#Comma gets political

[austenpoppy]

Dick and Bette Kane - part 2

Edited to add new panels

Part 1 :

Dick and Bette didn't really run across one another for years after Titans West disbanded. Dick was leader of the New Titans then carried on his solo hero career, while Bette remained at the periphery of the superhero community without truly accomplishing anything, though she put herself in the spotlight. In Guy Gardner : warrior #29, she's seen by other heroes on television as she apparently thanks adoring fans (you'll understand the importance of this later).

Guy Gardner : warrior #29

"He" put them into podes showing them virtual realities that were supposed to be about what they wanted most, according to Dick's files. Dick freed himself, Wally did too, and Dick freed Gar. Then they, along with the soul of Raven, inspected their environment and deduced that all former Titans had been captured.

It's interesting to note, though, that during all that time Bette was still trying to impress Dick, and was still somewhat in contact with the Titans. In "Hawk and Dove - Annual 1", she tried to call Dick to tell her about a tennis match she'd just won. Kory was the one who answered, and though Bette called Kory by her name she had to repeat her name and even spell it for Kory (and she thought of Kory as a bimbo, so I suppose she was jealous).

Dick was apparently "not there" (was he really not there or did he not want to talk to Bette ?), and Bette said it was a shame because she "knew" he liked to follow her matches/career (she was deluding herself).

The call ended when someone knocked at her door. Bette wanted it to be someone "tall, dark and famous", and she couldn't help but fantasize that Dick was there. Later on, after an adventure with former members of Titans West and people like Dove, Dove complimented Bette on her skills, and Bette said "Now if I could only convince a certain Titan !" (meaning Dick).

Months or years after, Dick and Bette were both at a Christmas party thrown by Guy Gardner after Dick left the Titans, but the next time Dick truly saw Bette was in the JLA/Titans crossover. Vic had become this almost thoughtless technological being, and captured anyone who'd ever been a Titan in a misguided quest to find his family again.

Dick saw Bette in her pode, and immediately said : "Bette ? Man...Somedoby was thorough." And the "thorough" isn't just in italics, it's underlined. The level of derision and distaste hidden in that comment is unreal. There are other people who didn't spend much time among the Titans, like Pantha, Leonid (Red Star), or Terra II. But the one whose importance to the Titans Dick decided to undermine was Bette.

"Even her ?... Wow..."

JLA/Titans #2

Dick stayed behind to help free the others from their virtual realities. He was very sympathetic to the people and friends he helped, except for Bette.

It's very funny and a bit creepy that "Vic"'s file for Bette and what was important to her basically had two items : "she's very good at tennis" and "she's obsessed with Dick", so the pode had her playing a tennis match against a rather fawning Dick (in his short pants, since she'd mostly known him as Robin) at her beck and call. I mean, it's truly weird. It could have just shown Dick being interested in her - but no, he had to be at her feet, too.

Even weirder is that Bette was actually engrossed by the virtual fantasy. Like, it'd been years. She could've, should've outgrown her attraction/obsession with him at that point. But nope, instead she was playing along and asking the virtual Dick to "bend over" more so that she could ogle his butt.

Dick came right in the middle of it, and he wasn't impressed. He just deadpanned "Flamebird. Sorry to interrupt your game...". Was Dick chanelling Alfred there ? This is exactly the kind of sarcastic and snide remarks Alfred could've come up with - not that Dick can't do it on his own. Obviously, the point was that there was no true game to interrupt, and that Dick wasn't sorry at all for preventing Bette from enjoying the fawning virtual Dick.

JLA/Titans #2

After the crisis was aborted, Bette was seen talking with Toni and Helena (with whom he'd already slept with and been manipulated by) about what made Dick so physically attractive. Bette was the one who mentioned his butt. Dick passed them by and was uncomfortable again.

JLA/Titans #2

Weeks later, Gar was framed by Madame Rouge's daughter for crimes she'd committed, and was arrested. Bette, arguably at her most likable, wanted to help him (using her "Titans" card to get to him) and tried to bail him out, though to no avail.

Unbeknownst to Bette and Gar, Dick went to L.A. to investigate himself. He deduced who the next victim would be, and went to their address, only to be faced with someone impersonating Gar. A fight erupted, and Dick quickly deduced that it was indeed an impersonator. In the chaos, Bette, who'd just understand with Gar what exactly was going on, had heard that a fight had started at Dick Dickerson's house, and had decided to come over to help (knowing Dick was there mind you), barged in and kicked the impersonator in the face.

I don't know what's funnier. The fact that after all those years Bette couldn't help but still call Dick "handsome" as soon as she saw him, her goofy entrance with the corny line "Flamebird to the rescue!", or Dick's open displeasure at seeing her ("Oh no. Not her..."). The fact that Dick, who values teamwork and is usually the one telling people to let aside their personal conflicts while working with other people would take the time to openly express his distaste for someone in the middle of a fight is hilarious.

Beast Boy #3

When Bette came to land in front of Dick, he begrudgingly acknowledged her (as you can guess from the use of the ellipsis before her name and the discontent look on his face).

Bette started cheerfully explaining the situation to Dick, but he'd already found out all of it on his own, so he tried to tell her that he knew everything already, but she kept going. So he repeated that he did know what was going, only she kept going.

The escalation of Dick's answers is very funny. His first "I know, Bette..." is normal. Then as she kept going his second "I know, Bette..." put an emphasis on the "know". And as she kept talking, he literally put his hand on her mouth to shut her up while loudly exclaiming "I KNOW, Bette" (the letters being written in a bigger size).

Dick remained fairly polite considering the situation, but everything about his behaviour couldn't have been more obvious if he'd screamed at the top of his lungs "BETTE WILL YOU SHUT UP ALREADY ?"

Then he told her to stand aside and protect herself while he finished the fight, showing he didn't trust her abilities as a crimefighter (to be fair, no one did). Of course the impersonator used the distraction provided by Bette's arrival and her conversation with Dick to throw them in the pool and escape.

Beast Boy #3

Dick was not happy about that. He immediately told Bette that he hadn't needed her, implying that if she hadn't been there/hadn't been distracting him, he would've caught the impersonator ("I had him, Bette..."). Honestly it's probably true, but also I'm pretty sure Dick wouldn't have made that comment had it been anyone else - he could've also completely ignored Bette to focus on their enemy, and he generally tends to reassure people about their mistakes... Unless he thinks people aren't truly committed to crimefighting/a team, which is probably what he thought of Bette.

I say that because right after, Dick noticed that the police'd just arrived, and told Bette : "Forget it. We've got company. You're the publicity hound. DEAL WITH IT." And when Bette answered the police officer's question, she tried to turn to Dick for confirmation, only Dick'd already vanished.

So he left her to deal with the police on her own by referring to her appetite for public attention, openly calling her "a publicity hound" (calling her out on her attention-seeking behaviour). Then he told her harshly to "deal with it" (implying that since she wanted publicity so badly and sought it out, she was the one who should have to talk to the police), washing his hands off of her, and disappearing without a word after that.

LMAO

"You keep making publicity stunts. You wanted publicity so badly, Bette ? Well then here comes the police. ALL FOR YOU, Bette, and no goodbye."

Beast Boy #3

After that, Bette and Dick met up to free Gar out of prison. Dick bailed him out while Bette was waiting in a car (she was the driver). She drove Dick, Gar and his cousin to a place they could stay at, Dick and Gar had a conversation while Bette and Gar's cousin waited by the car. Then once Dick and Gar were done, Dick told her he wanted to have a word with her. Below is their conversation.

Not included here is Gar's cousin being interested in Bette, and Gar telling him it was a lost cause because she only had the hots for Nightwing.

Beast Boy #3

As you can see, Bette started the conversation by happily mentioning their previous team-ups, as if they were former partners who'd worked together for a long time but hadn't seen each other for a while. And Dick immediately invalidated that by saying there hadn't been that many "old times", putting a distance between him and Bette.

XD YOU TELL HER DICK

Then Dick said what he'd wanted to tell her : that he didn't think she was made to be a super-heroin, and that she should "hang up" her costume. One could be indignant on Bette's behalf, and say Dick had no right to tell her what she should do.

Personally I think he was right, in that moment at least, that he was doing her a favour. He'd done that job since he was a child, he'd done it over a decade, and much longer than many superheroes. Bette hadn't done anything much as a superheroin, and seemed more preoccupied with her status as a superheroin, what it brought, rather than crimefighting itself. It's a shame, as I said when I presented Bette in part. 1, because Bette was a very competent woman, with a unique talent in tennis (for example).

And Dick was more graceful than I would've been in his place considering the way Bette'd treated him, telling her she had heart and was brave (also "spunk" ? Was that Dick's inner Alfred again ?).

Bette stammered that she did try to do the best she could. Dick went on to say that he was flattered that he'd "inspired" her to do this, but that it'd gone too far.

LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE

It wasn't a sarcastic comment, but Dick wasn't really flattered she'd started crimefighting because of him. That's obvious because of the inverted commas used to frame the word "inspired" (the shade those inverted commas signal). Those inverted commas signal that Dick was doubting Bette's real reasons for becoming a crimefighter, that he had to wonder whether she'd become a hero simply because she had the hots for him and wanted to be closer to him.

He then said "You're a good kid, Bette [NDLA : how much younger than Dick is she supposed to be here ? Is she Gar's age, that is about three years younger ? Seems to me she should be around the same age as Dick; the use of "kid" is strange]. You've got a bright future ahead of you. But it isn't in spandex. Anyway, I've gotta run. Take care of yourself."

Again, it may not seem that way at first glance, but in my opinion Dick's wording couldn't have been much kinder. Being a crimefighter is exceptionally dangerous, and can put others in danger too. Dick recognized Bette's good qualities, told her that she had a "bright" future, but simply not as a hero. And he told her to take care.

Bette's obstinated refusal to quit after Dick left is fascinating for me (interestingly, this mini-series is what made Bette a more compelling character as far as I'm concerned). Did she refuse to quit out of defiance ? Was it a way to prove to Dick she was capable ? Did she simply didn't want to give up on her dream ? Had her ambitions gone past the one who'd inspired her and that she still had a crush on ?

There's still a part three to do, but it's going to be shorter.

Part 3

[comma-souptra]

Four minutes is exactly the perfect amount of time for a train to be arriving in

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

Not gonna get into it on the post because discourse™ but I too enjoy Shaun's YouTube videos but find his views on voting etc a bit iffy. I didn't actually come across them on his twitter but I watch his streams sometimes and it comes up there too.

Like to be clear my own plan here is like. Lie to my local Labour MP about not voting for them if they don't get their shit together, but when it comes to it vote for them anyway because what else can you do. Like there's a very real additional human cost to the least awful guy not getting in so I can't really morally justify actually witholding my vote. But I CAN justify pretending (to them) that I'm considering it. And it seems like he's one step further than me on the extremity scale in that he advocates for actually witholding your vote and it's like. Look I get all your reasons. Labour in the UK/Democrats in the US are complicit in some truly awful things right now and I'm absolutely furious about it. But what could you achieve by witholding your vote that you cannot achieve simply by lying about it?

To be clear I'm absolutely one of the most truthful (honesty is a different matter and I don't feel qualified to comment on my own, but in terms of literal truth-telling I CAN claim this) people I know. But this is one of the few situations where I'm like. I think the most ethical thing to do is to lie actually?

Yeah no I'm in total agreement with you there.

At the end of the day, actually withholding your voting or voting for the Green Party as a protest vote are the most useless political actions you can take. Your intention with it doesn't matter when the outcome is the Tories or Republicans getting more power and enacting more of their policies that are going to hurt the vulnerable people that you care about.

It's very LARPy. You insist you're doing something principled and meaningful and acting like a "good leftist", but you're not. Intentions don't automatically equate to outcomes and in this case, we know that they are not synonymous.

Meanwhile, things like directly threatening to withhold your vote can do something, especially at a local level where the candidates are much more likely to actually hear that threat.

I mean, in general, there's a lot more you can do politically at a local level. Local politicians can better hear your demands and are much more likely to meet them. You can often communicate with them one on one and because a lot of people are barely bothered to get involved when the Big Election rolls around, you can get shit done because no one else is there to oppose you.

It's one of the things that really irks me about the withdraw-your-vote crowd because they act is if electoral politics is useless, and completely ignore the very existence of local politics.

Also one of the things I find very frustrating is the way critiques of the labour party or of the democrats are almost never followed up with any action. Like if you want to shift these parties further left, get involved with them. Starting your own party is not gonna work because you won't be able to get the votes or the seats or whatever to have any real power as a party. Good thing there's two nominally left-wing, already existing parties that you can very easily get involved with and push for more leftist policies within them.

When people like Shaun talk about genuinely abstaining from voting and from electoral politics in general, I feel the exhaustion seep into my bones. They're basically advocating for us to hand political power over to the right wing on a silver platter because well, the platter itself wasn't of perfect quality so let's just give the whole thing away, ay?

[therevengeoffrankenstein]

something that strikes me about pw's 'gray' is just how. religious it is. it's very religious. religion plays such a subtle, omnipresent role in it. because of course it does.

[lazyjellyfish300]

12 𝑫𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒎𝒖𝒕𝒎𝒂𝒔 ~ 𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝑻𝒘𝒐

Synopsis: It's the classic Hallmark tale: what happens when you, a business woman from the city, arrives at the family owned O'Hara Christmas Tree farm your greedy boss wants to demolish, and finds much more than you bargained for that fateful night you get snowed in?

CW: x FEM!READER, SMUT(unprotected p in v ,oral (f receiving), creampie, breast play, touch of mirror kink) enemies to lovers ish, DUBCON?(You're both a bit drunk), alcohol, touch of angst, mention of pregnancy

Words: 4.4k

A/N: a little late, mb but I hope it's worth it!😩 I'm on vacation rn but I'm dedicated to making this happen even if I'm a lil behind lolol

Dividers: @/saradika-graphics

12 Days of Smutmas Masterlist 🎄🎁

You certainly weren't in Kansas anymore. Or so the saying went. This time you found yourself somewhere in the Catskills outside of Nueva York. Your high heels crunched on the gravel as you stepped out of your Uber, taking in the grand Christmas tree farm in front of you. 

"O'Hara Ranch" was welded in iron lettering on a black sign above the entrance. You whistled as you took in the expansive acres of balsam fir trees, dusted in a thin layer of snow straight out of a painting. 

It was no wonder your boss was so dead set on this place. You became keenly aware of the biting chill of the countryside as you huddled your arms closer around you, your pink blazer doing little to keep you warm as you started to quake in your Jimmy Choos with your laptop case and singular carry-on in tow.

