#{ but it's time to turn the page that's what life is about :) }

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Heritance

There's not much left for Tim in his parents' wills. Or, well, not much by his standards - the rest of the family, barring Bruce and Damian, think he is absolutely loaded and too full of himself to care. Which is maybe a little bit true; receiving about a dozen properties across the world, a trust fund and a wide collection of artifacts that his parents have accumulated through years of their archeological escapades is a lot by middle class standards.

But Tim knows how much money Drakes actually had, and a few old houses and an assembly of junk seems like not much in comparison.

In any case, it's all rather useless in Tim's position. He has no interest in traveling aside from when he has to for a mission, and he couldn't give less shits about archeology even if he tried. The trust fund is fine, he guesses, but it's not like he needs it, what with being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises and one of the Wayne Wards.

So, as morbid as it is, the best reaction he can muster at his inheritance is a shrug and a mention in his mile-long list of 'things I need to figure out when I have time'. Which basically means he'll maybe get to it when he's old and retired, and not any sooner, because Tim Drake the CEO and Red Robin the vigilante are both very, very busy people who never have time.

Naturally, his life has other plans, and it's only two or three months later that Tim finds himself breaking through the balcony window of his own apartment in Praha.

It's at that moment, when he's lying on top of a soft persian rug, surrounded by glass shards and wondering if this move was enough to lose his tail that he realizes his inheritance might be slightly more than just a few properties and some boxes with old things.

Because, through his own heavy breathing, he hears a thoughtful, slightly sarcastic voice from inside the room, "I guess the door was too hard to figure out for you, wasn't it."

He sits up, turning his head so sharply it almost snaps. His eyes immediately fall on a boy not much older than him, sitting with one leg thrown over the other on the dark red couch near the wall. He looks like he clearly belongs here: white, vintage collar shirt and black, high-waist trousers, a silver ring on his thumb that looks too old to have been bought in this century, dark raven hair and perfect porcelain skin.

And he is reading a newspaper. Like a slightly bleeding costumed guy in a domino mask breaking the window and falling onto the carpet is just another Tuesday.

Hold on, this is Tim's house! He double-checked the address, there's no mistake!

"Who are you?" He demands, frowning, as his hands reach to the birdarangs out of habit.

"Keeper of Doors," the boy answers, not looking up and flipping the page, "And you're the Drakes' heir, I assume."

Tim blinks. The response provides no actual answers, it only creates more questions. "What doors?" He asks because the rest of the points can most likely be addressed later. Like the issue of his busted secret identity, right.

The boy sighs and closes the newspaper, folding it in half and uncrossing his legs to sit a bit straighter. "Doors, capital 'D'. The ones that lead everywhere you want."

"The what?.." Tim repeats, dumbfounded and lost in this unexpected nonsense. The boy gives him a truly unimpressed look, his eyebrow twitching. Then, he stands up - Tim's fingers close around the birdarang again - and steps towards the nearest door, grabbing the handle. His feet make absolutely no sound.

"Drake manor," the boy announces and pushes the door open. He doesn't step through, however, instead just standing in the doorway and turning back to Tim, gesturing for him to look.

Tim does.

Seeing the familiar hall, the one he's seen so many times, the one he walked through every day before he moved out, makes him realize a few things at once. One, he needs to revise the list of houses he inherited since it looks like they are not just properties but a map of teleportation points, most likely. Two, his parents knew full well he didn't need the trust fund, it wasn't for him, it was probably for this boy, who may or may not be the, well, gatekeeper. Three, if the first part of his inheritance turned out to be this, he is going to need to call in Zatanna to sort through the collection of his parents' artifacts lest something turns out to be actually cursed in there.

Four, he's been staring at the boy and gaping like a fish for longer than its socially acceptable.

"...What's your name?" He asks, suddenly conscious about the fact he was kind of rude before. The boy snorts, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he closes the door back.

"Danny," he introduces and snaps his fingers. The glass shards around Tim move all at once, rising from the ground and going back towards the window, like a reversed video recording. A second later, the balcony window looks as good as new, not a crack in the glass. "And you?"

"Red Ro-" Tim starts, but then pauses. Fuck it, he might as well, "Tim."

Danny waves his hand in the air, like snatching something out of nowhere, and, just like that, there's a box that looks suspiciously like a first-aid kit in his hands.

"Nice to meet you, Tim. Now, get over here and stop ruining my carpet with your blood."

[ao3commentoftheday]

While looking for something else, I found an old ask I answered about "ideal chapter length" in terms of word count.

I've been asked this probably a dozen or more times, and each time I need to take a moment and adjust my thinking to take the asker's point of view into account. Because the thing is? The only time I ever try to factor the word count into how I write a story is when I'm aiming for a true drabble.

For whatever reason, this difference in thinking stuck with me today and I actually considered why that might be. And I think it's because I'm in my 40s and the first 25-30 years of my life, any stories I was reading were printed on paper and bound into physical books.

When I imagine a novel, I still think of a mass market paperback on my bookshelf. An average one would be maybe an inch thick, probably in the neighbourhood of 300 pages. A long one would be maybe as much as two inches thick and 500 or more pages long. A short one was always nice to have because it filled in the gaps in the shelf because 200 page books were so much narrower. Or so it seemed.

When I started posting my fic online, I still thought in terms of pages. I'd type them out in whatever word processing software I was using at the time, and I'd usually get a chapter's worth of ideas into 3 or 4 pages. Turns out that's about 1000 words, which makes sense with the number of 1000 word essays I wrote in high school. I'd been trained to encapsulate an idea into approximately that length.

And that's what it comes down to. The thing that always made that question seem weird to me. A chapter isn't about how many words there are in it, just like a cake isn't about how many cups of flour exist in each slice. A chapter is a an idea that helps make up a bigger idea called a story, and it needs to be however many words that idea needs to be to get it out.

[kashverse]

anything for gojo your majesty🎤🎤

if you are not a nicki minaj fan i'm sorry

gojo being a stay-at-home dad was a double-edged sword. on one hand, babytoru was getting an absurd amount of quality time with her father—on the other hand, that quality time often involved questionable educational choices. you had expected him to teach her something useful. math, maybe. how to read kanji. literally anything that would benefit her future. 

instead, you walked into the living room to find your six-year-old sitting cross-legged in front of the plasma tv, gripping a pink crayon like her life depended on it, while gojo stood in front of the screen, pointing dramatically at an image of nicki minaj like he was delivering a ted talk.

"okay, kid, write this down," he said, flipping the remote in his hand like a mic. "in the beginning, there was mixtape nicki. underground legend. 'playtime is over,' 'sucka free,' 'beam me up scotty'—pure heat. this was when she really started cookin’. had wayne and drake in a chokehold. also, fun fact, this was when she still had the super thick ny accent—"

he glanced down at babytoru's notebook, then did a double take.

"baby, what the hell is this?"

she beamed up at him, proudly holding up a page where she had written, in large, wobbly pink crayon letters: nickee menaj.

gojo let out a long, dramatic sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "baby, this is unacceptable. you’re taking notes like a casual. like an unserious student."

