrible as you make me.”

You took a step back as he stepped closer, his hand lifting to your face. It was reflex to flinch from his touch, knowing the violence his hands were capable of dealing to those who displeased him. You couldn’t help shivering as his cold wedding band touched your cheek and his other arm snaked around your waist, dragging the zip of your dress down your spine.

“What does that even mean?” you whispered. You took a breath and grew the courage to tip your head back and met his uniquely green eyes - the colour brighter than the soul behind them.

He pushed the puffed sleeves from your shoulders until the dress fell to the floor and inhaled at the sight of your body being bared to him. Biting his lip, he stepped back and ran a hand over his shadow of a beard. “Behave yourself, and I will too. Push me, and I’ll push you back harder.”

You felt the colour drain from your face at the threat and he chuckled as he closed the distance between you, forcing your lips apart with a demanding kiss. His palms ran down your spine and over the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against the hard expanse of his body.

“One other thing,” he murmured against your lips. “Disappoint me or my family and, well…it will be the last thing you do, chérie.”

You collapsed into Max’s arms the moment he opened the door, your fingers digging into the straps of muscle along his back as you clung to him like a lifeline. The penthouse apartment was quiet except for the tv playing in the master bedroom and your sobs filled the foyer before he could even close the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Max said, despite holding you just as tight. “He probably has Arthur or Lorenzo following you.”

You started to pull back but his arms caged you in his embrace so you settled for talking into his chest. “I know how to lose a tail. I was careful.”

He sighed and rested his cheek on your head, inhaling the floral scent of your shampoo he had missed. “I know, liefje. How long is he gone for?”

You screwed your eyes closed and wished he had never brought Charles up, but you knew Max wanted to know how long he could have with you. “He’s in Nice for a meeting. A few hours at least.”

The hatred for your husband had led you into the arms of Max, his rival and head of the Verstappen familie. The three families would meet each quarter for negotiations and settle disputes, or at least that was what it was meant for, but they just used it as a way to flaunt their wealth and success over each other.

It was after the wedding when you went to your first one that Max had caught your lifeless eyes as you sat beside Charles, decked out in a custom designer dress with diamonds strung around your neck, slowly choking you. He had been struck down by the vision before him and had never wanted something for himself so much in his life. He had been willing to go to war for you and he didn’t even know your name. He had learned it soon enough.

“Do you know who he’s meeting?” Max asked. Even when he wasn’t meaning to he was phishing for information, a reflex he couldn’t seem to stop with a mind as sharp as his.

“Please, mijn leeuw, not tonight,” you whined as you buried your face in his neck. (My lion)

“I’m sorry,” he said with a kiss to your forehead before he tipped your chin back to meet his ice-blue eyes. “What do you need from me, liefje?”

“I need to forget. Please, help me forget.”

Max closed his eyes as rage hardened his features and you knew he was rueing the day he let Charles live. The solution to your problem couldn’t be solved with a bullet and although Max knew that, it was still a bitter pill to swallow. He wanted nothing more than to bathe in Charles’ blood for what he had done to you, but the retaliation would be catastrophic. He had too many people relying on him, friends and family alike.

All Max could give you was a few short hours of his time to show you how he would treat you if the circumstances had been kinder. For a few short hours of stolen time he could erase the touch of Charles from your mind.

Max took your hand, his fingers easing your wedding ring off before placing it on the hall table with your handbag. You relished the freedom that came without the constricting band and flexed your fingers like it had been physically painful to wear the gold jewellery. In a way, it had.

Linking his fingers with yours, Max led the way through the apartment and into the bedroom you found comfort in. This should have been the place you called home, the solace you returned to at the day’s end. It was the one place you felt safe, even though just being here put your life in danger. If Charles ever found out you knew you would be dead, your body left somewhere it would never be found.

“Max…do you believe in God?” you asked in the quiet afterwards. Your arm was curled around his waist, fingers tracing the lion tattoo that covered his rib cage. You could feel the time ticking away with each heartbeat in his chest that you rested your head upon.

“No,” he said honestly, his accent thickening with his amusement. “Do you?”

You looked at the slight change in skin tone where your wedding band usually sat and slipped out of his embrace to find your clothes. “I have to,” you whispered as your throat began to tighten at the thought of returning to the cold mansion Charles owned. “There’s got to be something more than this hell. Maybe one day he will answer my prayers.”

Max could remember the feeling of taking over the family business, how he thought he was invincible - godlike even. Now he felt powerless to the situation. He didn’t like the feeling. He wanted to be the one to answer your prayer.

“One day…” he promised himself aloud, missing the way your spine stiffened at the words. There was no guarantee you would survive long enough for him to keep it.

You stared dumbly at the two pink lines and felt the walls of the bathroom constricting around you. You couldn’t imagine bringing a child into the world you were imprisoned in, it was unfair and deadly. What if the babe had dirty blond hair and ice blue eyes? A new fear sent a shudder down your body and you looked at your stomach, nothing to show - yet.

The door crashed off its hinges as Charles busted it in and you screamed at the surprise, cradling your abdomen on reflex.

“I called you ten fucking times!” Charles growled. His eyes narrowed as they scanned the room before settling on the pregnancy tests lined up. For the first time since you had wed him, Charles looked lost for words, and after a moment his hard stare softened. “We are having a baby?”

You couldn’t remember when he ever addressed anything as ‘we’, it was always you and him - separate, not together. You didn’t know how to react to the instant change in him but you nodded stiffly as he waited for an answer.

A smile grew on his face as he stepped forward and pulled your hands away from your stomach to place his own beneath your camisole. “My son, my heir,” he chuckled, the warmth of his palms almost blistering your skin.

“It might be a girl.” You flinch at the look he gave you and muttered an apology. Just because he was suddenly being gentle didn’t mean he would stay that way, especially if he ever found out the child wasn’t his. Nausea rolled through you and you pushed away to hurdle yourself at the toilet before you emptied your stomach.

It wasn’t morning sickness.

It was a sickness of the heart.

You knew if Max were to believe the child was his then he would have no choice but to go to war, it was a matter of pride and family. On the other hand, Charles would never let the child live if it wasn’t his and despite just learning of its existence, you were willing to do anything to protect it. You needed to tread carefully and that meant no more escaping your guards to see Max. It meant playing the good wife, at least for the next eight months.

You could feel his intense stare from across the table, willing you to meet his eyes. Too many times you felt them drifting up from your husband’s hand clasped on your lap only to snap them back down before you could give in. It would do no good to look at Max. You hadn’t seen him since the night before you took the pregnancy test and you had dreaded going to the quarterly meeting.

There was no hiding the bump in the tight dress Charles had chosen for you. There was no way that Max had missed it when you walked in on your husband’s arm. He had seen it and he had questions.

“I’m going to the ladies room,” you excused yourself after the meal, while the men talked business.

“Arthur will go with you,” Charles said with a nod to his younger brother sitting at his other side. “I don’t trust any of these assholes.”

His hand lingered on the small of your back as you stepped out and you glanced across to see Max’s eyes fixated on that touch. Though you did not welcome the hands of your husband, you no longer feared them the way you used to. Charles was far gentler now that you were, potentially, carrying his heir. It could also be Max’s.

A hand clasped over your mouth and silenced the scream that rose in your throat. “It’s me,” Max whispered, soothing your racing heart.

You looked around the powder room wondering how he had made it past Arthur and saw a narrow cleaner’s entrance left open a crack. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You never came back, never answered my messages.” The hurt in Max’s voice made your chest ache and your hands dropped to the growing swell of your abdomen. He followed that movement, his chest filling with the deep breath he took and the pearl buttons on his shirt started to strain until he exhaled. “I didn’t believe the rumours.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asked, the biting tone wanting detailed explanations like you were one of his men answering for your actions.

Your lips parted, ready to tell him exactly what you were sorry for, before they slammed shut. “I should go.”

He caught your arm as you moved past and he pulled you flush against his body to bury his face in your neck. “Tell me, please. I’ll make it happen, I’ll answer your prayers, I’ll go to war for you - for both of you. Just tell me, is it mine?”

The confession threatened to slip past your lips, the truth that you didn’t know, that he very likely could be. The confession threatened to eat you alive like it had done every time you saw one of Max’s men around Monaco. They always managed to get a message to you, but you never had a response to send.

“No,” you muttered as you pushed him away.

He rocked back on his heels but remained steady as he watched you retreat to the exit. “No, it isn’t mine or no, you won’t tell me?”

Your back hit the door and you blindly reached for the handle, sparing one last look at his shimmering eyes so you could remember them a little longer. “Whatever helps you to sleep at night.”

“Dammit, liefje, just tell me. I need to know.”

You broke away at the endearment that weakened your resolve and your shoulders curled in on themselves. “I can’t tell you, Max, because I don’t know. I. Don’t. Know.” Your voice cracked and the weight of those words fell tenfold on your shoulders as your hand slipped from the doorknob. “I don’t know who the father is, Max. I-I’m sorry.”

His strong arms grappled you into a tight embrace as you broke down in them, your knees giving out as you felt his lips on your forehead, smelt his cologne on his neck. “It’s okay, liefje, I'm going to fix this.”

You pulled back with eyes and blinked away the tears as you placed your hand on your belly. “How? What if it’s not yours?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything,” he promised as he tipped your chin back. “Mine or not, this baby is yours and that’s enough.”

A knock sounded at the door and you panicked as Arthur asked if everything was alright. Your reply was muffled as Max stole a kiss and quietly repeated his promise before disappearing back into the cleaner’s room. Wiping your eyes, you unlocked the door and met your brother-in-law’s narrowed eyes before they searched the room behind you. “You’ve been crying.”

“Pregnancy,” you said with a wave of your hand. “It’s called hormones, Tur. Happens all the time, just ask your brother.”

Max’s chair was still empty when you reached the table but he entered from the main door a few minutes later. The mask he often wore in front of those outside the familie was firmly in place as he unbuttoned his suit with one hand and dropped back into his seat, apologising for taking an important call.

“Your men can't handle one evening on their own?” Charles baited over the rim of his wine glass with an antagonising smile.

Max returned the grin with his own as he slipped his phone into his suit jacket. “You have no idea what my men are capable of.”

You could feel the ripples of those words across the table, the feel of a threat in the air. It not only set Charles on edge but Carlos too - the two sharing a look of concern before facing the Dutchman once more.

Max took a mouthful of his gin and tonic and bit into the lime wedge without reacting to the strong citrus taste. Taking his time, he picked up his napkin and cleaned the drops of juice from his fingers before laying it over his lap as everyone watched closely.

It looked as if he were nervously fiddling with his rings under the napkin and Carlos snickered, relaxing back into his chair until your lion spoke again. “But you will…”

The air stilled for a moment as the napkin drifted to the floor and warmth splattered your cheek. You couldn’t think fast enough to process what had happened or why the wetness on your cheek was red. It could have been minutes but it felt like hours before your brain connected the dots and you saw your husband's body slumped in his chair before you, his green eyes open but unseeing.

Across the table, Max had risen to his feet, the fidgeting revealing a silencer he had been screwing onto his gun. He was cold and precise as he took out Carlos next, his accuracy unmatched. Around the seats he went, faster than they could react as the doors were busted open and his second in command arrived. Danny was ready to die protecting Max’s back while you dropped to the floor and prayed for protection of your own.

“We have to get out of here,” Arthur growled as he caught your ankle and dragged you back where he was kneeling, his white chinos turning red as they absorbed his brother’s blood. “Stay low, protect my nephew.”

“Do you have a gun?” you asked with a shaking voice.

“Of course not,” he spat angrily. No one was meant to have weapons at these meetings and you were assuming Max had retrieved his from the reception area before returning.

“Then you’re fucked.” You kicked your Louboutin into his face and scrambled away as he howled in pain, reaching the edge of the table close to Max.

“Liefje, are you alright?”

“Arthur, under there,” you rushed as you pointed behind you, closing your eyes as he lifted the cloth and the muffled gunshot rang out.

“Not anymore.”

“Time to go,” Danny suggested, reloading his magazine and kicking a few bodies to check they were truly dead.

“Is that it?” You asked, hope filling your voice despite the devastation in the room surrounding you.

Daniel threw his head back and laughed but Max just shook his head and said, “This is just the beginning. We just declared war.”

“But they’re dead.”

“Someone will take over, and when they do - we will need to be ready.” Max reached out and wiped the blood from your cheek. “You’re free of him now, you both are.”

Your breath rattled out of you as you felt the weight lift from your shoulders and as the sirens grew in the distance you managed to smile, the first genuine smile in months. Your prayers had finally been answered. “Thank you, mijn leeuw.”

Five Months Later

Ice blue eyes met yours before a piercing cry erupted and Max’s laugh was one of pure joy. “Mijn zoon,” he cooed softly as he rested his cheek on your head and you watched the midwife gently bring your son to your waiting arms.

Tears blurred your vision at the warm comforting weight of his tiny body lying chest to chest with you. You had never felt anything more precious, never held anything more delicate. He was perfect.

“My little lion man,” you whispered, brushing a kiss over the tufts of dark hair he already had. “We love you so much.”

As if he knew what the words meant, his eyelashes fluttered and he peeked them open to bear twin green irises. He would be an heir. He could unite the families. Or, he could tear it all apart.

Only time would tell.

[lauraneedstochill]

Confess the longing you are dreaming of

summary: Aemond thinks the woman he has to marry is the most impudent and unsufferable he’s ever met. He’s also never wanted anyone so badly. pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Martell!reader (third person, no mention of Y/N) warnings: bantering and teasing, mentions of unpleasant sexual experience, praise kink (guess who’s got it), a dollop of softness, mild smut (... for starters ;) author’s note: couldn’t get the idea out of my head and spent a few sleepless nights writing this. I imagine her brothers as Pedro Pascal and Oscar Isaac ✨ words: ~8000 song inspo: Hozier — Better love

>>> Aemond isn’t present when the idea is voiced the first time — he has a hunch that his grandsire is to blame for that. No doubt, Otto was the one to plan it out, come up with arguments served with his persuasive tone. He’s always loved to make arrangements and strike deals, each one of them to play into his hands, and Aemond hates the thought of being just another pawn of his.

He is blindsided at the breakfast but it’s made sound carelessly mundane — as Otto puts down his cup, he throws him the proposal, the way one would leniently throw alms to the poor. And Aemond thinks he must’ve heard him wrong.

“Marry me to... Who?” the prince asks, hardly covering his surprise.

His grandsire directs his gaze at him, the old man’s mouth twitching into a condescending smile. Since Otto isn’t keen on idle talk, he tells him plainly:

“You’ve long been of age, Aemond, you know that,” his knife scratches the plate as he cuts the meat, his eyes not moving from the prince. “House Martell holds power, and we’ll be fortunate to have such allies. Besides,” he pauses to take a bite, and Aemond gets annoyed at waiting; Otto chews, then adds, “I’ve only heard good things about your bride-to-be. Wouldn’t you confirm, Ser Criston?”

The mention of the knight is unexpected to them both — Aemond turns his head to meet Ser Criston’s puzzled look. But the brunet effortlessly copes with his emotions:

“We met when she was just a kid. But I knew she’d grow into a fine lady,” he easily agrees. Mayhaps, too easily for Aemond’s liking so he makes a note to talk about it later on.

His grandsire only lets out a pleased hum. “Well, I’m under the impression she will make a good match for our prince,” and Aemond feels that Otto carefully picks each word, “She’s said to be both beautiful and smart, and known for being quite independent,” he’s usually so stingy with his praise, it’s worth its weight in gold.

But that is not what Aemond hears. The choice was made for him, and his rejection of it makes him paint a portrait less alluring — a pompous wayward woman raised in the traditions that are starkly different from his; and yet, it is expected of him to accept it freely. His wounded ego simmers at the thought.

“I’d add another word to that,” Aegon chimes in, half-drunk already, “Everyone knows the Martells to also be promisc—”

“Look who’s talking,” Otto glares at him, and Aegon shuts his mouth.

The word is left unsaid, only the meaning of it isn’t hard to guess, and Aemond feels embarrassment creeping up his cheeks and weighting down his chest. He deems himself an educated man, well-read and eager to put his knowledge to the test, but he has yet to learn of carnal pleasures. A memory is clawing out: him, ten-and-three and plied with wine, laid on a bed that smelled of sweat, a naked woman next to him. Despite her tireless attempts, he wanted none of it, and the repulsion made him sick — and then it made him hate the act itself.

He did go to the brothel through the years, tried watching, touching, looked at bodies of all sorts, only it felt like putting paint over a rotten wall. He felt constrained, and lacking in some way (perhaps, in many), and more so awfully incomplete. Not once he sensed a spark, a pleasure he would crave, and no amount of effort could help him fill the emptiness inside.

He quells the feeling, pushes in indifference instead, and glances briefly at his mother. She meets his eye but only grants him a faint smile, her own gaze lacking any protest.

“Her brothers wrote that they would visit in a fortnight,” Alicent peacefully explains. “It is our duty to ensure a royal welcome.”

“Brothers?” Helaena blithely chirps. “How many does she have?”

“Four but only two of them are coming,” Otto tells her softly, then looks at Aemond, adding in a voice more wily. “I am convinced they really want to see whom their dear sister is about to marry.”

He doesn’t spell it out but the implication can’t be clearer — Aemond must play the part and make a good impression. As if impressing just one stranger wasn’t tedious enough.

As if he isn’t vexed already by how unsuitable he finds her.

>>> Frustration grows in Aemond with each day, takes roots, and clogs up all his thoughts. Some other man would’ve been glad — he often heard that the Martells are quite the lovers. He can’t admit it to himself how much he’s bothered by his own misfortunes on the love field.

He bottles his emotions up and doesn’t utter any word of discontent, nor does he ever speak of the awaited visit. Although he makes just one exception.

“My grandsire mentioned that you knew her,” he reminds Ser Criston one day after training.

The knight nods. “I crossed paths with Quentyn, he’s the oldest. She used to come to watch us train.”

“What was she like?” Aemond carefully wonders.

Ser Criston ponders for a minute, polishing his sword. “She was a quiet little girl, kept to herself. A lot of boys were always chasing after her, and she paid them all no mind,” he smiles at the memory. “But I remember one of them who was... particularly pesky. His charms didn’t work on her so he got offended, rude, followed her around. She tolerated him for over a month. One morning, he was hassling her in the training yard, and she just took a spear laying nearby — and smacked him with no warning,” he shakes his head but it’s apparent that he isn’t judging. “She didn’t use the pointy end but she got him good. And then she told him that next time he would think twice about his actions. She was impressive for a ten-year-old,” he muses and puts the sword away, then turns to Aemond, giving him a wistful stare. “Frankly, I think that you will like her.”