---- 

Miguel grunted, scratching his lower back as his large, sturdy boots squeaked a little on his kitchen floor, eyes almost as dark as the warm beverage in his mug, looking out in silent disapproval at the black Escalade that pulled up, dropping off what he was certain was another employee from that pesky developer.

Some poor soul who had to be the shot messenger for a CEO who never strayed out of the wealthy privileged fairytale land they lived in, thinking that multiple commas would be enough to get him to sign his life away. 

When would they ever learn? He thought. He puts down his mug on the counter then strides over to the door, placing one of his hats on his head before he goes outside to greet this new imposter. 

---

You shuddered as you reached inside your pocket, taking out the flimsy scrap of paper that contained the phone number for the ranch and dialing it again, hoping to reach this Miguel, or whoever it was you were supposed to meet. 

"C'mon..." 

You shouldn't be surprised if he didn't pick up again. It was no secret that you were the bad guy in this situation straight out of a Hallmark film. 

Corporate business lady visiting a Christmas Tree farm that's been in the same family for decades, beloved by all the locals, who forced them to sign over their American dream to a greedy land developer and demolish it to the ground for a lavish mountain resort, and 2 weeks before Christmas no less. 

Just as the call goes to voicemail, a four wheeler's engine interrupts your train of thought. Just like out of a movie, you take notice of the very tall, dark haired, very handsome rider who sat astride it.

His long sleeved grey shirt did nothing but accentuate his rippling arm muscles, layered underneath a Carhartt vest, complete with a baseball cap and salt and pepper five o clock shadow on his sharp, steely jaw. His lips were plump and relaxed into a subtle frown, complete with thick brows and dark wavy hair that complimented the pair of rich brown eyes he possessed that compared to the slice of Earth he owned. 

"Miss...?" He asks your name with an equally deep beautiful voice to match in slightly bored formality. You could tell it was painful for him to be polite to you like this, if you were the corporate imposter like he thought you were.  

"Yes, hi! You're...M-Miguel, right?" 

His expression remains unmoved. "That would be me." 

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Gorgeous property by the way! Really, it's much much better in person than the pictures-" 

"Right." He replies stiffly. "There's really no need to be so gracious.  I figure you're here for one thing and one thing only." 

"Uh-" you reply, a little thrown off by what he means. 

"And the answer is no. I understand you've got a job to do, but I've told your boss over and over again: no. Five years ago, it was a no. Last month, also no. Come back in a week, my answer will still be no. Thank you." 

He revs the engine, getting ready to speed away. 

"Wait! I really do need you to sign this! From the mayor?" You waved a pink colored document which caught his attention for once. 

Miguel turned off the engine, hopping off the four wheeler and strode towards you. He shoots you a superstitious glance before his eyes flicker to the paper, slowly becoming more enraged as he scanned along the fine print:

 Notice of Eminent Domain. 

That bastard. There was a reason Miguel didn't vote for this prick. The new mayor was part of this recent wave of money hungry idealists in power who wanted to turn the humble town he grew up in into another rich touristy playground. 

Usually, these folks couldn't wait to sign the dotted line, get their check, and be on their merry way, but this Miguel was taking his time reading every last stipulation in the document. You notice the snow is coming down harder and harder, your teeth chattering wildly as you did your very best to stay calm as the relentless cold tested your endurance. Finally, Miguel hands you back the paper with a sigh, 

"Still not signin'. Sorry for wasting your time." 

"Miguel." You felt your patience snapped in half by now. Between traveling all morning, your boss's incessant emails, and the cold ass weather, you had just about had it up to here. 

"I'm sorry. But any complaints you have will just have to be taken up with the big man later. I came with a job to do and I have every intention of doing it." 

"That so?" Miguel straightens up, flexing his height over you. 

You were emboldened by this point through all the bullshit you had endured. "It is very much so. I'm not leaving this damn farm without a signature, and that's final." 

"Hm." Miguel nodded his chin, as though he was calling your bluff before he swiftly turned around, walking back towards the awaiting four wheeler. 

"Oh no you don't!" You huffed as your icecubes for feet magically thawed off of pure adrenaline and spite as you began to sprint. 

"What the-" Miguel looks at you quizzically then his brow furrows when he sees you darting towards his four wheeler. "The hell you think you're doing??" 

You ignore him and climb on, Miguel snickering a little bit at the prim and proper lady from the city now straddling his seat, slightly disheveled with a wild look in your eye from dealing with corporate messes all day. 

"Get down." Miguel says sternly, coming up to stand next to you. 

"No." You answer simply, smoothing your blazer. 

"Don't make this harder than it needs to be." Miguel's tone becomes more warning now. "Get off my property, woman." 

"Sign my document, then." You fold your arms. 

"You're a brat, y'know that?" Miguel folds his arms too, incredulous at your undying persistence, more like annoyance. "So childish." 

"Name calling? And you say I'm the childish one." You turn your nose up at him.

"I'm not the crazy lady jumping on a stranger's four wheeler that she doesn't even know how to drive." Miguel grumbles. 

"You'd be surprised." You glare. 

Both of you just sit there in silence, the snowfall has  escalated to just short of a blizzard by now. You're trying but failing to conceal just how damn cold you are as you shiver and shudder. Miguel's mind brews with some ideas before he speaks. 

"Alright." Miguel sighs "I'll sign your damn document. But I need to show you the place first. Just so you can get an idea of just how sick and twisted you people truly are: tearing down a place like this that's been in the family for generations." 

"What?" You blink, not expecting this change of events. "But I mean- but..." You glance at your wrist watch. "It's almost 4 pm. I was supposed to be on the road a half hour ago." 

"Not in this storm you're not." Miguel tsks his teeth. "They always close the canyon when it snows. You won't be able to go anywhere until the morning. But hey, if you wanna call an Uber and wait four hours for him just to be turned around at the bridge, then be my guest." 

"You-" You shuddered and groaned, exasperated at the fact that Miguel appeared to have the upper hand this time. You were stuck playing by his rules. 

"Fine." You resign, throwing your hands up. 

Miguel smirks at this surrender in you, getting on the four wheeler behind you. He's aware the space between your bodies is now very thin, his chest just barely grazing your back as he leans forward, placing his hands on both handlebars. 

You try not to make it obvious that you can't breathe and realize you might be in way over your head being stuck overnight with a man four times handsome as he was stubborn as Miguel drives you rapidly towards his ranch. 

---- 

"Home sweet home." Miguel hums halfheartedly as you enter the elaborate living area of Miguel's mountain home. Several brown and white cowhide rugs were spread over the polished wooden floors, a large pair of antlers hung over a luxury stone hearth, with an inviting leather couch in front of it. 

A short time later, you're absentmindedly staring at some photographs on the wall when Miguel's voice startles you. 

"Had enough snooping?" 

"I wasn't snooping!." You whirl around, pretending to avert your gaze. "I was admiring the antlers." 

Miguel scoffs. "You're a terrible liar, you know." 

"Who is that?" You ask, voice a little more gentle. You kind of wish you never asked when Miguel's eyes soften with the slightest tinge of melancholy. 

"My daughter." He answers then clears his throat. "She passed some years ago." 

"Oh..." You look at him then back at the photograph of the cheery bright eyed girl in it. "I'm so sorry." 

"Thanks." Miguel answers shortly, crossing over to the bar on the far side of the room. 

"I can see why you don't want to leave." You admit, crossing your arms and running your palms up your arms as the glow from the fireplace worked quickly to rid you of any lingering chill from outside. "For what it's worth..." 

Miguel scoffed again. "You don't need to play the sympathy card to win points with me." 

"I- No Miguel! Of course not!" You look at him in horror. "Really, you think I take pride in doing these things to folks like you? You think I'm some souless corporate ghoul that drinks blood of the innocent?" 

"Yes." Miguel stays deadpanned, with the faintest glimmer of amusement. 

"Oh shut up." You blow air through your lips and stride over to where he's standing by his bar. "What do you have to drink around here anyways?" 

Miguel smiles, the bourbon in his glass had made him feel a little more comfortable by now. He glanced outside, eyes slightly widened in surprise at the complete blizzard that was unfolding outside the frosty window. 

"You might wanna go for something a bit stronger than that." Miguel nods in the direction of the window. 

Your fingers move away from the canned margaritas in the mini fridge. You realize bourbon is also the answer tonight when you lay eyes on the absolute winter wonderland outside. 

You had never seen so much snow in your life, as a seemingly infinite stream of snowflakes littered the staggering blankets of pure white that would be nearly waist deep should you venture back out. 

Even though the night was completely black, the shimmery powder stood out, illuminating the December night among the silent and formidable evergreens. 

"Damn..." You whispered. 

"Damn is right." Miguel polishes off his bourbon. "Another round for me too, when you get a chance." He slides his glass towards you across the polished wood. 

"Please?" You quirk a brow at him. 

Miguel chuckles, the sound deep and a little breathy. The feeling it left you...quite unexpected. "Yes, please."

You hum and fill his glass a quarter of the way after you pour your own into one of the small shot glasses you spied below the countertop, throwing the liquid fire back in one ragged gulp. 

Miguel laughs at the face you make and little cough you let out as your eyes water. "Miss Corporate can't handle a little country bourbon?" 

"Miss Corporate can handle herself just fine." You give him a small harrumph. "Miss Corporate wishes to remind Mr. Country Man that she is still here strictly on business and she has no problem decking him in the face should he continue to mouth off." 

"Hmmm business, eh?" 

"Mhmm." 

"Oh, I think we're way past that." Miguel smirks as he leans forward a little closer towards you. "You're having a drink with your evictee. Can't imagine that's not frowned upon." 

"I've had drinks with clients before." You huff, hastily grabbing the bottle and pouring another shot as if to prove a point. This one went down with less resistance, albeit still just as fiery as the one before. 

"Cálmate."(Calm down) Miguel goes to grab the bottle from you just as you're about to pour a third when the sudden move causes the bourbon to splash a little, ending up on your thousand dollar blazer. 

"You... idiot." You roll your eyes as Miguel snorts. 

"Hey, hey, I'm sorry." Miguel steps towards you, trying to help. 

"Nope, you've done quite enough." You huff, trying to disguise the warmth the alcohol was quickly dispelling all over your body. 

"I insist." 

"Miguel, fuck off!" 

"Come here, dammit..." 

And you're not sure exactly what happened, but in that moment his body was pressed up against yours and your faces were mere inches from one another.

This was dangerous now. You knew it, and he knew it, but for Miguel, he was at risk of losing everything anyway. Who could blame him if he wasn't going to make the most of this...convenient situation that presented itself to him. It didn't help that you were quite easy on the eyes as well. 

He pauses as if holding his breath, those deep, deep eyes completely swallowing you up where you stood, the faint sting of the bourbon you can detect on his lips that he wet ever so slightly. 

"M-Miguel, I really shouldn't, I-" 

And you can't remember exactly what drove your lips to meet in that heady first kiss, or how his touch moved from your face, to your neck, whether you were the one who guided him, or his hands wandered on their own accord to the sensitive swells of your breasts, but here you were, up against this tall, rugged farmer you thought you hated only 20 minutes ago, breathing and panting into his mouth and kissing him like your life depended on it, completely contradicting everything you ever said. 

He began to rock his hips against you, hands now on either side of your head, caging you against the wall. You could tell he loved being bigger than you, finally something he had to humble all the sass you loved to throw at him earlier. A not-so-secret attraction you had for him all this time you feebly tried to disguise with disdain. 

Miguel felt it too, and God, right now he couldn't get enough of all the little whines and sounds you were making. How desperate you got just from a little deep conversation and bourbon. This night was swiftly traveling in a more heated direction, and if he wasn't mistaken by the subtle rolls of your body against his aching bulge in his jeans and the hunger laced in your fingers as they tangled in his hair, you had no intention of stopping. 

"Not so feisty now, are you?" He groaned as he started leaving heated kisses along both delicate junctures of your neck. "Sure you're not gonna change your mind  and go back to stealing my farm, hermosa?" He teased. 

"Oh, fuck off..." You grumbled and then bit your lip, back arching involuntarily when you felt him just barely tug your delicate nipple with his teeth. "Aaah Aahhh, Miguel..." You threw your head back.

Miguel smirks and takes that as permission to lay you back completely on his bar, gently tugging the waistband of your business slacks while he switched between both tits and lapped them with the pointy tip of his tongue, until both buds of your nipples were bumpy and hard from all the attention. "You can still stop at any time..." 

"N-No more asking..." You managed to sputter out as you felt his fingers begin to wiggle against your clothed heat that was steadily soaking from the inside. "Just- fffuck, Miguel, so good...just fuck me..." 

"Mmmm..." Miguel groaned in satisfaction and yanked off your pants, followed by your panties without another word. 

Pure ecstacy rolled off the tip of his tongue and dripped between your warm folds as he began to slurp your pussy up like hot cocoa. Miguel strategically left your high heels on, smirking as he glanced over at the mirror on the wall, seeing the pretty businesswoman half naked and back arched so beautifully, moaning as he ate you out on his bar. 

Despite never knowing your body before, his tongue just seemed to find and hit all the right spots, even the ones you were too impatient to look for when you laid in bed all alone. He sucked, and he spit, rolling your clit so perfectly between his lips and leaving no inch of your pretty pussy unbathed by his tongue. 

He alternated between tongue fucking you where his thick nose squished against your clit, hands slinking up the soft flesh of your hips, encouraging you to grind on his face. When he paused and brought his face up to look at you, you swore he was never more handsome than when his face was shiny with your slick, dripping with the evidence that he could make you wetter than any man you'd ever been with.

And other times, he loved to just stare into your eyes with that same, beautifully mesmerizing gaze that was almost too intense to where you'd have to turn away, only for him to whisper, "ah, ah, mirame..." (Look at me) , while his thumb slowly rubbed over your swollen clit, and his middle and ring finger noisily and wetly massaged your squishy walls. 

"Miguel, baby, so good..." You moaned and you sighed, face twisting into a smile as you bit your lip. It felt so shameless to indulge right now. Your career hit the road the second you decided to kiss him but right now you weren't complaining. Logic took a permanent vacation leaving you with nothing but raw, carnal need. All that mattered right now was spreading your legs for this man, being his whore, riding his face and taking his cock every which way he'd have you tonight. 

Your eyes watered as you felt that familiar feeling swelling in your belly, thighs shaking more unsteadily than before. Your back slightly arched from where you laid on his bar but the pleasure Miguel kept injecting into you with his sinfully delicious tongue kept you right there.