"but i don’t know how to spell her name," she pouted, fidgeting with her crayon. he crouched down to her level, gripping her tiny shoulders. "listen to me. nicki minaj is a spelling bee champion. do you understand how embarrassing it would be if we couldn't spell her name right?"

babytoru gasped. "she is??"

"not officially, but spiritually," he said solemnly. "now fix it. it's n-i-c-k-i. no ‘e’s in this house."

she quickly erased and rewrote, murmuring under her breath, "n-i-c-k-i… no ‘e’s in this house…"

"good, good," gojo nodded approvingly. "okay, now where were we? ah, yes. pink friday, her debut album. iconic. certified classic. if you ask me, 'roman’s revenge' is the best track—insane flows, legendary bars. ‘did it on 'em’—a cultural reset. but of course, we can’t forget ‘super bass,’ which single-handedly raised a generation of barbz."

babytoru scribbled furiously.

"now, next, we have roman reloaded, where she gave us pop nicki—think ‘starships,’ think ‘pound the alarm.’ polarizing, but the range? undeniable." he paced the living room like a professor mid-lecture. 

"then we enter the pinkprint era. arguably her magnum opus. heartbreak, bars, versatility—this is where we have ‘anaconda,’ ‘only,’ ‘feeling myself’—"

you cleared your throat loudly.

gojo froze. babytoru turned to look at you, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “mama! did you know nicki minaj is a spelling bee champion?”

you stared at your husband, who was now whistling innocently.  "satoru. why is our daughter taking notes on nicki minaj like this is a university lecture?"

"because it is," he said, placing a hand over his heart. "this is the history they don’t teach in school. i’m simply filling in the gaps."

"what about, i don’t know, actual school subjects?"

"she’s learning literacy," he argued, gesturing to her notebook.

"she spelled her name wrong five minutes ago."

"papa taught me how to fix it!" babytoru chirped.

"see? she’s improving already," he grinned. "also, i’d like to point out that this is a music history class, actually. next period is music theory, where we’ll be analyzing nicki’s rhyme schemes and cadence."

you pinched the bridge of your nose. "satoru—"

"babe, come onnnnn. you of all people should understand the importance of culture."

before you could respond, he clapped his hands together. "alright, break’s over! babytoru, let’s talk about queen. underrated era, but still solid. ‘chun-li’ was a moment. oh, and don’t even get me started on ‘good form’—"

you sighed. maybe it wasn’t entirely useless. at least she was learning something.

but when you glanced at her notes again and saw "all these beaches are my suns" written in pink crayon, you decided you needed to intervene.

[hotchnersangel]

OUR PAST, PRESENT AND FOREVER

Aaron Hotchner

cw: fem!reader, wedding, crying, emotional hotch.

a/n- this one is super cute, surprise at the end but you can pretend it isn’t there if you don’t like it.

Meeting Aaron Hotchner for the very first time was like breathing fresh country air after being stuck in the city for your whole life. Though your life was arguably more chaotic after knowing him, you never doubted any part of your relationship, neither the good or the bad. You had disagreements but Aaron has never shouted at you and he never will, nor have you at him. Around each other maybe you have, but never to each other. Maybe that’s because of his understanding of your past but also due to the immense respect and love he will always have for you. He never wants to be the reason you cry. Yet, today he was the exact reason you were crying.

Your wedding day, a day you have been dreaming about since you were a little girl. You always wanted the traditional wedding dress, the big but intimate ceremony, the hundreds of thousands of flowers, the awkward and laughable dancing. You wanted and dreamt about it all.

When you met Aaron, you knew you wanted these dreams by his side. You wanted them to turn from your dreams to your shared memories, which is exactly what the day had been.

The ceremony had been indescribable, the feeling of walking down the aisle and Rossi handing you to your soon- to-be husband was overwhelming in the best way. Though, the moment those doors opened, Aaron took one glance at you and your emotions flood from your eyes and you didn’t bother wiping them, just let them fall. His smile was like no one but you had ever witnessed. Full of utter love and affection. Your vows illicited more tears from you, but Aaron was yet to cry. Close, very close he had come, but he had not shown a droplet until you stand up during the after party.

Everyone was sat round their tables and you go to make your speech following the maid of honour and groomsmen’s talks.

“If I could have your attention for a moment,” you say, everyone now looking over you, whose hand was still entwined with Aaron. “Since before Aaron and I were together, I made something hoping this day would one day come and I could finally be able to show him.” You start with a bright smile, looking down at him softly as everyone waits in anticipation.

“So here it is, the day we officially become one, this is my present to you honey.” You smile and wipe your eyes from the falling tears. “This is The Story of The Hotchner’s”

You look at Aaron who watches you place the scrapbook in front of him and he gets teary eyed, his lip wobbling as he looks up at you. He knew he chose the right one. His thoughtful, breathtaking, ethereal piece of art. His wife. The love of his life.

He stands up and pulls you into him, holding you in the tightest embrace you thought you were going to be squished. “Baby, oh my god.” He says, looking deeply into your eyes.

“I haven’t even gone through it yet.” You grin, kissing his cheek and wiping a stray tear from his eye before continuing through the book.

‘To my beloved husband, let’s us never forget our past, our present or our forever.’ Was inscribed into the first page, you’re sat down now, watching as Aaron flips to the first page.

It showed an image of you awkwardly standing behind Hotch from around three months into working at the bau, pointing at his back which was firmly behind you as you pulled a funny face to the camera. It was taken by Penelope, you remember it so vividly, she had been the one to take a lot of these photos, along with JJ. Stuck closely on that page is another image of the same few months where he was staring at you with a straight face but you were grinning at him.

Aaron looked up at you and raises an eyebrow. “Did I always look so miserable around you?” He chuckles softly.

“You did, but I knew you never disliked me. No matter how hard you tried to conceal it, I always knew.” You grin back at him and he kisses your nose. “Now carry on.”

The next page brought a photo of Aaron slightly smirking at something you said but trying to conceal it behind his mug, it was a perfect candid photo. The next was an image of you two conversing on the first press conference with the two of you. Professional and hot.

The memories continued as you slowly see a change in the dynamic of your relationship, at first it’s like you’re both there but just simply there, then you see how Aaron opens up to you slowly and starts to lose his cold front with you. Over time it’s obvious that the distance between the two of you disappears and your smiles grow ten times larger. Then, it gets to recent photos and you stop him before he can flip the page again.

“There is so much space to add more photos of our journey together but I thought today was the perfect day to share this with you.” You grin at him, fully beaming as tears kiss your cheeks. As you look at Aaron, he pulls you to sit on his lap and he looks directly at you. You notice that tears were streaming out of his glassy eyes with very little shame. You laugh at the sight and it makes the emotions bubble more in your chest and he pulls you closer to him by your waist, hugging you so tightly. He kisses your head.

“I’m so beyond in love with you. Thank you. Thank you for having the most thoughtful, generous, beautiful soul both inside and out.” He says letting tears stream down as he doesn’t bother wiping them. Not even considering hiding or getting rid of the evidence of his complete and utter devotion and appreciation of you.