He does, for just a second, as his mind rushes to paint the image of a fearless little girl; and then he mercilessly wipes that image off. Maybe in other circumstances, he could’ve found amusement in that story, but Aemond only huffs and thinks back to the list of all her traits he prematurely made up. He adds “rebellious” to that list, and his self-doubt is a venom that clouds his judgment. He’s in no rush to find a cure.

>>> Their ship arrives a few hours earlier than planned — and after the dock watchers break the news, the bustle begins. Maids, servants, guards all run and faff about the castle, the dining hall gets filled with smells and noises, plates and dishes clanking.

Aemond is not excited in the slightest.

He dresses up reluctantly, each piece of clothes only dampening his mood that’s been already sour for the past two weeks. He all but drags his feet into the dining hall and by the time he reaches it, he looks so grim that one may think the prince’s preparing for his death, no less.

The minutes fly too quickly for his liking — they barely have time to sit, his mother nervously toying with the tablecloth already, and then the guards rush to announce the guests. Surprisingly, she’s not among them. The prince thinks he should be relieved; deep down, there is a splash of worry fizzling in him.

Her brothers walk in calmly in a cloud of servants bearing gifts. Their kinship is immediately clear — both tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired, self-confidence subsisting in their every step. The oldest is distinguished by a touch of gray in his short beard, his gaze more focused, a slight smile plastered on his face. The other one shamelessly stares at every maid his eyes can catch.

“Your grace, it is a pleasure to finally meet you,” Quentyn reaches their table first, and Alicent walks down to greet them. He keeps his distance and his smile, his tone is measured. “We were so sad to learn that the King has fallen sick. But I can tell the Kingdom is in great hands. And —”

“Women’s hands do have a healing touch,” Oberyn smoothly interrupts, his accent a bit thicker, his voice honeyed. “I will prefer a Queen over a King at any given day. Unless, of course, your husband can compete with you in beauty... I somehow doubt that.”

A shade of disapproval grazes Quentyn’s face but Alicent is too amazed to notice. The compliment may come off as blunt but she still takes it well, her smile embarrassed yet sincere.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay,” she tells them humbly, then looks over the crowd. “But may I ask where is the lady we’ve been waiting for?”

“She made a stop on our way to catch up with an old friend,” Quentyn answers, ready to explain, “It’s been years since we’ve met Ser —”

“Still can’t believe he is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,” Oberyn chuckles. “I think it’s all the armor that makes it look like he poses a threat. But you may reconsider if you see him in the nude.”

This time, the older brother glares at him with warning, and there’s a lull in their conversation, while Aemond’s struggling to hear what made his mother’s cheeks so red, his mind nervously preoccupied with someone else —

her laughter enters first.

It’s bright and joyful, a sound so lovely it might be enough to crack up his restraint. But then he spots her, and it feels like his whole body flares up at the sight.

She’s walking with her hand under Ser Criston’s arm, and Aemond’s never seen a dress that covers so much but hides so little. It’s muted orange, floor-length, made of sumptuous silk, with two long slits along the sides, curves of her thighs beguilingly seen through. Her neck and arms aren’t covered, and the material is intricately stitched around her waist to show a few more glimpses of her sun-kissed skin. The waves of her long hair fall on her shoulders and frame her face, each feature of it striking but her lips stand out the most — full, plump, and reddish. Not once before Aemond found the thought of being kissed so tempting.

She doesn’t even turn her head to look at him. She’s talking to Ser Criston quietly, and he’s engaged in conversation, unusually relaxed. Their difference in age is obvious, and the knight seems like just another relative of hers, but an uneasy feeling still leaves a bite on Aemond’s chest. He can’t imagine her so carefree — so beaming and compliant — by his side. His jealousy tastes bitter like a stale wine.

He hears his brother let out a short laugh. “It’s not like they were fucking,” Aegon carelessly notes. “Please ease your outrage before she runs away.”

“I don’t remember asking for advice,” Aemond snarls.

“You do look like you need it,” the blond comments, then goes back to drinking.

She gracefully approaches them, her voice melodic like a murmur of a river. “Forgive me, your grace, for being late, I haven’t seen Ser Criston in some time,” she tells his mother. “He was once a dear friend of mine.”

“I only helped to shush away a few of your admirers,” the knight cackles, earning a smile from her.

“I hope you are making use of all his talents,” she says to the Queen, making her face flush right away.

She delicately moves on to another topic. “It is a pleasure to have you here, you must be tired from taking such a long trip.”

“We found it quite enjoyable,” Quentyn remarks politely. “The beautiful sights along the way are worth the journey, and your city has some great views too.”

“Can’t say I’ve heard great things about your food,” Oberyn grins. “Hence why we took the liberty to bring some of our own,” he signals to the nearest servant, who runs to open one of the trunks they carried. “The dornish fruits are also my sister’s weak spot.”

“As if you don’t gorge yourself on them!” she jests, letting go of Ser Criston’s arm at last. “My brother is a glutton, your grace, please excuse his manners in advance.”

“You can call me Alicent,” his mother corrects her warmly. “Only seems fair to continue this discussion at the table,” she slightly moves away to let the girl go first.

Aemond unintentionally stiffens and only when he stands up from his chair to greet her, she finally does look at him. In contrast to her countenance, her gaze is dark and piercing, and the prince is staggered by how unreadable it is. Her brothers glance at Aemond briefly — Quentyn is pensive, while Oberyn looks like he wants to bite his head off; neither says a word.

She’s seated to his right, and she leaves behind a trail of scent — apples and plums, and he can’t help but catch the movement of her hips under the flowing dress. The words all mash and fall apart, and he can’t pick a single one to strike up a conversation.

Aegon is sitting next to her, and his patience only lasts a minute. “Never knew Ser Criston was such a ladies' man.”

“I’m sure he succeeded on that front but we are merely good friends,” she answers calmly, keeping her eyes on servants bringing fruits — blood oranges and pomegranates, robust grapes, and ripened cherries.

“You two seemed more than friendly,” Aegon presses, his tone evidently taunting.

She picks a golden apricot and runs her thumb over its fragrant surface. “Maybe it’s the wine that makes you see things,” she rebuts and takes a bite out of the fruit, a drop of juice risking to escape her mouth but she wipes it swiftly with her finger. She catches Aemond looking, and his cheeks heat up.

“We’ve never seen him in the company of a woman,” the older prince points out, filling up his cup once more.

She takes out the kernel and eats up the fruit, her mouth glistens. “Aren’t the knights of the Kingsguard forbidden to marry?”

“Never stopped them from bedding whoever they like,” Aegon remarks crudely, and Aemond is thankful that their mother is too preoccupied with Oberyn’s tireless chatting.

“Maybe some men have the decency to follow orders,” she responds, unbothered, taking a cherry and clasping it with her lips. Aegon doesn’t seem to notice and only gulps the wine and rolls his eyes. Aemond can’t look away.

“Aren’t you Martells known for not following the rules? I thought unruly was in your house’s motto,” Aegon argues, a corner of his mouth curled in a smirk.

She takes another cherry, the third in a row, her lips already stained with juice. “I think you keep getting your facts wrong,” she brushes him off, and Aegon goes to object some more but spills the wine right on his shirt. The displeased cry brings Aemond out of his trance.

“He tends to do that when he’s drunk,” the one-eyed prince coolly interjects.

Her eyes flicker to him, then she fully turns her head. “So you can actually talk,” her teasing comes off soft but her gaze still burns. “It’s good to know.”

“You seemed preoccupied with someone else,” he musters an excuse.

“Do you expect your wife to never speak to other men?” her voice almost betrays her disenchantment.

“No,” Aemond quickly answers, caught unawares by how strained his thinking process is. “She— you are free to choose your friends, of course.”

“I’m flattered,” her tone suggesting otherwise, “Not that I would ask for anyone’s approval,” she reaches for a plum; he closes his eye with a sigh.

Aegon comes to stand in between them on the pretext of needing another carafe of wine: “I didn’t mean to interrupt your friendly bickering, please continue.”

“It seems like Aemond isn’t in the mood for talking,” she doesn’t look at him, the tip of her tongue darting to lick her finger. “And I am never in the mood for begging.”

“My brother’s hospitality leaves much to be desired,” Aegon takes a sip. “So I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer,” his hand falls on her chair. “But if you ever wish to be... well satisfied, all you have to do is ask me”.

It’s hard to tell if Aegon’s actually that drunk or merely provoking (or if he’s got a death wish, Aemond wonders).

She replies without much thought. “Well, if I ever find myself in need of...,” she trails off with a smile but her gaze gets harsh — her words then follow, “My choice won’t fall on you,” the smirk falls off Aegon’s face, and she glances straight at Aemond, adding, “I like them taller.”

But her straightforwardness is met with his resistance, with the deep-rooted unacceptance of his lurking needs. He adds “indecent” to the list, and they speak no more.

>>> Her boldness doesn’t pose a problem to anyone but him. To his surprise (or more so to his shock), his mother gives in first.

The morning can’t come fast enough for Aemond after he spends the night tossing and turning. A few hours later he rushes to the garden for a walk, overwhelmed by restlessness his training didn’t help him cope with. That’s when he sees it — a spot of yellow shining through the trees. He somehow knows it’s her without further confirmation but still, his feet carry him on.

Her dress is vivid like a field of marigolds, her hair plaited, wrists adorned with golden bracelets. He slackens pace and peers into her — and he wants nothing more than to drink her up, her whole appearance is the sweetest nectar... Until he hears another sound and realizes she is not alone, and it’s his mother sitting by her side, wrapped in her favorite green and, unexpectedly, in glee. He can’t remember when he saw her laugh like this — out loud, giggling, tears at the corners of her eyes are not from sadness but from joy.

“My dear, that is so improper! Did he apologize at least?” Alicent inquires with a smile.

“Oberyn rarely does,” she tells her serenely. “His lover looked way more ashamed. I hope each of your rooms has locks, gods know I don’t want to walk in on him again.”

Unlike his mother who is covered by the shade of trees, she’s bathing in the sun, the soft light caressing her skin, and Aemond’s eye greedily follows every ray. In barely a minute he feels warm all over.

“I hope that Aemond’s chambers got locks too,” she adds all of a sudden, a bit louder, and his chest is splashed with cold.

His eye moves to her face, and she’s already looking at him, direct and daring. He knows he’s hidden by the trees but there’s no hiding from her gaze.

Aemond turns away and steps back in haste, his abashment mixed with grievance at her implication. He believes someone like her would never lust for him, and her jokes at his expense not only hurt but prompt his resentment to grow stronger. He adds “deceptive” to the portrait of her he is so adamantly set on painting.

>>> She wins Helaena’s heart with ease. His sister fondly compliments her brooch — a little poppy made out of gold — and she gifts it to Helaena the same day. The silver-haired princess grabs at chance to show her own collection, and they spend the day looking through the jewels spread over the floor, sitting right there and equally amused.

And that’s how Aemond finds them. He only planned to see his nephews but hearing her voice coming from Helaena’s chambers makes him slow his step.

“... And this one he gave me for my latest name day,” Helaena babbles cheerfully.

“Aemond clearly spoils you,” she laughs without a shade of envy. “As he should!”

“He is very kind at heart,” Helaena eagerly assures her. “You will be happy with him, I am certain of it.”

There is a pause that makes him feel uneasy, makes him sneak up closer to the room.

“I do believe he’s not an evil man,” she finally says, “Maybe he just wasn’t made for marriage.”

Surely she can’t see him through the door but he can swear that he feels her gaze, like a silent challenge, a hidden mocking. He barges in without a knock.

Helaena beams. “We were just talking about you!”

His sister’s dress is milky blue, modestly pretty, and loosely fitted. It’s also treacherously pale compared to the liquid gold the Martell girl is dressed in. She’s sitting with her feet under her thighs, the bending of her back is bare and in plain sight. He should’ve walked away the second he heard the sound of her voice because not looking at her seems impossible.

“Oh, you came to see the twins? They are with Aegon but I can call— No, I will bring them back myself,” Helaena springs to her feet, rosy-cheeked and smiley, and leaves the room before Aemond can protest. And then it’s just the two of them.

He takes a breath and makes an effort, with his jaw tense and his blood rising, to drag his eye away from her. It feels as pointless as ignoring sunlight in an open field on a summer day. Only her beauty is more brazen — and so is her wit.

“I take it, gold isn’t your favorite color,” she speaks up with an impish tone. “Would be a bad idea to wear it on our wedding then.”

She never comes too close, always just a little out of reach, and yet he feels as if her presence grips him, weakening his will. He doesn’t want to be with her until he is — and then he has no wish to leave.

It scares Aemond as much as it spikes his anger.

“Why did you agree to come?” he bristles.

“You are not asking about your sister’s chambers, are you?” she clarifies, and he hears her smiling.

He tells himself he only needs to cast a glance to check.

He does — he meets her gaze — her earrings catch the sunlight and cast a trail of glares — the scattering of specks play on her skin, her neck and collarbones, sneak to her upper chest — his own is heaving. His struggle only lasts a moment but it leaves him short of breath. He isn’t looking anymore, his eye trying to discern the pattern on the drapes behind her.

“Our marriage, how do you benefit from it?” he hates how hard it is to control his voice.

And how she watches him intently without giving him a clue of what’s on her mind.

“I plan on visiting my family a couple of times a year. It will be easier to do on dragon back,” she doesn’t sound spiteful when she says it but her words still sting.

He can’t stop an image flashing through his mind: her on top of Vhagar, lungs full of air, pressed to him. It’s tempting — to have her in his hands, and yet the vision is too intangible to cling to. Instead, he thinks that in just three days she learned to play him like a harp, his years' worth of self-control is merely a sand castle against the tide of her sharp tongue.

He only snickers dryly at her reply, then they both hear the sound of running footsteps. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys rush to greet him — but almost instantly abandon, the kids' attention drawn to the shining golden dress.

He thinks “unruly” suits her better than does “pompous”. He comes up with a fake excuse to leave; the image of her stays with him.

>>> He picks more adjectives as the week goes on — she’s audacious, disobedient, wanton. She moves around the castle as if she owns every room she’s in. She wears less, and even on rare occasions when she doesn’t, her defiance more than compensates for it. She never shies away from a deep neckline, nor does she feel the need to hold back her resounding laughs. Her jewelry clinks, each of her dresses is brighter than the other, but it’s her wicked mouth his eye always falls on first.

More times than not, Aemond can’t tear his gaze away, each meal for him now both a torture and a feast.

He watches as she parts her lips, puts them around a luscious grape, a cherry, or a peach, she swipes her tongue to lick up every running drop, savoring its tang — and keeps eye contact with him. He barely can taste the food he’s eating, and no wine can quench his thirst, his body flooding with a feeling he can’t define, his heart adrift.

He tries to fight it off with all our strength. He scratches off “unruly” to write down “unabashed” instead.

But then the dinner comes, and even though he’s never had a taste for sweets, he thinks he’d eat them from her lips (deep down, he wants to). The lies he tells himself are brittle like the flesh of fruits under her teeth.

>>> He comes to think “insufferable” fits her the best. That thought rings in his head while he is standing in the stable, his eye on anything but her. He was informed she wished to pick a horse, and he begrudgingly agreed to come, only to keep up the pretense.

What turns out to be much harder is for him to keep restraint. The dress she’s wearing might as well be a chemise — it’s just as light and white, and much to his discomfort, it also tirelessly risks hiking up to expose more of her legs.

Discomfort, mayhaps, isn’t the right word for it.

He stays out of her way but, unsurprisingly, he ends up looking — at how she walks, spring in her step, swinging her hips. She gives each horse a piece of apple and feeds them by hand, strokes their muzzles, and then she mounts and rides them, one by one. She grabs the reins, her foot easily finds the stirrup, and as she swings her leg over the saddle, her dress slips up, showing a few inches of her skin.

He swallows thickly, glances more intently — over her dainty ankles, bending of her knees, he notes how smooth her skin is, soaking up the sun. Her dress then billows slightly, and his eye glides higher, hungry, follows up the contour of her thighs that bounce a little as the horse gallops.

He feels it blooming — a sensation with no name that travels from the lower chest down to his very navel, then spreads and tightens all that’s underneath.

He is so deep in his enthrallment, he doesn’t hear the steps approaching until there’s someone standing next to him. Quentyn stays silent for a minute, throwing him a sideways glance.

“My sister’s always been terribly picky,” the man says out of the blue, “And usually it’s hard to meet all of her demands,” — it doesn’t seem like it’s the horses he is talking of. The vagueness of it makes Aemond focus as he takes his eye off her but Quentyn doesn’t elaborate, giving him a smile instead. “I do admit, your patience is commendable. Some other man would’ve already interfered just to wrap the process up.”

“I was under the impression she doesn’t need anyone’s help,” Aemond replies evasively.

“You guessed it right,” Quentyn titters, his tone veiled with the same unclear meaning when he adds, “The only thing left for us all is to accept it,” and with that, he goes to join his sister.

When Aemond — tamely, almost yielding — takes a peek at her, his gaze collides with Oberyn’s who clearly watched them talk. Unlike his older brother, he prefers to stay away, but the mischief in him pairs really well with danger. He grants Aemond a nod, switching attention back to her, his threats unspoken for the meantime.

For just a second, it gives Aemond pause as he finds it odd that no one brings up their wedding, and no announcements have been made ever since she came. He doesn’t mull over it for long because her laughter interrupts his thoughts (or maybe he just yearns for any chance to look at her). She rides around the yard, her hair floating in the wind, a little breathless but breathtaking, her lips enticing and her curves making his throat dry.

He tries to ground himself, to look for explanations, for some reprieve from the entrancing spell he’s under — he’s never been so close to losing reason —

out of the corner of his eye, he sees a couple of guards dropping their gaze in poor attempts to stop themselves from gawking; it reins his passion, bringing back his jealousy instead. He’s way too used to seeing himself unworthy to even entertain the thought of having her, and his denial prickles. He wants to burn his feelings out, and anger helps with that — it breaks out and engulfs him fast, hardening both his heart and gaze.

“Quentyn is the friendliest of the two, and you couldn’t hold a conversation?” Aegon appears out of nowhere, seemingly displeased despite the bottle in his hand. “Must you always be so gruff? I stayed behind in hopes you’d make it work!” he waves at Oberyn then glares at Aemond, waiting for a reply. “Are you pretending to be deaf or...?”