"M-Miguel...I'm gonna cum." 

Miguel went even harder, nuzzling his nose even further into your dripping heat, savoring the dribbling honey running between your thighs and dripping into his mouth. He added his fingers again, fingers normally rough and taut and calloused from all that work he did on the farm became soft, intentional, sensual, and deliberate as he coaxed your pussy closer and closer to releasing all over for him.

Your thighs began to quiver around his head, clamping down, however Miguel would gladly suffocate every time for the cause.

"R-right there, Miguel..." 

"Right here, baby?" He groans, swirling his finger in circles over that tried and true spot on your clit, another gush of your juices wetting his fingers before the flood, and Miguel leans over to clean it up with his tongue. 

Every touch now feels amplified in electricity, bordering on overstimulation as his tongue glosses over your soaked folds, something changing in your brain chemistry as he licked up every bit of your arousal as though it were frosting from a bowl. 

"Still with me?" Miguel whispered, leaning in and making out with you as he scooped you into his arms, leading you over to the couch, the entire room painted in an alluring orange glow from the fire next to the warm yellow lights from the tall Christmas tree. 

You groaned as you tasted yourself on his soft, messy lips, the ember of desire burning hotter than ever in both of you. "Y-yeah..." 

Miguel smiles as he sets you down next to him, reaching over and pulling a fleece blanket over your shoulders. His thumb gently brushed the corner of your mouth as he took you in. The most sobering moment between you all evening. One where the alcohol had some time to sink in and both of you were riding out the end of your high together. A new kind of closeness beginning to set itself alight between you as you wordlessly began stripping off the rest of your clothes and you reached for his. 

"Can I?" You asked and a low groan rumbled from his chest. 

"Please." 

You weren't sure, but somehow despite his sass, his generosity and sole focus on making you cum with no assumption on his part that you would be obligated to do the same for him made you even more determined as you peeled back layer after layer, until he sat there in all of his naked glory in front of you. 

He was absolutely beautiful. The salt and pepper pattern from his stubble on his jaw was repeated in his happy trail, leading to a nice, thick, bush around the base of his thick, veiny, cock (More fun for you when you'd be riding him into next week later on).

The tip was just barely a hint of red as it bloomed with precum.  His legs and arms were hairy as well, stomach soft with just the right amount of pudge but everywhere else was solid pure muscle that could only be found on a man who worked hard in the elements, dark hair tousled a bit that fell in his eyes from your passionate fingers earlier. 

The throbbing ache pounded, the glistening sheen between your thighs was all the lube you needed as he pulled you into his lap. Miguel's eyes remained completely locked on you, softening a bit as he felt himself start to push inside you. 

He had suspected sometime around while you were moaning his name and he was lapping up your arousal like an oasis that this whole encounter was deeper than a hookup, and now, he realizes he's sunk: hook line and sinker as your pussy just grips and squeezes him. He sighs as his hands find residence on your hips, taking pleasure in kneading the soft fat. 

"Take your time...." He whispered as he noticed you struggling a bit under his sheer size, his girth slowly spreading you more open. Somehow though, the stretch felt more rewarding, more sinful as you became fuller and fuller of him as you just allowed yourself to relax. 

Miguel's cock bottomed out inside of you, an experimental twitch of his cock reminded you on all fronts that you were stuffed to the brim. He adored this, he loved being so close to you like this, loved the satisfaction that the woman who supposedly hated his guts at first was now completely putty in his hands as you wrapped effortlessly around him. 

"So damn warm..." Miguel purred as he began bouncing you in a slow rhythm. "Ah, ah, mas despacio, por favor(more slow please)..." He teased, grip tightening as he slowed your hips. "I wanna enjoy you like this for a while." He grunted and groaned, loving the way you just responded with more dripping slick around his base as he leaned in to suck on your tits while keeping himself buried inside. "If I'd known you felt this good I would've dragged you out of that fucking snow a lot earlier." He murmured before his lips puckered over your nipple. 

"Please, Mig..." You rolled your eyes but returned a chuckle with a sigh, gently rolling your hips while his cock remained warm and snug inside you. "I'll admit when you pulled up on that four wheeler, it was kind of hard not think about you bending me over the seat.." 

"Yeahh?" Miguel groaned as he churned his hips, drawing his cock in and out of your sea of wetness. "Shouldn't have told me that, now I might need to make that happen..."

As he spoke, his pace increased faster and faster. 

"Aaahh, Miguel...Miguel!" Your threshold was being tested on how much you could take, but nearly fell apart altogether when he added his thumb back to your clit while continuing to fuck up into you ruthlessly. 

"Come on baby, with me...let go."  

And your highs came in waves, yours first followed by his like a bursting dam. His cum overwhelmed your tight hole, causing it to dribble down the sides in filthy display but you loved it, shoving yourself back down on his cock with naughty enthusiasm. Miguel smirked at you, eyes still slightly dazed from euphoria. 

"Good to see you're not wasting any, baby." 

And before you knew it he picked you up, yelping slightly then giggling when you took the initiative of squeezing your thighs tighter around his waist, cock still softening slowly inside your silky pussy, but beginning to pulse back to life as you and Miguel began making out passionately while he took careful steps with you cradled in his arms to his bedroom. 

Perhaps by now you didn't have a job anymore, the future of Miguel's farm was still uncertain, surely you'd be the talk of the entire town come a few months later when your tummy would be swelling with the evidence of every steamy thing that took place tonight inside this snowed in ranch. But, for now, you had much harder, longer, thicker things on your mind as round two became three, then four, with a surprise fifth in the middle of the night and a sixth in the morning. 

When all is said and done, you could always just blame it on the snow. 

[p0orbaby]

A Drop in the Ocean

summary: you buy barça for alexia

warnings: none

a/n: requested on the back of a similar one i wrote

word count: 1.5k

-

You don’t even think about it anymore, the money. The commas and zeros stopped meaning anything the moment they started adding up faster than you could count. You don’t remember exactly when it happened, just that it did. One day you were checking the balances on your brokerage account religiously, watching the stock tickers on your phone at breakfast, and then at some point—probably after that second meeting in Geneva or maybe the fourth trip to Dubai—you stopped caring altogether. The accounts became endless, infinite, numbers that only existed on a screen and held no weight in the real world. You could buy anything, do anything. You do.

You’ve bought Barcelona FC. For Alexia.

It wasn’t a particularly difficult purchase, and that’s what bothers you, how easy it was. You’d made a few calls, orchestrated a few backroom meetings with men in navy-blue suits who wear Patek Philippe watches but don’t know how to spell "integrity," and within weeks, it was done. The club—one of the most storied institutions in world football—was now, for all intents and purposes, yours. They were failing in every department that mattered, so it wasn’t hard to make them see reason. The board was crumbling under its own corruption and incompetence anyway, the men in charge having long ago stopped caring about anything other than their own salaries. They saw the numbers you offered and couldn’t sign the dotted lines fast enough.

You’re sitting in the back of your Bentley Bentayga—the V8 model because the W12 felt too much, like gilding the lily—watching the city of Barcelona pass by in blurred streaks of sunlight and shadows. You don’t drive yourself anymore; it’s not that you’ve forgotten how, but why would you bother when you can pay someone to do it for you? You’re sipping on an iced Americano from a local coffee roaster that isn’t La Colombe but isn’t Starbucks either—because Starbucks is for tourists and people who don’t care what real coffee tastes like—and tapping your thumb against the cool glass, counting down the minutes until you get home. Home isn’t the place you grew up, or even the first penthouse you bought in Barcelona—God, you’ve already sold that one off—but the sprawling villa in the hills that overlooks the city like a predator watching its prey.

You’d bought the house because Alexia liked it. You had taken her to see it on a whim, even though you knew you’d buy it regardless of her opinion. But she’d loved it, her eyes lighting up in that way they do when she’s genuinely moved by something, not when she’s just being polite or trying to please you. It’s rare, that reaction, and you’ve noticed it only happens when she’s either on the pitch or somewhere quiet, somewhere she can breathe. It makes you feel something, a tightness in your chest, almost a panic, like the world’s collapsing in on itself, but in a good way. If there even is a good way for that to happen.

Your phone buzzes, vibrating against the buttery-soft leather of your seat. You glance at it and see it’s a text from her.

Training's over. Home soon?

You smile, the kind of smile that makes the people around you uneasy, because they never know if it’s genuine or not. It is, but it’s small, fleeting, like everything in your life that isn't Alexia.

On my way. You send the reply quickly, almost too quickly, like you’re not supposed to care that much. But you do. You always do.

You met Alexia when you were young—stupid young—back when you still believed that success was something you had to fight for. She was everything you weren’t: grounded, focused, humble. Even now, with all the accolades and the Ballon d'Ors and the fanfare, she still feels *real* in a way you don’t anymore. She still eats cereal for breakfast sometimes, not some overpriced organic granola shipped in from the Swiss Alps. She’ll sit on the sofa in her sweatpants and watch trashy reality TV with you, her feet in your lap, like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like she’s not the face of women’s football, the woman everyone wants to be. You want to be her too, sometimes.

But then you remember: she’s yours. And you’re the one with the power, the one pulling the strings now. You’re the one who’s going to fix everything for her.

You think about the RFEF, the Royal Spanish Football Federation, and how utterly revolting they are, how they’ve mishandled everything about the women’s game. It makes you angry, but not in the way normal people get angry, not in that quick, fleeting way. Your anger is cold, calculated, the kind of anger that doesn’t make itself known until it’s too late. You’d called in favours—favours you didn’t even know you had—and now you’re restructuring the whole thing from the inside out. The old guard, the men who’ve spent years belittling and undermining women’s football, will be gone soon, and they don’t even see it coming. You’ll replace them with people who actually care, people who understand what’s at stake.

Alexia doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t need to. She already carries enough weight on her shoulders; you see it in the way she moves, the subtle slump in her posture after a long day. She’s been fighting this fight for years, but you can take it from here. You’ll make sure she never has to fight again.

When you finally pull up to the villa, the sky is turning that particular shade of burnt orange that only seems to exist in Spain. The driver opens your door, and you step out, the sound of your Louboutins clicking against the cobblestone driveway. You’re wearing something understated but expensive—a cream-coloured silk blouse from The Row, tailored trousers that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, and a watch that could fund a small country’s healthcare system for a year. You’ve always preferred quiet luxury, the kind of wealth that doesn’t scream but whispers, softly, in the background. Alexia likes that about you. At least, you think she does.

You walk through the front door—minimalist, custom-made, imported from Italy—and the scent of jasmine fills your lungs. Alexia’s perfume. She’s here.

You find her in the living room, sprawled out on the sofa, her legs up on the coffee table, still in her training kit. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands falling loose around her face. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably reading up on whatever the media is saying about the latest match, and she looks up when you walk in. There’s that smile again, the one that makes everything else disappear for a moment, just a moment, but long enough to matter.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft, like it’s only meant for you.

You cross the room and sit next to her, pulling her legs into your lap, your fingers automatically tracing circles on her shins. You don’t say anything for a while, because neither of you needs to. The silence between you is comfortable, familiar, the kind of silence that only comes when two people have been through everything together and still come out on the other side.

“I bought the club,” you say, casually, like you’re talking about picking up milk from the store.

Alexia looks at you, her eyes widening for a second before she catches herself. She’s good at that, at pretending nothing surprises her, but you know her well enough to see through it.

“You did what?” she asks, her tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“I bought Barcelona,” you repeat, leaning back against the cushions. “They were fucking it all up, especially with the women’s team. I’m fixing it. For you”

She doesn’t respond immediately, and you can see the gears turning in her head, trying to process what you’ve just said. It’s not that she doesn’t believe you; she does. It’s just…a lot.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says finally, but there’s no conviction in her voice. She knows as well as you do that you don’t *have* to do anything. You want to.

“I did,” you reply, your voice firm. “Because they don’t care about you. Not like I do”

She looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the conflict in her eyes, the push and pull of wanting to argue but knowing there’s no point. You’ve already made up your mind. You always have.

“Thank you,” she says eventually, and the sincerity in her voice catches you off guard. You’re used to people thanking you, sure, but it’s always perfunctory, transactional. This is different. This is real.

You lean in and kiss her, slow and soft, and for a moment, everything is perfect. You don’t think about the money or the power or the corruption you’ve spent years navigating. You don’t think about the board meetings or the backroom deals or the restructuring of the RFEF. You just think about her, and how she’s the only thing that makes any of it worth it.

When you pull back, she’s smiling, and it’s that smile again—the one that makes your chest tighten and your heart race in a way that nothing else does. Not even the money.

“Let’s go fix everything,” you say, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you already have.