“There’s one more page.” You whisper to him and he looks back at the book, you both flip the page together and it reveals a photo of a baby scan. He freezes from under you and looks at the photo, bringing the book closer to him and looking back to you. Switching his gaze between the photo and you like a tennis rally.

“Is this…”

You nod and laugh, tears falling from your eyes as he pulls you into the biggest hug ever, his hand at the back of your head as it against his chest.

“Our family.”

[glowettee]

the secret to taking notes that make you want to study ✧˖°

hey lovelies! mindy heree <3

for this post i'm superrr excited to share a guide on taking notes that make you want to study ✧˖° trust me, i know how overwhelming it can get when it feels like you're stuck in the middle of endless textbooks and dry lecture slides (honestly, we all have those days). so, let's transform your note taking into something delightful, empowering, and totally reflective of your unique self.

✧ finding your vibe first things first, bestie: the key here is to make your notes feel personal and inspiring. rather than sticking to a rigid system, i suggest mixing a little structure with a whole lot of creativity. here are some steps to help you set up your perfect note taking vibe:

choose your medium: even if it’s a cute pastel notebook, sticky notes, or a digital app with fun themes, pick something that sparks joy and invites you to open it up. i personally love notion + remnote + coda

establish sections: break your notes into clear sections. introduction, main points, and summary. this not only boosts organization but also gives you a gratifying sense of progress every time you finish a page.

add your signature touch: doodles, small illustrations, or even a decorative border can make a note feel less like a chore and more like a mini art project. i love using aesthetic symbols for my digital notes <3

✧ creating a study ritual i believe that great notes come from a relaxed and focused mind. try integrating these rituals into your study sessions to set a positive tone, this is really important if you want to make note-taking fun:

begin with a short breathing exercise or a moment of gratitude (think of it as your pre-study pep talk).

play some light instrumental music or your favorite lo-fi beats, or playlist. something to keep your mind in a creative zone without distractions. (i have a great playlist i made that i use for tackling assignments here: 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀, 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒸𝓀! <3)

grab your favorite beverage (i’m a fan of herbal tea or a cute iced coffee) and make sure you're comfortable. a little self-care goes a long way!

✧ structuring your notes for clarity a well-organized layout makes reviewing notes less daunting and more interactive. and obviously so much more fun, consider using this format for a balanced + demureee approach:

start with a title and date: it grounds your notes and gives you a quick reference.

write a brief summary of the topic: in your own words, capture the essence of what you’re about to learn. just summarize it as best as possible

list key points: use bullet points, numbered lists, or even headers for different subtopics. tip: use cute symbols for bullet points

highlight examples: it can be a quote, a definition, or an application concept, mark these with a star or a cute icon.

close with a reflection: jot down any questions, what you found most interesting, or even a mini action item related to the topic. this is your space for self-talk and reflection.

✧ turning notes into interactive canvases (cause we need it) notes aren’t meant to be static pages floating in an endless binder. make them interactive to truly boost your study sessions:

include thought-provoking questions: ask yourself things like “what would elle woods do?” (lol, we love her <3) or “how does this connect with real life?” to spark critical thinking.

add mini quizzes: at the end of each section, write one or two questions that challenge you to recall key points.

leave room for updates: as you learn more, come back and add extra notes, doodles, or even inspirational stickers (yes, just like in a scrapbook!).

✧ personal tips from mindy because i want you to shine in every note you take, here are my totally secret, fun tips to elevate your note routine:

secret tip #1: color with purpose choose a color palette that not only looks cute but also maps out different themes in your subject. use one color for definitions, another for examples, and maybe a sparkly tone for key takeaways. over time, these colors will trigger your memory (i promise, it really works!).

secret tip #2: integrate affirmations studying can be stressful sometimes, so why not lace your notes with a few tender affirmations? write a quick pep talk (like “i got this, bestie” or “every detail counts”) in a corner. it might seem small, but these little lines can boost your confidence when you need it most. and it's just so freaking cute <3 affirmations from you to you, is like a love letter to yourself, so just try it

secret tip #3: try mind mapping if you’re more of a visual learner, create mind maps instead of linear notes. start with the main topic in the center and branch out with related ideas and details. this not only makes your notes dynamic but also helps you see connections between concepts (ever notice how some subjects just click with a visual flow?).

secret tip #4: use digital tools creatively if you’re leaning towards digital note taking, like me, experiment with apps that support drawing, voice notes, and even embedded links. add images that resonate with the topic or short videos for a quick concept refresher. making your digital notebook interactive can really keep boredom at bay.

secret tip #5: schedule weekly note reviews set aside a bit of time every week to revisit your notes. treat it as a mini self-study session where you update, add reflections, or even reorganize sections for clarity. this habit not only reinforces your learning but also lets you see your own progress over time, like looking back on how far you’ve come.

✧ action items for the week (it's homework timeee) to wrap things up, here are a few steps to try:

pick one class or topic this week and redo your notes using one or two of these tips (maybe add a mind map or a quick quiz).

experiment with color coding: choose colors that resonate with you and assign them to key points or sections.

schedule a 10-minute review session at the end of the week to refresh and reflect on your notes.

share your progress with a friend or even a study group to celebrate little victories. accountability can boost your motivation!

note: note taking is a creative process that should feel as refreshing and inspiring as a new day. keep experimenting until you find what truly works for you. i hope these tips help you get excited about every page you write on.

xoxo, mindy

I made this amazzinggg playlist (as mentioned earlier in the post) and its specifically made to help you complete homework + assignments. i curated it to make sure its soft music to help you focus <3 love from mindyyy 🩷

don't forget, if you need personal advice, submit it here and i'll answer it as a detailed tumblr blog post <3: https://bit.ly/glowetteehotline

[the-unidentified-author]

The Lord, The Lady and The Long Winter | Cregan Stark | House of the Dragon

Chapter 2/5?: The Wolf of the North

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 - Comming soon

Cregan Stark x House Baratheon Reader

One or more parts in this story will include the following:

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW}, smut, minors DNI, new relationship, arguments, harsh words,longing, p in v, creampie, cum play, a little rough, Cunnilingus, fingering, consensual!, hes a big man, orgasm denial, one orgasm after another 🚨SLOW BURN🚨

Summary: You’re betrothed to Cregan Stark. The pair of you navigate this relationship of convenience and perhaps even find love.

Word Count: 3,317

*Not my Gif

A/N RANT: I find writing easy. I just splat ideas down on the page. It’s the editing that really gets me. I spend so much time deleting and rewriting, googling synonyms because somehow I’ve managed to use the same word 4,000 times in the last twenty sentences. Agonising over the wording and then Word for some reason trying to make me spell things in american. Then the grammar actually sends me over the edge, Word telling me that there should be a comma, so I add a comma and then no that’s wrong there shouldn’t be a comma there. It actually makes me go feral. Anyway, if anyone wonders why it takes me so long to post more parts, these are some of the reasons.