“Must she test my patience?” Aemond mutters, his tone not jealous but exasperated, his eye boring into her, “Putting herself out like that for all the men to see.”

Aegon being speechless is a rare sight. He cannot fathom it at first, looking from Aemond back to her, confusion sobering him up. And then he grins, realization creeping up on him; there are some things he’s always quick to notice.

“It’s funny that you say that,” he leans in to tell him and catches Aemond’s gaze, “Since it’s just you who’s staring,” Aegon pats him on the back and leaves to greet her brothers.

Aemond tries to choke it down — his irritation and his shame combined, but it’s too much for him to handle, his head and heart clearly in conflict. He doesn’t wait for her to make a choice, retiring without sparing her a glance (a fear nibs at him that if he looks at her once more, he will stay rooted to the ground).

He doesn’t leave his chambers for the remainder of the day, dining all alone and fuming all the same. He’s usually good at curbing his emotions but he is having trouble understanding them, wanting nothing more than to erase all memories of her. But even in his solitude, he catches himself thinking — about her cunning smile and swaying hips, her eyes on him, his hands wanting to roam and touch and —

Aemond shoves unwanted thoughts away and goes to bed earlier than usual. He remains steadfast in his resolve to find some peace, he makes a conscious effort to shift his focus to all the boring, random things his mind can come up with until he is too tired to care.

But then he falls asleep, and his subconscious welcomes her. He sees her right before his eye in that obscenely short white dress, there are no people in the yard, her tantalizing moves all meant for him. She hops off her black horse and walks to him without a single word — anticipation makes him drop his guard and hold his breath — and then he feels her lips on his, her body pressing into him, his hunger for her ruining his self-control, the kiss is searing, suffocating, driving him insane, his fingers pulling up her dress —

he wakes up painfully aroused.

He lays in bed, his heartbeat rushing, his breathing ragged, and vision blurred. While he’s still grasping for the remnants of his dream, he sneaks his hand into his breeches, wishing he could rip her dress off and sheath himself inside her, spread her on his bed, and drink every salacious sound she makes... It only takes him a few strokes to spill over his fingers; he can’t remember if he’s ever reached his peak so fast.

And only then, as he comes down from his high, it hits him, like lightning in the dark — in spite of her remarks, her audacity, her dresses, and every cruel adjective he’s found for her, he’s never wanted anyone so badly. Aemond sits up abruptly, his sleep gone, giving way to stubbornness that comes hand in hand with reticence. He persuades himself that he’ll suppress this — the spark, the pleasure that he craves, and he won’t be a slave to his desires.

He’ll rid himself of feelings, of this lust. Inevitably it will wane.

>>> It doesn’t.

Desire is a guest that never leaves, unwanted but demanding space, attention, time. It slips into his thoughts the moment he wakes up, it whispers in his ears, never giving up, it’s layered in between his clothes and his skin. He hides it well from everyone; it lodges deeper into him.

Desire is a cherry in her mouth, each fruit she bites in, savors, drinks the juice from. He doesn’t want to watch — he can’t take his eye off her, caught in his fervor like in undertow, the flavor of her lips the only one he truly yearns for.

Desire bruises more than does a hit, cuts deeper than a blade, and there’s no weapon he can fight it off with. His training brings him no relief, and he can’t sweat it out or wash it off him, and even while he soaking in a bath, it feels like longing only rises back with steam.

Desire waits for him at night, stands by his bed, slides right under the covers with him. He dreams of her, and in those dreams, her body sings under his every touch, trembles from his praise, his hands and mouth paint her with marks and kisses. He wakes up with his chest aflame and out of breath, and then it takes all of his willpower not to crawl to her.

It staggering how much he really wants her, and he hates himself for it.

>>> It’s been three weeks and they have barely shared a word. He does his best to cut down their encounters and avoid her, he doesn’t argue and takes no offense, he hopes that if he pulls back just enough she will give up and let him be.

Aemond spends his evenings in the study, his table piled with books, and for a couple of hours, it does help to take his mind off things. The night already steals in while he’s searching through the shelves for scrolls, too caught up in the process to pick up the creaking of his door.

Her gaze nearly scalds him. He only looks up out of surprise — and then he freezes at the spot, his heart a stone that plummets to his stomach.

Out of everything she’s worn, this dress might be the one to bring him to his knees — the cutting out the front so low, his eye falls in the hollow between her breasts; he envies fervently the golden chain that rests there. He takes in her whole body, bare arms, and flaunting forms, all clad in deep dark green. He’s never seen her pick that color (and he can’t help but think she put it on for him).

He’s brought back from his stupor when their eyes meet — and startled by the determination in her gaze.

“Ser Criston told me that you missed your training,” she stately starts walking toward him, “Quite a few times this week.”

“I found myself preoccupied with other things,” he clears his throat and clasps his hands behind his back, the scrolls forgotten.

“With reading, I assume?” she almost sounds aggrieved (he wants to ask what else she’d rather have him do) but then her tone gets jaunty. “Would you mind if I join?”

“Actually, I would,” Aemond takes his eye off her, his coldness feigned. “I’d like to avoid distractions.”

And more than anything, he would like for her to leave; she’s not the one to give up so easily. “Maybe we can learn some things together?” she nonchalantly insists, and that ambiguity — deliberate or not — leaves his face suffused with pink.

“I highly doubt you take interest in the things I study,” he manages, his crudeness biting his own tongue.

She only sneers, already nearing his table. “You surely rush to judgment.”

“And I am never wrong.” (Although he’s been wrong once before.)

“That’s very humble of you.” (And she’s tenacious with her intent to prove him wrong again.)

“I am surprised you know that word,” he replies too hastily — and instantly regrets his outburst.

And his attempts to get away from her could’ve been valiant, but only left him feeling like a coward.

She’s got enough courage to spare. “Oh, my apologies, did I strike a nerve?” her hip grazes a stack of books. “You sound so displeased with my behavior,” she puts her hands right on his table, her cleavage in full view.

“You interrupted my studies,” he’s looking only at her face.

“Just this one time,” she clears up, her sly smile is a dare, “Sounds like you have quite a few complaints.”

Damned be her dress and the day he laid his eye on her. “It’s clear as day that we have nothing in common,” he hisses, her persistence molding his anger. “From your bawdy humor to your reckless behavior and your...,” he struggles to push the word through his mouth, “vulgar dresses — everything suggests that we will never make a good couple.”

He catches a gleam in her gaze but it’s not threatening nor hurt — and when the corners of her mouth curl up, her face expression actually looks amused. “I didn’t realize my presence tormented you that much,” she crosses arms over her chest, her hands under her breasts; he looks away that very instant. “So will it please you if I take my vulgar dresses and go back home and leave you be?”

He wants to say it will — he’s thought of it for days — but now he isn’t sure. The dreams he has of her will hardly be enough as every image he collected has got nothing on the real form.

“Is there anything that does?” she asks him suddenly and takes a step in his direction, and then another one.

Belatedly, he realizes that he’s backed against the wall. The air in the room heats up, and Aemond moves back to his table, fingers holding to its edge to find some balance. “...Does what?”

“Please you,” she swiftly clarifies, now standing at arm’s length.

“That isn’t any of your concern,” he wants to glance away and yet, his eye is drawn to her.

“I am inclined to disagree,” her lips stretch into a smile. “Shouldn’t a wife know how to make her husband feel good?”

“We are not married yet,” he tries to argue weakly.

“I’d like to learn beforehand,” but her assertiveness works quicker than his doubts.

The time is still, and seconds drag like hours. His heart leaps at the thought of being all alone with her, his concentration crumbling, his self-restraint already hanging by a thread.

“The way you look at me suggests you aren’t averse to the idea,” she tells him in a low voice, her eyes two glowing embers. Aemond gulps, she deftly rounds the table. “You act so cold and so collected,” she muses, coming closer, and he helplessly steps back. “But I am yet to meet a man who would deny himself the pleasure of laying with a woman,” her voice is warm and warming; his legs bump into the chair, prompting him to sit.

He hesitates for barely a moment but his quick reaction fails him because the next thing he knows, she’s standing next to him, her golden chain casting a blinding glint — he blinks — and then she’s straddling him, her thighs on either side of his.

Aemond’s mouth falls slack as he becomes aware: to lift her he will have to touch her. He glances down at her legs that sneaked out through the long slits of her dress, all bare to the very hips before him.

“I wonder if you are too spoiled by the attention of the ladies? Mayhaps you’ve got so satiated, the intimacy doesn’t bring you any joy,” she runs her fingers up his chest.

He only finds it in himself to shake his head. She isn’t satisfied with that reaction. “Or do you simply find it boring and have a taste for something else?”

Objection bubbles in his throat but he gets no chance to voice it — he barely registers a clinking sound before he feels cold steel pressed under his chin, her fingers wrapped around the hilt of his own dagger. He meant to leave it at the training yard but it completely slipped his mind.

“Does this work better? I’ve heard that you Targaryens have peculiar tastes,” her other hand lands on his shoulder, his chest is stirring with emotions he can’t read.

“That’s not— No,” he mumbles, his voice raw, the weight and feeling of her body overwhelming.

She cocks her brow at him in disbelief. “No? So it’s just plain old satiation then?” she makes no attempt to press the blade but her questions do get pushy. “Must be so hard when women throw themselves at you ever since you were... What was it, ten? Twelve years of age?”

He would expect her to sound teasing — instead, he hears disappointment. That’s the reaction he is used to getting.

“My brother took me to a pleasure house when I was ten-and-three. He said it’s time to get it wet,” he forces out, “And it was...,” awful and humiliating, something he wishes to forget, “...Not what you are describing.”

Her face expression changes — first surprised, then splashed with sadness, and her every feature softens. Aemond sees her opening her mouth to speak but he averts his gaze, abasement scrabbling at him. His eye falls closed, and he keeps thinking that now she will get up and leave, and there won’t be any wedding, and he’s got no reason to get so overly upset already, and —

she sheathes his dagger without a word, the unexpected movement making him breathe out.

And then she dips her head down, and her lips fall on his jaw. Aemond inhales sharply. Her mouth feels softer than it was in all his dreams, and she plants kisses down his throat, moving to the part of it the blade was pressed to. He doesn’t know where to put his hands while hers lock nimbly around his neck.

She pulls back slowly, and he dares to look at her again, trying to catch the merest shadow of pretense but there is none.

“I am truly sorry that you had to go through that,” she tells him quietly. “Have you tried some more since then?”

“I did,” his answer comes off hurried, blank, “I... I am aware of how the act is done.”

“How the act is done? Aemond, that doesn’t sound enjoyable at all,” she pouts, then gently caresses his face, her voice a tender whisper when she adds, “But it should be.”

He stiffens, waiting for the discomfort to wake up, for the aversion to coil his guts, to trigger the jarring need to move away. None of that happens. Instead, he feels her fingers running through his hair, a calming motion bringing only comfort, her every touch relieving tightness in his chest.

“You seem too tense... We have to work on that,” she joyfully murmurs. “Unless, of course, my worry causes you distress,” her fingers stop, “Do you want me to leave, my prince?”

“No,” he rasps, he almost pleads, “D-don’t.”

She hums with satisfaction, bringing her hands down to unclasp his leather doublet, knowing she won’t meet any resistance. He should resent her for this but he doesn’t (he didn’t and he won’t). The air lays cold over his shirt, and Aemond shivers; she moves her fingers down his firm chest with an unspoken admiration.

“Tell me how it usually goes,” she inquires, one of her hands finding its way back to his silver locks. “Do you find pleasure in undressing them?”

Her warmth envelopes him, scented with cinnamon and peaches. “They come without much clothes,” Aemond blurts out, earning another hum from her.

“And what about you?” she glances curiously at him.

“I don’t... I don’t like them touching me,” he timidly avows, and saying it to her does bring somewhat of a relief.

With both of her hands, she cradles his face, thumbs gently contouring his cheeks — he all but melts into her palms. “And yet you are so responsive to the touch,” her voice praises, “So pretty.”

She leans in again, leaving a kiss at the hollow of his throat — and then her mouth travels up, ardent and steady, and he squirms in place. Not out of discomfort.

“You are not supposed to rush it if you want it to feel good,” she whispers in his ear and moves back to catch his gaze. “You never rush into fighting so why love making should be any different?”

Astonishment brightens his face, and she chuckles lightly. “I must confess, I did enjoy watching you train, even though you never noticed. The way you move and twirl your sword,” she’s recollecting breathy, “You are so lithe and fast and so resistant... An infatuating sight.”

She holds his gaze and lifts her hand — he follows it, unblinking, until it finds one of the straps — she hooks it with her fingers. “Fairly soon it made me wonder how would your hands feel... on me,” his heart jolts at her words.

Slowly, she moves the strap aside, baring her breast for him; Aemond’s breathing hitches. She takes his hand in hers, planting a kiss over his knuckles — and then lets his fingers graze her naked skin.

“It was so cruel of you to rob me of my pleasure,” she laments, but he can barely hear a thing, his eye wide as he fixes on the soft swell of her breast, on how her nipple peaks so eagerly under his touch.

She guides his hand over her chest, down to her ribs and waist, letting him brush her every curve, placing his fingers firmly on her hip. And then she reaches for his other hand and lowers the other strap; his body trembles. The layers of his reticence are all peeled at once, leaving his desire raw and undisguised, unshackled. He’s drawn to fondle, clutch at her plump breasts but her grip is tight and taunting, not letting his fingers roam free.

Still, when both his hands sink into her hips, he realizes that he’s getting harder by the second.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by her. With a controlled, torturously slow move she drags her clothed core over his straining cock. His mouth stays closed but there’s a sound — a muffled moan caught in his throat.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” she teases, lightly tugging on his hair, her lips reaching the column of his neck. “With how much you read, I hoped you’d be more generous with words,” each of her kisses weightless like a drop of rain but then her mouth finds a spot below his ear and suckles at it, pulling a whimper from his chest.

He thinks he should... his mind goes blank after another movement of her hips, and she picks up the pace, merciless and sensuous. He tries biting down his moans but only hurts his mouth. She notices, her rapt eyes on him, and puts her finger on his lower lip:

“Please, don’t be shy with me,” she coos, her gentle touch soothing his bitten flesh, “Our desires coincide,” she earnestly affirms him — and the spark erupts and drags him into pure bliss.

He feels that his arousal leaks, his breeches way too tight to hide it, his fingers dig into her supple skin, but she gives no complaints. He watches breathlessly through his hooded eyelid as she grinds against him, then looks over her bouncing breasts, her nipples pebbled, and the pressure curls somewhere down his spine. She peppers him with kisses — the angles of his face, neck, everything that she can reach, except for his desirous mouth. And yet the softness of her lips and hands, her skin that’s draped with the redolent scent, the rhythm of her hips all bring him closer to the edge.

Her forehead is pressed to his, their lips an inch away but never fully touching. “Let go for me,” she says against his mouth, “My handsome, fierce dragon.”

That does it for him. He harshly presses her to him, then shudders with a strangled moan and comes undone, his eye squeezed shut as her name quivers in his mouth. The pleasure whirls him in and leaves him drained and stunned, a little bit light-headed.

It takes Aemond a minute to recover before he finds her gaze again — and in another minute he discerns her shallow breaths, her parted lips, brows slightly furrowed. He wants to ask her if she reached her peak, if he can help her with it —

but she pulls back.

She stands up and only briefly grabs his shoulder, steadying herself, then promptly puts the straps back on, fixing her dress. He wants to lend a hand but she moves it away, leaning in to lightly caress his face. “No, you don’t get to have me yet. I want you to admit it first, to say that you want me,” her words are laced with dignity but cooling to his mind.

She steps back, cruelly fast, the only consolation is her naughty tone. “Until then, I have to satisfy myself some other way. But I will think of you while doing it, my dear prince,” she promises, a ghost of a smile on her lips, and then walks out without looking back.

The silence feels unwelcome in the room and hangs over the ceiling like a cloud, but Aemond he is too dazed to move, spent and perplexed to wrap his head around it.

Desire, it seems, has come to stay.

But it’s not the only thing he’s feeling.

✧... YES, there will be a second part, it’s already in the works! ✧ and yes, I didn’t bother to rename Pedro’s character 'cause I adore Oberyn sue me

✧ just to clarify, I usually age Aemond up to 20 (or however old Ewan looks to you ;) ✧ I got inspired after watching the video for ROSALÍA’s “La Fama” (give it a watch, she is soooo 🥵) but I only found it because of this gorgeous gifset so shout-out to OP for giving me inspiration

✧ my recent fic (couples who kill together, stay together 🔥) ✧ my masterlist

thank you @amiraisgoingthruit for letting me tag you in every silly story of mine, hope you’ll like this one (if anyone else wants to be tagged, don’t be shy)

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

[webslingingslasher]

peter being a brat for no reason like she’s just decided (situationship) peter is annoying her today😁😁 she storms up to him and he’s like “hello? take a seat” and she says don’t mind if i do :) and just goes and sits on one of the bros laps giggle giggle

i feel like being mean to peter rn. idk why. i think it’s pms but i hope he gets angry and cries😁❤️

taking a proud seat on ethan’s lap just to prove a point and poor ethan wants nothing to do with the petty argument. he’s hovering his hands, making it clear he’s doing no touching of the sort.

peter is very unimpressed. ‘trouble.’

you double down and wrap your arms around ethan’s neck, he shows distress instantly. ‘ah, ah, ah. no, no, no, no thank you.’ your hold is lightly picked apart, ‘i want no involvement in this. parker, i’m doing the best i can here.’

‘get off ethan.’ you cross your arms over your chest, ‘only if ethan tel-‘

‘yes. get off me, please god get off me.’ peter’s been in a mood all day, not just with you, with everyone. and ethan wants as little as a target on him as possible, he has no active participance but he’s gonna be the one to get yelled at.

peter smirks, like he just won a point. it makes you want to super glue yourself to ethan, but you move, only because ethan asked.

‘you’ve been so grouchy today,’ you pat ethan’s arm with the back of your hand. ‘hasn’t he been grouchy today?’

ethan spins his head around, straining to hear what’s happening in the kitchen. ‘did you hear that? i think someone’s calling me.’ he’s gone in a flash, peter stares at your face.

‘we don’t use friends as pawns. it’s not nice.’

you scoff, mumbling your words like a child. ‘you’re not nice.’

peter sighs before rubbing at his brow bone. ‘i’m sorry, trouble. i didn’t sleep good last night, i’ve been grumpy all day.’

peter’s not going to outwardly blame you, but you know he’s referring to your constant tossing and turning and cuddles. each time he got comfortable, you’d switch it up on him.