[fairyhaos]

how seventeen act with their writer s/o

requested by anon ^^

masterlist

seungcheol

he is begging. he is on his knees BEGGING you to pls let him buy you a new laptop because the one you use is literally on its last legs and makes ominous sputtering n whirring sounds like a dying cat stuck in a vent every time you start it up. you don't let him tho bc “no cheol the memories :(((“ cuz you've had it for years but he is nearing the end of his tether and who knows. in a few days ur laptop may mysteriously disappear forever and you'll be forced to let him buy a new one

jeonghan

he's like the pet cat you don't own who likes to slink into the room and make inquisitive noises as he watches you work. drapes himself over your shoulders and makes distressed huffs when you try to dislodge him. he's never usually noticeably clingy, but when you try to write, the clinginess always springs out and you can't go five minutes without jeonghan poking his head into the room to check up on you and see what you're up to

joshua

your biggest fan. buys every single novel you write, puts on his glasses, and reads them very seriously in one go on the very evening it's released with the lamp on beside him. he looks so serious every time, but he'll always peer at you over his glasses and then give you a big grin, telling you how much he loves it. gets you to sign a copy for him and brags to everyone he knows that he has your signed novels with special messages just for him that no one else can have

junhui

he's your personal general knowledge bank. when you're searching up obscure things and slowly losing hope on finding an answer, just ask junhui and he'll either a) know the answer or b) knows someone who knows someone else who knows someone else else who knows the answer. don't ask him how to spell words tho bc he's like. hopelessly bad. blinks at you going “what's an [insert word]” before you give up and google it yourself

hoshi

alwaysssss wants to know what you're working on right now. gets all whiny when you get possessive of your work and refuse to show him before it's finished bc come on, it's surely perfect already, why are you trying to hide it from him?? loves helping you do, like, the non writing stuff. writing out plot? nooo. building fantasy maps, figuring out political systems, getting lost on a tangent on figuring out the price of beans in the 1800s? hell yeah sign him up!!! 

wonwoo

knows all the grammar rules in the world. you can ask him stuff like “hey wonwoo can i put a comma here or no” and he'll amble over to peer over your shoulder and tell you whether you can or cannot, in fact, put a comma there. helps you curate all your writing playlists for the different moods you have. gently reminds you to get back to writing whenever you end up scrolling on instagram for too long

woozi

you're even more of a workaholic than he is when in the zone, so he gets to realise how unhealthy it is to be sat in front of a computer for hours straight with no break. you get to act as each other's “let's act like a normal human being now” reminders, depending on which of you is going through a work fixation. you guys both go on runs together in the mornings even though it kills you bc at least it gets both of yo brains kickstarted to spend a day being all creative in ur respective fields

minghao

you value his opinion above anyone else's. above your beta reader's, above your agent's, even above your editor's bc those are more like advice, not opinions. but knowing that minghao likes your work, and knowing which parts in particular he really likes, is so important to you because ultimately, you want the person you love to also love the things that you create. 

mingyu

brings up the fact that you're a writer in every conversation he has with anyone ever. “oh my god look, this menu has writing on it. speaking of writing, my s/o writes actual books as a job!!!!”. your agent made him sign a contract similar to an NDA bc he just keeps yapping about your books even when they haven't been released yet. loves the noises you make whilst you're writing. thinks it's the cutest thing ever when you make overjoyed “AHA!!” sounds when you finally realise what the plot is doing

dokyeom

more than willing to be your rubber duck and let you talk at him until u figure out your own plot holes. he could be in his room scrolling on his phone but the minute you call for him, he's leaping up and bounding over to you and pulling up a chair in an instant, more than willing to let you bounce ideas off him. sits there doing nothing but looking all pretty as you talk at him and work out the tangle you've gotten yourself into. beams and gives you a big kiss when you manage to figure it all out. 

seungkwan

he buys you a biiiig wheely whiteboard and a bunch of coloured board pens to help you plot your novels. when you get stuck, he comes over and stares at the board with his hands on his hips, very gravely considering your dilemma and what would be the best way to get you out of it. you two talk about plot holes like it's the most serious thing in the world and he just nods like a proud father once you both find a solution

vernon

at this point he's like. a professional tea and coffee and biscuits supplier due to the amount of snack runs he does for you. has walked in on you lying face down on the floor during a meltdown one too many times to bat an eye anymore. also great at helping you block out actions during scenes like. he's the perfect doll. lets you maneuver him into the weirdest positions in the world with zero complaints. he just loves helping you however he can, really. 

chan

reads through your drafts whilst you're in the middle of writing, accidentally gets hooked and is begging you every day to finish the novel bc he really wants to know what happens next. he's the best at spotting inconsistencies and plot holes in ur writing so before you even send it off to your beta reader, he gets to have his hands on the manuscript to check for any changes needed. also bc he needs to read the ending asap otherwise he'll probably combust. 

request guidelines

reactions tags: @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @newgirlygirl @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @wonranghaeee @yonabutnotyuna @crackedpumpkin @wqnwoos @kthstrawberryshortcake-main @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @icyminghao @valenhui @sweet-like-caramel @odxrilove @kyeomyun @chansburgah @pepperonijem @jeonride @kellesvt @kikohao @astrozuya @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @all-american-fangirl @f1uffyjun @sea-moon-star @nonononranghaee @isabellah29 @mcu-incorrect @hrts4hanniehae @suraandsugar @pan-de-seungcheol @dokyeomkyeom @melodicrabbit @bananabubble

[cosmicviolencce]

money talks. possessive!rafe x kook!reader

warnings: nsfw, unprotected sex, degradation, mirror sex, almost caught, possessive rafe.

the annual gala event was one of the most awaited events for the Cameron family. not just for the shows, for the ostentation of their sofisticated clothes — except for rose, because the outfits is all she could think about. — it was important for the family reputation, for their bonds with businesspeople and their connections with charitable committees.

sarah was too busy with her pougue life, no longer interested on these kind of events. so when Rafe proudly introduced you to his family, so gracefully polite and sofisticated, you immediately conquered your place in the Cameron family. Rafe found himself absurdly anxious, craving for his father approval like he always did since he was just a little boy. Ward loved you, loved how you asked questions about his job or showed interest about their conquiers in the business world. you were a brilliant girl, the perfect kook, and proper to be one of the faces with the family when his daughter no longer showed up.

how relieved rafe was when he saw how well you delaed with his family. he admired your social abilities, and it would he of great help of you accompanied your boyfriend on those boring events. and oh, he loved to show you off. he didn't even hide his wide smile, his eyes trailing down your body as he proudly carried you around the salon and exhibited all your grace; all faces turned up to his golden girl. and you felt amazing, you were right where you knew you belonged since you were a kid; surrounded by powerful people, all dressed in diamonds and getting all the attention you deserved.

you couldn't wait to show the whole island how the Rafe Cameron could get so soft for you, and only for you, running his hands trough your hair and pressing tender kisses to your forehead publicly. some people would die to be in your shoes and you loved it. your neck and ears were heavy in jewelry, rafe's wrist shone with his golden Rolex. Christian Louboutin hugged your light steps around the salon, and your arm was tightly wrapped around your boyfriend while you laughed to all that people, your smile shining at their compliments and Rafe had to contain his eyerolls, his possessiveness barely suppressed.

"hey, babe, I need a touch up" you said, needing to make sure your lips were still tinged in a hypnotizing shade of red. rafe guided you to the bathroom, waiting outside like a guard dog. you felt stunning, admiring how the silky dress hugged your curves in the mirror. bending over the marble sink, you make sure your skin remain perfect and your lips stunning with a dark red lipstick. you looked so pretty, and rafe's been struggling on not to allowing his cock to harden under his suit. he stared at the restroom´s entrace, realizing he finally had a chance to have you alone. his jaw tensed as he looked around, heavy breaths trying to make his heartbeat steady, until he gave up.

"fuck this," he muttered, invading the restroom and locking the door. you gasped in surprise, furrowing your brows, but he was already crowding you with wolfish hunger shining in his eyes, one that you could only see when he was angry of when he had too much coke, that determined aura that made his moves more heavy.

"rafe?" you tried to connect the points in your head, and he was getting closer.

"just shut up, princess. god, you look so pretty in that fuckin' dress," he reached for your jawline, lifting your face. he was breathing heavily, hovering you like a fucking wolf caughting its prey. he turned you around and pressed your backside against the marble, rolling his hard cock against your things and you moaned, "look at this shit, how the fuck do you expect me to hide this, hm? that's your fuckin' fault."

"rafe..." you whined, his grip wildly tight and his dick now rubbing against your clit, making your legs tremble.

"nah, don't 'rafe' me. you're gonna solve this, princess," he commanded, pressing a kiss at your pulse point while he freed his cock from his pants. he looked so hard you could almost feel his pulsating without even touching it. "aren't you?"

you nodded quickly under his palm and he grinned in satisfaction, letting go of your face. "that's a good girl," he lifted your dress to your waist, putting your lacy panties to the side and parting your folds with his cocktip. "fuck." he panted out, feeling how wet he could make you with a simple stimulation.

you whined like a fucking slut, rolling your hips against his tip in an attempt to bury his cock inside you, and he could only smirk widely. but he wasn't in the mood for games, he was desperate. so in a shift move, he jerked his hips foward and forced himself inside you, his head falling back with a groan. you barely had time to stretch before he started moving.

"'s okay baby, you can take it. jesus christ, so tight f' me," he muttered trough parted lips, that pleasured face with the hunger in his eyes was a dangerous combination and only made your core twitch tightly.

he thrusted you in a hurry, letting out short breathy sounds against your shoulder while he curled his body in your direction for a better angle between your parted thighs, your boobs bouncing with every thrust. his fingers dig deep into your thigh, possessively painful, and you had to suppress those sweet sounds in your throat. you looked down to where your bodies met, his cock was hitting that spot inside you and his length wasn't even thrusting entirely inside you. fuck. rafe always made you feel so filled.

he pulled out and turned you around, bending your body over the sink again. "take a look at yourself, babe, suck a fuckin' tease," rafe commanded as he made his way inside you again, his hands now squeezing your asscheeks and pressing you against the sink as he admired your reflection with a grin. you opened your eyes to find your face contorted in pleasure, those furrowed brown and your lip between your teeths as he fucked you restlessy, muttering curses under his breath.

only a few thrusts and rafe already wanted to cum inside you. he groaned, squeezing your flesh harshly. "holy fuck, look at these fuckin' tits. they're jumping out, babe — shit..." rafe slapped you hard and you had to cover your mouth to contain a scream, your back arch at the sharp pain; your walls almost swallowed his delicious dick, "takin' me so well, that's a good girl."

"rafey—" you meowl out, hands splayed over the cold surface of the sink to support your weight as you leaned in even more under the fuel of his praises, your hips lifting even more for him. "please..."

such a heavenly vision.he had you wrapped around his finger.

"such a slut, begging for my dick," he parted your red asscheeks between harsh thrusts, pressing the pad of his thumb against the tiny button of your ass, making you squeeze him in all your holes. your glossy eyes shut down, and it was even more difficult with your clit pressed against the fucking sink trough your panties, the friction increasing with every single thrust, "gonna fill you up, princess."

"h-holy fuck, rafe," you cried out, sobbing with a shaky breath, "'m coming."

your boyfriend nodded, biting his lip. he couldn't take his eyes off your reflection, so obscene, fuck, he loved that. every reminder of how much he owned you was a booster to his ego, and just the thought was enough to make his cock throb even harder.

"'s okay, angel, i gotcha," he leaned in to press kisses all over your bare neck and shoulders, squeezing your ass before slapping it down again and with a final whine, your walls embraced his thick cock as he reached for your g point over and over again with a smile of someone who knows what he's doing. you trembled, feeling the accumulated tension in your tummy fade into waves of sharp pleasure all over your body. your breath was loud, coming out in sharp gasps. "such an angel 'f me," he murmured against your skin, his pace still restless "fuck— gonna cum, babe, ah—" he leaned back to look down, his thumb still pressing your tiny hole while your slick covered all his length. rafe groaned, his cock throbbing ropes of his cum inside you. he stayed like that for a moment, making sure you would take every drop of his cum while he held your weak and melted body in his arms, your breaths steadying slowly. with a squelch, rafe pulled out from you, making you raise your head from the sink.

"wait a sec, babe," you watched as he took some papel towels, wiping the dripping cum from your cunt before cleaning his cock. rafe leaned in to lower your dress, one hand soothing the aching flesh of your ass. rafe pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, straightening his spine to fix his tie with a serious face; as if he hadn't fucked you in that sink and filled your pussy.

"i'll be waiting outside, don't be long," and he left, leaving you there, looking like a mess. you didn't know where to start as you stared at your picture, still too cockdrunk to react.

fuck rafe cameron for always leaving you like this.

[elfwreck]

I have a friend who isn't anti-porn but it makes her sad that fanfic has a reputation for being porny and usually not very good. I'm fine with both those things and my views mostly align with that of AO3. I disagree with the idea that porn and badness are treated as equivalent, but for most people that's just how they think. But I was wondering if youve ever written something about this?

There is a lot of smut at AO3.

There is a lot of bad writing at AO3.

There's a lot of badly written smut at AO3.

...None of those are problems except for the people who think there is something wrong with those existing, or that there needs to be some external value that "balances" those that make those acceptable to exist as unwanted side-effects of "the good stuff."

The badly-written smut is also "the good stuff."

It's part of the reason AO3 exists. It's not intended to be an archive for "the high-quality fanfic that could be published if it weren't about characters that someone else wrote first"; it's an archive for "what fanfic writers want to write." That makes the terrible writing and the tacky porn and the badly-written tacky porn part of the reason the archive exists.

Tangent 1 (I'll connect these points later): Theodore Sturgeon said "90% of everything is crud." He was more-or-less referring to the science fiction field in the 50s, but it definitely extended to politics, business, and writing outside of science fiction.

...He was talking about published books in the 50s. Turns out, a lot more than 90% of writing is crud when there aren't any gatekeepers between it and the readers. But also:

Tangent 2, from the book "Art and Fear":

[A] ceramics teacher announced on opening day that he was dividing the class into two groups. All those on the left side of the studio, he said, would be graded solely on the quantity of work they produced, all those on the right solely on its quality. His procedure was simple: on the final day of class he would bring in his bathroom scales and weigh the work of the “quantity” group: fifty pound of pots rated an “A”, forty pounds a “B”, and so on. Those being graded on “quality”, however, needed to produce only one pot — albeit a perfect one — to get an “A”. Well, came grading time and a curious fact emerged: the works of highest quality were all produced by the group being graded for quantity. It seems that while the “quantity” group was busily churning out piles of work – and learning from their mistakes — the “quality” group had sat theorizing about perfection, and in the end had little more to show for their efforts than grandiose theories and a pile of dead clay.

You don't get to "quality writing" without going through a lot of crappy writing.

That doesn't mean the crappy writing is garbage to be thrown out. If you make 50 pots or bowls or vases, and only one of them is The Good One... most of the rest are okay. Maybe not sale-quality good, but your-kitchen-table quality good. Maybe some aren't that good and are kids-toy-in-the-sandbox level good.

Bad writing has a purpose for the writer: they can use it as practice to get better. It has a purpose for the reader: It can serve as inspiration ("I can do better than that") or grammatical instruction ("that...does not work; why doesn't that work?") or just as entertainment ("eh, so it's missing a few commas; I can still understand it").

Smut and porn writing works the same way. It's of some value to the writer, and some to the readers.

It's not of value to everyone. That's what tags and filters are for, and why there's a summary and list of stats (like word counts)--so you can figure out if you're one of the readers for whom this piece of writing is useful or interesting.

But AO3, like any library, is not there to take the top 5% of Excellent Writing and provide it a showcase. It is absolutely for all 50 lbs of pots.

If your friend wants to read the good stuff, there are rec lists and collections to help her find it.

If she already manages that, and is just annoyed at how much of the not-good stuff (however she defines that) exists... she's picked the wrong battle. She's arguing with the ocean that it has too many kinds of fish and some are poisonous a lot of them are ugly.

[sanjisluvbot]

As Above So below

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Synopsis: You had your entire life just beginning, fresh into college, and as a treat, you were going on a trip across the world where you find out what your father truly does for work and why you were able to move into a nice new home. A normal young girl thrust into a world where she needed to relearn everything she ever knew and escape the clutches of an assassin clan who wanted her as a wife.