Chapter 1

It had taken a little over a month for your father and your entourage to reach the castle of Winterfell. As you journeyed, the number of layers and furs you wore in the carriage increased, each piece a necessary defence against the northern chill. It was the last day of the trip, and you were thankful it had finally come to an end, eager to sleep in the same bed for more than one night in a row. You stepped up into the carriage and turned to your father, who was already seated, his expression one of calm reassurance. "Almost there," he said, his voice steady as he attempted a smile.

You averted your gaze, sitting down and looking out at the landscape that unfolded outside. A heavy blanket of snow cloaked the ground, transforming the world into a vast, seamless expanse of white. The trees stood tall and skeletal, their branches laden with frost that sparkled like diamonds in the weak and low winter sun. Occasionally, the wind howled through the barren branches, sending a shiver down your spine and creating an eerie symphony that filled the otherwise still air.

The world outside seemed lifeless, devoid of colour and warmth—how you longed for the vibrant greens and the golden hues of the south, of home. You hadn’t seen an animal for more than a week, and the silence felt oppressive, magnifying the sense of isolation that you felt. Your mind wandered to what your sisters would be doing right now, likely studying or playing in the garden with your mother watching sewing something beautiful as she always was. A lump formed in your throat as you thought about how long it would be until you saw them again. This new landscape was as much a part of your new life as your upcoming marriage; it revealed in its stark beauty but also served as a constant reminder of the challenges that lay ahead. With the shutter closed, you felt a growing knot of anxiety within you, the weight of the impending changes heavy as the snow that blanketed the ground.

At some point, you had fallen asleep, though you couldn't recall when. The anticipation of the day had kept you awake through most of the night, and the uncomfortable seat of the carriage left your body aching. But then, the resounding blast of trumpets heralding your arrival jolted you from your sleep.

“Are we here?" you asked, glancing at your father, whose expression was distant, as if lost in thought.

"Yes," he replied, turning his gaze to meet yours.

"How long do we have before meeting the Starks?" you asked, smoothing your clothes and hoping the nap hadn’t left your hair in disarray.

"Lord Stark will greet us as soon as we step out of the carriage," your father replied, straightening in his seat.

"What? Aren’t we meeting in the hall after we've freshened up?" you exclaimed, taken aback by the immediacy, realising just how soon you'd face the man who’d share your future.

"Ah, but they're Northerners," your father said with a dismissive wave, "They'd find you lovely even in rags." The carriage lurched forward, jolting you both, as your heart raced.

You thought you would have just a little more time, a chance to gather your thoughts and brace yourself for the momentous introduction. Panic rose inside you as it became clear you had mere minutes before meeting the man who would be your husband.

Your heart raced with a flurry of questions and doubts. Would he be as the tales described—harsh and unyielding as the Northern winters—or might there be warmth beneath the layers of fur and Stoic silence? The uncertainties swirled, each more daunting than the last, wrapping around your thoughts like a relentless blizzard.

You fidgeted with the edge of your cloak, trying to calm the rising tide of unease. What if your mannerisms seemed too foreign, your presence too delicate for the rugged North? At this moment, you realised your entire future might rely on one singular, daunting introduction.

You focused on your breathing, counting each inhale and exhale slowly to five, as your mother had taught you to do in moments of unease. Her voice echoed in your mind, recounting stories of Lord Cregan Stark and how he had become the embodiment of his house’s strength. At just seventeen, he had fought for power against his uncle, rallying the North to his cause and earning the legendary title of the Wolf of the North.

Now, at twenty-five, he was widely renowned as the most powerful man in the region, with whispers even calling him the King in the North. His influence stretched far, untethered by the intricacies of southern politics. In the refuge of your measured breathing, you hoped to draw some comfort from the formidable reputation of the man who would soon become your husband. Could a man so brilliant at war be kind?

The carriage came to a rest, jolting you back to the present, you looked at your father, who attempted to give you a reassuring nod as the door of the carriage swung open. He moved through it first, giving you a precious few moments to prepare yourself before he turned and extended his hand inside the carriage to help you out and down.

The cold hit you first, making you draw a sharp breath, the icy air burning your lungs. For a brief moment, you looked around and watched as snowflakes danced in the chilled air, touching gently on Winterfell's ancient stone façade. You stepped out, the snow crunching beneath your feet, you were thankful for your father's firm grasp on your hand, worried for a moment that without it, you would slip.

The northern air was sharp and invigorating, a biting chill that seemed to permeate the very fabric of everything it touched. It was the kind of cold that, if endured for too long, would nestle deep into your bones, leaving a lingering reminder of the North’s untamed power. Pulling your thick cloak more tightly around yourself, you sought its warmth and comfort, a shield against the relentless chill.

Your father stepped forward with the practiced grace of his station, turning to address the Northerners who had assembled to witness your arrival.

"Greetings House Stark, I am Lord Borros Baratheon, of the House Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End. I have come to present to you, my daughter." His voice was, steady and confident. It carried over the soft whisper of the wind, acknowledging the strength of the Northern families and the significance of the union that would soon bind Baratheon and Stark.

He turned to you and gestured for you to step forwards, and you did, curtseying to the group. Your eyes swept over the crowd of Northerners—a sea of rugged faces hardened by the winter landscape. And there he stood, amidst them, undeniably Cregan Stark. His towering form was enveloped in commanding furs, every inch the lord who embodied the unforgiving north. He looked younger than you thought he would, hearing stories of how the north aged you beyond your years made you worried about what you would be confronted with up getting here.

Cregan stepped forward with an elegant grace, offering a formal bow. Yet, the warmth in his eyes spoke an unspoken promise of understanding and curiosity.

"Welcome to Winterfell," his voice resonated, deep and steady, his accent thick.

Your father and Cregan began discussing the plans for the coming days, their voices a steady hum amidst the towering stone walls of Winterfell. You followed closely behind them, the chill of the Northern air slowly giving way to the warmth of the hall, its fires crackling and casting flickering shadows that danced across the ancient stone.

Eventually, you found your place on a chair, one of many surrounding a small table strewn with maps and parchments that detailed the intricacies of alliances and strategies. The gathering of lords settled into their respective seats, enveloping the table in a sense of purpose and gravitas. Your father leaned forward, engaged in discussions about the expectations of this union, emphasising duty and honour—the very fabric of noble life.

As they spoke, a few lords occasionally cast friendly glances in your direction, but you could sense the unspoken rules that governed the conversation. This was not the sort of assembly where women were expected to voice their thoughts; instead, you listened intently, absorbing the dialogue around you. It was both fascinating and daunting, a whirlwind of responsibilities that felt far removed from the warmth of family gatherings you had known.

You were taken aback that they allowed you to sit at the table at all, a privilege that your father would never have granted you in the South. Perhaps the customs were different in the North, a notion that intrigued and unsettled you. As your gaze wandered around the assembly, it landed on one woman at the table—until that moment, you hadn't realised she was among them.

Dressed in masculine attire, she seemed to blend right in with the lords surrounding her, sitting tall and confident as they addressed her with the same respect reserved for their male counterparts. It was a striking sight, one that momentarily pulled you from your anxious thoughts about the future.