‘wanna take a nap? i won’t join if you want some alone time, you can spread out.’ peter shakes his head, the idea appalled him. ‘we’ll go have a nap, yes.’

[maximoffwitch]

a johanna mason x oblivious!reader, where j always calms down around r and has a soft spot for her, then someone points it out to r and then r realizes that j is only soft for her and when she asks her, j confesses her feelings please? if that made sense 😅, thank you for ur time! i love ur writing :D

If I Know What Love Is, It Is Because of You

pairing: johanan mason x reader

warnings: canon typical violence, alcohol, blood

word count: 2.4k

summary: Everyone can see that Johanna loves you. Well, everybody but you.

a/n: thank you sm for requesting this! i had the best time writing this 🥹 and note: the scenes in italics are flashbacks!

Your head was pounding. The last place you wanted to be right now was this meeting. Yet here you were, sitting at the table, listening to Coin drone on about something as you all waited for everyone to show up – everyone being Johanna. 

“Where is Johanna?” Plutarch asked and nodded to the vacant seat the District 7 girl usually occupied. Everyone’s heads turned towards you, causing you to frown at the sudden attention.

“What?”

“Where is she?” The head gamemaker looked at you expectantly.

“Why would I know?” you asked exasperatedly, your irritation and fatigue becoming more and more evident.

Before Plutarch could respond with some quip, Finnick put his hand up and interjected. “She had a therapy session earlier,” he explained, knowing Johanna was likely hiding out in her room after her time with the head doctor.

“Let’s just start without her,” Cressida suggested impatiently, and you rolled your eyes, not even trying to hide your annoyance.

“No,” Coin shook her head. She knew the importance Johanna’s victor status held in this rebellion.  

“Well, someone needs to go get her,” Haymitch said before taking a swig of his drink. “(Y/N)?”

Again, everyone looked at you. 

“Why me?” you whined. You liked Johanna – more than you cared to admit – but right now, you were too drained to remedy her bad mood. 

“You’re the only one she tolerates,” Katniss explained.

You frowned and scrunched your brows. “What about Finnick?”

“She has a soft spot for you.” He shrugged at your perplexed look. 

“What?” You tilted your head, becoming increasingly confused. “No she doesn’t.”

“Oh really?” Finnick smirked, a mischievous glint in his eye. “What about that time with Enobaria and the glass table?”

“What did you just say to me?” Johanna seethed as she slowly put her drink down on the glass table before standing up to confront the other woman.

“You heard me.” Enobaria grinned, baring her sharp teeth. “Pawn.”

Johanna flipped the glass table, shattering it completely, causing glass to go flying. “I will kill you, Two,” she screamed, lunging at Enobaria and grabbing at her throat. 

“Hey, hey!” Finnick yelled and ran across the room to pull Johanna away.

“Speak to me again and I’ll be the one ripping your throat out.” She pointed at a leering Enobaria while struggling in Finnick’s hold.

“What the hell is going on in here?” you frowned, concern written across your face as you see Johanna, close to tears, being held back. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Johanna huffed, shrugging Finnick’s hands off her.

“Jo.” You hook your finger under her chin, lifting her gaze to meet yours. Your frown deepened as you saw her forehead was bleeding; a stray piece of glass must have caught her. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Johanna closed her eyes and took a deep breath, immediately calming under your touch. Searching her eyes, you didn’t believe her but you didn’t say anything.

“Come on.” You took her hand and squeezed it. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“That was just because I came after the fight,” you protested weakly, your argument making little sense even to you.

Finnick rolled his eyes but said nothing. 

“Sweetheart,” Haymitch interjected, “that girl could not be more in love with you if she tried.”

He just sighed as you gave him a blank stare, your thoughts racing all over the place. 

“The whiskey incident?” Haymitch grinned smugly, tilting his glass to you before taking a sip.

This year’s Games were rough, even more than usual. Your tributes had a brutal day in the arena, and you were emotionally drained just from watching. 

Entering the common kitchen, you were in desperate need for a drink. You grabbed a glass and the bottle of District 7 whiskey Johanna brought from home.

As you gulped down your decent size pour, already refilling your glass, Haymitch swayed into the room, perking up when he saw the freshly opened bottle.

“What’s that?”

“District 7 whiskey,” you replied, before reading the label. “Hints of smoky pine.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” He chugged down whatever was remaining in his own cup before pouring himself some whiskey.

“I don’t think–” You tried to stop him, knowing Johanna would not be too pleased about Haymitch stealing her alcohol. 

“Hmm.” He let out a satisfied sigh as he inhaled the whiskey scent. 

But before he could take a test sip, a voice interrupted him.

“What do you think you’re doing? That’s mine,” Johanna walked in, visibly annoyed, and snatched the glass out of his hand. 

“(Y/N) is drinking some,” Haymitch argued childishly with an incredulous look. 

For a moment, you though you saw a sense of hesitancy flash in Johanna’s eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“That’s because (Y/N) has some self-restraint while you drink by the bottle,” Johanna snarked, downing the glass Haymitch had poured himself.

“Hey, (Y/N/N),” Finnick poked his head in the room, briefly greeting the other two. “Cecelia was looking for you.”

You internally groaned and finished off your drink. “She probably wants to go over what happened today and strategize.”

Both Haymitch and Johanna sobered, knowing the District 8 tributes were likely not going to last much longer.

“Thanks, Jo.” You got up and pecked Johanna’s cheek, patting her shoulder. “I really needed that drink.”

“Yeah, no problem,” she responded under her breath. You gave her a small smile and slid past her out of the room. 

“You got something –“ Hamyitch motioned to the blush tinting Johanna’s cheek and gave her a knowing smirk.

Johanna snapped out of her brief daze and glared at him. “Oh, shut up, old man.”

“I would hardly call that an ‘incident,’” you objected, rolling your eyes. “I mean what did you expect, drinking what isn’t yours?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Haymitch waved you off. “My point still stands.”

All you could do was nod distractedly, as you were trying to process what Finnick and Haymitch were telling you. You and Johanna had been friends for several years, having met at Johanna’s Victory Tour banquet in the Capitol. Over the years, you knew you were falling for her but not wanting to ruin one of the only friendships you had left, you kept your feelings to yourself.

You would never expect Johanna to ever reciprocate your feelings. I mean why would she? She could be with anybody she wanted. Plus, the baggage that came with being a victor made being in any relationship difficult – for the both of you. 

But now you were starting to wonder if there was even a slight chance she felt the same.

“There was also the aftermath of the blood rain,” Katniss added, causing you to wince at the memory.

As you saw Wiress stumble out onto the beach, you recognized Johanna.

“Johanna!” You ran across the beach, Finnick closely behind you. 

“(Y/N)! Finnick!” She yelled back as the two older victors sunk into the water. 

As you got closer, you could see she was covered in blood and your chest tightened. “Johanna,” you whispered, furrowing your brows. 

“What happened? What is that?” Finnick caught his breath and assessed Johanna’s distressed state.

“It’s blood!” She laughed sardonically. “Just my luck. I’m covered in blood!”

By now, Peeta and Katniss had caught up as Johanna continued to tell what happened.

“Well, I got ‘em out. We were all the way deep into the jungle where I thought it was gonna be safe. That’s when the rain started. I thought it was water. Turned out to be blood,” Johanna explained, Wiress approaching behind her, muttering ‘tick tock’ repeatedly. “Hot, thick blood was coming down. It was choking us. We were stumbling around, gagging on it, blind.”

You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding, relieved that at least it wasn’t her own blood.

“That’s when Blight hit the forcefield.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Whether she was mourning her fellow District 7 victor or trying to keep herself from shutting Wiress up, or both, you couldn’t tell. “He wasn’t much but he was from home.”

As Katniss asked about Wiress, to which Beetee responded with something about freshwater, you could only focus on Johanna. You knew her like the back of your hand, and you knew Wiress was getting on her last nerve. Johanna was already not too happy about having to stick with the District 3 victors and being separated from you. 

“Tick tock,” Wiress pleaded, grabbing Johanna’s shoulders. 

“Just stop,” Johanna screamed and pushed the older woman into the sand. “Just sit down!”

“Hey!” Katniss yelled, quickly advancing towards Johanna, going straight for her throat. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” Johanna immediately retaliated, shoving right back.

“Hey, hey, hey.” You instinctively grabbed Johanna and pulled her away, Peeta doing the same with Katniss, albeit less aggressively.

“I got them out for you,” she continued to shout. As you pulled her further away, you could feel her body start to calm. 

“Jo, you’re okay,” you assure calmly, loosening your grasp on her. “It’s okay.”

“I’m fine,” she said sharply and pulled her arm away from you, but you weren’t phased by her anger.

“Johanna, hey, look at me,” you coaxed her into meeting your eyes, cupping her face. “You’re okay.”

Johanna stared into your eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m okay,” she breathed, leaning her forehead against yours. 

“We’re okay,” you assured, leaning into her touch. “Now, let me clean you off.”

“She has a soft spot for you, (Y/N/N),” Finnick said, snapping you out of the memory. 

Your mind was reeling. As you thought back to the years of friendship with Johanna, you realized that they’re right, that she’s never been mad at you, that she is only soft for you.

“I gotta go,” you mumble, getting up and quickly scurrying out of the room.

“We still need to have this meeting,” Plutarch called after you, but you paid him no mind. You needed to get to Johanna.

Weaving through the underground halls towards the dormitory area, you could feel your heart pounding against your chest.

As you arrived at Johanna’s room, you took a deep breath and knocked. “Johanna?”

“It’s open,” she responded.

Pushing the door open, you were met with the sight of Johanna sitting on floor, leaning against her bed, as she fiddled with something between her fingers.

“You know–“ You hovered over her, shoving your hands in your pocket. “You missed the meeting. Coin’s pretty peeved.”

“Yeah, well she can just fuck off,” Johanna cursed, still focused on the piece of fabric in her hands, which you recognized as the scrap of embroidery you’d given her before the Quell. 

You moved to sit on the edge of the bed, a heavy silence still hanging in the air, as Johanna still had yet to really acknowledge you.

“Are you upset with me, Johanna?” you asked, selfishly wanting to confirm your suspicions.

“What? No.” Her head immediately snapped up as she finally looked at you. “Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, shrugging. 

“Well, I’m not.” She went back to playing with a stray thread on the scrap of cloth.

You nodded and another brief moment of silence passed between you before you asked, “Johanna, do you have feelings for me?”

Her eyes widened, clearly taken by surprise. “What?”

“Well, it’s just that everyone was talking about how you have a soft spot for me and that I’m the only one you never get angry with. So, I started thinking and it’s true. You’re always kind to me, even if you’re upset. 

“You’ve been there for me all these years, through everything Snow and the Games have thrown at us, and I know I can always count on you. I’ve always cherished our friendship, which is why I never said anything, but I do love you. I’m in love with you,” you confessed, ending your long-winded ramble.

Johanna remained quiet, still staring at the embroidered scrap. Pushing herself off the ground, she joined you to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Remember the day you gave me this?”

You nodded with a small hum. It was the last day you could see her before entering the arena where you would be separated. You wanted her to have a piece of you in case the worst were to happen.

“I was so angry that day,” Johanna revealed, finally looking up and meeting your eyes. “I thought this was your way of saying goodbye, that you were admitting defeat.”

“Johanna,” you trailed off, a crestfallen look on your face. 

“Let me finish,” she softly insisted. “It was the first night in the arena when I realized that that anger was actually fear. I remember watching the fallen tributes in the sky and holding my breath, praying you wouldn’t show up. I was so scared, scared I was going to lose you.”

“You didn’t lose me.” You took her hand in yours, squeezing it lightly. “I’m right here.”

“I know.” She took a deep breath and gave you a small smile. “Mostly, I was scared I wouldn’t be able to tell you how I really felt about you.”

Your lips parted, hope flooding your body.

“I love you, (Y/N),” Johanna whispered so quietly that you wouldn’t have heard her if you weren’t inches away. 

Tucking a loose hair out of your face, she glanced down at your lips. 

“Can I–“

Before she could finish her sentence, you leaned forward and kissed her. There were no sparks or fireworks like everyone says a first kiss should have. Rather, there was a sense of familiarity and comfort, as if you were all each other knew. And in a way, you were. 

Johanna was the only constant thing in your life, the only person who truly knew you as you and not some violent victor or Capitol show pony. 

Breaking apart, Johanna leaned her forehead against yours. Your eyes were still closed as you savored the feeling of her lips on your skin.

“Hey.” She caressed your cheek with the pad of her thumb, and you opened your eyes with a content sigh. 

“Hi.” 

“You know,” Johanna started, her fingers running through your hair as you dropped your head against her shoulder. “They’re right.”

“About what?” you mumbled into her shirt.

“I do have a soft spot for you,” she kissed the side of your head.

“Good.” You lifted your head, a small smile dancing on your face. “Because I have one for you too.”

[sunnebeam]

backstreet buildings.

A 'CITY OF LIGHTS' DRABBLE.

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

warnings: smut (minors do not interact), wet humping, fighting (not physical, but they have a big argument), cheating (kinda, the first col drabble explains it better so it's better to read that first!), gangster squad au

masterlist + disclaimers.

note: our col!couple is back at it (like rabbits) again! there'll probably be another drabble or two after this to complete the au ^^

— previous: city of lights. | next: neon lights.

You thought it would be a one-time thing.

But one night of pleasure turned into several nights of passion. One night of secrecy turned into several nights of indulgence.

It's not far-fetched to say that this arrangement with Jungkook, like many other things in your life, is going out of your control.

But you aren't complaining.

“Fuck!”

Jungkook says the word breathlessly, his hands on your waist as the both of you stand under the shower head. It's one of those rare morning-afters when you don't have to rush back home at dawn, so the both of you are making the most out of it.

“Jungkook, mmm,” you moan, shifting your weight on your feet and arching your back to get a better angle. “Wait— Just...”

His hands grip your ass to pull you flush against his body. Slowly but surely, he rocks back and forth, rubbing your pussy lips with the length of his dick, fucking you but not really fucking you at the same time.

"Don't worry,” Jungkook says, grunting when you cross your legs with his cock right between your puffy pussy lips, your juices making him glide deliciously back and forth. "Not inside, okay?" he tells you as you moan again, wiggling your hips to stimulate both of your pleasures.

“You’re so pretty,” he groans. “And so wet, fuck.”

“And you’re so big," you whimper. “Want you inside me."

“I know, doll, but you're still sore from last night, remember? Shit, just like that—” A roll of his hips. “Besides, We don't have much time. Taehyung's coming back at noon, right?"

Again with the 'Taehyung.' It's always 'Taehyung this, Taehyung that.'

Of course, you've known all along that Jungkook and his crew are planning something against your mob boss boyfriend. You've known all along how much of a pawn you are in the grand scheme of things. You've known all along that what you and Jungkook have right now has a hidden motive behind it.

You've known all that, and yet you can't help but be disappointed.

If you were just a pawn, Jungkook didn't have to bring you soup and heating pads that one time you had cramps. If you were just a pawn, he didn't have to be content just snuggling with you that one night you weren't in the mood for sex.

If you were just a pawn, he doesn't have to care if you're sore or not.

You halt his movements, pulling away from him to turn around with your back against his chest. “You know I’m Taehyung's girl, right? Not you? You're awfully more up to date with him than I am,” you point out, reaching between your legs to place his dick back between your legs and wet-humping it.

“Well, that sounds like a you problem,” he teases, reaching around to play with your clit. “Maybe I should be the one dating him, then.”

“You'd love that, wouldn't you?” You reply, his fingers and your hips moving even faster and moments later, the both of you reach your highs, with your hole clenching around nothing and him finishing on your pussy.

After a few breaths, he kisses you tenderly before wrapping towels around you and himself, and leading you back to the bedroom. As he's turning away to put on his clothes, you notice something shiny peaking out from one of his pockets. Your heart stops when you see something gold.

A police badge.

Much later when you're both seated at his breakfast table, you're holding in your doubts and questions, choosing not to say anything yet as you finish your makeup and put on the earrings Taehyung got for you.

Maybe Jungkook notices how you've spaced out. Or maybe he notices how you've gone a bit distant. Either way, the shift in the air is noticeable and the tension is undeniably thick.

"Do you have to do that in front of me?" he asks, scowling through a mouthful of cereal.

You stop and stare at him.

"Do you have to make yourself pretty for him in front of me?" he spits out.

"What's the matter?" you ask him blankly.

"Why are you dressing up so much for him?"

"Why didn't you tell me you were a cop?"

Silence. The cat's out of the bag and there's no turning back now.

After a few tense beats, he tries to placate you. "I hid it to protect you," he sighs, his hand reaching out to touch yours. "Trust me."

You pull your hand away.

"No," you scoff. "I don't trust you, Jungkook, the bible salesman." You add, "I should've known life would do me dirty again."

"Hold on," he bites back. "You knew we were planning something. You knew I was trying to bring Taehyung down."

"I thought you were just like all the others who tried! You think you're the first one, Jungkook? You're not special," you say angrily. "How was I supposed to know you were the fucking police?"

He doesn't answer. Or more appropriately, he can't answer. His mouth opens and closes, no sound coming out.

"So if you're a cop," you start slowly, softly, your eyes on the table, "and your goal is to have Taehyung arrested... Where does that leave me?"

You look up at him.

"I'm in too deep," you continue. "My association with Taehyung runs too deep for me not to be implicated. If you arrest him..."

"Doll..."

"...will you arrest me, too?"

His silence tells you everything you need to know.

You stand up hurriedly, packing your things mindlessly and heading out the door.

Storming out of his place, you leave your disappointed heart and wistful dreams behind.

COPYRIGHT 2023. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

[runawaysiren940]

It’s always infuriating to see how TIMs react to Black women who are against gender ideology.

“You’re Black you MUST support trans women because your womanhood is also attacked!”

First off, Black women aren’t anyone’s mules so stop acting like they exist to save everyone.

Second, the masculinization of Black women is a form of sex based oppression.

When white men were sexually assaulting enslaved women or domestic workers en masses, they needed a way to keep their hands clean. They knew exactly who the women were. Because they knew who to ‘masculinize’ in the first place. They even compared raping black women to raping animals. White men took black women’s human status away not just their womanhood.

You, mister white biological male, are not experiencing that. You’re just a white man being told the truth, and I’m sorry that it hurts your feelings for a black woman to always be ‘more of a woman’ than you even if you don’t think she deserves to be.

