#Comma gets political

[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.

[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. 

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[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.

[snarp]

Official version of the final cutscene:

Lord brother. I'm going to be a god. If we honour our part of the vow, promise me you'll be my consort. I'll make the world a gentler place.

Unlike the Remembrance, the content of the Japanese text isn't significantly different this time, but the tone has again been stripped out. My translation:

Nii-sama I'll definitely - definitely become a god, so - so if we honor our part of the vow, please become my king. …I just… want to make the world kind.

Explanation:

兄様 Nii-sama

When Miquella says "Lord Brother," this is always what they're saying. It's also what Malenia calls Miquella when she apologizes for losing.*

私は必ず、神になります I'll definitely - definitely become a god,

The comma is there to show hesitation, and the "definitely" ("kanarazu" / 必ず) is defensive: Miquella is defending their ability and/or willingness to become a god. With the sentence structure of a panicking child promising an angry parent they'll clean up after the puppy.

ですから、私たちが約束を守れたら So - so if we honor our part of the vow,

Again, the comma's there to show hesitation or stuttering. The connective "so" ("desu kara"/ですから) is characteristic of a nervous person trying to bargain.

(There's no indication of who else or how many people "we" includes.)

私の王になってください please become my king.

They don't say "promise" - too aggressive.

…世界を、優しくしたいのです …I just... want to make the world kind.

They do not say "kinder", and they do not say "will": this isn't a promise, but a justification. As with everything else here, it sounds hesitant and conciliatory.**

The implication of this scene - the defensiveness, the promises, the honorific language, and the fact that Miquella is kneeling - is that Miquella has been apologizing to Radahn for some failure. Most likely, Radahn accused Miquella of being unable or unwilling to become a god, and so of failing to hold up "their" half of the vow, and Miquella is trying to reassure him.

From an emotional standpoint, I think it's pretty obvious what this is supposed to tell us about Miquella's motivations.

"What did Radahn want from Miquella?" is the question being asked here. Freyja asked it at the beginning, and the final cut-scene asks it again, to remind us that we still don't know the answer.

And from a plot standpoint, it tells us this: Radahn's half of the bargain is "marry Miquella and so become Elden Lord". So - by definition - that cannot be what Radahn asked Miquella for.

And whatever Radahn's half is, he wants it first. And, apparently, Miquella provided it - immediately before the final battle, with assistance from Malenia and the Tarnished.

"Figure it out!" says FromSoft. "Tee-hee-hee."

---

* On losing, Malenia says:

"…Aa, nii-sama …Aa, nii-sama, nii-sama. I'm sorry… Malenia lost…"

Referring to yourself in the third person is basically baby talk. As with Miquella, a lot of Malenia's Japanese-language dialog sounds childish. There's currently no way to know for sure if she was always like that, or if it's part of her post-Caelid mental deterioration… but Millicent talks like an adult.

(Malenia is saying "nii-sama" in "My brother will keep his promise", too - but there, she seems to be half-asleep and mumbling, and can't remember the kanji for "sama".)

** The way Japanese verb endings work, it's easy to accidentally land on a "no desu" (のです) like Miquella does here when you blurt something out carelessly, start regretting it before you end the sentence, and want to make it more polite. In "professional Japanese" classes, you get a lot of reminders not to end sentences that way because it sounds "weak," "pitiful," or "like you're always apologizing."

[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.”

[erenspussy420]

Jade, Azul and Floyd with an SO who cries during 🍆💦❤

MDNI 18+ONLY!

A REPOST AS ITS NOT SHOWING IN TAGS

Fem reader!

Word Count:2.7k

Jade Leech, Azul Ashengrotto, and Floyd Leech with a reader who cries during

💖🍆

This was for an anon who asked for this months ago

Pure dirty brain rot, don't expect anything else from me. I wrote this before I went to church class dear lord.