Then, the unexpected happened; she caught your eye and offered a warm smile that brightened her otherwise stern countenance. Heat rose to your cheeks as you realised you had been staring. Quickly, you turned your attention back to Cregan, the man you were to marry, feeling the weight of the room around you as you grappled with the complexities of your new reality.

Cregan Stark was a striking figure to behold, towering head and shoulders above your father, making it instantly clear why others held him in such high esteem. His presence conveyed more than mere physical stature; as soon as he began to speak, his demeanour and the way he carried himself revealed the essence of a man of honour. Unlike the tall men of the South, who seemed like a gust of wind might send them hurtling over the battlements into the sea, Cregan's stature was built broad and firm.

The cloak draped over his shoulders only added to his impressive build, yet you could tell at a glance that this was a physique forged through hard work and rigorous training, not by indulgence in luxuries. Every movement hinted at discipline and strength, an embodiment of the Northern spirit you had heard so much about.

Your eyes focused intently on his face as he spoke, captivated by the way his shoulder-length brown hair framed his features, catching the light to highlight the rugged lines that undeniably spoke of his Northern lineage. Cregan had a strong jaw, lending a chiseled quality to his visage that perfectly complemented the air of unyielding determination he exuded.

But it was his piercing blue eyes that truly drew you in—striking and deep, they seemed to hold an entire world within them. In contrast to the often stark demeanour he carried, those eyes contained an unexpected warmth, like a flickering flame against the cold backdrop of winter. There was a kindness in their depths, a silent promise that perhaps beneath the fierce exterior lay a man capable of tenderness and understanding. With every glance, you felt the pull of his gaze, an invitation to see beyond the bravado and discover the complexities that made him who he was.

He turned and met your eye, and it took you a second to realise that he had asked you a question, you looked around the room at the lords. All poised to listen to your response. You looked to your father for guidance.

"You'll have to excuse my daughter, the journey north has been long. However, I do think that she has enough strength left to accept your suggestion of a tour of Winterfell." he smiled at Lord Stark, who looked from you to your father, an understanding smile playing on his lips as he worked out you hadn't been paying attention.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t expose your lapse in concentration, just stood and shook your father's hand. You stood too as all the other lords stood and moved towards the door. You watched as they filtered out of the room, your father and Cregan being the only two aside from yourself still left in the room.

"Well, I would say that no chaperone is required, it is said that no one in the realms have as much honour as the Starks." your father said, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword as he looked between the two of you.

He nodded and gave you a small smile and turned to leave the room, the guards at the door opening and closing the door. You felt the resounding boom of the door closing in your chest as it seemed to echo around the entire room. The room seemed smaller as you looked from the door to Lord Stark, he looked so much more intimidating now it was only you in the room.

"My Lady, what part of Winterfell would you like to see first?" he asked stepping towards you.

"I- I don’t know." you whispered, finding it too difficult to look him in the eye.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to your cloak which you had removed and placed on the back of your chair.

You nodded, he carefully picked it up and placed it over your shoulders, you moved your hands to do up the buckle that would secure it to your body and turned to Lord Stark. The massive sword slung across his back caught your attention, its hilt visible above his shoulder—a symbol of the strength and legends whispered in the halls of your childhood home. It seemed a natural extension of him—an embodiment of Cregan Stark, the warrior and the lord.

He smiled down at you, warmth and friendliness lighting up his features. With a gentle tilt of his eyebrow, he extended his elbow towards you, inviting you to take it.

"Well, I shall show you my favourite parts of the castle, and then we'll join your father and the other lords for a late tea," he said, his deep voice smooth and rich, like honey.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, as you took his hand and allowed him to guide you out of the room. Agreeing to marry someone you had never met was undoubtedly a gamble, fraught with uncertainties. Yet, with this match, a sense of hopefulness stirred within you—a feeling as if you had struck gold in a world tarnished by rusted steel.

Your thoughts drifted back to the moment you first learned of your betrothal. That night, your mother had remained by your side, holding you close as you cried, part of you mourning your childhood and the other terrified of the future. She assured you that everything would be alright, words you initially dismissed as just the comforting words you say to someone when they're crying.

But now, with time and distance, you started to see that moment in a different light. There was a certainty in her voice that had been unwavering, and it made you wonder if she had played a part in your match with Lord Stark. Her confidence lingered in your mind, suggesting that perhaps this match carried more promise than you dared to imagine in those initial, tear-filled moments.

Winterfell was a beautiful castle, said to be one of the oldest still standing. As Cregan showed you around, you noticed something different in the way he spoke. Unlike most men, who seemed more interested in proving themselves smarter than you by belittling or over-explaining, Lord Stark had a unique approach.

His way of speaking about the castle and its history felt more like listening to a passionate teacher than a rehearsed lecture. He engaged you with stories, making each tale and detail come alive, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of respect and curiosity grow within you. It was refreshing and made you appreciate not only Winterfell, but also the man guiding you through its storied halls.

He had suggested that the two of you look out over the battlements before retiring to the great hall for something to eat. The climb up to the battlements was more challenging than you had anticipated. The stairs were far narrower than any you had navigated at Storm's End, making you marvel at how men clad in armour could swiftly manoeuvre them during times of war. Yet, as you reached the top, the sight that greeted you was nothing short of breathtaking—a vast, snowy landscape stretching as far as the eye could see. There was a vast expanse of forest in the distance, but even that was coated in snow.

Your home back in Storm's End prided itself on its massive walls for protection against invaders. However, here at Winterfell, the tall walls paired with its isolated, formidable position in the North presented a different kind of strength. The harsh, unforgiving landscape surrounding Winterfell seemed an ally to its defenders, an icy gauntlet capable of claiming the lives of unprepared southern soldiers long before they could even reach the walls. The beauty and latent power of the scene sent a shiver through you, a reminder of the resilience required to thrive in this raw and rugged part of the world.

"There is a small moat hidden by the snow at the bottom of the wall," Cregan began, his gaze shifting to you with a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he was sharing a secret of the North only a few were privy to. "If aren't aware of it and attempt to climb the wall, you sink into snow taller than a man."

You withdrew your hand from the warmth of your fur muff, moving to grasp the metal handle fixed to the wall, hoping to steady yourself for a better view over the battlements. The chill of the metal immediately shot through your fingers, contrasting sharply with the cozy warmth of the muff.

"Agh," you gasped, yanking your hand away from the frigid metal.

Before you could even check for injury, Cregan Stark's gloved hand enveloped yours with a surprising gentleness. He looked down at your hand, his thumb softly brushing across your palm, sending a tingle through your skin. "Careful, My Lady," he murmured, his voice carrying a deep, soothing timbre. "Warm hands stick to cold metal. You could lose some skin if you're not careful."

You grimaced at the thought and glanced back at the metal, reassuring yourself that none of your skin lingered there. "It burns,” you whispered, eyes dropping to the red mark on your palm.