And the kicker is every time a black woman rejects gender ideology the TIM klan meeting begins. But trans women understand black women the most right? Supporting trans women helps protect black women, right?

This is probably the hundredth time I saw a black woman being called a man by TIMs and their supporters for not validating a white trans woman. The comments are as racist as they come.

But then again most white trans are ex 4channer basement dwellers. Shocker.

I wish I could be surprised by the overt racism in the TRA movement, but considering that many of them admit to being incels, and white supremacists prior to transing? It just goes to show that so many of them co-opt the language and struggles of other groups to validate their own, but don't actually care about those groups in the slightest. TIM's in particular, especially those who are not homosexual, tend to be self-centered, and that's perfectly reflected in the use of black women as pawns in their arguments.

[peachsukii]

Leave It All Behind

『♡』  fem!reader x pro-hero bakugo ╰➤ ꒰ pro-heroes au | aged to 24 | nasty break up ꒱ -`✧ katsuki bakugo masterlist 

summary: a heated argument, a slammed door, a thrown ring, and two broken hearts. everything changed in the blink of an eye when you decide to blow up your whole life over a change of scenery. tags & warnings: violence against a partner, angst, no happy ending, bakugo cries a lot a/n: this physically pained me to write because I don’t wanna make Katsuki cry like that but the angst just came flooding out of my brain 😭 ꒰ Ao3 version | word count; 1,175 ꒱

“I quit.”

Katsuki drops the mug in his hand, ceramic pieces and lukewarm tea splattering all over the kitchen floor.

“What?!” His voice is amplified, preparing for the argument he knows is brewing.

“I said ‘I quit.’ I left the agency today.” Your tone is cold as you cross your arms and shift on your hip.

Katsuki blinked repeatedly and scrunched his brows together, wondering if he somehow jumped into a different reality.

“We fuckin’ talked about this! I thought-”

“What? You thought you could order me around like a goddamn dog?!” You snap, waving your hands around in defense.

“No! Where th’ fuck is this coming from?”

Katsuki is legitimately bewildered. You just had the conversation last night and came to the conclusion you were not going to quit being a hero - all of that just flew out the window at mach speed.

“I decided myself I didn’t need the number two hero ordering me around, acting like I’m gonna sneak up and take your fucking job!” The anger inside you is boiling hot, your voice raised to match Katsuki’s volume.

“Th’ fu…I don’t think that! I’ve been by your side since day fuckin’ one! Where the hell is this coming from, y/n?!”

You take a step toward him, purposefully invading his space to get under his skin. He hated when you’d do this during a fight.

“I’m tired of it all, Katsuki! What the hell is the point?! Heroes are used as punching bags! We’re fucking humans and we are treated like pawns in a goddamn game. I’m tired of being a symbol of something I don’t believe in anymore.”

Katsuki takes a step back, bumping into the countertop as his expression shifts from anger to concern.

“Baby, let’s take a step -,” he attempts to say to lower the level of tension in the room.

“Don’t fucking call me baby,” you snarl, pointing a finger in his face.

What the fuck is happening between you two?

“Fine. Y/N, let’s take a second-”

The sound of a slap echos in the kitchen, cutting through the conversation and stopping time itself. You’re breathing heavily, a fire burning in your heart as you glare at your finance. Katsuki’s stunned, his cheek reddening from your strike. He doesn’t turn back to meet your gaze, hopelessly refusing to accept what just happened.

“Shut the fuck up. I’ve made up my damn mind.”

“…did that make you feel better?” He mumbles, voice wavering as he swallows hard.

The final string inside you snaps - a cable becoming frayed, flailing wildly out of control with electric emotion.

You shove him against the counter and spin on your heel, stomping out of the kitchen. A piece of the broken mug in your path catches your bare foot - you don’t even acknowledge the pain of the pottery slicing through your skin.

Katsuki is frozen, he’s astonished and cannot even form words to say to you right now. Who the hell was this? Where did his beloved fiancé go?

“I’m done. I’m fucking done!” You scream, returning to the kitchen from the bedroom. You’re holding your engagement ring in your hand.

Katsuki’s heart turns to concrete and drops into the pit of his stomach.

“W-wait, y/n, please…just wait a s-second,” he begs with trembling hands. “Don’t do this.”

You chuck the ring straight into his chest, bouncing off his shirt and clattering onto the kitchen tile. He audibly gasps, watching as the ring rolls into a puddle of the spilled tea.

Katsuki’s blood runs cold. Is this real? This had to be a nightmare, a really fucking terrible nightmare. There’s no way his sweet hero of a partner was standing in front of him. You had to have been cloned and this is an imposter.

“I. Am. Fucking. Done. Fuck you, Katsuki Bakugo. Have a good fuckin’ life.”

Katsuki scrambles to grasp your hand as you turn your back to him.

“Please, stop this! I can’t lose you, y/n!” He blubbers, unable to stop the hot tears spilling from his eyes. His voice cracks as he’s calling after you. “I’m s-sorry! Whatever it is, I’m fuckin’ sorry. We can talk about it. Whatever is happening, we can fix it. We can forget this whole conversation happened!”

You smack his hand away from yours and the sting is sent straight to his bleeding heart.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve made up my mind.”

You don’t have time to pack anything, nor do you have time to explain yourself. There’s nothing you can do - no turning back now. The plan is in motion and there’s no putting on the brakes.

Reaching into your pocket, you take your phone out and smash it against the floor. Pieces of glass and small electronic parts scatter in all directions. The phone remains powered on as it bounces on the floor, a glimpse of your lock screen visible to Katsuki. It’s a picture from your engagement photo shoot - the phone screen split directly in between the two of you.

“Sell all my shit, I don’t want it. Never, ever, contact me again.”

He’s hysterical at this point, sobbing and a whimpering where he stands.

“Who th’fuck are you?! Where’s this 180 comin’ from?!”

Katsuki’s desperate for any answer, he doesn’t care if it gets you to stay.

“I’m tired of playing hero when my true allegiance lies with the villains.”

That’s the last thing you say before hastily making your way to the door. Hand on the doorknob, you take a final moment to say goodbye to everything you’re leaving behind - the love of your life, your career, friends and family. All of it is burning to the ground.

Katsuki bolts to the door, slamming his hand onto the wood to stop you from leaving. He’s panicking as his whole life is crumbling in front of his eyes.

“Please. Y/N. Y’don’t have to stay with me. But for fucks sake, is this worth throwing everything away? How could you do this!? What do I tell your parents, our friends?!”

You say nothing as you yank the door open, forcing his hand off the frame. You don’t make eye contact as you pull the door closed, jogging down the apartment hallway.

You know for a fact if you stayed for any amount of time longer, you would have crumbled. Taken it all back and refuse to leave, walk the path of a happy and healthy life.

“There you are. I was about to go knock on your door to get you, silly!” Toga says cheerfully, taking your arm in hers. “Ready to go?”

“Yep. Let’s go.”

The walk down the sidewalk is the hardest road you’ve traveled, not looking back at all the damage you’re leaving behind.

The new generation of the league of villains welcomes you with open arms and cannot wait for all of your inside intel on hero society.

It’s about time you make a change in this world - your way.

I have an extended idea to build off of this short where villain reader meets pro hero bakugo again in the future but we’ll see if it ever comes to fruition

[albondiguilla007]

So:

I mostly opened this account to talk about Harry Potter with other fans. I need potterhead friends I’m begging you, take pity on me.

✨ First though, here’s a Marauders playlist:

✨ my pinterest :)

Ok, so a bit about me and this blog contents:

✨ We don’t judge here, every ship is welcome

✨But if it’s gay better

✨ I love the golden trio, I won’t stand for ANY kind of SLANDER, not of Ron, not of Hermione, least of all Harry. They are human, and they are good friends with flaws who love each other very much. They are growing up, grieving, taking care of each other and learning about life. I adore their friendship, and fanfics that give a realistic portrayal of their relationship will always be a soft spot of mine. (wholesome one shot)

✨ Hot take: If you have any fanfic recommendation where they are romantically together (the three of them, as in an actual relationship), I would appreciate it very much

✨ Drarry (please) 🥵

✨ Wolfstar (they are my parents) 🐾🌒

✨ Jegulus (depending on the mood) Jegulily thooo 👀

✨ Tomarry? I’M A SLUT FOR TOMARRY (please I need more time travel fanfic recommendations) Some very good ones tho:

Terrible, but Great.

you belong to me (i belong to you).

Of Kings, of Pawns, and of Men. (This one is not time trivel per se but its AMAZING I’m telling ya)

Wear me like a locket around my throat

(all of them are in ao3)

✨ My boy Harry is incredibly underrated on his own series. He is amazing, I love him, I wish him all the happiness in the world. WE NEED MORE FANFICS WHERE THEY PORTRAY ALL HIS MENTAL STRUGGLES AND GRIEVING PROCESSESS. (He’s gone through so much, I don’t buy the way canon just swept everything under the rug and moved on)

✨ Draco Malfoy is a power bottom and you can’t change my mind

✨ Support sophithil on insta

✨ Another soft spot of mine? Fanfics where Harry time travels to a time where his parents are alive or a different dimension all together.

To make it better

Devil’s White Knight

Across the universe

You’re somebody else

(all in ao3 except Across the universe, that’s a short story in fanfic.net)

Other recommendations

✨ My bedtime readings are hardcore Drarry smut with some very questionable dom/sub dynamics

✨ Canon Remus was a bit of a people pleaser with no personality, but I forgive him because fanon, obviously

✨Canon James Potter was a dick, but I forgive him too. He did change a bit after Hogwarts, but I keep hoping he would’ve matured more if he’d had the chance to grow up into an actual adult

✨ Aaron Taylor Johnson and every other version of James Potter is mine, no arguments

✨ NO SNAPE SLANDER. He is an amazing character, and a very complex one at that. He is not supposed to be a good person, but a complicated one with a gray set of values. Y’all do not understand that, and I’m tired of watching Marauders stans be so fucking hypocritical when it comes to him.

Crime and Punishment (an amazing severitus fic on ao3)

✨ August, Cardigan and Betty are about these three idiots (Lily, James and Regulus) and you can’t change my mind. You know the drill, if you have any fanfic recs I’m all ears baby.

[sunnybunnyy2]

Two Wrongs Don’t Make A Right

Daryl Dixon x platonic!reader

Negan Smith x daughter!reader

WORD COUNT: 4.0k

TIME: season 7

Warnings: imprisonment, talk of rapists(briefly), talk of murder, mentions of Abe’s and Glenn’s deaths, arguments, mentions of saviours, mentions of what transpired in season six and seven, spoiler warning and bad writing.

CHAPTER 2 of the Dark Cell series

Series Masterlist Official Masterlist

This is long awaited! I'm sorry that this has taken so long but I have been making fanfics on Wattpad recently and if you are a fellow fanfic writer you understand how much unnecessary time it takes to come up with ideas and lines to make your character come to life. Thank you all for being so patient with me! Also, requests are open, and I will be redoing my master list, so look out for that. I have been influenced so yes, this is going to become a series so stay tuned! Now that I finished this part I have more motivation to actually write for this! I’d you want to be tagged in the series let me know! Thank you so much for reading<3

(if there is third person slip ups I’m sorry, I’m just so used to writing in third person :( )

The exchanges took place every night at around 1 a.m., and it had for the past seven days.

You would arrive carrying a plate or bowl of whatever leftover food you had managed to swipe from the kitchen or some dinner from the meals you would share with Negan. 

You had aimed to make the food before you went down so that it was still hot but it was risky as, there was a large chance that one of Negan's men would notice and alert your father, which would raise suspicion. 

The food consisted of Sandwiches, chicken, pasta, fish, soup and wraps. 

You wished you could do it more often, but you knew that it would largely increase the chances of you getting caught. 

You knew your punishment wouldn't be anywhere near how severe Daryl's would be. You also knew that as much as you pleaded your father would allow his pawns to have their fun in harming the long-haired man. You weren't quite sure why your father's men were so willing to starve and beat a man senseless to appear strong. Men and their egos you supposed. 

Your father could preach all he wanted about how he would do anything for his daughter, how he would move mountains to appease you. How he would kill anyone who dared to disrespect you (he had) but yet he couldn't try and be a better man. He couldn't put his rage and grieve the wicked world had caused him and help people instead of torturing broken people and turning people who wanted to survive into heartless killers. Turn them into him. 

You couldn't say you hated your father. You never could. But that certainly didn't mean you agreed with half the things he did. 

You could tell he cared what you thought of him. You were the last thing he had of your mother, but that didn't mean he listened to you when you expressed your opinion. 

You and your father were close before all of this happened, well before you found out about his affair. After that day you hated everything about him. Even when your mother got sick and he stood by her, did everything for her. You weren't sure if it was because of how guilty he felt for betraying her or because he loved her. 

Normally you would insist on it being the first but now she was at a loss. 

Since your mother's demise, your once childish but thoughtful father had turned into a power-hungry greedy man. At first you gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was grieving and was trying to find a way to cope with the loss of the woman he loved but it was as though he was forgetting that his daughter had lost her mother.

He wanted to make you happy, so he gifted you the biggest room in the sanctuary and allowed you to purchase whatever you desired without working, though you often helped with the growing crops in the back of the sanctuary. Your father never really liked the idea of her around the fence but he backed down after a heated argument between you. He did send some of his men to keep an eye on you, he tried to be discreet but his men were less than. 

You always made sure to bring a large glass of tap water from your room down to his cell, wanting to at least make sure he didn't die of dehydration. 

You knew that his physical health wasn't as bad as it was before but you knew that his mental health was still declining. He had been locked in the tiny cell for weeks on end, the only sound filling his ears was the constant lyrics of the song 'East Street'. 

The bags under his eyes were proof enough of the lack of sleep he had been receiving. The way his eyes could barely focus on one thing when you would bring him his meals was another important factor in your conclusion. 

Since your visits had become more frequent he had uttered his name quietly into the comfortable silence that had filled the cell as he hastily inhaled what was in front of him. It was so quiet that you had barely heard him, but once you realized that it wasn't your imagination you smiled softly to yourself before muttering your name as well. 

In your mind, you were friends. You knew his name, he knew yours, you would bring him food, he would be thankful and you were both the highlight of each other's day. 

Daryl- because he wasn't rapidly dropping weight as he had been before from his lack of food, which in turn kept his brain running so he could coax his thoughts into coming up with a plan to escape his captivity. Plus your company wasn't so bad he reckoned.

You- because you got to meet another survivor from a rivalling group, you had heard your father angrily ranting to his soldiers about how this mysterious group had taken out one of his many posts and killed everyone in it. 

You were shocked at how brutal this group could be but you knew that your father could be even more heartless and it was proven when a week later whispers were passed along through the sanctuary that your father had partaken in another one of his lineups and had bashed in two members of Daryl's groups heads in with Lucille. 

You knew that Daryl's group had killed countless people, saviours but at least their families and friends didn't have to see it, as apparently the people from the outpost were killed while they slept. It was a very cowardly way to kill but it was better in a way, they didn't see it coming. 

You clutched the tray of food which consisted of a slice of ham from a pig the saviours had recently slaughtered as a way to celebrate the new community they had under their control, standing with the other few that they had taken over. With a side of carrots that you had picked herself to give him some energy. 

Then finally a generous helping of mashed potatoes to fill him up, as you knew that a small sandwich was going to get him through the day. Well, you guessed it was two, as Dwight had made sure to feed him a dog food sandwich every other day to keep him going. A dark pork gravy from the brand Bisto (clubhouse is better but whatever) that was covering a large portion of the potatoes. Your father did always say that you made it taste even better when you made it.

Your eyes peeked around the sharp corner to make sure Arat was on her way to her break that she always made sure to hide, always quick on her feet to head to her room to get several strong minutes of shut-eye. 

Your eyes caught sight of Arat quietly creeping her way further and further away from Daryl's new home. You waited a couple of minutes until you were sure she was in her room, possibly already captivated by sleep. You placed one foot in front of the other as you too, crept down the hallway, the fear of getting caught burning fear into her veins.

You balanced the tray on one hand as you reached into your left pocket, to pull out the cell key that you had stolen from Laura, well it wasn't quite stealing, she had dropped it and hadn't even noticed. You could still remember her confused face when she caught you on the ground after catching you mid-grab. You smiled at her and played it off as if you were tying your shoe, which she bought as she shot you a smile and continued on with her ranting. 

You turned the key clockwise into the rusting metal, smiling in satisfaction when the lock clicked quietly as a sign that it was now unlocked.

The creak that was loudly pulled from the door as it was opened left you cringing as you quickly shuffled into the room, closing the door until there was only a fragment of it for a little bit of light but it wasn't large enough to draw suspicion towards your meetings. 

You could already see Daryl gazing up at you as you pulled the door closed, before lowering yourself to the floor, holding your hands out as a sign for him to take the plate which he did. He had loosened up a large amount since you had started being him food a week ago. 

He was still stand-offish and didn't like to talk about his group which you didn't blame him for, you were with the enemy, you were his daughter. You weren't sure if he knew of your status at the sanctuary but if he did, it didn't come from you. It had already taken a great amount of effort to gain his trust and you wouldn't want it broken just because of who your father was. 

If he brought it up, you would talk to him about it, but for now, you didn't want to risk losing one of the only people that didn't just suck up to you because they wanted more points or because they were scared to face your father's wrath if they hurt your feelings. 

"Hey, sorry I was late, Arat took longer than usual to hit the deck." You quickly explained as expected the food in a curious glint in his eyes. "It's ham. Sorry, I didn't know if you liked it but they just killed a pig and me and my-... I had some for dinner earlier, it was good... and there's potatoes obviously, there's some cheese in them too with carrots and gravy." His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at you in question just as he had been since you had almost slipped up. "Don't worry, it's not poisoned well... at least I hope it isn't because I ate the same thing but I guess we'll find out."

He let a harsh breath out of his nose that sounded similar to a laugh before he picked up the metal fork before shoving a large bite of potatoes in his mouth, a barely audible groan fell from his lips as he continued to inhale the food, not even bothering to use the knife that you had brought to cut the meat, opting to just pick it up with his hands. 

If it was anyone else you would find the wild eating disgusting, but you understood. He was being starved as a torture method to force him into submission. You had seen this countless times, but nearly all had caved within the first few days. It was shocking to you how strong he was. If it had been you... you weren't sure how long you could last if you were in the same position. 

From how wild he was eating you could only assume today wasn't the day he got fed from Dwight. 