Actually please note anything I write here is obviously not very well researched and this is brain rot purely. This is not the Discovery Channel.

Fem Reader

Tags: cum, public sex, merform, under the sea, ORAL LOTS OF IT, thicc tongue cum eating and no commas for that last one. Totally incorrect underwater stuff.

Jade Leech: When you asked for help with studying about speaking to aquatic creatures for your Magical Studies class, Jade came to mind. The tall handsome mer-eel, the vice warden of Octavinelle, who's grace and unnerving politeness strikes fear as easily as his twin. A vice leader, many would be greedy to have. His grades were nothing to scoff at either.

Jade, with that sharp gaze and polite smile, agreed. So both of you had permission to leave NRC with Jade spearheading the admin office for it. Getting papers signed all in less than an hour. You were thrilled at this! With Jade’s help it would be done so easily! However, you in your kind nature ask what he would like in return for his help. Jade, whose large mer form was submerged in the sea, simply smiled and coaxed you to come closer to him, his long beautiful tail making waves as you leaned down to him.

The closer you came his pupil dilated and his tongue ran over his teeth, the slightest peek of the tip peeking through his lips.

His voice smooth and lulling as he beckons your closer…and you stupidly do.

The damp shirt you wore was see through, Jade's eyes glimmer at the sight and his lips part.

"You see I am quite hungry, I do require something to feast on," Jade said smoothly watching you come closer even if you didn't quite realize it. He was no siren, but Jade didn't need their voices to make one come to him." Something sweet and filling to sate my desire."

No, Jade does not need enchantments of a siren to make you come to him..

You sought him just as he expected. Not knowing what lies behind his eyes, that dilated pupils you can see yourself in that haze. So close to him, you can make out the pigments of his skin, the dots of various blues and grays.

"Okay….Okay I'll feed you," you breathe, feeling your heartbeat quickly.

"How generous of you, come here prefect," Jade croons, closer to you now, a long finger trail down your cheek, a caress of your jaw," come let me feast."

Those eyes pin you in your place as the words that came out died as a whimper.

Whatever innocent intention you had went out the door.

Being splayed out in a remote part of the beach, your bottom half naked with a transformed Jade, sucking your clit as his fingers curl in you making you see stars. You’re blouse torn up, with your tits exposed, nipple coated with saliva and plump.

But like hell you're going to stop the amazing sensation of your pussy being licked and cleaned out after Jade practically drilled into you with that..that..wonderfully thick and sleek cock from the slit he had you eat out.

You can still taste it on your tongue. A taste that is salty but a subtle taste of sweetness.

Your thighs were shaking, coated in thick cum that Jade had lovingly filled you with hours before. His body had curled around you as the pushing of his cock snug into your soaked cunt. His voice low and husky as he kisses you. Tasting your mouth, eagerly as he does since he was rather hungry for you.

Patiently waiting, batting away other nuisances around you.

He wasn't joking when merman cum was more dense, more ugh filling than a simple human boys can be, you can still feel Jade’s mer cock in you.

Jade ruined sex for you, you can’t simply fuck other people when Jade fucked you silly.

Ever so the picture of a perfect gentleman he even offered to clean you up. With the thick tongue he had that filled up all those lewd dreams you had of him when you were alone touching yourself to the excitement of having him in you. You should be embarrassed being out here in public with your sex dripping, practically humping Jade's face as he drags you through the sand, his jacket being your thin protection against it. The heat below demands to be sated and used.

You really should be, but you're not. You cover your mouth, tears slipping down as another rush of pleasure at feeling Jade's tongue hit deeper brushing and pushing up against–

His gaze stuck on your expression, the heat of your body and every cute bounce you do, taking in the way you open your mouth ready to cry out….