Cregan's gaze met yours, holding a mix of concern and something unspoken. He raised his hand to his mouth, biting the finger of his glove and pulling it off, his breath misting in the cold air. He placed his large, now bare hand over yours, its warmth seeping through your skin, soothing the sting of the cold. His touch seemed to linger longer than necessary, then he removed his hand from yours and pulled the glove from his mouth.

"Careful my Lady, the cold burns sometimes more than fire." He remarked, eyes locked on yours, before slipping his hand back into the glove with deliberate care. "We ought to get you some gloves." His voice carried both practicality and an undercurrent of tenderness that surprised you.

He offered his arm once more, and this time, as you looped your arm around his, the touch felt more intimate, more charged. You tucked your hand back into your fur muff, your hand still feeling the ghost of his.

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[1-800-local-slut]

Girl I would kill for more stilesx black reader smut!!

Thinking about...

Stiles, who gets horny when he's stressed. He's tired and thinking about practice tomorrow and considering skipping school but he knows he has too many absences and is one week away from repeating junior year. It's 2:30 in the morning, he just crawled through his bedroom window and flopped onto bed when he remembered the homework that was worth 60 points of his grade.

So, he drinks some coffee and prepares for an all nighter. He's studying, scrolling through pages of his online textbook, and all the pressure is mounting on his shoulders. Even Stiles has a breaking point for math.

During a spontaneous break, Stiles takes a scroll through Instagram. One thing leads to another, and he's clicking through your story, then through your highlights. His fingers automatically go to the highlight he's spent a gross amount of time looking at, your summer highlight

He's getting hard, staring at your tits in the swimsuit he helped you pick out at the mall, and imagining what it would look like slipping you out of that swimsuit top. Or maybe keeping it on.

One more thing leads to another and now his hand is down his pants. Oops!

He's now a red, pathetic mess. He's rubbing his thumb over the tip and sending shivers through his entire body, his eyes hyper focused on the image he has saved on his computer of you two posing where just enough of your cleavage was visible and he could see a bit more of one of your boobs than the other. The outline of your hips, and he's imagining what in between your thighs look like. Ultimately it would be as beautiful as the rest of you but still!

He promised himself he wouldn't do this again. How gross could he get? Jerking off, literally humping his hand from overstimulation while zooming in on the part of Scott's story where you were laying down on your stomach in the back, and Stile's had a dream like view of your perfect ass covered by your tights. He promised himself yesterday that he would stop jerking off to one of his best friends, but he truly couldn't help it!

He's stressed like all the time, and for some reason his brain always turns stress into the urge to hump something. His mattress in his sleep, his hand, you. Oh god, the urge to rub up on you was strong

Whenever he sees you, applying lip liner and gloss to your thick lips, whenever he sees you reclining in the sun with light sparling off your dark skin, when he gets a full view of the perfect roundness of your ass, when he noticed your shorts slide over once during a group sleep over and he saw a bit of your plain underwear, when you randomly put him in a bonnet and he's engulfed by your scent for just a moment.

It isn't his fault! Ever since he had a dream about you dry humping him, Stiles's hasn't been able to really think straight. And with the regular stress of his life, it was only getting worse.

Right now, he's struggling to keep his voice down. Eyes rolling to the back of his skull and legs shaking as he stood up to try to avoid cumming on the bottom of his desk like some sort of pervert and ended up cumming on his own stomach. The second the warm liquid touched him, so did his shame.

Oh yeah, you can't focus on your homework, but you can touch yourself while you think of your friend dry humping you while she wears a cheetah print strapless mini dress? Good job man. Real good job.

Well, at least he could focus now.

༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺༻༺

Here you go! I feel like Stiles would be a gooner sometimes. Like not typically but sometimes he goes a little crazy and is the type to rub himself sore. We know he's very imaginative, so I can imagine him having a really good sex dream and going insane over it. Now I'm tempted to write more about gooner Stiles who feels guilty for being a gooner </3

[into-the-hellaverse]

Adam's Bad Day

Commission for @libby-for-life !

Yeah, that's right! I take commissions! Pages are on my main blog @asmerlotus ! Reach out for a commission!

Sorry if the formatting is fucked. I'm on mobile.

-------------------------

Adam stared at the destruction, unable to process what had happened. The night before, he had gone to his tiny fucking hotel room, gotten into his uncomfy bed, and prayed to God that if he was good and merciful (and he was. Adam met that fucker 30 times before. He fistbumped the man, damn it!) then this whole stupid ordeal with Cameron would blow over. He had rammed the idea into his thick skull the night before that if he kept trying to pull this shit and get him kicked out of the hotel, he was going to rock his shit to Second Hell. That place had the real fire and brimstone.

But here he was, standing in the hotel lobby, looking around at the wreckage. Chairs were broken, the carpet torn to shreds, the front desk was in pieces. Husk was crying, literally crying, over his bar, which honestly didn’t look like a bar. Broken glass, dried liquor, and the bar counter, like everything else, torn to pieces.

And the pièce de résistance? Gold graffiti, everywhere. There were golden dicks everywhere, the exterminator symbol on the front door, the large paintings of the Morningstar family had childish doodles like mustaches and “LOƧER” spray painted right on Baby Charlie’s forehead. And to top it all off, in a large empty section of the wall, were the words “ADAM WAZ HERE”, perfect to incriminate him in every way.

Adam stood in the middle of the wreckage, feeling his heart drop to his stomach. Cameron had really outdid himself this time. What did that fucker have against him? He turned around to see the snake sinner just smiling, and all Adam could do was start to cry. Silent tears dripped down as he finally paid attention to everyone else.

Husk was still crying over his bar, sobbing to Angel something about a Glen McKenna 50 year he had been saving. Nifty was practically having an orgasm, squealing about everything she could clean. Alastor just smiled his usual grin, shaking his head and looking at the destruction around them. Lucifer and Vaggie were both trying to comfort Charlie who was…quiet… Charlie was loud when she was happy. She was loud when she was angry. She was loud when she was sad. She always had these big, loud emotions over anything in question. Being quiet was never good.

She turned around and walked through the piles of carnage, giving Adam the coldest stare he had ever seen. She stopped two feet away, and it kinda clicked in his head how much smaller Charlie was compared to him. She barely met his chest. So tiny, so full of rage…

“Adam,” she said, unnaturally calm. “I want to help you. I really do. But this-” She paused and gestured to the lobby. “Has crossed so many lines. I have treated you with kindness, compassion, generosity, trust, and respect. And this… this is what you do with it… I want you out of here by tonight. No excuses, no exceptions…” She turned and walked up the stairs, followed quickly by Vaggie.

Everyone glared at Adam (except Nifty, who would probably kiss his feet for the mess). Adam just stared. He felt so small. He hadn’t felt this way since he was punished back in Eden. Small, helpless, defenseless, weak… He wanted to die again. He wanted to say something, to explain what was going on, prove to them he wasn’t to blame. He caught the gaze of Lucifer, who seemed sympathetic and upset.

“Lucifer, please,” he said as he rushed over. “I didn’t do this.”