You assumed you did well with the amount of food you had given him. 

You kept your eyes trained on the opened part of the door to make sure the coast was clear still. Normally this side of the sanctuary was almost always deserted, but since Daryl as been held here, you had noticed a lot of working people wanted to catch a glimpse of one of the Alexandrians who had killed numerous soldiers. You weren't sure if was from fear or awe. 

"Why are you doing this." He asked as he looked up from his half-eaten plate of food, to examine you while you spoke as if to see if you would lie to him. 

"I don't like how he's handing this. I mean... what your group did was wrong. Really wrong. But what he's doing to you isn't right. No one should have to deal with this. I mean other than rapists, pedophiles, or child killers. I mean murder is really bad but there are some ways to excuse it, like self-defence but I mean the worlds over. People kill each other every day to survive. Don't make it right but it makes sense. You did what you thought you had to, to 'save' your group." You ranted slightly as you looked down.

"So you're doing this because I deserve better?" Daryl asked with a quiet snort as though he couldn't fathom the thought of someone actually thinking he was a decent guy. 

"Everyone deserves better in some way. But no, some people just need a little help sometimes. You do, so I'm trying to help you." You said as watched him proceed with eating.

He looked up at you after he took yet another bite of his food. "I ain't need no help." He dismissed with a huff as he finished the last of his food.

"Obviously you do. Everybody does. You're no exception." You disagreed as he watched for any signs of Arat possibly returning earlier than usual.

"So why ya helping me? I'm sure the big man has more bitchs." He all but growled as he thought about your father causing your face to drop slightly as he kept your eyes away from him, in hopes of him not being able to see your full life story from just the shine in your eyes. Daryl looked like the type to be able to, you thought.

"He has some other... people in cells-" You were cut off by Daryl as he let out a dangerous scoff that should have had you scared. You were in a closed space with someone who wanted your father dead, I mean sure he didn't know that you and the man he hated most shared the same blood but it didn't matter. You were a Smith and that would never change. No matter how much you hoped and prayed that your father would suddenly turn a new leaf, it never seemed to happen. So at some point, you just saved your previously wasted breath. 

"Ya mean prisoners?" He spoke sharply, his words not a question but a statement, showcasing how enraged he truly was with her father. 

"Yeah...prisoners. There is some down here, yes. But they deserve it." You said while shaking your head as you thought about the awful people that were locked down here.

"Ain't nobody deserve this shit." He said with his whole chest as his eyes scanned your face with a mixture of hate and disgust at your words. You couldn't blame him though, he was locked in a cell and you had just said that the people locked in them deserved it. 

"They're awful people. Rapists, child killers, people who kill without reason-"

"I ain't no rapist and I ain't no child killers. Me and my people had every righ-"

"Nobody has a right to take someone's life. Who made us god? When did we get to choose who got to live and who got to die?" You argued as you furrowed your brows at the man's words.

"How bout' ya tell yer buddy that? He killed my friends." He raised his voice louder than necessary which earned him a dirty look from you as you peeked out of the sliver of the door that shined light into the cell and once you were sure no one was coming with guns raised you turned back to face him. 

"You killed dozens of his men while they were sleeping. You do realize that, right? I'm not saying what he did was right either, but you're lucky he didn't kill more of your people." You ranted slightly as you looked at him in confusion, he was so stuck in his own misery that he wasn't thinking about how other people were affected by his and his group's actions. 

"Lucky? He bashed my friend's heads in." He said angrily but it was quiet. As if trying to scare you into submission but you didn't back down.

"And I'm sorry for your friends. I really am. But you couldn't have thought that your group could get away with slaughtering- and it was a slaughtering,  his men and get away scot-free. You killed his soldiers. He takes that shit as a personal attack. So when I say I'm surprised he didn't kill more of you I mean it." 

"One of my friends' wives was pregnant' ya think she deserved ta see that? Now tha' kid's gonna grow up without a father."

"Of course not. That's awful and I'm so sorry...but some of the men and women you slaughtered had kids. Wives. Parents. They had people who loved them too. One of the men, Mike, had a pregnant wife at one of the other outposts. She was eight months and gave birth to her baby girl two days after he died. Alone. And a woman, Mel, just got married to the man she loved, they were trying for a baby... He killed himself last week. Hung himself in his room all alone." You paused for a moment to see if he was going to speak up but when he didn't, you continued.

"An-and a woman named Willow had a baby at another outpost. Now that baby has to grow up without a mother. Another man named Carlos was an only child and had to work for points to provide for his parents. They're old and can't do it themselves. Now they're barely eating and are so depressed that their health is deteriorating, we're not sure how long they have left. So I'm sorry that your friends lost people they cared about but you didn't just get your group hurt with your guy's actions. You guys ruined so many lives that night." 

You finished your rant as you shook your head, looking up at him only to see him looking down at his hands, his overgrown hair hung low to cover his eyes, masking his true reaction.

"I'm not trying to say that your friends' deaths don't matter but you can't just go around acting like you didn't kill people either. Like everyone else's pain doesn't matter to not feel guilty. But it does." You said quietly before deciding you had spent long enough in the stuffy cell. You reached over, grabbing the plate from in front of him before pulling yourself to your feet. You waited for him to speak again but he didn't bother and once you turned around he noticed that he hadn't moved from his place. 

"Good night." You shook your head before he pulled the creaky door open a little more so the gap was large enough to fit your body through, closing it until you felt the metal clank quietly against metal. 

You pulled out the key and shoved it into the lock, twisting it quickly before you heard quiet footsteps walking down the hallway from where Arat had left from. It seemed like you had left at the perfect time, you supposed.

You quietly but hastily quickened your pace until you were at the same corner you had looked over from around fifteen minutes prior. 

You watched as Arat ran a hand over her short black and bleached blonde hair as she let out a yawn, swaying on her feet slightly from the over-tiredness she was experiencing, which was probably in full swing by the shortness of her sleep. 

You let out a quiet sigh of relief before you quietly made your way in the direction of her room, the plate held tightly in your grasp as you walked past the mostly deserted sanctuary, sending a small smile to some of the saviours on watch duty. Most sent one back your way, while others seemed annoyed at the fact that they had duty at all, leaving them too aggravated to bother.

You were about to turn the handle of your door when you heard a voice stop you.

"Baby? What are you doin' up? It's late." Your father's voice stopped you in your tracks. A part of you wanted to run into your room and pretend that you had been sleepwalking but you knew your father knew you better than that and could almost always tell when you were fake sleeping. It was an odd talent if you were to be frank. So you turned around with a smile and spoke.

"I couldn't sleep. Decided to take a walk." You lied.

"With an empty plate of food?" He asked with raised eyebrows a sarcastic smirk on his face.

"...I got hungry on the way. Just heated up some leftovers from dinner. Didn't know that was a crime, Dad." You huffed in an attempt to sound believable.

"It's late. You could have woken me up. I would have walked with you." He said as he studied you. 

"Seriously, dad? Literal armed guards are crawling the place. I think I'm okay walking to the kitchen. Plus you barely sleep as it is." You rolled your eyes at his mindset.

"I always have time for you, hunny... so who's the boy? Or girl. I don't discriminate. Hell, ya could be in love with a goddamn pumpkin and I would still approve. Maybe a little weirded out but hey, we all have our kinks." He smirked but his nose scrunched up slightly as he realized he was talking to his daughter and not one of his henchmen. 

"Oh, wow, you figured it out. His name is Donteatmyseedsplease. I didn't want to keep it from you but I don't think you would approve. I'm so very glad I have your support, father dearest." You said in an overly happy voice even your eyes rolled with almost every word you spoke. You turned back to your door and turned ten knob, not going in as though to not give your father the opportunity to join you.

"You'll have to bring him over for dinner sometime we'll have squash." 

"That wasn't funny Dad." 

"Damn, you know how to wound a man's ego. Good girl, I taught you well." He said in a proud tone.

"I'm exhausted. Can we talk tomorrow? I wanted to talk to you about something actually..." You spoke as you pushed your door open even wider than it had been and started to make her way into your large room.

"That's never good." He groaned before he leaned over to land a kiss atop your head. "I'll see you tomorrow, baby. I'm busy but I always have time for you." He pulled away and sent a smile your way which you returned before closing the door and leaning against it. A sigh of relief left your lips as you realized you were in the clear.

TAG LIST: @cult-of-norman @book-place @ilovespiderpeople @kazunish @mysouleaten

(let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list for the future chapters!)

[chaibewriting]

HANDS OFF! ft. street rat! shota aizawa (aladdin au) x feisty! noble! dom! fem! afab! reader

-> NOTES: street rat! shota aizawa pickpockets the wrong noblewoman and pays the price in more ways than one. i wrote this without much thought or brain meats so im sorry if its not my best work 🙇🏾

-> WARNINGS: hypnosis, dubcon, gagging, unprotected sex, virigin aizawa (bc i said so), dry humping, unedited and unbeta read cause i’m lazy

THE human body needed a few basic things in order to survive, even at the bare minimal, one of those necessities happened to be food. And unfortunately, mainly due to his lack of social ranking in the hierarchy, a young scoundrel by the name of Shota was forced to heavily rely on his abilities to get his next meal. And no, they’re not any kind of special ability— unless you consider pickpocketing and pawning to be something special, then fuck just call him Superman.

Interrupted from his thoughts, the shaggy dark-haired man pressed a hand onto his stomach, grunting at the rumble that was embarrassingly loud. A few passerbys in the streets had walked past him with rather weary looks, shuffling away from him while clinging onto their belongings. He barely spared them a glance, knowing that there was a much more interesting target just up ahead.

This woman was wearing something custom made, something he’d never seen before, which brought him to the justified assumption that she was rich. And if he played his cards correctly, he could swipe a couple things from her that he could pawn off and have enough to not only feed himself for the next couple of nights but also enough to buy some food for the stray cats he’s ‘adopted’ that he often finds lingering around in alleys. He had plenty of experience with pickpocketing, it didn’t matter who his target was he always landed his mark and got away without a scratch.

So… how exactly did he end up in this predicament?

That was his first mistake.

Shota had picked up the speed of his stride, soon closing in on you from behind without trying to look too suspicious, making it seem as if he was simply trying to pass you to get to his next destination as quickly as possible. It should have been easy. It was always easy for him, but you apparently decided to rip the rug from right under his feet, catching him redhanded when he attempted to dig his hand into your pocket after brushing past you. You grabbed onto his wrist and pulled it up towards the sky, eyeing your wallet that was encased between his fingers. The lazy street rat was stunned, staring at you in shock and a tad bit of fear of what was going to happen next. He had been doing quite a decent job at evading the authorities but if he were to be turned in right now they would no doubt execute him. He had to get away, but how were you so fucking strong?

“My, my, my… Who do we have here? I think I’ve seen you before… On the wanted posters in the little nooks and crannies I go to get my liquor.” You hummed, continuing to grasp his wrist without budging, even with him constantly trying to pry your hand away or jerk back. “Listen, lady, I’ll give you your damn wallet back, just let me go already.” Shota hissed, suddenly feeling you squeeze at his wrist while narrowing your eyes at him, causing him to unconsciously shudder under your harsh and calculated gaze. “I don’t think so. You caught me at the perfect time, i’ve been looking for a young little thing like you for me to release my frustration. Perhaps we should speak more privately, hm?” You offer, though you give no room for arguments or even agreement as you’re suddenly tugging him towards a nearby alley. The people on the street have taken notice of the two of you but shrugged it off, figuring that you were probably just going to teach the scoundrel a much needed lesson, which you technically were.

Shoving the youngster up against the wall after releasing his wrist, a hum came from your throat as you caged him in, leaving no room for him to slip away from you. He was forced to feel your body press up against his, causing his face to redden ever so slightly as he glanced at you, attempting to intimidate you even though he was the one being intimidated.

Leaning back slightly, you reached into one of your dress pockets and pulled out a solid gold pocket watch that was worth a pretty penny or two. Immediately, his eyes left from your face and went to the pocket watch that was enough to keep him fed for months on end, maybe even years.

That was his second mistake.

“Watch the watch, and repeat after me, darling.” You demanded, though your voice was laced in honey and danger, unfortunately for Shota he was unable to break his gaze from the swinging watch and slowly felt himself slipping into some kind of unconscious yet /conscious/ state, causing him to fully let down his guard as he listened to the words that came from your glossed lips.

“‘I am now Lady Y/N’s property. I give all my rights to her. I was made to please her and only her.”

His mouth moved without his permission as he parroted the words back to her, causing a triumphant grin to spread across her lips. “That’s enough. What’s your name, boy?”

“Aizawa Shota.”

…

After performing some basic-level hypnosis on the unsuspecting street rat, getting him back to your place was as easy as leading a dog on a leash. You never expected that it would be so easy to get him to follow after you, most would have put up more of a fight, but now he was just following you around like a lovesick puppy.

Once you’d entered your home, you instructed him to take off his shoes and leave them at the door, doing the same for yourself before venturing further into the house.

Afterwards, you promptly led him to your bedroom, beckoning him with a finger to continue following behind you, which he did. As soon as he entered the bedroom behind you, you pointed towards the luxurious-looking bed and spoke.

“Sit, and wait, Shota.”

He did just that, watching you with those same loveisck puppy eyes that followed after you every step of the way, waiting for your next command. Simultaneously, you shrugged off your coat and placed it onto a nearby table, humming a random tune you’d heard in a tavern some nights ago, thinking through what you wanted to do next. You were interested in trying out your usual approach, wondering how he’d look starfishing and gagged.

Slipping into your closet, you found the medium-sized chest that sat on the floor and pulled it out, opening it up to remove a few specially made silk wraps from inside of it. With your new findings, you turned towards the bed where Shota still sat, he was awake, but he held no hint of emotion in his face, still heavily under the influence of your hypnosis which seemed to please you quite a bit.

“Stand up and strip for me.”

With ease, the unfortunate prey you’d sunk your claws into stood onto his feet and began to remove his tattered clothing (you’d have to burn those later), your eager eyes taking note of every inch of his exposed body. Even though he looked a bit malnourished and lanky, no doubt from not eating an adequate amount of food each day, he didn’t exactly look fragile. So, that meant you wouldn’t have to worry about breaking him just yet. You eyed the excessive amount of body hair that he had spread all over his body, it wasn’t unwelcome of course, you did enjoy the look of a rugged man crumbling at your feet, after all.

Walking towards him, you placed hand onto his chest and pushed him back onto the bed, watching in interest as his flaccid cock slapped back against his stomach with the sudden movement. You were eager to toy with him and you couldn’t do that if he was still mindlessly under your control, however, you still had to remain in control of him. And you always had the perfect solution. Balling the silk wraps up until you got the perfect sphere of fabric, you instructed him to open his mouth, shoving the fabric into it as soon as his lips parted. You heard him instinctively gag around it and grinned afterwards. Now, here was where the real fun began. With a hum, you snapped you fingers and watched as the cloudy mist in his dark eyes began to clear up. He looked around in confusion for a moment before his gaze landed on you and where you stood, over him at the very edge of the bed. And then he spoke. Or tried to at least.

“Whah eer wuu zoo…” He tried, mumbling against the silk in his mouth, after hearing himself struggle to speak his brows furrowed and he began reaching to take the foreign fabric from his mouth. You stopped him, clicking your tongue in dissatisfaction. “Oh no no, Shota. Don’t you remember what we discussed in the alley? You’re my property now, and you can’t just go around making decisions on your own, darling. You’ll keep that in your mouth until I say so.”

You sighed afterwards and began to undo your blouse, already eyeing his body with glee and interest. “Now, if you’re good and help me release my stress from this week… maybe I’ll take the gag out. Think you can do that for me? Ah, actually, I know you can.” You purred, a small smile revealing itself on your face as you peeled off your blouse and slid your skirt off as well, stepping out of it so that you were left in only your undergarments.

With slightly desperate movements and the speed of a huntress in heat, you crawled on top of Shota, watching as his eyes widened in surprise and his face burned crimson. This caused a thought to come to mind as you planted yourself right on his cock, sandwiching it between your clothed cunt and his own hollowing belly.

“Oh dear… Are you a virgin, Shota?”

The blush on his face only increased tenfold at your question and he quickly shook his head, attempting to dissuade you from such a suggestion. It didn’t matter to you anyways, but it would have been all the more entertaining if he was.

…

Getting Shota hard was not a difficult feat, especially not with you constantly rutting against his cock at a steady pace, effectively making your own pool of arousal start to drench your panties, mingling with the beads of precum that dribbled from his tip and landed onto his stomach. The sounds of his sweet muffled moans had urged you to move faster and rougher with your movements, the friction on resulting in your own moans as well. After you’d done your job, you rolled off of him, making him whine in need for you as you laid onto your back and stretched out your limbs, laughing at him.

“Don’t get all pissy now, I’ve done my job so its only fair that you do yours now.” You mused, laying comfortably on your back while pushing your bra up over your breast, letting them fall free from the contraption. “C’mon and put it in, I know you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Show me how good you are.” You urged, shifting around a bit to slide your underwear down until they were tossed away, exposing your soaked core and throbbing notch of nerves.

Many things came into play, a mix of hormones and hypnosis caused the pick pocketer to quickly sit up, gag still in his mouth, and get between your legs, mot even trying to hide his eager as he stared at your inviting entrance, his angry tip getting even angrier. With interest and clear amusement, you watched him closely as he grabbed the base of his cock and began to line himself up with your entrance, prodding at your folds with the tip, almost as if he was uncertain about where he was supposed to put it. It was almost cute, but you were getting a tad bit impatient, hooking your legs around his hips to bring him forcibly towards you, making him sink into you with ease and with little to no resistance.

While your moans were a bit more restrained and shaky, his moans were still muffled but were exceptionally whinier. He had fallen forward but quickly caught himself before he could crash on top of you, holding himself up by pressing his hands in the bed on either sides of your body. You’d pulled him closer until he completely bottomed out, his balls flush against your ass as he was fully inside you, kissing your cervix with his bulbous tip. You could have sworn you felt him throbbing inside of you. You probably did.

Shota, on the other hand, was on the verge of trembling and crying from pleasure, the sudden warmth and wetness closing around him and effectively trapping him in place, his eyes closed as his face only doubled with heat. He was sure he was going to cum if he moved even an inch. This felt even better than fucking his fist. A man could become addicted to this.