The next few days following your run-in with Raian in his hotel room left you uneasy. As time flew by in a blur, you tried your best to stay in your hotel room with your mother. Making eye contact with your mother every time she needed to go somewhere made you feel like a dog waiting to be adopted in the pound.

The island, with its golden sands and crystal-clear waters, now felt suffocating, like an elaborate cage designed for your entrapment. Your mother, despite all the stress and her growing suspicions about your father’s involvement in this web of chaos, kept her usual facade of politeness up, not fully understanding the danger you were in. 

But you knew. You felt it in every look Raian gave you, in every near encounter you had when you tried to escape him. He never gave up. Even when you were alone, you felt his presence looming in the background. It was a constant asphyxiating reminder that you couldn’t hide, not for long that is. 

It was late evening when the inevitable happened. You were walking to the lobby, trying to sneak away to the beach for some brief solace, when you turned a corner and found yourself face-to-face with Raian. The hallway was empty, but you could feel the weight of his stare like he had been waiting for this moment. He was dressed in all black once again, his presence imposing, his gaze dark and intense. "Where do you think you're going?" His voice was low, almost a growl as if he was daring you to lie.

You froze, panic rising in your chest. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, to get away from him. But you knew that wouldn’t work. He’d just chase you down again. So, you stood your ground, defiant yet trembling on the inside.

"I'm going for a walk," you muttered, but it sounded weak even to your own ears.

Raian stepped closer, his height towering over you. He seemed almost unfazed by your resistance as if he already knew how this would end.

"I think you're missing the point, wife," he said, his lips curling into a faint, dangerous smile. "You belong to me now, and no matter where you go, I'll always find you." His voice softened for a moment as if savoring the words. "I told you, you can't escape me. You're mine."

You took a step back, eyes wide with fear, but there was nowhere to retreat. He was blocking the exit.

“I’m not your wife,” you snapped, your words biting despite the knot in your throat. “And I’m not yours to claim.”

Raian's grin only grew wider, more predatory. “You’ll learn soon enough.”

Before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, his grip hard enough to bruise. “We’re going back to the room,” he insisted, his voice a growl as if the conversation was over. He didn’t give you a chance to protest, dragging you toward the elevator with the ease of someone accustomed to getting his way.

"Raian, please," you pleaded, your voice trembling. "Don't do this."

You wanted to slap yourself silly, you had never in life been a woman who backed down—especially when it came to men, no matter how big, how strong, and how much they tried to mold you into being this docile little thing they get to control. You struggled in his grip, reaching out and grasping the walls and anything in your vicinity. He laughed at you when you slipped, almost colliding face-first with the shiny patterned flooring. In the last moment, he yanked you by your already bruised wrist into his chest.

“ See wife, you need me.” 

The moment you stepped foot inside the room, he slammed the door behind you, locking it with a click that made your heart race.

“Sit down,” Raian commanded, his tone a stark contrast to the softness he’d shown earlier when he’d dried your hair. He was done playing nice.

“I’m not going to stay here,” you said, defiance creeping into your voice. “I’ll leave if I have to.”

Raian’s eyes darkened further, his jaw tightening. “You’re not fucking going anywhere.” His words were simple, yet they carried the weight of an unspoken threat.

Before you could react, the door to the suite opened, and a voice you recognized—though barely—cut through the tension.

"Raian."

Your breath caught in your throat. The man who stepped into the room was an older version of Raian, his posture commanding, his eyes sharp with authority. The resemblance between the two was undeniable, but this man exuded something darker, something more terrifying. The way he surveyed you, his gaze not just critical but calculating, sent a chill down your spine.

The older man was calm, his presence heavy with the kind of power that made the room feel small and it slowly crept into your chest to smother you. 

"Grandfather," Raian murmured, his voice taking on a more respectful tone than you’d ever heard him use. 

The old man’s gaze flickered briefly to you, taking in your shaking form, before turning back to his grandson. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice smooth but laced with an edge. "She doesn’t seem to be cooperating and her mother is even more of a hassle, I plan to speak to her father in the morning.”

Raian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes lingered on you, possessive and unwavering. "She’s stubborn," he said, "but she’ll come around."

The grandfather’s gaze remained cold as he stepped further into the room. "You know what I want, Raian. This family is counting on you to make this work. I don't care how you do it. But you will make her yours. One way or another."

The words hung in the air, suffocating you.

"You understand, don’t you?" The grandfather's eyes narrowed. "If you fail, this family will suffer. “We have spent centuries to create you Raian and your offspring will surpass anything we’ve ever seen, this ordeal needs to be settled before the Kengan tournament is over."

Raian’s expression darkened, his hand clenching at his side. “I’ll handle it,” he said through gritted teeth.

"You better," his grandfather replied, voice firm. "We don’t accept mistakes."

As the old man turned to leave, he glanced back at you with an unsettling look of satisfaction. "We wouldn’t want any unfortunate incidents with our new extended family, granddaughter. Don't make me come back here to remind you."

Raian’s jaw clenched as the door shut behind his grandfather. The weight of his words lingered like a shadow of a demon in the room, and you realized just how trapped you were.

Raian’s hand gripped your arm once more, this time with less gentleness. "You heard him," he said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "You're mine. And you will learn to accept it."

You tried to pull away, tears brimming in your eyes but his grip tightened. "I will never accept this," you spat, your words heavy with defiance.

Raian’s eyes flickered with something darker, something obsessive. "You will," he said with certainty. "You’ll learn, sooner or later."

And as he led you to the bed, every part of you screamed for freedom. But you knew it wasn’t coming. Not yet. He threw you on the bed and before he could fully loom over you, you kicked him right where the sun doesn’t shine with all the strength you could muster. He choked and fell over clutching his pants, you took this sliver of a chance and raced to the door jerking it open. 

You never once looked back as you ran, tears freely falling, and more bruises to appear in the morning when you collided with the walls. When you finally made it back to your hotel room your mother was waiting impatiently with the phone in her hand. She saw your face riddled with fear and immediately knew you had another run-in with Raian. 

In her arms, you cried. Everything that was supposed to be amazing and beautifully filled with memories on this trip turned into something out of a nightmare on Elm Street and Raian was playing Freddy. Having your father betray and sell you off for money had been fully realized at this moment and it felt like your heart was being torn in half. You had always thought that by this age you would meet a nice guy and he would romance you like you met once upon a dream. Everything you knew meant nothing in the face of the Kure clan, you were their new prey, and they planned to do everything to make you bend and mold to their will. When you finally calmed down and changed out of your clothing your mother told you about her most recent phone call that led to a small lunch she had today. 

“ Today I had lunch with the CEO of Nogi group, I had called up every contact I had that I believed could help me and after a lot of awkward ‘no’s’ I was given the contact of Mr.Hideki. We met more lunch in the lounge at a private table,” 

you nodded, trying to process everything she was saying as you picked at the edges of your shirt, the remnants of your earlier panic still coursing through you. You were safe for the moment, but you couldn't escape the feeling that you were walking a tightrope, with Raian and his family waiting on either side.

"So, Mr. Hideki," your mother continued, after a brief pause. "He’s not a man to be trusted easily, but he has connections. More importantly, he has leverage. It’s why the Kure clan hasn’t been able to touch him directly, at least not yet."

You frowned, still not quite understanding. "But why would he help us? What does he get out of this?"

Your mother sighed, glancing down at her hands. "When we met, he didn’t want to talk openly. There were too many eyes around, so we communicated through notes, in code. It was a way to make sure we weren’t being listened to."

You raised an eyebrow. "Code?"

"Yes," she said, a faint smile crossing her lips as she relived the memory. "Mr. Hideki is old school. He had a small notebook with him, a few sheets of paper, and a pen. At first, he didn’t speak. He just wrote something down and slid it across the table to me. A simple line: The walls have ears."

You blinked, uncertain. "The walls...?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "He meant there was a possibility of surveillance—someone watching us. And just like that, we were speaking in code. Each note after that, he’d write something down and I’d follow up with my response, using subtle phrases that we both understood. He wanted to make sure that even if someone was listening, they wouldn’t be able to piece things together."

Your mind raced, the picture of a clandestine meeting forming in your head. You could imagine your mother’s unease, the weight of being in a room full of danger, yet having no choice but to play the game. She looked exhausted, but there was an undeniable sense of determination in her eyes.

"He asked about your father. You know, the jackass who I thought was just a business man, working on all those high-profile contracts. And he made it clear he knew exactly what the Kure clan was doing. He told me that he could help us—get us out of here and make sure the Kure family couldn’t reach us again."

A lump formed in your throat. "How? How can he help us? I don’t understand."

Your mother leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, as though the walls might still be listening. "He said the Kure clan doesn’t just deal with assassination and criminal work. They have a network—an entire web of power and influence that stretches far beyond what we see. Mr. Hideki's connections run deep. He has allies who owe him favors, and he has people who would move heaven and earth to get their hands on the Kure clan's secrets."

She paused, making sure you were following, and you nodded silently, waiting for her to continue.

"He promised he could get us out. But not just in the way you’d think. If we disappear now, if we run away, they’ll send their best after us. Raian, especially... he’ll stop at nothing to make sure we stay. But if we let Mr. Hideki leverage the right people, if we make the Kure clan believe we’re gone for good… they’ll think they’ve lost. And that will be our window of escape."

You exhaled sharply. Your mind was spinning, processing this new possibility. You’d always dreamed of escaping, but you never imagined it would be like this—like slipping out of a spider’s web without it even realizing.

"Mr. Hideki wants us to disappear—completely," your mother continued, her voice tightening. "But it won’t be easy. The Kure clan is relentless, and if they find out what we’re planning, it’ll be over before we even start. He wants to be sure that no one can track us, not even Raian. He’s already made arrangements to get us somewhere no one will think to look."

"And what do we have to do?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"We need to trust him," your mother said, her eyes meeting yours. "We need to play along with his plan, be patient, and make sure we don’t give the Kure clan any more reason to suspect that we’re trying to escape. It’s going to be dangerous, but if we can get out of their sight long enough... then we can take our next step and leave all of this behind."

You felt your heart racing in your chest as you considered the weight of your mother’s words. It was a plan, a fragile one, but a plan nonetheless. And as uncertain as you were, you also knew that without it, you’d be trapped forever in the Kure clan's grip.

"And Raian?" you asked quietly. "What about him? What if he finds out?"

Your mother’s face hardened, the calm resolve returning to her features. "Raian is a complication we’ll have to deal with. But for now, we need to keep our distance, and we need to make sure he doesn’t suspect anything. Once we’re out of his reach, we’ll handle the rest."

You could see the exhaustion in her face, but there was something else there—an unmistakable resolve. You couldn’t deny it. Your mother was going to do whatever it took to protect you, even if it meant playing a dangerous game with people like Mr. Hideki.

It wasn’t going to be easy. In fact, it would likely be the hardest thing you’d ever do. But if there was even a chance—just a small chance—that you and your mother could escape the Kure clan, then it was a risk worth taking.

And so, together, you began to plan your escape. One careful step at a time.

🏷️: @ninacutebee16 @arans-princess-reblogs @imaginarydreams @black-girl-anime-lover (anyone else wishing to be tagged please lmk in the replies <3)

A/N: Well… do you perhaps want MORE ??? with that…😊 enjoy and comment pls !!!! quick edit: I hope everyone realizes just how funny Y/n and her mother are and are going to be throughout this story, this will be unlike many arranged marriage stories before especially having Raian as my lead.

[softguarnere]

Memories Feel Like Weapons

Edmund Pevensie x gn!reader

Summary: “People can be different. They can change. You’ve changed.” Gently, you use your pointer finger to hook his chin and turn his face towards you, making him look you in the eye. “You’re a good king, Edmund, and an even better man. A good brother. A good boyfriend. Everyone has forgiven you for what you did as a child.” A/N: What's up, y'all?! It's been freezing these past few days and I hate it! 🥴 So this is for all you other lovelies who are currently being plagued by SAD 🫶🏽 Also, in case it's not clear in the fic, for the purposes of the story, we're just gonna assume that reader's parents also sent them off to the country during the war to stay with the professor, that they met the Pevensie's there, and went to Narnia with them. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! ❤️ Warnings: Edmund has SAD but it's Narnia so it's never actually called that, the author is (once again) overusing commas

As interesting and as magical a place as Narnia is, you’re willing to admit that diplomatic negotiations are something that usually bore you to tears.

You try to take an interest, you really do, for Edmund’s sake. Political wheeling and dealing is his bread and butter. You’re not particularly adept at it yourself. Edmund has tried to explain the finer points to you many times, but it’s not something that you can wrap your head around. But maybe that’s just because you get too distracted thinking about how good looking your tutor is. Sometimes you raise a question or a particular point that you know he’ll jump to answer just to see how passionately he talks about his favorite subject. As far as you know, he hasn’t caught on yet.

Today proves to be different, though.

A chill in the air greets you when you awake. A crackling sound from the corner tells you that a servant has crept in at some point and started a fire in the hearth to stave off the cold. Blinking to adjust your eyes to the light, you’re greeted by the type of cold, white sunlight that announces a wintery morning and the season’s signature magical touch that often appears overnight – snow.

You leap out of bed, gasping when your feet kiss the cold floor. Hurrying to put on slippers, you wrap yourself in a fluffy robe and hurry to the door.

Edmund hates the winter. He hates the snow even more. No one can blame him for that. But you’re the only person he’s confessed this to.

Sure, his siblings might suspect as much. Those first few years in Narnia, no one dared suggest that they play in the snow whenever it arrived, for fear of what it might imply, and for fear of inadvertently upsetting the youngest Pevensie brother. After a few more years, he would find excuses to be tucked away in his library on snowy days, and no one would breathe a word of the fun they had without him while he was around. A delicate subject and a fine dance around it, to say the least.

It was only last winter that Edmund confided in you, and only because you had recently become a couple. He said the winter was hard enough on its own, but the snow brought back too many bad memories, ushered in nightmares so vivid that he sometimes woke up questioning what was real and what wasn’t.

This is going to be a rough day for him, to say the least. Which puts a damper on the mood, since ambassadors from a nearby kingdom are arriving to negotiate trade – something he was so looking forward to.

“Edmund?” Your voice seems too loud for the quiet library, and the echo makes you flinch slightly at the loudness of your own voice, at the desperate quality it holds.

Stepping further inside the room, you listen, and tune into the crackling of the fireplace along the far wall. You follow it until you can see the chairs in front of it, and in one of them, Edmund, slumped over a large tome, asleep.

He’ll have a crick in his neck from sleeping that way, you think. If you hadn’t known why he was here, finding him in his favorite place like this would be sweet. It still tugs on your heartstrings, yes, but in a different, heavier way.