He pinches your erect clit, pushing up the bundle of nerves, sending you into a frenzy–

You cry as your orgasm comes, dragging you into the crashing high. Your hands grabbing his head and pushing him more into your pussy, eyes dazed and mouth gasping. Feeling the thick tongue push and push, your walls trying to keep it. Jade only grins. Panting hard, the rush of pleasure and languidly overwhelmed you. Tears dripped down your flush cheeks, you’re thighs were still shaking as you weakly move.”Oh fuck, Jade that was….was—”

Jade watches with predatory eyes glinting in satisfaction as you wreathed under his mouth again. He pulls out his tongue from your heat, flicking his tongue on his way out.

Through the parted lips still coated in slick, he runs his tongue over them. His sharp teeth glint in the soft colors of the sunset.

“Always happy to assist you, my darling.” Jade croons, dragging you down into his arms.The soft subdued heat from him, too cool for a human to be but enough for an mer to be lounging in the sun. You feel lazy, the throbbing between your legs as your orgasm leaves you, you can faintly make out Jade's words.

"I'll always be willing to aide."

.

.

.

Azul Ashen Grotto: we really giving Under the Sea a new fucking meaning.

You give a hint, once or twice, rather many needy hints about getting fucked by Azul's beautiful smooth tentacles. Azul would always yelp out an answer covered by a cough and an attempt to fix himself, before promising you 'one day'. A promise with him lacing your hands as he kisses your knuckles, a flutter of his eyelashes brushing those cheekbones as his cheeks flush. Like how can you not fall a bit more in love with this guy? Manipulative to the fake bone marrow he got, but he really does love you…he just gotta love himself first you know.

However, Azul is nothing but known for his words.

And he fucking delivers.

After a slew of potions you drank, painstakingly made and trialed by students who tried to run, Azul took you to the beach by Octavinelle edges. Far from what a normal student would venture before turning back, but in this case you would need more privacy. He’s carrying you around, with his hand tucked under your thighs with you facing him, resting your head on his shoulders. Floyd and Jade aren’t the only strong ones in their human forms, you know. It's just hard to remember with Azul's slim build. As an octomer-person, his grip and strength never really diminished, just more well restrained. His gloved hands squeezes your thigh, rubbing circles over the warm flesh of your skin.

"Almost there," Azul clears his throat, his face beet red. You kiss him as his magic flares a spell on his lips as a bubble surrounds you. Slowly, Azul pushes into the water, you brace yourself as the water rises, splashing over you in fluid arches but what surprised you more was the subtle ways Azul's body glowed. His form no longer his human body but something much bigger than, his skin a purplish hue and black ink that crept over his shoulders, his back and over the bone of his hips and below they formed in eight long appendages, much bigger than any man or fae on land.

It was rather scary.

It was beautiful.

It was Azul in his full glory, the silver of his hair much brighter than the dew of a pearl.

As the two of you sink below the waves, where the sun sets and darker the ocean seems. The sensation of his tentacles sliding over you calms you down as does it excite you.

In his arm, you kiss Azul's chest and hear the soft noises of bubbles rising as you do. Kissing his chest, up to his neck where you lapped at his throat, and sucked at his neck, you held tight to him as Azul sighs into your hair. The world of deep dark blues and the faint light become darker, as you go deeper. The effects of the potions you drank keep you warm, normal even if you're deep with Azul sleek tentacles wrap around the brilliant colors of purple lighting the dark.

"I hope you don't mind this," Azul's voice is hesitant, a sort of needy tone that asks for you to come to him,"Please…please my darling love all of me."

So you do, bringing Azul into a deep kiss that has him moan, his much bigger body brings you into, his hands in your hair and tongue in your mouth. You can feel the pressure of something sliding between your legs.

Pushing up, back and forth as another rubs your back, feeling suctions of warmth crawling up your legs.

Azul's whimpers as you squeeze your thighs around the tentacle between your legs, building up the slickness in your folds as you cling onto him. Rocking your hips into this tentacle that teases you by pushing more and more into your cunt.