Simultaneously, you enjoyed the feeling of fullness but were waiting for him to move, watching him intently. When he made no effort or showed no signs of movement, you huffed, unhooking your legs from his hips and grunting at him. “What are you waiting for? The sun to set? Hurry up and move already, I’m growing impa- oh!” You were cut off by the feeling of him pulling out and slamming back into you, which was soon followed by a series of amateur jabs at your womb, repeatedly filling you with his thick veiny cock over and over again, the bird’s nest of his pubes consistently brushing over your clit with him bottoming out each and every time.

Even if he was an amateur with his thrusts, his dick was big enough to hit some delicious spots inside of your gummy walls that made you a bit delirious. You weren’t the only one, however, with the way he was still groaning and muttering praises that made no sense thanks to the gag in his mouth. As he fucked into you like an obedient and needy whore, you rubbed at your clit in rough circular motions, a string of curses leaving your lips as you enjoyed every second of the snap of his needy hips.

“Veels zooo gooo…” He complimented, though you didn’t know what he was saying exactly as he continued his speedy pace, the bed singing and creaking from the intensity of his assault on your drooling pussy.

This continued for a tad bit longer, as long as he could manage at least, before he mewled aloud, leaning over to bury his face into the crook of your neck. “Mm hmm gmm…!” Suddenly, you felt heat shoot up into your awaiting walls that had been milking him since the moment you forced him to sink his cock in you, painting you sloppily with white. He’d slammed all the way into you to release his seed in you, not letting a drop escape as he laid out on top of you in exhaustion, forcing you to stop rubbing your clit.

You allowed him a second to collect himself, feeling the cold sweat on his body sink into yours as he remained laying on top of you, still buried inside of you. Lightly, you patted his back in an affectionate manner and spoke up. “We’re not done yet darling, I still haven’t cum yet.” That, made him stiffen up, and you almost felt his cock harden again inside of you like the command was enough to spur him on for another round.

“ineeding…. foooo… ooo.” Was the last thing he tiredly panted through the gag before he lifted his hips just a tad bit, burying his knees into the bed before he began lazily pounding into you yet again, the harsh slap of skin on skin being heard well into the night.

Well… he’d never be pickpocketing again, that’s for sure.

[sirthisisa-wendys]

Ahhh Wendy! I hope you get this before your askbox closes! Pls pls pls write a part 2 for “It’s Just An Arrangement” if you can! I’m dying to see what happens next!

It's Just an Arrangement (Part 2): Ran Haitani x Fem!Reader

wc: 561

tw: kidnapping

masterlist

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Finale

The first thing you realize when you wake up is that you have a very dry mouth. You smack your lips together, hazily coming-to as your mouth tries but fails to start up your saliva glands.

The second thing you experience is a sharp smell. You jolt, your nose curling as the odor of ammonia cuts through the darkness. And it's dark. You only have a vague awareness of the space around you - but you confirm with a few glances that you are, in fact, not in your bedroom where you slept without Ran. You're somewhere else, somewhere... awful.

A dull ache echoes in your bones as you try to sit up, but as you wriggle your arms and legs, you can't seem to free them. Panic rises in your throat, and you shout for help, the piercing cry echoing in the empty room.

"Hello?"

Your voice is nothing more than a croaking of doom. But you won't stop fighting. "Hello?" You yank at your bodily restraints and hear the clinking of metal against metal.

Wait.

You pause in your efforts, feeling something in your memory come back to you. You had an argument with Ran. Another endless, drawn-out way for him to tell you that the arrangement would never change. You weren't permitted to look outside of the marriage for companionship either. It would be too risky, too shame-inducing. So, you had to pretend. Then you remember Ran walking out of the kitchen while you were mid-sentence, and--

Light floods into your eyes as a door opens, and for a brief second, you hope that whatever you're suffering is simply a vivid nightmare. You hiss and look away; eyes stinging from the sudden contact.

"Looks like you're awake." Your skin crawls as a shadow waltzes into the room, and someone chuckles lazily. "Sorry to bring you here like this, Mrs. Haitani. But it seems that people aren't getting the message in Bonten."

"What do you want from me?" you ask, voice shakier than you intended it to be.

"I don't want anything from you except full cooperation. If that happens, you'll get out of here in no time, alright?" Another light switches on - but this one is further away. You try to catch a glimpse of who the man is, but you can't seem to make out any features.

You don't reply to the comment, but as soon as you see a flashlight shining your way, you flinch. "Say 'hello', princess." You look back and see the phone aimed at your face. "Tell your husband you're here with me."

"H-hi..." You want to interrupt the man and tell him that you're the last person he should have kidnapped if he wanted to get a ransom. But he continues in his drawling.

"You've got five days if you want to see her alive again. Five days. I want my money, Haitani. You owe me." The flashlight clicks off, and you exhale, looking away from the camera and at the ground. "Thank you for being so good." The man's cooing disgusts you, but you swallow your words and nod.

"I need some water," you croak, but the man doesn't pay any attention to you. He just gathers his things and leaves you alone, still tied up and immobile.

All your life, you've been a pawn. And now is no different.

[b4b3tte]

MAY THE BEST MAN WIN

꒰ ⊹ ˚ Summary — Erron black decides to test the waters by flirting with you in front of Kano, but with him having some slight possessive nature,, he cannot let that happen any further without going down with a challenge

Pairing — Erron!Black x GN!Reader! X Kano!Reader

Contains of — Flirting, Pet names, jealousy, slight possessiveness, semi-argumentative behavior

My note — i am officially going on a MK writing spree, hopefully you enjoy this!! If you like it and would like to see more dont be afraid to send in a part 2 request or an idea of what you want to happen next, reader can be female or male, I’m trying to make my works as inclusive as possible!! Enjoy, Besitos 💋

Part two

Kano couldn't believe his eyes as he watched Erron Black, a rival he had crossed paths with many times in the past, shamelessly flirting with you.

Erron constantly looking at you up and down flashing his charming smile trying his hardest to make you feel enchanted by him,

As Kano watched from Afar His jaw clenched, and a dangerous glint flashed in his eye.

You and Kano have had some tension between you two before, recently you guys almost shared a kiss 2 weeks ago on a mission on a military base but obviously went to shit as it was ruined when Sonya and Johnny made a surprise ambush with Cassie& the others BUT THAT IS BESIDES THE POINT ( lmk if u want a singular fic on that)

As Erron Black continued his charming advances, Kano decided he'd had enough. He swaggered over, his usual bravado on full display. "Well, well, what's goin' on here?" he sneered, casting a knowing glance at you.

Erron raised an eyebrow, not one to back down from a challenge. "Just havin' a friendly chat with your lovely friend here, Kano," he replied, his eyes locked with yours.

Of course Kano's response was a mixture of his characteristic sarcasm and intimidation. "Friendly, eh? Y'know, darling, this one here might be a good shot with his guns, but I'm the real danger."

Erron chuckled, his voice smooth as whiskey. "Well, now, Kano, I've heard about your dangerous streak, but I reckon we're all just tryin' to have a good time, aren’t we hun “ he says the last 3 words looking at you

You felt like a pawn in a bizarre showdown between these two strong personalities. Kano's actions were driven by his jealousy and possessive nature, but there was an underlying concern for your feelings.

Kano leaned in closer to you, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You see, sweetheart, he might be good with a gun, but I've got a silver tongue to match."

Erron Black, undeterred, leaned in from the other side. "Now, sugar, you don't have to choose just yet. We can all have a little fun."

As the bickering went on and on it was extremely obvious Kano isn’t down for a good time and doesn’t like sharing what is his, as it continued, you couldn't help but find the absurdity of the situation amusing.

Kano's antics, while often misguided, were a testament to the depth of his affection for you and the way he tried to assert his presence, even in the face of competition from someone as charismatic as Erron Black.

Kano's grin widened as he locked eyes with Erron. "A competition, then? Winner gets a kiss from the lovely Y/n."

Erron smirked, accepting the challenge. "You're on, Kano. May the best man win."

In the end, Erron Black may have started the flirtatious banter, but Kano's presence was a bold reminder that you were a coveted individual, and he was willing to go to great lengths to make sure you knew it. The flirting contest, despite its chaotic and comical moments, was a testament to the unconventional dynamics at play.

My next post is Kano X Reader Semi-Flirty Introduction Dialogue!! Let me know if I should post immediately or wait until Saturday?! Otherwise thanks for reading!! Have a wonderful day and remember you are enough!! Besitos 💋💋

[jaimebluesq]

always found it interesting that despite the fact he clearly wants the sect to remain in the family, nie mingjue literally never made any attempts at continuing his bloodline, foisting it off on huaisang instead along with the sect leader title. what if it was he couldn't have had kids even if he wanted to, because taking up baxia too early caused him to become sterile? and admitting as much would have been too humiliating? anyway, brotherly scene where he's forced to come clean about it, and whether it ends in a decision to adopt or huaisang agreeing to take up a political marriage in the future just for heirs or whatever is up to you.

Oh Anon, you have no idea how close this idea is to my heart because of my own life experiences. I love that you came up with it, and thank you for sending it to me... now let’s see if I can do it justice.

~ ~ ~

Nie Huaisang stood outside his brother’s office, his hands twisting upon his closed fan. He’d been anxious for days, trying to figure out how to broach a particularly sensitive topic with his brother – had practised with both Nie Zonghui and Jin Guangyao to try and get his words just right. Oh, it was something he’d tried asking many times before, but his brother had always brushed him off and directed him to the training field for saber practice.

Not today. Today, he would get an answer whether his brother liked it or not.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he knocked on the door and entered when his brother called out. He was careful to close the door behind himself before approaching his brother’s desk.

“What is it?” Nie Mingjue asked tiredly, his fingers rubbing at his temple. “Isn’t it time for-”

“Saber practice was this morning,” he replied, “and I actually attended today.” He’d attended only to leave one less thing to anger his brother on the day he came to seek answers – though Nie Mingjue’s fatigue made him wonder if he should have chosen a different day. But then, his brother looked tired most days since the end of the war.

“If you’re asking about-”

“Da-ge?” He waited until his brother finally looked up at him. “I... wanted to talk to you. About something important.”

Nie Mingjue looked him over, then picked up his papers and set them aside. He sat back in his chair, hands on the arms and fingers drumming along the cherry wood, waiting for Nie Huaisang to speak.

The first thing Nie Huaisang did was sit down to face his brother. “I heard from Zonghui that you received a request for an alliance from Yao-zongzhu,” he began, wanting to ease into the subject he wanted to address.

His brother sniffed. “He’s trying to pawn off his sister to anyone who’ll have her, all to tie himself to one of the great sects. I’ve no desire to ally with the Yao.”

“But what about the He,” Nie Huaisang prodded. “Or the Lan – Er-ge told me he has a younger cousin that’s quite lovely and kind and would make a wonderful furen. Or the Jiang – I know Jiang-xiong doesn’t have any blood relatives, but he has some promising lady disciples that would-”

“We don’t need another alliance,” Nie Mingjue ground out through gritted teeth. “Is that why you’re here? To harass me about getting married? Leave it alone – it’s none of your business.”

It was the same answer he had given Nie Huaisang before – but it was one he could no longer accept.

“But Da-ge... it is my business,” he said with a shaky voice that grew stronger with every word he spoke. “It’s my business because this is the reason I’m your heir, and I have the right to know why.”

Nie Mingjue narrowed his eyes, his face turning dark. “If this is just another argument to get out of saber practice-”

“I don’t want this!” Nie Huaisang’s voice broke mid-sentence. He tightened his grip on his fan. “I don’t want to be sect leader one day, you know this. And the Elders don’t want me either – you’ve heard what they say about me when my back is turned.”

“If you would only practice your saber more-”

“It won’t do a thing, Da-ge, because I’m not meant for this!” He took in a shaky breath. “Please, Da-ge, don’t make me do this anymore. You, me, the sect, we all deserve better, don’t we? Please don’t tell me you genuinely think me being heir is the best thing for Qinghe Nie?”

“This sect must be led by a member of our family’s main line,” Nie Mingjue insisted.

“Then why haven’t you started a family to inherit the sect?”

“Because I can’t!!!”

Nie Huaisang felt glued to his seat. There was something in the tone of his brother’s voice... it wasn’t anger, not just anger, but it was painful to hear. And then his brother’s shoulders dropped and he brought a hand to rub at his temple, and Nie Huaisang could have sworn he saw a glint of wetness in his brother’s eyes.

“I can’t,” Nie Mingjue repeated, slower and a little calmer.

When Nie Mingjue looked up, their eyes met. The two of them breathed heavily for several moments, broken only when Nie Mingjue picked up a document and threw it across the room. Nie Huaisang heard a rattling nearby; he glanced over to where Baxia trembled lightly in her stand.

“When one of us becomes sect leader,” Nie Mingjue explained, “there are many different rituals and sect secrets we learn from the Elders and other sect officials. And one of the very first things they tell us is that we need to work immediately on birthing an heir. Because our lives are so short, and one never knows when we’ll be taken out by a Yao or a qi deviation, or some tyrannical sect leader who doesn’t like being opposed.”

Nie Huaisang swallowed hard. His brother had only been fifteen when their father had died... he couldn’t imagine being told he had to become a father when he was only fifteen.

“None of the other sects helped me try to bring evidence against Wen Ruohan for what he did to A-Die, and I certainly wasn’t going to ally with any of them.” Nie Mingjue grimaced. “It was suggested to me that we find someone outside the sect, someone completely apart from the cultivation world, who wouldn’t have known enough to vie for power. I... I had no idea what to do, who to look for. All I’d ever done before was train, and when I did have tender thoughts, they weren’t about the girls they brought before me.”

This didn’t surprise Nie Huaisang – he’d seen the looks exchanged between Nie Mingjue and his ‘sworn brothers’. He nodded.

“So we finally settled on someone to try with,” Nie Mingjue continued. His voice already sounded lighter than when he had first begun explaining, and Nie Huaisang wondered if his brother had ever told this story to anyone else before – if Er-ge and San-ge even knew. “She was kind, and patient. The agreement was that if she became with child, then we would officially bring her in as a concubine. But after a year of trying once a week, every week... nothing happened. And then the Elders insisted on trying with another woman because the problem ‘obviously’ wasn’t with Nie-zongzhu, and before I knew it, I had four women I didn’t want that I had to lay with, all to try and do my duty to my sect.”

By this point, Nie Mingjue was no longer looking at Nie Huaisang, but rather staring out the nearby window. A part of Nie Huaisang wanted to tell his brother to stop, to tell him he didn’t have to say anything more – but the other part of him really wanted to hear the answer, to understand what had gone wrong, both for his brother and himself.

“After another two, three years of nothing, the Elders called in a highly respected physician. He looked me over, did a few tests, and then the Elders discussed the results. And then they told me that I was a rare case – that training so aggressively from such a young age may have made me stronger than anyone else in our sect, but it also had the side-effect of rendering me... barren, so to speak.” He sighed. “We called off the women after paying them handsomely for their efforts, and we helped them find husbands who would honour them properly. And then I named you my heir permanently.”

Nie Huaisang’s shoulders felt heavy even as he tried to roll one of them back. “Why didn’t you tell me, Da-ge?” he asked softly.

Nie Mingjue snorted. “Your voice hadn’t even begun to change when all this happened. The only things you knew about such matters were from spring books – and yes, I know you’ve had them since you were twelve, I’m not an idiot. There was no way I was going to lay this on you.”

“I may have been young, but so were you.” Nie Huaisang tried to offer a smile when his brother finally faced him again. “And... this is something we’ve needed to discuss, for the good of our sect. After all, I’m not a boy anymore.”

“You’ll always be a boy,” Nie Mingjue countered with a wistful smile. “The tiniest little thing that Xiao-Niang brought out to me and told me to protect it for the rest of my life.”

“Da-ge,” Nie Huaisang whined, mostly to break the seriousness of the moment.

Nie Mingjue let out a chuckle. “Well, you know now.”

Nie Huaisang nodded. “And now we can figure out what to do about it.” His brother’s eyebrow lifted. “Because the way I see it, the moment you die – which you’re not allowed to do, by the way, not without my permission – this sect will immediately undergo a challenge to leadership, because there are far too many people who don’t see me as a proper leader. And quite frankly, they’re right. So... I’m presuming adopting is out of the question, or else you would have done it already...” As he spoke, he began counting off fingers from his hand.

“Ideally, the leadership would remain in the main family line,” Nie Mingjue explained tentatively.

“Well, I suppose that leaves us with only one option left,” he concluded with a nod to the growing confusion on his brother’s face. “The only question is, do we work to ally with another sect, or find someone outside the Jianghu? Because I don’t mind getting married or taking a concubine, but I do not want anything to do with Yao-zongzhu’s sister. Just because I enjoy pretty ladies does not mean I want a part of that mess>”

“You can’t be serious!” Nie Mingjue huffed. “You’re just a boy!”

“I’m the same age as Jin Zixuan,” he countered, “and he’s marrying Jiang-guniang in a few months.” He absently chewed on his bottom lip. “And just the other day in Lanling, I was chatting with Madame Qin – she is very much not in favour of Qin Su’s little crush on San-ge, by the way – and she was trying to encourage me to ask her to walk in the gardens. She is rather pretty, and-” He paused at the stare his brother gave him.

“You don’t have to do this,” Nie Mingjue sighed. “Just because I can’t do this, it doesn’t mean you have to give up your life like this.”

He met his brother’s gaze in a way he never would have done as a boy. “I’m a Nie,” he explained, “and we both know we have had to fulfill our duties to our sect. I know I can’t fulfill mine on the battlefield – I was never meant to be a soldier or even a cultivator – but I can do this.”

The corners of Nie Mingjue’s eyes crinkled, and he nodded. “Qin-zongzhu’s daughter does seem like a good choice,” he finally agreed, “but the girl is still enamoured with A-Yao no matter how he has tried to dissuade her.”

“Then I imagine San-ge would have a vested interest in helping her get over him,” he grinned, “don’t you think?” Nie Mingjue nodded. Nie Huaisang stood up and stretched out his back. “I’ll go write him a letter and see what he has to say, and we’ll go from there.” He began walking to the office door, but stopped at his brother’s voice.

“But for the record,” Nie Mingjue announced, his tone steady and strong, “you and the Elders are wrong. You might not be meant for the battlefield, but... a sect needs a different kind of leader in peace-time, and you would make a good one.”

Nie Huaisang swallowed through his suddenly tight throat. He made no sound, nothing to indicate he’d heard his brother’s words, and continued on his way out the door.

But his heart flooded with warmth at one of the few compliments he’d ever received from his brother.

[shawty-writes-a-little]

From Eden 4.