“Edmund?” You gently shake his shoulder before stepping back.

The Just King startles awake, his book slipping out of his lap. His eyes are wide and wild as they flick across the room, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. Finally, they land on you and soften. “(Y/N)?”

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light, casual. “If you say that your neck doesn't hurt after sleeping like that, then you’re a liar.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The painful popping noises that echo from his spine say otherwise, but you let it go. Slowly, he rises, stretches, and then takes a step closer to you and plants a kiss on your forehead. He sighs through his nose. “Today is the day.”

You slip your hand into his, intwine your fingers. “How are you feeling?”

Edmund shrugs. His relationship with his siblings has improved leaps and bounds in all the years that they’ve spent in Narnia, but sometimes he still hesitates to show certain emotions around them, to express himself the way he should. Sometimes it’s easier when it’s just the two of you in a space like this where he’s comfortable.

“I’ll manage.”

“If you’re not feeling up to it – “

He squeezes your hand. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a day that I have to get through.”

“Spring will come again,” you assure him, using the mantra that you often whispered to comfort him through last year’s winter season.

“And we will greet it with open arms and grateful hearts,” he finishes. He attempts a smile, but it looks more strained than usual. “Don’t worry, darling. Everything will be fine.”

. . .

It is almost immediately not fine.

The ambassadors arrive in all their splendor. Fine fabrics and shimmering jewels assure that no one can take their eyes off them as they enter the hall and approach the five thrones. They bow to Peter in the center, to Susan and Lucy on his left, then to you and Edmund on his right. Servants carry golden trunks behind them. They have come to these diplomatic negotiations bearing gifts in the most literal sense.

Though you will all retire to a separate chamber for the actual negotiations, the gift giving is a public affair for the whole court to witness. And because it’s so formal, it’s rather slow.

Strong weapons forged of foreign metals are gifted, followed by clothes of their country’s latest fashions, and small samplings of food for each of you, a different dish for you each to try based on what the ambassadors have heard about you.

Thank goodness you’re a good actress, because the ambassadors seem to think that you really do seem excited to try the food in the bejeweled silver container that they gift to you. In reality, you’re trying your hardest not to grimace at the unfamiliar looking treats inside of it, and trying hard not to become preoccupied wondering if the taste will be as . . . unique as the smell that emits from them.

“And finally, for King Edmund,” one of the ambassadors says with a bow before presenting a silver container to Edmund with a flourish. “I have heard a rumor that you are quite fond of these.”

Thankful for a distraction from the gift in your own hands, you turn your attention to Edmund. Sitting beside him, you are in full view of the show that his siblings are not. You can see the rosy color, the powdered sugar. The Just King’s smile immediately falters. Strong hands clamp the container shut before anyone else has the chance to see what’s inside – Turkish Delight.

For a moment there is nothing but silence, the labored sound of Edmund drawing a breath. It goes on just long enough that his siblings glance at him. Only then does Edmund seem capable of forcing himself to smile, to nod, to thank the ambassador for such a thoughtful gift. If his siblings sense that something might be wrong, they don’t even know the half of it.

Because what has just happened, really? Is this a slight on behalf of the other country’s rulers? Or do they genuinely have no clue the implications of their actions?

As the exchanging of the gifts comes to a close, Edmund coughs into his fist, clears his throat. Does it again. He thumps the flat of his palm against his chest.

Peter turns to him. “Are you alright?”

“I think I just require a bit of fresh air, if you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Edmund replies. He says it far too quickly, and he uses the excuse to dismiss himself from the hall. The silver container that holds the Turkish Delight has been abandoned, left behind on his throne.

It takes everything in you not to race after him, to follow him, to make sure that he’s okay. Instead, you’re stuck helplessly glancing between the doorway that he’s disappeared through and the ambassadors who won’t seem to shut up.

Finally, the niceties end. The other king and queens of Narnia begin to migrate into a separate chamber with the ambassadors to begin the negotiations.

Quickly, quietly, you catch Lucy by the sleeve of her dress and lean in close to her ear. “I’ve got to go find Edmund,” you whisper. “I’m worried about him.”

Lucy’s eyes go wide, but she holds her composure under the watchful eyes of the court and the visiting representatives. “I’ll cover for you,” she whispers back.

As one of the five Narnian monarchs, you don’t technically need anyone’s permission to leave – except maybe Peter’s, since he’s the High King. Still, you’re the only one who’s not a Pevensie sibling, which can sometimes be a little isolating. Knowing that Lucy has your back boosts your confidence as you slip away, heading for the nearest place that you think Edmund might have disappeared to.

A quick search reveals that he’s not in the library. Or the armory, or any of his usual haunts. As a last resort, you duck into his bedroom, and it’s there that you find him, standing before the hearth, staring into the flames. His hand holds the place on his side where the White Witch stabbed him on the battlefield, though the gesture seems absentminded.

“Ed?” You make your voice soft so as not to startle him.

He looks up, eyes wide, surprised anyway – and hurt.

You don’t waste time asking if he’s okay. Instead, you cross the room to meet him in front of the fire. “Oh, Edmund.”

He doesn’t bother lying and saying that he’s fine. That’s how you know it’s bad. When Edmund Pevensie goes quiet, retreats within himself, it means that he’s truly wounded. This is something deep inside of him that aches, that rots.

Not knowing what to do, you take a seat on the rug in front of the hearth. You’re careful not to touch him, trying to offer him the space if he needs it. But he follows your lead and takes a seat, too, which seems like a good sign.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You just sit near each other, staring into the fire. Edmund looks very numb when he finally says, “I didn’t mean to leave like that. I just . . . panicked.”

“No one blames you.”

“Seeing that stupid Turkish Delight – “ He shudders. “I can’t figure out if it was a poor choice given with good intentions, or if it was a slight on my honor, a reminder of what I did.” He frowns. “I suppose to some people I’ll never be Edmund the Just – I’ll only ever be just Edmund, The Traitor.”

“No,” you protest. Space be damned; you grab his hand in yours and squeeze it, like that gesture can also grab his attention, infuse the meaning of what you’re about to say to him so that he cannot ignore it. “Edmund, you’ve changed. You’re not a traitor.”

“Anymore.”

“People forget that I was there, too,” you remind him. “I tried to follow you to Jadis’ castle.”

“That was different. You were trying to stop me from betraying my family.” His brow furrows at the memory. “So I shoved you into a snowbank and ran off without you. And then you went back to Beaver’s the help the others. (Y/N) the Loyal,” he employs the epithet that Aslan gave you, but you can’t be sure why. Because of what you did then? Because you’re here with him now?

“People can be different. They can change. You’ve changed.” Gently, you use your pointer finger to hook his chin and turn his face towards you, making him look you in the eye. “You’re a good king, Edmund, and an even better man. A good brother. A good boyfriend. Everyone has forgiven you for what you did as a child.”

Edmund shakes his head. “But they haven’t forgotten. And I can’t, either, if I’m being honest.” He doesn’t meet your eye when he confesses, “It haunts me, the memories. Every winter.”

“No. But you can do something else.” You pause to make sure that you have his full attention when you make your suggestion. “You can forgive yourself.”

Edmund blinks. As smart as he is, it seems like the thought has never occurred to him before now.

“It doesn’t have to be now,” you assure him. “It’s not an instantaneous thing. Just . . . something to work on. A project. An ongoing one.”

Silence falls between you again as he turns back to the fire. It takes a few moments before he nods, the light shining off his dark hair and his crown.

“I’ll work on it,” he says, resolved. He turns back to you, and when he speaks again, his voice is so unsure, so timid, that you have the sudden urge to hold onto him with one arm and use your other to draw your sword and fend off anything or anyone in the world who might come near and cause him harm. “Can you help me do it?”

You nod. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” he clears his throat, shakes his head. “I’m going to need more than my own forgiveness for being late to these negotiations.” He makes no move to get up. His gaze wanders across the room, as if seeing it for the first time, before landing on the window and studying the portal to the frozen, white world beyond it.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t feel up to it.” Then, trying to lighten the mood, you bump your shoulder against his. “I’m sure Susan and Lucy ganging up on the ambassadors will give them a run for their money.”

Edmund chuckles, settles back on the rug. “Good, because I honestly don’t think I can look into the eye of a person who tried to give me Turkish Delight without hitting him over the head with my sword.”

Even though you’re in a relationship, it’s maybe the most vulnerable that Edmund has ever been with you. He places his head in your lap and stares into the hearth as you card your hands through his dark locks.

“Spring is coming soon,” he mutters, his voice heavy with the sleep that’s trying to catch up with him. “Maybe then I can start over . . . Would be nice to not have to worry about freaking out over a bad gift and embarrassing myself in front of the whole court.”

“Spring will come again,” you remind him, voice soft in case he’s already dropped off to sleep. “And we will greet it with open arms and grateful hearts.” Then, for good measure, you add a new line to aid you through your latest challenge. “And it will allow us to start over.”

[boyswillbebuggsorsomething]

If I Saw Him, I’d Still Kiss Him - pt.1

Spencer Reid x M!Reader 

Summary: After a case, the BAU has a night out at O’Keefe’s, which unexpectedly reunites Spencer with someone he hadn’t expected to see ever again

Warnings: Vaguely inspired by If I Saw Him, I’d Still Kiss Him by McCafferty but specifically the last verse (or at least that’s how it started, it really doesn’t seem like it in this one but it will come into play in the next few), cursing, drinking/alcohol consumption, kinda insecure Spencer, Spencer is very overwhelmed for the first half or so, mentions of clawing off skin to describe feeling overwhelmed, no physical descriptions for R other than looking kinda dead inside, R & Spencer’s past is somewhat inspired by Trees & Trees II by McCafferty (but that isn’t really expanded upon in this, it will be later though), probably ooc, so many commas, I think it switches from third person to second person perspective but I’m pretty sure it works?, NOT PROOFREAD OR EDITED

A/N: This is my first time ever writing x reader and it kind of sucks so I’ll probably rewrite it someday but I had to create this storyline. I also haven’t written any fanfiction since I was in middle school so yeah this is kind of chaotic, a lot of this was written on notes app after chugging two monsters back to back and praying it turned out okay AND IT SHOWS. Also, I fully forgot about Ethan’s existence until I started writing this so there might be similarities but I did not intend them if they’re too close. And I know this was originally going to be a fic where they go to Vegas and the reader still lives there but I hated writing the case and it turned out really horribly so now it’s this. THANK YOU SO MUCH IF YOU ACTUALLY READ THIS THOUGH.

Word Count: 2169

Spencer hadn’t planned to go out the night after a week-long case. All he really wanted to do was go home and rewatch Dr. Who for what must have been the hundredth time, too exhausted to even read. However, the rest of his team had other plans and he was (somewhat) reluctantly dragged to O’Keefe’s to get drinks.

A few drinks in and he was already regretting coming with them. It was crowded and just a few degrees too warm and loud in the way that only a bar can be. The lights were low to the point that he had to strain his eyes just to have an adequate amount of spatial awareness. It was all just a bit too much, and for Spencer, a bit too much really meant he wanted to claw his skin off. He tried to sit through it a bit longer out of politeness, the stubborn nagging in the back of his mind that never quite went away telling him that only one wrong move and they won’t like him anymore. Logically he knew it was untrue, the BAU was his family, but going through high school and university in the formative years of his early teens still clearly had quite an effect on him. So he sat with the team at their table, fingers drumming on the side of his glass as he tried to pay attention to whatever escapades Garcia was recounting. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Someone a few tables over was laughing. Loudly.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

A man at the bar was yelling, too drunk to decipher his words. 

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Someone at his table was looking at him. Asking something.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

JJ laid her hand on his shoulder and it was just the last thing he could deal with. 

“Spence, you alright?”

He tensed immediately and he barely made out her question before he stood up jerkily, nodding slightly.

“Yeah, yeah, I think I just need some air. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Alright, do you want someone to come with you?”

Spencer simply shook his head and walked away, leaving no room for questioning. Dodging too-warm, questionably drunk people, he elbowed his way to the door, muttering hushed apologies when he bumped into people and fiddling anxiously with his fingers. When he pushed open the door, the cool bite of the autumn night hit him in the face, calming him only slightly. The fist clenching his heart loosened the smallest bit as he leaned back against the brick wall and closed his eyes, taking in the deepest breath he could manage. Despite the city sounds, he began to relax. Drinking when he was this exhausted had clearly brought his tolerance for anything at all down quite a bit, and the regret of going out settled deep in his chest. He tried to ignore it though. He might hate himself in the morning, but it was on him and his inability to say no. The dark of the night enveloped him comfortingly as he closed his eyes, resting his head back against the wall. Spencer still fidgeted with his hands, but not with the anxious fervor the action held within the confines of the bar, now in a soothing motion, helping him regulate his thoughts and feelings.

His peace was interrupted when a young man who had clearly seen better days stumbled out of the bar, muttering to himself in annoyance. Spencer ignored him at first, expecting him to go elsewhere. He did not. Instead, the man took his place by Spencer, slumping against the wall in an almost pitiful way. There were shadows under his eyes, the kind that comes not from a lack of sleep, but an exhaustion that makes its home deep in your bones, and there was a grayish pallor that had taken to his skin, only exacerbating the fatigued look that seemed to possess the man. Spencer attempted not to stare, but something about this guy was familiar. The slope of his nose. The shape of his lips. The colour of his eyes Spencer could swear he had seen in much closer quarters before. 

He fished out a packet of cigarettes, Newports, from his jeans, as well as a lighter. The man glanced at Spencer as he placed the cigarette between his lips, to which Spencer simply shook his head. The two men stood silently against the wall, only the flick of the lighter, the soft exhales of smoke, and the sounds of the city to accompany them. The longer Spencer looked at him though, the more he felt like he knew this man. Somewhere behind his ribs he felt that ache of the past, the one you get when you look at old photographs and realise you will never be that child again. He knew this guy, he was sure of it. 

He spoke up after some time, voice shaky with hesitation, “Sorry if this is a strange question, but have we met before? You seem extremely familiar.”

“Dunno, might’ve. I haven’t been living here very long,” He responded hoarsely around the cigarette, introducing himself with a slight nod and half smile, raising an eyebrow to ask Spencer to do the same.

“Uh, Dr. Spencer Reid.” Spencer smiled a hesitant, tight lipped smile, his heart beginning to race with an unfamiliar excitement as he realised he most definitely knew that name, which seemingly earned a small laugh from the man, a look of amused confusion gracing his features.

“No fucking way.”

“Sorry?”