Lucifer said nothing and walked away.

“Luci, babe, please!” Adam begged. “It wasn’t me! It was Cam-”

“Cameron this, Cameron that.” Lucifer turned around, the look in his eyes just as cold as his daughter’s. “You always pass the blame onto him and he has never done anything wrong. When will you own up to your actions?”

“Luci, I-"

“I don’t want to hear it,” Lucifer cut him off.

“Luci!"

“Don’t call me that. You lost that privilege when you destroyed my daughter’s hard work…” He turned and started walking away.

“Lucifer…” His voice was so quiet, it was like it was gone forever.

“Whatever we had before, Adam, is gone. I don’t care if you’re sorry. You still destroyed the hotel, and you destroyed my trust. Charlie wants you out by tonight. But I want you out by noon. Out of the hotel and out of my life.” And Lucifer finally walked away.

Adm just stood there, feeling everything inside him break into a million pieces. He had lost his only home in this shithole, his new family, and his sorta boyfriend in the span of minutes. Because of him…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adam stared at his bag, his one tiny bag of belongings, as the morning’s events played over and over in his mind. He didn't want to do this. He wanted to explain himself. He wanted to earn back their trust. He wanted to beg and plead to Charlie fucking Morningstar of all people to let him stay. But it just…didn’t seem possible anymore… He sighed and picked up his bag, noticing it was two in the afternoon. Lucifer would be pissed, but did he care at the point? He sighed and left the room, leaving the old fashioned key in the lock as he trudged down like it was a death sentence. He looked around the lobby, seeing it in perfect pristine condition. Nifty and Alastor probably worked some weirdass magic to get it looking right.

He sighed, taking one last look around. Husk was at his bar with Angel, almost fully restored. They found some leftover liquor in the cellar to stock the shelves while they waited to get more in.

Alastor and Vaggie were manning the front desk like usual, bored out of their minds. They both caught Adam’s glance and looked away sheepishly.

Charlie was in the sitting area with Lucifer, talking to Cameron and looking very upset. Lucifer caught his gaze and seemed to perk up. “Adam!” He called out, getting out of his seat and rushing over. Adam just glared and walked faster to the door.

“Adam!”

He walked faster.

“ADAM!”

He started to run.

Lucifer ran in front of him and stopped him a few feet from the door. “Adam! Wait!"

Adam tried to hold back tears, expecting an onslaught of insults once again. “What?”

“Adam, I… I’m sorry…”

Adam scoffed. “Sorry? You think sorry is going to fix this?"

“N-No! But… Cameron told us everything…” Lucifer looked so guilty, it was almost like he was the one who framed Adam.

“And?”

“And he told us he was behind it. He said something about how his plan worked and Charlie made him spill,” Lucifer explained. “Breaking the chandelier, setting Angel on fire, tashing the yard, setting Alastor on fire, setting Nifty on fire, setting Vaggie’s hair on fire… He set a lot of things on fire- But that’s not the point! The point is… He admitted to everything, and we want you to stay…”

Adam just stared. “And?"

“And… And what? I can’t read minds, Adam. Believe me, I tried,” Lucifer said.

“And what are you going to do with him? You thought I did all of that and you kicked me out,” Adam explained, trying to hide his rage. “He’s the one who did everything and blamed it on me. Are you going to kick him out?”

“I… Well…”

“It’s a fucking yes or no, Lucifer.”

Lucifer just sighed. “No.”

Adam shoved him out of the way and reached for the door.

“Adam!” Lucifer grabbed his leather jacket to stop him. “Believe me, I don't want him here either, but Charlie thinks she can fix him. I’m going to try to explain it to her.”

“Don’t try. Do it. Get him out of here.” Adam glared and ripped his arm away.

“Ok…” It was so small and quiet, but still audible from Lucifer's smooth voice.

The two men stared at each other, unaware of what to say now.

“So… Are you staying?” Lucifer asked.

Adam sighed. “Yeah… But only because I have nowhere else to go. The second I have some cash coming in, I’ll do what you want. I’ll be out of your life forever.” He shoved past him and started to head back to his room.

Lucifer followed him. “Adam, please, I said it in the moment!” Now he was the one crying. “I didn’t mean it!”

“You didn’t mean it?!” Adam turned around in rage. “You didn’t mean it when you said we were over?! You didn’t mean it when you said you wanted me out of your life?!”

Lucifer just stared as he cried. “Adam… Addy, please… I’ll do whatever i can to make this up to you. I’ll spend the rest of eternity trying to fix this…”

Adam just shook his head, holding back tears and trying to keep his voice steady. “I’d like to see you try…”

[pagerunner-j]

Fair warning, this is probably going to be incoherent. I haven't slept much and I am in a mood.

-

I have so many criticisms of CR campaign 3, and a fair few about the finale in particular, but here's where I'm drawing a line in the sand. The sort of complaints from people who've put all their energy into clinging onto a pet tragedy, and then whining about how this story "undoes" it, are doing my head in. It's exactly like the complaints about Donna's story in the DW 60th anniversary specials and I hated hearing it then, too. Because a plot that's still willing to grapple with the long-term effects of something tragic, even though the story eventually turns in a different direction, doesn't erase the fact that the tragedy happened. It's just a story that's willing to let its characters change and circumstances soften until eventually, finally, they might find somewhere to put those burdens down. It's a story that's willing to take a breather in the end and be kind.

What in the world is wrong with that?

Seriously, that's the part we're choosing to be up in arms about?

This?

There's a very real point at which I feel like this attitude is a twisted-up mess of some weird sort of sunk-cost fallacy, crossed with grimdark nonsense. Like, to return to DW, Sally Sparrow brooding through life going "sad is happy for deep people" was not supposed to be aspirational. That was self-absorbed drama-queen bullshit from the get-go. Spending all your time wallowing in misery (and especially other people's misery. Fictional misery, even. I mean, how selfish is that? You want all the woe in the world to be melodramatic about, but none of the personal consequences you claim to be All About, because ugh, that might...suck...? Yeah, no kidding) and pretending that that's more real and worthy and smart, and that it gives you a superior perspective to everyone else? It doesn't. It's not a healthy way to live. And insisting that everyone else has to put up with a sad thing forever, too, because you've pinned that much importance and your own self-worth on it, is really just you dumping your own misery on everyone else in order to go on proving your case.

And it is so much worse (warning here from Editor Page: personal rant ahead, because yeah, this is why I'm getting so angry and frustrated) to do that straight at people who've lived through years of very real tragedy, who are desperate for any of that to get lifted and find reasons to keep trudging on, somehow, somehow, wanting some shred of hope fucking anywhere, please, and who really don't need sanctimonious lectures about someone else's own supposedly superior understanding and how I guess people are just shallow and stupid if they aren't willing to wallow in the murk forever while droning on about how that means they know better. Even if they fucking don't. Give it a rest.

...and, um, yeah, that might be me projecting a wee bit. just possibly.

But I'm exhausted with listening to people who maybe need to stop listening to themselves talk for a bit and could use a smack upside the head with the perspective stick once in a while.