[part1] [part2] [part3] [part 4]

darkling x brekker!reader

summary: feelings are heavy

word count: 3k

warnings: S2 shadow and bone, ep5 intoxication dreams, heavy angst, LONGING, English is not my first language x

An: I WILL update more frequently I PROMISE I PROMISE I PROMISE and NO this has nothing to do w that angry from Eden anon, but hey fucko if you’re reading this I still love you

Despite of what y/n promised Kaz, she knew she wouldn’t entirely stick to her word. For somebody who grew up in ketterdam honour was just another grey line ready to get bent to one’s will. Besides high ground all mighty morals isnt what Kaz raised her with anyways, she knew that if she planned to cross what she promised Kaz it’d be a reflection of perhaps just the way he raised her. At the moment she told herself frankly anything as they traveled for quest of the Neshyener, some of her big brother’s words did drip through her mind in a way, could it be she was that naive? Was she a pawn in Aleksander’s game, perhaps a useless one but still someone whose emotions he had amusement toying with? No. That could not be, Kaz didn’t have half a mind to know what he was speaking of and y/n knew Aleksander better than that. He wasn’t the best of men, he had his traits but he had always been a great lover to her per se and that is what mattered.

Pulling out of her thoughts when Tolya approached the three talking about how they should pray for their dead and what not, the rest where praying for their dead whilst Kaz, Jesper, wylan along with y/n stood on the side. Them not praying wasn’t a blasphemous just not that heavy on faith. Especially Kaz and Y/n. “We don’t have to worry about our dead, y/n here can well enough resurrect them.” Kaz taunted.

Most of the time y/n would talk back but she knew better than to create a scene again, “If I pay you will you shut up?”

Kaz scoffed, the source of their money was same nonetheless “How much and the answer is no regardless”

Choosing not to answer to kaz’s remarks y/n parted ways with a simple “I’m with wylan and Jesper” despite of whoever Kaz had planned to group her with, she didn’t give him time to answer as she paced with the two with slumped shoulders and crossed arms. Kaz doesn’t get to pick and choose what’s right and what’s not for everybody, all the time. She thought to herself grumpily, alternatively Kaz gestured Jesper to keep an eye on her, he believed he had lost y/n to the darkling’s manipulation for a long time—she’d be angry and whiny about his restrictions and ways but Kaz wouldn’t loose another one of his siblings to their nativity.

As much as y/n wanted to be present for the crows, in the plans and their ongoing troubles as well, she sensed something off between wylan and jesper she didn’t want to pry wylan and Jesper couldn’t get alone time with y/n to tell her about it, so in all it was just filling awkward silences with small talks. She could deduct it was probably some argument. It seemed petty as an outsider of someone’s relationship but she recalled being in that position once.

She went through it all once. The days spent with Aleksander hauntingly found his way back to y/n’s mind. She’d avoid sleeping so what she assumed was her own mind tormenting her with his dreams would stop. ‘But can’t you see I’m right here?’ ‘The saints couldn’t get me to leave you…’ ‘I am not leaving you, my world, I’m leaving neither.’ It felt frustrating thinking about those dreams where he said he hadn’t left and then reality struck that he actually hadn’t. Did they mean anything? Was the Aleksander in her dreams real?

If so, she was furious. Furious at the man who claimed to love her to ends and had her believe he had died. He wronged an entire nation and didn’t even tell her that. Conversations with him prior to it all came back like cold and sharp ocean waves. He’d talk of a greater tomorrow for Ravaka, everyday he’d work tirelessly camps to camps tracking one artefact to another. Not that he didn’t tell her about it, they would have lengthy conversations but y/n would’ve never thought he would be expanding the fold just like that. The signs were perhaps always there. It was rather wrong of her to be oblivious to it, she was the only person Aleksander was that open to. Maybe if she loved him less she could’ve known what he was capable of.

He’d told her of all wrong that was done by his hands, she foresaw them, lost them in the story of the boy she told him, the boy travelling town to town raised on a wretched fate. Y/n knew what it was like to grow up in burning houses, the flames never really leave you. She maybe didn’t condone what he did but she never even asked herself that. She didn’t want to at the time. Kaz’s words ‘Manipulated by your beloved monster’ made her glum thinking was he right? Surely not, the man who’d raise wars would come into her arms like the sweetest gift of life. His shoulders relaxed only in the moments he’d have his arms around her. The man who didn’t speak more than orders and council meetings would talk to y/n about his past, for a stoic man his love was ever so evident for her even amongst other people—gesture of his hand on the small of her back, his eyes scanning for a certain woman in the crowd, married…they were almost married. How could he possibly manipulate her? His love that intense like of a raging storm why wouldn’t Kaz understand that?

Aleksander did a bad thing, evil even. Her Aleksander, a traitor, rebel, the villain to them all, most dangerous thing but they don’t know how the most dangerous thing used to laugh. How he used to love. How he does, but y/n isn’t so sure if she could reciprocate it that way anymore. She knows she shouldn’t. She knows she shouldn’t even be thinking about him the way she did as of now. No.

Y/n has promised kaz and she had promised herself, she wouldn’t associate with him no more. He kept his motives hidden from her once and he could again if he succeeded. The world was against him for a reason. All the torment he inflicted wasn’t justifiable by her. She’d see him one of these days, for one last time and then wash her hands of him. He could live out his days in the wild or create a house of a fold for himself and she wouldn’t bother to care. It broke her heart not to care for Aleksander but she didn’t know any other way. She knew what she told Kaz but she promised not to go back to Aleksander, she won’t. Y/n will have to confront him once, she thought about it a lot, what it would be like, hold him by the collar and demand an explanation. Wish him the worst, bid him goodbye and then wash her hands of him.

—

With sundown y/n became more and more clearer of her thoughts. Firm she will close the chapter that was Aleksander. Currently she stood alongside Kaz as the crowd towered tolya who explained the map of inside the house. Kaz’s plan was to sweep from all sides for the neshnyar, as y/n attempted to accompany wylan Kaz yanked her back by his cane, “Remember what you promised?”

“That literal?” Y/n groaned about her promise to ‘not leave kaz’s sight’ straightening her clothes. That evening took a low turn actually. The metal doors clung close with a pang just in a few moments they were in. The red gas flew out of the walls of the small room they were trapped in, faster than they could register what was happening.

“So this is how we die” Jesper’s shaky voice was first to admit what everyone else was thinking. Y/n struggled against the metal doors still, thankfully her optimism didn’t run out before she dropped to the ground unconscious.

-

The air felt crisp against her skin as the gigantic window crept open. She remembered these chambers. They were the ones she shared with Aleksander back at little palace. Y/n found herself in a dress, even the dress she recognised. Before she looked in the mirror she could reckon the fabric, it was her wedding dress. Unsure how to feel about it she just stared at her reflection. Is this after life? Is this a dream? Or perhaps a nightmare? Is it real? Four striking questions she didn’t bother to look an answer for as she stared at herself. Before everything happened, she’d never really got to try on her wedding dress. She chose the fabric and the pattern and the work on it but things went south faster than the designers worked. With the fete there was barely any time for trial. But as she saw herself in the moment it was exactly like she’d imagined, never too big on fancies but it was her wedding dress. Even her hair was done so perfectly she could make no sense of what was happening. It felt so confusing and endearing at the same time. Finally looking away from her dress her eyes fell on the note by the mirror desk which read ‘The Gardens.’ In a handwriting she was afraid she recognised.

Picking up the hem of the dress she walked out the room, down the long stair case she rushed to find an explanation for which state of being she was in. The opening to the gardens were enlaced with flowers and veils. When she finally came to the gardens she found entire area decorated as though celebration of the biggest event ever. Benches surrounded what seemed like a wedding altar, above hanged the most gorgeous garlands of bright flowers with dark organzas draped in a beautiful pattern. Each and every little detail was a conversation she remembered having with Aleksander from when they planned their wedding. In awe of the scene as she try to take in everything along with the sunset over the horizon, two hands pulled her back by her waist. Before she registered being alarmed, the instinct was replaced with that of warmth. Warmth she held very dear. “Why hello, my love” Aleksander spoke as he rested his head by crook of her neck giving her shoulder a gentle peck.

“Aleksander” Y/n said and turned to face him, she wanted to make sense of what it was that was happening but she truly didn’t want to. Maybe she is already dead but she was the happiest perhaps accepting whatever this was. She had so many questions to ask but the sight of his face, in his wedding attire, first time since the ship, first time since her strange dreams were it was just bargain, blame and endless arguments, y/n overcame the urge to punch him and show how cross she was, how much her hurt her, she just wrapped her arms around him, leaping into him as he carried her off her feet and hugged her tightly in his arms almost as if she wouldn’t exist if he let her go.

This felt like his luckiest moment, “and they say it’s a bad omen to see your bride before the wedding” he joked letting her out of his arms but still holding her close. “You look heavenly.”

“What-uh what is this?” Y/n asked finally, she could gather it was a wedding perhaps there but how so? What time of the year even was it? Plus they had so many hurdles to overcome before actually getting married.

“It’s our wedding day!” He exclaimed as he replied to her and gently caressed her face with a smile on his face. He moved his head to the side gesturing her to look around, the decorations, the empty guest benches, the wedding attires.

“But…how? How did we get here? Did we even tell everybody?” Y/n asked still not convinced that this could be real, a faint voice in the back of her head did tell her none of this was remotely real.

“We did, the guests will be here any minute.” Aleksander said “I just wanted to see you once…for myself.”

Y/n couldn’t help but smile at his irresistible little gesture to see her before the wedding all for himself. They were about to get married, together for an eternity, yet he couldn’t spare a few moments even. “And Kaz?”

“You know how your brother is, he was upset, really upset for a while. But he came around. Doesn’t he always?” Aleksander explained as he held his beloved’s hands in his.

His mannerisms of holding her hand so tightly desperately want to see her. Kaz coming around like he always did. Scene of the wedding. It all felt so strikingly real. This is perhaps exactly how their wedding would be. This was real. Maybe what happened before all of this was just a terrible terrible dream. Believing that y/n leaned forwarded and kissed her husband to be. Omens he damned. He kissed her back holding her face with his hand and his free arm by her waist securing her tightly in his arms.

Y/n pulled away for a moment to look at him, the setting sun behind her casted light orange hue on her lover’s face and she wanted to be reassured he was here. This was real. This was happening. However the voice said otherwise. It was everyone’s voice all at once.

“You abandoned me! You died…you made promised-you-I loved you..I-I love you! And you aren’t here you died you’ve left me”

“—I’m here aren’t I?”

"If it isn't the wedding bells I hear!"

"That monster of yours you almost married wasn't sabotaging your life?!"

"Manipulated. He manipulated you. You dimwit.”

Every conversation, every dream, everyone’s voices were echoing so loud it shambled the walls of her intoxicated dream. She pulled away from Aleksander sharply and put her hands over her ears to silence everything she wanted to be a bad dream but was reality. Aleksander put his arms around her to support her as she knelt to the ground he crouched down next to her not wanting to leave her side for a moment.

“This…this isn’t real.” Y/n told herself more than she told Aleksander. This isn’t real. It made her want to cry because this actually was her dream, to marry Aleksander and no body is cross with her. Her dream was dying. “This isn’t real-“

“Y/n” he cooed forcing her frantic eyes to look back at him, “look at me my love.” He said and his voice was so full of love and fragility Y/n wanted to cry that this wasn’t real. It was perhaps a stark foreshadowing what her dream would be like in reality, she could be in her wedding dress with her beloved and yet feel like crying. Because that dream would never be hers. “This could be real. It almost was. For a long time it almost was real, wasn’t it? It never occurred to you even four months ago that this couldn’t be, that we couldn’t be. Why now?”

“Aleksander…” she wept in her hands, how was she to explain to her hopeless lover of a conscious which conversed to her in form of Aleksander.

“Do you not want this?” He asked, his eyes scanning every hint of assurance on her face desperately wanting just one answer.

“Yes” she breathed out as tears ran down her face but she knew the ‘but’ after that yes was a big and unavoidable one. However unpleasant it was. “But it’s different now…”

“How is it? How is it any different y/n? Are you not the same woman who’d house a wretched soul that is mine…like you always did? The dreams we share…would you not house it any more?” He asked.

“Yes…yes I—I would Aleksander…” but I simply can’t, not after what you did. Y/n held back from saying because she didn’t want to admit it to herself.

“Then please, be it, be my home, be my solace, I’m out there leading a fight by myself and I always have until you—you. Please fight y/n. Fight for us. Don’t loose hope in us so soon…don’t wash your hands of us. Promise me you won’t?” He asked as he held her hands like the only thing in the world but she did not have anything to say as she stared at him. Eyes so full of hope but it was just the face of her own conscience. She did not have the heart to promise him anything nor did she have the capacity to stomach their love. She…missed him. But she didn’t want to anymore. That idea in itself was painful, very painful.

All that turmoil was over as a bigger one took place, gaining consciousness. Y/n woke up gasping for air as her mouth tasted like the worst thing she’d ever tasted. Familiar faces around her sighed in relief as she coughed her way out of almost death.

—

They got what they were there looking for. The neshyenyer. However y/n just got more frustrated how could her feelings remain so disoriented? She hated how she felt, she hated Aleksander but she wanted to love him to the end of her days but she knew that wasn’t possible anymore. She hated how Kaz still saw her as someone not capable to make rational decisions on her own and she wanted to prove him wrong but she didn’t know where she stood.

Furthermore as they walked out in the barren fields, Kaz tried to talk to y/n for a moment as they were loading the carriage but she dismissed him for later. Perhaps his intoxicated dream was eye opening too but y/n couldn’t handle it at the moment. Torment that her feelings and the dream she just had inflicted heavy upon her.

—

HIIIIIIII god I love this plot SO much at this point I’m just writing for myself😭

Drinker water eat sweets and keep seasonal depression away mfs

Tags: @louderfortheback @sloppyzengarden @mori1b2bpad @zeeader @shitpostrandomness @duchess @serpentthecrow @evalynkillgrave @bwormie

[lavenderfeminist]

Do you ever worry about doing more harm than good? Feminism is one of the most important things for our society. However your viewpoints on feminism are quite different than a lot of people’s, including a handful of your friends. Do you ever feel like you’ll have any chance someday that your thoughts will change and you will be able to at least partially recognize MtF people as women, FtM people as men, etc., especially considering the medical studies on gender dysphoria? I’m curious. I am a non-binary individual (and because I just know there’s going to be assumptions otherwise, I was assigned female at birth), and I can genuinely empathize with the feminist aspects (not the trans exclusionary ones) of the TERF movement: women need more rights and protections, abortion is a human right, men oppress women (and people like me who don’t identify as women but still present fully as such for acceptance reasons) and this needs to change, etc. I just wish people in these circles would focus on that rather than painting trans women as this huge problem. I’ve met a trans woman when she was still identifying as a man, her dysphoria was extremely hard for her. She’s started transitioning now and has always been respectful and supportive of the other women in her life. I guess I’m just ever the optimist, that y’all will realize, yes there are a handful of shitty men out there who want to use the trans identity for something harmful, but there are shitty people from all walks of life, and overall even if our experiences with our birth sex are different, trans women shouldn’t be shunned more than they already are. I can’t believe I wrote this whole thing on a terf blog because ik it won’t change your mind but respond as you wish I guess lol

Yeah, I used to be what some would refer to as a "transmed"/"truscum". In other words, I viewed transgenderism/transexualism as a medical issue resulting from a discrepancy between someone's brain and their outward sex. I have not and will never consider being "nonbinary" a legitimate identity; there is no third sex. And before someone says "what about intersex people!", intersex conditions are sex specific and more accurately called disorders of sexual development (DSDs). Stop using them as pawns in your invalid arguments.

There is no chance of me ever reverting to that set of beliefs again in the case of today's evidence. If presented with evidence that it is physically possible for someone to have a female brain in a male body or vice-versa, and medically possible to verify this in a given individual, my beliefs would change again. But not only is the "brainsex" argument nonsensical when taken to its conclusion (a "female" brain in an otherwise-male body is simply a variation of a male brain...), but modern science very clearly demonstrates that there really are not significant enough biological differences between male and female brains for us to even make a distinction wide enough to sort tran people.

I once passionately believed what you do (to an extent), but I cannot anymore, for these reasons:

The modern trans movement is lying to you. They're telling you that the "transwomen in bathrooms" arguments are a lie, right? That transwomen just want to pee like everyone else? I believed them too, until I was confronted with undeniable evidence that trans women are just as predatory in women's bathrooms as men dressed as women (shocking, because there's no actual distinction being offered to allow the former while barring the latter from women's bathrooms). If anybody who says they're a woman is allowed in women's bathrooms, actual gender feelings are irrelevant, because any man can enter a female space so long as he says the right things.

"Woman" to me holds no more meaning than being a adult human being of the female sex. I have no other associations beyond that. So "trans women are women" is as false to me as "gingerbread women are women". If you say "trans women identify with the gender associated with women", I will agree with you, because femininity, the sex role (gender) assigned to women, is something a man can want to perform. But trans women are not women, because they are not female, and to claim that half of the population calls themself the word for "woman" in their language for any reason other than being female is to assert that half the population identifies with femininity, and that is regressive. I have nothing in common with a trans woman other than us both claiming the word "woman", and that is an absolutely meaningless similarity. I literally have more in common with every trans man on the planet by virtue of inhabiting a female body.

I still believe in sex dysphoria. I still believe that ADULTS with sex dysphoria are entitled to make decisions to modify their bodies, even if they are decisions I find confusing/dangerous/odd, so long as they are adequately informed about the medical risks and consequences of their decisions. I simply do not believe that this necessitates me remaining uncritical of the social and capitalistic factors that may motivate transition for reasons not covered by innate sex dysphoria.

I do not believe in gender identity, and I never will. I do not believe in gendered souls, gendered feelings, etc. I do not believe any sense of gender is innate. A man who feels like a woman is, to me, simply a man making assumptions about the way women feel. A man who wishes he was female is, to me, someone with the rights to make body modifications that mimic a female body, but not someone who will ever be female. I do not believe there is anything inherently different between men and women save for our sexes. Thus, there is no avenue through my worldview in which a transwoman could ever be a woman.

I support your right to believe in gender identity, the same way I support a Christian's right to believe in souls. But I am not obligated to participate in or validate your beliefs, the same way I do not need to participate in or validate a Christian belief in souls. That does not make me transphobic, in the same way that it does not make me Christianphobic. Stop reducing the actual, real hatred that some people have for gender nonconformity to a lack of religious beliefs.