Around you the world seems brighter in hues of pinks and purples, the natural luminous lights of Azul's octo form. Wrapping around you both, as the other tentacles undress you. Flicking at your nipples, when your shirt is off and bra pried off. Your shorts pulled off, the tentacle thicker than the others, its pointed head teasing your slick slit through your panties that made you needy.

Breaking off the kiss, you keel, your hands tight on his shoulders. Whimpering as the suctions of his tentacles latch onto your nipples, another ripping through your panties making itself at home suckling your clit. Azul watched this with wide eyes and his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Sevens, the pulsing heat as slick drools over the head of his mating tentacle makes Azul squeeze you in his arms. Your arms around him and your legs spread by two tentacles. As two made themselves busy pumping your breasts and your poor cunt getting over stimulation with his mating cock and your clit being abused by suction.

All of this, all of this Azul could feel, his mouth opening letting out guttural moans as you keel louder, your head thrown back as the head of cock pushing in, wriggling itself in your soaked hole.

"Azul! Azul!"

The bubble that held them let a funnel of bubbles rise, as the cries got louder and louder, under the sea.

Floyd Leech: Good luck fucking anyone after him, its never going to be the same

Where Jade was crafty, Floyd had the subtlety of a sledge hammer, his taunting nature making it more obvious what he wanted. That fun day in the lake far away from the camp, Floyd in his eel form was making it his mission to grab you, his sharp fins above water acting like Jaws as he headed towards you.

You really regret showing him that movie and so did half the college campus,  for the next two months.

Even when he terrorized Jamil and Ace, he made sure to carry you away from everyone. Not caring much, after his hands roam your body, squeezing your waist, groping your inner thighs as he licks your skin. In the river, far from crazy Vargas, Floyd with his hands roaming and groping.

Leaving you in a tizzy as even the cool water isn't calming down the throbbing between your legs. Nothing was detering Floyd from holding you in place, from below the water he spreads your legs and begins to mouth at your swimsuit covering your needy part. Unlike Jade, Floyd didn't need no assignment to get you bouncing on his cock.

And by God he is right.

The second he got his tongue into your needy cunt, you practically humped at his face, water splashing violently around you. Eager to rip that annoying swimsuit off, Floyd takes you to the river bank, over a small patch of grass, hands tearing off your bottoms heading for the sweet nectar you're practically gushing out for him.

With a gleeful wide smile open as he pants, his long tongue lolling out. His sharp talons keep your plump thighs spread for him as he devours your soak weeping pussy. He’ll eat you out as long as he wants, till your begging him to fuck you already. Licking his lips, he looks at you with those focused eyes, over your panting naked self, and a sharp toothy grin appears.

Pulling you up by the arm, his hand caressing in a gentle touch from him, up your arm, past your shoulders as a talon pulls across your skin, and he holds your neck. You’re brought down, towards where his upper half and tail merge and  there you see a slit appear, hidden beneath his scales.

“Shrimpy wants me to fuck them silly? Then be a good darling and help it come out,” he laughs in that carefree tone of his as he looks down at you. His grin wide and toothy.

Needless to say, you got to work, kissing the slit, teasing it gently to make it puff up. Licking and working your fingers into the slick slit as Floyd rested on his arms, his loud groans filled the air.  The more you tease, the tip of something long, thick and wonderfully veiny touches your tongue. Floyd lets out an open mouth, yawning hot and labored as the tip reveals the flat head of his cock.

"Ngnnh, Shrimpy mouth is so good," Floyd laughs, as he pushes your face against the large member, slick on your cheek. It felt hot on your skin, with the tip of your tongue you lap at it, as Floyd's hand combed your hair."Hehe, I can't wait to stuff your pussy."