“Spencer Reid? Really?”

“Yeah? Is- Is there a problem?”

“No, no, just- Used to know a Spencer Reid. Ages ago though, back when I was in middle school,” the man chuckled, breathing out a cloud of smoke, “He was in fuckin’ highschool though, but same age as me. Full on genius, swear to god. Shit, that’s- Wow, what a coincidence.” The man shook his head, a bemused grin across his lips as he took another drag.

Spencer paused, his face twisting together in a strange mix of joy, shock, and confusion. This man, this strange man who suddenly appeared at the same bar Spencer went to at least once a month with the team, was exactly who he thought he was. He knew him. He knew you. 

“You lived in Las Vegas, didn’t you?” Spencer tried to hide the elation he felt at this sudden reunion.

“How’d you know?”

Spencer simply smiled. He might not have been the greatest at social cues, but he knew you would know exactly what he meant. And you did. 

Looking at him now, you realised this stranger was most definitely the same Spencer you’d grown up with. He’d grown into his features, his eyes no longer buggy behind his glasses, his smile no longer crooked. His hair was styled neatly, no longer the whirlwind of misplaced strands he had as a child. He still fidgeted endlessly, just as he did when he was young, and he still possessed that kind nature that had emanated from him so freely years ago. Somewhat more hidden now, but there nonetheless. This willowy man was the same person as the boy you had rode your bike to school with. The same boy who helped you with your homework when you were too tired to study. Who held you when you broke down in sobs after you told him you liked boys. Who was your best friend until he wasn’t. Somehow, you couldn’t help but smile. You hadn’t seen him since you were, what? 14? A decade or so ago now. And all of a sudden he was in front of you. 

“Seriously?”

He nodded, still smiling.

“Holy shit. It’s been ages! What’ve you been doing, other than getting, like, a million PhD’s and all that?” You took the cigarette from your lips, letting it burn freely as you spoke.

“Well, it’s only 3 PhD’s, two bachelor’s,” Spencer corrected without thinking, earning a small huff of laughter from you, which left his face heating up slightly, “Um, I work with the FBI now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he continued, speaking with his hands, “I’m a profiler for the BAU, or the Behaviour Analysis Unit, which actually used to be called the Behavioural Science Unit when it was first created, and before that-” he cut himself off, pausing slightly as he became suddenly aware that he was starting to ramble, “Sorry.”

“Nah, I like hearing about ..stuff. That much hasn’t changed. So, what do you do as a ‘profiler’?” You said the word with exaggerated mysticism, waving your fingers slightly and grinning as his face lit back up.

“Okay, well, we analyse the behaviour of criminals in order to catch them. So, things like how they treat their crime scenes and disposal sites or even the crimes they commit can tell us a lot about what causes them to do what they do and with this we create a profile, hence the name profiler, where it will describe the suspect in aspects of appearance, past, relationships, all sorts of things, and we are able to find them and lock them up with it.”

“Oh, wow, cool. So, what are you doing here instead of doing… all that?”

“I’m here with my team, they’re inside, we just finished a case earlier today. Uh, what about you?”

“Haven’t been doing all that great recently so I wanted to drink until I wasn’t thinking about much of anything,” You sighed, punctuating your sentence with a small, bitter laugh before placing your cigarette back between your lips. For a moment, Spencer couldn’t tear his eyes away from your mouth. The menthol cigarette burning, the foul scent wafting around both men.

“You hated cigarettes when we were kids,” Spencer observed, crinkling his nose slightly, confusion in his tone. He knew people could change, of course he did, but you held such a disdain for cigarettes and their smoke as a child he hardly expected you to ever take up the habit.

“Yeah,” you huffed, exhaling a cloud of smoke before putting out the cigarette on the wall behind you, “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise, it doesn’t really affect me, but it is horrible for your health. Which you undoubtedly know already. Drinking as a way to forget things also isn’t healthy. It actually has detrimental effects on the mind and body in the long run-”

“Yeah, I know, Spencer,” you sighed, pushing away from the wall, “Well, I only came out to blow off some steam and to smoke, so I’m heading back in. You gonna stay out here or go back in with your team?”

He paused for a moment, usually it took him a bit more time by himself to fully relax, but surprisingly enough, your presence had seemingly worked just as well. Just as it had all those years ago. 

“I’m gonna go back inside, I think,” Spencer confirmed, following you back into the bar.

You nodded, and the two of you made your way back inside. Before you split apart however, you stopped him. 

“We should get together sometime. Actually catch up.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah.”

“Uh, here,” you muttered, grabbing out a pen from the same pocket that held your cigarettes and lighter, promptly grabbing his wrist and scrawling out your number on his hand, “Call me sometime. Sorry if you still have, uh, that thing about touch.”

Spencer didn’t respond, he simply watched bewildered as you slipped away into the crowd. A moment spent silently standing in the crowd made him realise just how much he had missed you, the few moments you had shared already leaving him wanting more time. As far as he knew, you still lived in Nevada, but he hadn’t spoken to you since you had started highschool. The last time you spoke, you were doing.. worse than before he left for uni, but you had always refused to elaborate, all he re was a lot of rants about wanting to drop out. He always regretted not keeping in touch, but you hadn’t exactly made an effort either. It was strange though, how quickly you slipped back into such an easy familiarity in a short time span. He wondered briefly what brought you here, what made you leave Nevada for Virginia of all places. He was jolted out of his train of thought when he heard his name called, his attention dragged back to the table the rest of the team occupied where a clearly drunk Penelope was waving him over, giggling about something or other. When he sat back down, he noticed the amusement on the others’ faces.

“So,” Penelope began, wagging her eyebrows suggestively, “Who was that?”

“What?”

“The guy you were with, who was he?” She clarified.

“Oh, just an old friend. I knew him back when I lived in Vegas, believe it or not,” he explained, pursing his lips in a half smile.

“An old friend, huh?” 

“Please don’t make this weird,” he groaned in half-annoyance, half-amusement.

A/N: Thank you all who read this, it really isn’t very good but I really love the character I’ve created for R and am really excited to expand upon it. The next installation of this will follow Spencer and R as they slowly build up their friendship again, and start to actually notice their feelings, and all of that good stuff.

[magicalwitchbread]

Not part of the usual content, I just want to raise awareness about the disgusting thing happening in Greece the past two years.

On Febuary 28th 2023, a crash between two trains happened at Tempi. It was a head-on collision because they had been going on the same rail in opposite directions for 12 whole minutes. Set a timer for 12 minutes and just sit there not knowing you are headed to your death.

57 people lost their life. Most of them college students. Among them were a pregnant woman and her husband heading back to their hometown of Thessaloniki to announce their pregnancy to their parents. They never got there. The last message her mother sent her was "Πάρε με όταν φτάσεις" (Call me when you get home). They will never see each other again.

The only surviving passenger of the first wagon is still in a comma today. Adonis Georgiadis, the minister of labor of the current government, dared suggest that he has been wasting government resources while in the hospital.

The thing is that most of the victims came from the explosion that followed the crash and not the actual collison. But still, two years later, all experts agree that the materials the train had documented carrying were not nearly enough to create an explosion of this magnitude.

Before enough evidence was collected and any type of punishment or responsibility was assigned, the government poured concrete all over the crime scene under the guise of trying to get the county's railroad system back up and running.

This action has hindered the courts attempts to collect evidence to solve the case. But the site was not the only piece of evidence conveniently altered or destroyed. Still, today, the court assigned this case is looking for videos of this God forsaken train that passed through various train stations with fully working security systems, and somehow, none of them have any recordings of it. The only video surfaced just this week, two years later. Voice records from the phones of the victims screaming and crying for help were put into cds, and they were destroyed. They were found in the court's trash can with staplers through them, making them unreadable and thus useless. Even though the county's emergency line was called various times from the site, all the recordings of the calls, that they are obligated to record, but one are somehow nowhere to be found. The specific judge assigned the case lost their child after uncovering a significant piece of evidence that was never released to the public. The parents of the victims have reported attempts to bribe them in order to either drop their charges or delete social media posts and official statements regarding the case.

Apart from the corrupt government destroying evidence because they are trying to cover something up, their statements to the media have been nothing sort of disgusting and dismissive. Specifically, the prime minister of the country, Kiriakos Mitsotakis, said multiple times on multiple news segments that he does not know more about the case than the public and that that's how he believes it should be, in an attempt to avoid questions regarding assigning responsibilities and the accusations that the government is trying to cover something up. The minister of labor disgustingly stated that the lawyer representing the victim's families, a political opponent of theirs, is obsessed with this "accident" being labeled as a crime because if it is, her compensation would skyrocket. What Adonis Georgiadis failed to mention is that she is doing it for free.

Their supporters with any kind of power try to suppress the people protesting as well. This week, attendees at a basketball game chanted about the tragedy, blaming the government. "Γ*μω τον Μιτσοτάκη, γ*μω την πολιτεία, δεν ήτανε ατύχημα ήταν δολοφονία" (F*ck Mitsotakis, f*ck the government, it wasn't an accident it was murder). The players clearly stated that they were not bothered and infact agreed. The referees, on the other hand, stopped the game and refused to continue unless the protesters were evacuated, effectively silencing them.

These sad excuses of human beings are still governing Greece and not serving justice two years later. That's why the Greek people have organized marches on Febuary 28th in every single major city to demand justice. Most schools are being siezed by students for the day. Most working people are going on strike. Most businesses will be closed for the day. All these are happening as the minimal form of respect paid to the victims and to join the marches.

We know they are going to downplay the number of people that join in the marches as they have done in the past. We know that the police will attempt to break it up. We know it is going to be a long way to justice, but we are all willing to fight for it. United under the phrases that have hunted us these past two years. "Δεν έχω οξυγόνο" (I don't have any oxygen). "Πάρε με όταν φτάσεις" (Call me when you get home). "Δεν ήταν ατύχημα ήταν δολοφονία" (It wasn't an accident it was murder).

If you are in Greece, try to join the protests and stay safe. Wear a jacket with hood to protect your skin from any chemicals. Have surgical masks, ideally K-95, and Malox at hand to stay safe from the tear gases. Don't go to the protests alone, and make sure to help people in need if you can. Look out for hostile police officers and, if possible, for kids or teenagers that join because there will be many.

[toorumlk]

Hey! Do you think there’s any chance they might not make Romione canon in the upcoming HBO series because of the popularity of other pairings and JKR’s somewhat recent statements concerning the ship?

fair warning this is gonna be a long post!

you know anon, i’m not gonna deny that the possibility of romione not being canon in the hbo series doesn’t keep me up at night HOWEVER COMMA-

I believe romione will be safe because i’m placing a lot, if not all, of my faith in the upcoming hbo series being repeatedly described as a "faithful" adaptation of the 7 novels. which we can deduce to mean romione friends to lovers slow burn endgame and all that good stuff (maybe i'll talk about the potential of book romione and the serial tv medium some other time)

and sure, it can all be marketing/pandering/etc. but i find it so hard to feel cynical about hbo because i love LOVE their shows and i'm of the belief that they know how to tell a good ass story (and romione happens to be a good ass romance subplot). i also have such positive feelings about the showrunner Frances Gardiner (consulting prod on succession and also has killing eve under her belt) who JKR chose herself and one of the exec producers of the show who's set to direct of a bunch of episodes Mark Mylod (succession, the menu, tlou, got)!!!! and if you know me at all you'll know that succession is one of the main pillars of my personality and i fucking love that show so bad I would follow anyone who was part of the making of that show off a cliff if they asked me to. and Mark Mylod is a fantastic fucking episodic director who's directed and produced some of the best episodes of television ever, so i know he knows how to tell a good story. and though i'm a lot less familiar with Gardiners' work, she is a female creative who has some of my personal favourite episodes listed in her imdb (chiantishire, living+, tailgate party) who's pitch of the show made joanne give her the job so.... and y'all know im a canon bootlicker and love the books so all i'll say is.. real recognizes real.

so knowing the creative team behind hp series had a direct hand in making my favourite show of all time gets me so excited and giddy!!!!

but here's where my personal theories and speculations start: I really think with this hbo series, JKR is on a mission is create something wholly and newly hers. she was barely involved creatively in the production of the movies until DH pt. 1 and 2 and the movies have almost become an entity of its own that's drifted so far away from her. of course i realize me even just talking sympathetically about JKR is deeply touchy and might piss some people off but as a fellow creative, i feel for her man!! when i think of the best books in the series in my opinion that are filled with the best bits of world building and political commentary, what i find is that GoF was handed to a director who didn't even read the book, OotP was the shortest movie in the franchise despite being the longest book and how it entirely missed the Quibbler plot and all of harry's rage, or HBP that was filled to the brim with *chefs kiss* tom/voldemort lore which was done a complete disservice in the grey and brown sludgy mess that is the HBP movie.

and knowing that JKR now has a strained relationship or had a falling out with most of the top dogs involved in the films like Kloves and Yates (hallelujah what who said that) and Emma Watson and Daniel Radcliffe means this show has the chance to be a behemoth that’s entirely joanne’s, like the books are. it’ll be free of Kloves' Hermione and harmony (harry x hermione) favouritism or Watson's take on Hermione's character that makes my ass itch or Yate’s complete inability to direct his actors and make non-action scenes have heart, soul and heft. but i also can’t not address the elephant in the room: this section of the discussion is filled with every shade of grey possible because what led to the falling outs was that they all vehemently disagreed with JKR's anti-trans views and good on them they absolutely should! but like.............. i hated kloves' writing and his butchering of ron's character, i think yates is a static and boring director and im not a fan of emma's acting so like... a win is a win? NO IT'S NOT. but IT IS. BUT IT'S SO NOT. but do you see what i'm getting at???

the point i'm trying to make is that joanne is not the same person she was when she was first writing the books or when the movies were being made. I think she's a lot more ruthless and cutthroat now and while i disagree with her methods and condemn her transphobia.... i think this newfound hardness to her will lend itself to making the hbo series the best HP adaptation it can be, I'M SORRY it's absolutely fucked and i acknowledge and abhor her gender critical politics as a queer woman but im also an artist who just wants good, high quality stories to be told 😔😩

and as for the other popular ships and JKR's somewhat recent comments about romione:

I think its safe to say that joanne dgaf about this fandom and what's popular in it anymore LMFAOOOO 😭😭😭 i genuinely respect that she's always stood ten toes down about how draco's not some antihero, bad boy love interest and at best is a cautionary tale on prejudiced bullies, so I don't think that's changing anytime soon. especially considering that the dramione cottage industry that its fans have made is more or less a reactionary "fuck you" to joanne and canon which they do by writing fanfic about crimes against women and making merch and binding physical copies of said fanfics (really showing it to the big baddie transphobic DV survivor by *checks notes* auctioning hermione off as a sex slave) so I doubt she'd ever consider other ship's popularity seriously. as for the possibility of harry and hermione becoming endgame um..... if the show plans to faithfully adapt the books then we'd get harry and hermione’s quintessential sibling dynamic plus we’re already free from Kloves (also i have faith in francesca and mark knowing that harmony are just plain BORING) so i think the chances, again, are low. and if joanne really wants to stick it to her old colleagues, she can go down the route of pushing romione that much harder (and she really wouldn’t have to do much, it’s all in the books already) 😭

as for the comments on romione that she’s made in recent years, i think a lot of it’s been blown out of proportion or have gone through a terrible game of telephone. what she said (paraphrasing here) about ‘wishing she’d handled ron/hermione differently because a lot of what went into them was a wish fulfillment fantasy’ has turned into ‘jk rowling regrets making romione endgame???!!’ which is just *takes a drag from a cigarette* just another tuesday around here. i also would link to two meta posts by @saintsenara on the topic of endgame romione which i wholeheartedly agree with it

all i have to say is that going into making this show i hope joanne remembers that she based ron’s character off of a person in her life she liked when she was younger and who is still a good friend of hers now 😭😔

you guys probably know i’m in animation school which is basically film school in a different font. so i’m quite literally training to one day work in the story department on projects and work alongside writers, directors and producers, so this stuff means a lot to me! she and the creative team behind this upcoming show have the chance to make something really special and i’m finding it hard not to root for them!!!!!