The perspective stick I'm holding says this:

The consequences you won't shut up about still happened. And "consequences" doesn't only mean misery and death and that's it forever. As far as I'm concerned, consequences matter a whole lot more if you still have to live with it. That you have to accept that certain things have permanently changed you and you're still bearing the marks, and even if something good comes along, you're still going to have to do the work to figure out how you fit with that, now. But that still doesn't exclude the possibility that better things could come of it. If you can't believe that, what's the point?

Groaning on about how tragedy is forever and it's worthless if it isn't is honestly the easy, lazy, selfish way out. It's collapsing under grief and then insisting that the rest of the world does, too, because otherwise you're feeling called out and invalidated about the fact that you gave in. And personally, especially after spending a good decade absolutely clinging on by my fingernails trying not to do the same, I'm not fucking here for that. Ever.

So yeah. tl;dr: Some of y'all self-absorbed drama queens need to get the fuck over yourselves and try letting some joy back into your lives once in a while.

Rant ends.

*faceplants into a pillow*

[bean-spring]

You can understand Helena's complexity, the reasons behind her actions and the inherent connection between her and Mark that is clearly there beyond questioning if she's Helly or not ("that sort of kinship carry over from innie to outie"), because at the end of the day, she is her (in different circumstances and enviornments).

But that doesn't mean that outside of the poetry and natural attraction between them there isn't the whole question of whether this is right or wrong. It isn't just "this is rape and she's inherently and utterly evil" or "they're the same person and she's also hurt, so it's okay" because that would minimize what the show is working so hard on. And that is fucking with our heads making us wonder who we truly are, what things would make us commit these actions, what truly is freedom, and at what point we stop being ourselves.

Let me make this clear (it's just my opinion): No, it wasn't consensual. Mark didn't consent to having sex with Helena. He thought it was Helly. That part is obvious to everyone. The whole "he said he doesn't care who she is outside, but he cares who she is with him, so it is consensual!" doesn't matter when he actually doesn't know who the fuck she is. He is being lied to. He said that because he thought he was talking to his Helly and didn't care who she was outside because, at the end of the day, despite being the same people, innies are practically born again (socially) and build a personality and experiences from the very beginning, from their very first memory that is appearing in the office (Dan literally refers to this point of their lives as "adolescense" while S1 was "childhood"). And they keep fighting for their rights and individual freedom.

I don't think we're giving this its proper depth, tbh. It isn't just "Helena wasn't Helly here". It's: Helena has way more knowledge than Mark has, while Mark believes they're both on the same page. Helena went there hoping for an experience in specific with him (selfishly), while for Mark it happened way more organically. Helena has said she doesn't view innies as human and has been watching them as if they were a Sims 4 gameplay. For Mark, it's Helly and the fact that their connection goes beyond that night while for Helena it's not that much about Mark himself. There is a clear, obvious power difference in here and she is, after all, for now, one of the antagonists. We can't forget that.

But it isn't just "evil" or "bad" or "cruel". Because Helena, due to the lack of freedom in her own life, is in the same place (in a different enviornment, though and turning that into power over others instead) as them. She longs for a human connection she has never experienced before. She is broken and torn apart about who she truly is. She uses Mark to experience this, yes, but at what point does that turn into real attraction? At what point her jealousy towards her innie and dehumanization of both herself and the group turns into her also realizing she's the same and understanding Mark? At what point does Mark fall for and embrace the kinship that connects Helly/Helena (that guilt and shame and lack of freedom and yearning for love) instead of just seeing double? At what point does Helena stop seeing a chance to experience love to start seeing... Just Mark?

And after ALL OF THAT it still doesn't make it okay to do what she did.

In the most natural, poetic, human perception of this scene, there is a connection between no matter who they are. But memories and shared experiences are also a huge part of ourselves, we do change with them. Both Mark and Helly have said multiple times that they don't see themselves as an extension of their outies and are their own selves. It doesn't matter whether they are the same or not, it's how they see it. Mark never agreed to share his body with Helena specifically and that's taking away from him the chance of choosing individually. His freedom.

In my opinion it was 100% rape but it's way deeper than just that. It's still awful, though, and we have to start learning to embrace complex characters and try to understand them without only being guided by our IRL moral compass.

[7drinklimit]

Seriously - he was a better guardian/parental figure to her than her own mother in that regard. He only ever chose her, even though he liked Peeta better, he understood Katniss. He trusted her and he was there for her, time and again.

Katniss' mother on the other hand - she abandoned Katniss before we even knew her. It's one of the first things we learn about her, apart from the fact that she comes from the merchant district and "was very beautiful once". Through the first novel - in the first few pages - Katniss tells us how her mother sank into her grief so fully that she could not be there for her children.

...all I can see is the woman who sat by, blank and unreachable, while her children turned to skin and bones.

True, Mrs Everdeen seemed to be having a character arc - in the second book, she is always helping Katniss with whatever she can, tending her injuries, and covering for her when the Peacekeepers are trying to catch her outside the fence. Then in D13, she is the one Katniss trusts to look over her prep team, and finally, she helps to nurse Katniss back to health after Prim's death. But at the end Katniss ends up en route to D12, with only Haymitch as her guardian, and she (and the readers) realise that her mother has abandoned her again.

Then I realise what it means. "My mother's not coming back." "No," he says. ... "You know why she can't come back." Yes, I know why. Between my father and Prim and the ashes, the place is too painful to bear. But apparently not for me.

Katniss' mother only technically abandons her daughter twice, but both of those times are at the most painful stages of her life, when she needs her mother the most. After losing her father, Katniss is only 11 years old. She and Prim quite literally need an adult to survive. By abandoning them then, Mrs Everdeen almost killed her children. After losing Prim, Katniss is suicidal - she repeatedly tries to end her own life after killing Coin, and she sinks into such a deep depression after returning to D12 that if not for Greasy Sae looking after her, she would have died. D12 was "too painful" for Mrs Everdeen to live in any longer, but Katniss was expected to bear it, and her mother did not think to be there to help her. Katniss was shipped back to D12, she didn't have a choice. Her mother did have a choice, and she chose to leave - again.

Katniss' mother goes through a character arc in terms of her relationship with her daughter, only to end up right back at the beginning, abandoning her. Sure they can communicate over the phone now, but She. Still. Left.

That's why Haymitch choosing Katniss over and over again is so important. She needed someone who trusted her and was there for her, and despite his imperfections and his alcoholism and his grumpiness, he was there.

haymitch not being being loyal to anyone other than katniss will always bring tears to my eyes

[rosewheresheshouldntbe]

> Rose: We need to cook!

Gas mask sprite by @kalza. Hoodie base sprite by nerdferd.

[thebirdandhersong]

sometimes (very often) I just sit there like ?????????

[zymstarz]

yeah sure that's how i'll [re]come out

[simplydnp]

Stop im rewatching why dan is leaving me bc of ur post theyre so disgustingly domestic i adore them

sometimes i watch that video just to feel something

[sealovinq]

i need friends /gen (slight rant in tags)