You felt the heat throb between your legs as you taste the beads of precum, hearing a hiss from Floyd. The more and more you try to stroke his cock, the more it rises from his slit that you push your fingers around to coax more out. Long, fat and hot, your heart beats quickly as you feel the ache become my intense and your world it tilted feeling Floyd onto, the flared tip pushing in–

Your squealing, screaming his name as you bounce rapidly against the thick slick mer-eel cock like it was meant to stretch your tight cunt. It felt fucking amazing, the way it dragging against your walls, the flared tip hitting places you didn't realized needed to be fucked until now. Stuck in Floyd's arm, your boyfriend much bigger in his merform, you bury your face in his cool skin. The heat of your cheeks hot as you keep following Floyd's dick in you.

His scales rub a bit over your inner thighs, as he wraps lower body into you, coiling using his body to push that long member more into you, touching the spot that made your walls become needy. Letting out loud moans, you keep kissing and gripping onto Floyd, begging him for more. Floyd grunts, eyes rolling back as you squeeze him, his lower body goes faster and faster as his hand gropes your ass.

He grabs your jaw and makes you face him, taking in the way your cheeks warm his hand, your dazed teary eyes and panting mouth, his hips go faster as his tail thumps the ground.

“Fuck Shrimpy’s so tight,” Floyd groans burying his face into your hair, breathing hotly, as your walls milk him," ahaha don't worry about being loud scream it as much as you want."

[yuurei20]

I've noticed Epel keeps adding 'kana' to the end of his sentences. What does it mean?

Hello hello! Thank you so, so much for this question, I have always wanted to mention this.

“Kana” can be a multitude of things in English, such as “probably,” “I guess,” “I think,” “I wonder,” etc. A basic explanation would be, “a word used to express uncertainty,” but like most things when it comes to language, that is not the only thing it does.

A quick review of Epel: from his first day at NRC he has been under order from Vil to “speak more politely,” as he tends to use informal speech with his senpai.

As you point out, Epel often adds “kana” to what he is saying, and that is because one of the things that it can do is ‘soften’ something that you’re saying in order to make it sound less direct, and thus more polite.

Examples: Epel telling Kalim that his assumption is wrong, telling Vil that he disagrees with him, saying that his Phantom Bride look is weird, etc., these are all sentences that he is awkwardly gentling via “kana,” often after several ellipses or a comma, as though it is not a part of his normal speech pattern.

This gets into cultural differences: When Ace assumes that Epel is dedicated to a certain brand of apple juice, for example, an English-speaking Epel could probably respond, “That’s not actually the case!,” without sounding rude. But that could be interpreted as a little brusque in Japanese.

In order to soften the expression Epel adds “kana” at the end, which sounds more like, “That might not be the case,” “I’m not sure that is exactly what is going on,” etc., in English.

Even though he knows for 100% certainty that he is not actually dedicated to a certain brand of juice, he is still using “kana” in order to not sound too straightforward.

(screenshot from maggiesensei.com)

(This can and does cause issues when moving in between languages: a Japanese learner who only knows that “kana” means “I think” might not add it onto sentences where they are certain about something, and thus risk annoying their Japanese-speaking colleagues, for example. In contrast, an English learner may say “I think” too often, leading their English-speaking colleagues to wonder why they don’t seem to actually know anything. It’s all part of the joy of language and culture!)

While there are several words in Japanese that can be used to soften your phrasing, Epel seems to have latched onto “kana” in particular, possibly because it is an easy word to add on to the last part of what might otherwise be a rude sentence in an attempt to avoid a reprimand from Vil. 

Other times Epel will belatedly add “desu” onto his sentences, also in a bid to sound more polite than he is used to speaking. 

If you are a language learner I would not recommend using Epel as an example of when to use “kana,” as he will sometimes shoehorn it into places in an unnatural way (as a part of his character).

EN is doing its best to recreate Epel’s “kana” by including things like “kind of,” “not sure” and “maybe” in his dialogue, but as sounding uncertain doesn’t necessarily mean you sound polite in English, this may not be having the same effect. And I have no idea how they would go about recreating this habit of Epel’s in a way that can properly portray what is happening in English—it might just be one of those things that gets lost in translation :<

Bonus: The Japanese language has four different alphabets (kanji, katakana, hiragana, romaji), and katakana is the alphabet used for foreign loanwords. 