[elysian-hell]

Rich Yanderes x Gossip Columnist! Reader

Heir of Deception (HoD): Introduction (unedited)

TW: Unhealthy behaviors (Not much in the intro but in future posts? :}?)

If you had asked yourself twenty-four hours ago what your first goal would be for today, it wasn’t exactly getting detention. Detention actually felt just a little ridiculous since you were a whole ass adult, but this wasn’t a normal college either. 

…and you weren’t necessarily an average student here. 

(Y/n)(L/n), yes that’s right, the only child of the (L/n) family. They are known as the creme de la creme of journalists, every newspaper wanted or envied them. Political drama? Mama elbows her way through the second rate investigators to get the scoop. War torn countries misrepresented? Daddio is there in the tents with the refugees to get first hand accounts. They were known as the unbeatable team. If there was truth to be heard they’d get it down with the written word. That is until you all hit some hard times. Readers didn’t always want the cold hard truth anymore and in a world where the profit is the end all be all this was a harsh reality. When push came to shove and some hyperboles and lies made the papers sell; your parents refused to cave and lose credibility. Jobs became scarce and that meant downsizing as well. 

The journalistic integrity and stubbornness gene passed down alive and healthy into you as their child. But that isn’t to say you didn’t have your differences in opinions. You see, you were the bread winner of the family as a teenager because you took the jobs that were beneath your parents. Tabloids, blogs, talk shows, podcasts, if there was slander to be found on a celebrity, you found it. In the bushes with a camera? Yup. Sneaking into the backrooms of exclusive clubs? You betcha. Maybe a mishap or two on a private yacht? Regretfully, yes. And even though this was garbage news that real journalists scoffed at, it kept dinner on the table. It bought back your old house. It provided for your family. Is it actual important information that needed to be said? No, of course not. Does it up hold what you know to be true in this world? Yes. 

Men ain’t shit. 

Everyone lies.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely, and nothing is more powerful than money. 

You just had one last job on the horizon. You and your folks would be able to coast comfortably for the rest of your lives off of this. There’s a college that anyone with a bank account lacking a certain number of commas has never heard of. It’s where all of the bratty rich young adults get shipped off to as a last ditch effort to become a “proper heir” to their family fortune. You’d think that they’re adults and there’s no way they could be forced to go to anything of the sort. But then again most people you know would also fold like a soggy piece of paper if their chance at a hefty inheritance was being threatened. Especially, if that’s all you’ve ever known. All of the nasty little secrets the 1% doesn’t want you knowing about their lives are tucked away in the mountains of some Scandinavian town no one has heard of at Hail Mary College, school of second (and final) chances. You have a fake identity, an in, and a full ride, now all you had to do was get the dirt. 

So, when the sons of the wealthiest and most controversial families somehow ended up in detention on the first day of classes, you put on your big girl pants and broke a rule or two yourself. The clock ticked away in the silent room as you swirled your pencil through the air. This was going to be too easy if today was any indicator of how the future was going to go. From the back of the classroom you had a clear vantage point of all of your targets. 

Way in the front row was Arthur. He came from old school money and acted accordingly. He was raised to know that he’s better than anyone and maybe ran with that a little too hard. Definitely, a type A sort of guy. His uniform was always buttoned just so and he always was calculating his next move. Unless, his ass was planted in detention. Then he would just fume in his seat, pencil creaking under his iron grip. 

Near the front but closer to the window was Clayton, or Clay as most people referred to him. He tossed a rubber ball up in the air and lazily snatched it on its descent. Clayton was as American as apple pie and spurs on the back of boots. His familial wealth was based in oil, and lots of it. With a laid back attitude you’ll see him most days outside trying to play any of the prissy rich kid sports this school provides. He’s used to football but he’ll take what he can get. If he were to describe why he were here he’d just roll his eyes and say that “the ‘rents thought it was time he lock in.” 

Between you and the window was Hendrix, a rock god among men. With his chin resting on his knuckles he watched the clouds cast shadows over the autumnal browning field. The final years of his teenagedom were spent on stage, in bars, or with women, wash rinse repeat. It was a haze of luxury and abundance. You don’t know how, but his parents must have found something to pin on him to get him in this school. Normally, he’d be caught dead minding his p’s and q’s, but here he was wearing a necktie with the school’s emblem on it with the worst of them. 

The closest to the door was Brayden, a less noteworthy opponent. His money was new, and I mean so new it started a generation back at most. Like a daisy his family popped up amongst the big dogs and absolutely no one took them seriously a Rockefeller in a world of Windsors. You could see this hunger in his eyes that just demanded more. He tapped his foot for every minute wasted. The world was already his but anything he couldn’t have was an outrage and just another goal post to be mowed down. 

You glance to your left at Liam, who was trying to balance erasers only for them to tumble on his desk. He laughs quietly at you and shrugs. Liam has the kind of security of wealth that makes him infinitely chill. Each generation of his family takes the wealth from the former and repurposes it into their own. That task weighs on his shoulders terribly but somehow rounds him out at the same time. The more you look at him the more you think, hey he’s just… a guy. :)

You glance to your right at Haruki who offers you a warm smile as he pauses counting the ceiling tiles. Rumor has it that his family wealth comes with ties to the yakuza and there is a lot of evidence to support it but suspiciously nothing that ever makes it to the headlines. Haruki, however, is such a genuinely kind person you have a hard time believing the harsh accusations. Sure, he might have some sick ink peaking out from under the collar of his shirt but he’s not a man that would break a person’s hand, right? 

Professor Lysander stood up as soon as his phone began to buzz and excused himself to take the call. A few dense moments passed after the door clicked shut. 

“Think we can make a break for it?” Clay asks with a syrupy sweet southern accent that melted boundaries like butter on toast. 

“And have a longer detention later? I’d rather get this over with now, quietly.” Arthur took his glasses off and rested them in the crook of his collar. 

“I dunno, this isn’t so bad. It’s kind of like a Breakfast Club vibe, right? We could… Talk? I’m (Y/n) Townsend by the way,” You look around the room and meet the gazes of the others. 

“I didn’t know the Townsend family had a daughter,” Brayden eyed you warily. 

“Oh, um… well, they do? Sorry, I don’t know what to say to that. Most people don’t know that actually. Wish I could say something dramatic like ‘I was unseemly as a child’ or ‘I’m illegitimate!’ But I think at the end of the day I’m just not very memorable,” You laughed with a shrug. You workshopped your character into a fine tuned machine. Find a hole in my story, I dare you. 

“Talking is better than nothing,” Hendrix raises an open palm as an offer to Clayton who obliges by passing the ball, “I got detention for sneaking booze onto campus even though I’m a goddamn adult that’s of legal drinking age. If you want to put me in rehab then just do that. This is so much worse,” he rolls his eyes and then tosses the ball at Liam who catches it with ease. 

“Damn… I didn’t think the dress code was as strict as it is so they caught me in my sweats for first period. I still think detention on the first strike is a little harsh,” he rubbed the back of his neck and tossed it back to Clayton who was all too eager to go next. 

“I skipped my second class of the day. It’s too nice outside to be studying. What about you, glasses?” Clayton throws the ball at Arthur who surprisingly catches it without hesitation. 

“I wasn’t aware there were restricted bounds on campus. You would think it would have been clearer in the handbook. I read the damn thing cover to cover, yet here we are,” he scoffed and tossed it over to the closest person to him Brayden. 

“I took one of the computers apart and they caught me when I was halfway done putting it back together. If they let me finish they wouldn’t have been able to tell in the first place,” he nervously fidgeted under the uncertainty of everyone else and tossed the ball to Haruki. 

“Wait you can just take an entire computer apart and put it back together?” He asks the former. 

“Mostly,” he shrugs.

“…Respect. I was caught eating in class. The dining hall wasn’t open before my first class and I can’t focus if I’m hungry so. Yeah,” He smacks his teeth and plops the ball directly in your hand. Your face was bright red by the time the sharing circle had landed on you. Had you known how strict this school was you would have underplayed your crime. 

“I… May have… graffitied my teacher’s desk?” You sunk way down into your seat. 

“Like with a marker?” Hendrix asked with a quirked eyebrow. 

You just bit your lip and shook your head, “Spray paint…”

“What on earth did you write?” Liam choked out a laugh and playfully elbowed your side. 

Your hands found their way over your face to hide your flush and you mumbled your answer unintelligibly. 

“What?” Brayden leaned in. 

“Tenure this, Bitch,” You squeaked out. All you had known in your final class was that you had to get into the detention room and there was no way you’d write that to a faultless teacher. She had gotten on your last nerve and even made your seat mate cry. So, when you found out this teacher was TENURED and not going anywhere? Well, you knew what rule to break once she left her room for just long enough. 

They had all broken out in varying levels of laughter at your response. 

“You’re crazy!” Haruki held his stomach. 

“What does that even mean?” Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, but snickered nonetheless. 

“I’m surprised I only got one detention for it… Maybe they don’t like that professor much either,” You settled a little more comfortably in your seat. Clayton held his hand out for his ball back and you managed to give a half decent pitch. 

“Well all hail the queen of detention. I wouldn’t be able to give too harsh a punishment to that face either,” he winked. 

“Augh, Please,” Hendrix pulls a face and mocks Clayton. 

“You’re just jealous you have no game,” He sticks out his tongue. 

“Oh, you wanna talk game?” Hendrix raises his brows. 

Professor Lysander comes back in through the door and pauses after seeing everyone engaged with each other around the center of the room. Both he and you all freeze, uncertain of exactly how to go forward. 

“To be very honest, I don’t even really know how to give adults detention so it feels uncomfortable to tell you to stop talking. Just keep it down and try to look miserable when people pass by the windows,” He clears his throat and takes his seat again. 

With a strange sense of camaraderie amongst your fellow detentioners, you knew that day one was officially a success. Soon enough you were going to be swept up in their world just as you had hoped, but hopefully with this riptide you can figure out how to swim back to shore. 

“You see how this is a jail, right? You’re our jailer?” Hendrix points a rubber band at the teacher and fires it but is so far away it falls short. 

“A little bit more every day,” Lysander nods solemnly. 

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛐 PSST. GOOD MORNING.

(Let's rip the mask off before your coffee even hits.)

I’m going to tell you something that bitch of a "supportive" writing teacher, and that cuck of a tenured writing professor should have told you:

Stop asking for permission to be what you already are.

🧠 FACTS:

You were born with this voice.

You didn’t download it. You didn’t workshop it into existence. You didn’t earn it through polite MFA panels or beige book clubs.

It’s wired into your jawline. Welded into your breath. It thrums behind your ribs like detonators waiting for the weak to step too close.

🩸 HERE'S WHAT THE COWARDS WON’T SAY:

You don’t need another critique.

You don’t need another 6-step article from a career workshopper who’s never written a sentence that made a woman shudder or a man clench his teeth.

You don’t need "polish."

You need space.

You need silence.

You need permission to set the page on fire — and walk away smoking.

⚔️ YOUR VOICE IS A WEAPON. USE IT.

Here’s the rule:

If someone tells you to “tone it down,”

You make it twice as loud, Three shades darker, And ten times harder to ignore.

Because watered-down truth is how tyrants sleep.

And you weren’t born to be safe.

You weren’t born to be clapped politely into literary obscurity.

You were born to convert, rupture, trigger, and tattoo your cadence on the skin of culture.

📉 DON’T FORGET:

Every great writer you worship?

Every name you whisper at 3AM, hoping the world doesn't crush you before you get there?

They didn't ask permission.

They didn't wait to be "understood."

They wrote it anyway. They bled it anyway. They set the church of polite society on fire — and pissed on the ashes.

🧪 QUICK SELF-TEST:

📝 Answer honestly inside your own chest:

When’s the last time you wrote something you thought might cost you a friend?

When’s the last time you hit “post” knowing someone would flinch, and did it anyway?

When’s the last time you scared yourself in a good way?

If the answer isn't "recently," then you’re playing dead to make dead men comfortable.

🔥 FINAL WARNING:

If you let soft hands and softer critique mold you—

You won’t just lose your voice.

You’ll lose your soul.

And you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering why you feel like a ghost wearing a sweater someone else picked out.

You weren’t made to be molded. You were made to be unleashed.

🧠 TL;DR

You were born loaded.

You write like your ribs are strapped with C4.

You don’t need polish. You need ignition.

Safe writing is a slow suicide.

Loud writing is a resurrection.

Choose.

💣 CALL TO ACTION:

🔁 Reblog if you’ve felt the heat under your ribs and know it’s time. 🛠️ Save this post for the next time some soft-palmed critic tells you to "edit for marketability." ⚡ Send this to the one friend who still thinks "good writing" is just "safe writing with prettier commas." 🔥 Bookmark it for the night you decide to finally burn the old self off.

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER: This post is satire, psychological warfare coaching, literary performance art, existential smelting, and First Amendment-certified motivational arson.

If you're offended: Congratulations. You just found the voice you're scared to use.

It’s waiting for you. You’re just out of excuses.