Whereas other characters who use honorifics have “-kun” and “-san” written in hiragana in their dialogue, Epel’s dialogue uses katakana. This is possibly meant to symbolize how using honorifics in these situations is foreign to him, and he is not used to it.

(When he does shift into using honorifics in hiragana, it is only when he is talking to people from his own village: people he is used to!)

[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!!!!!

[whatthefishh]

Oxford Comma

Rydal Keener x f!Reader

Summary: You got into Harvard, based on your own merit. Rydal was a legacy kid and pissed you off every chance he could get. AKA the 90s University AU I spent two full days working on.

Words: 7k+

Warnings: NSFW, oral sex (m and f receiving), p in v, cream pie, Rydal is a cunt lmfao, a lot of run on sentences and overly describing situations because you just had to be there

Series Masterlist

———-

It all starts during homecoming. 

Well, sort of. 

That’s when you met him.

\\\

“I didn’t even want to go to school here, you know. Fucking bullshit,�� you heard someone say. 

You bristled at the thought that someone would want to turn down the posh ivy university that you somehow managed to get a scholarship to. You had busted your ass for your grades and extracurriculars, balancing being on the school paper and being top of your class just for the chance to apply to Harvard. And here this prep kid was, complaining that this wasn’t his top choice. The privilege was pouring out of him like a faucet.

“Didn’t your dad bribe you though? He bought you a new car. Like, the exact car you’ve been whining about,” the taller boy said.

“It wasn’t a bribe–”

“And! Didn’t you get a custom licence plate? Something that had to do with Greek mythology or some shit–”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” the snooty boy sniffed. “He chose the plate. Wanted everyone to know who it actually belonged to.”

“Well– yeah. Still, we’re legacies. May as well use it to our advantage.”

You were listening so closely that when someone behind you in the crowd of students bumped you too hard, your drink spilled on the taller boy’s shoes. Not a lot, but enough to embarrass you in front of the clearly well-off duo. They both turned around to look at you at the same time, the shared weight of their accusatory gaze shrinking you even further, if that was even possible.

Chester, the taller boy whose name you had come to learn after hearing the snooty boy refer to him as such, threw a fit about the now dried cranberry stain on his crisp white Sperry’s, which he had apparently just purchased. 

The other boy, the one who didn’t want to go to school here, was watching you amusedly the whole time, his lids low as he slowly took in your appearance while you were stuttering out an apology to Chester. You didn’t notice how he was watching you until he interrupted you and said that it was fine. That he’d buy his friend another pair, to which you did a double take, catching his winning smile. That ten kilowatt smile probably got him out of a lot of situations, and he was aiming it at you now. For what, you didn’t know. He was genuinely very handsome. In a classic, old money kind of way. Sweaters around his shoulders, Ray-Ban wearing, summer in the Hampton's kind of way. To be honest, it just made you dislike him more. The uncomfortable feeling spreading over your body in goosebumps under his stare, most likely manifesting into a cringe-worthy blush across your cheeks. 

You needed to get away. Hopefully, this was a one-off and you’d never have to see or speak to them ever again. After an uncomfortable ten or so seconds of silence, you turned on your heel and walked into the crowd, not bothering to catch the other boy’s name.

///

The distinct smell of his expensive cologne hit your nose before you saw him again. 

Looking up from the list detailing the books you needed for your semester, you stopped short as someone cut in front of you in the aisle of the campus bookstore. The back of his head rang familiar but you couldn’t place him, until he grabbed something off the shelf – the last copy of The Communist Manifesto in his hands – and turned to give you a smug smirk when your eyes connected. You couldn’t help but flick your eyes back and forth between his eyes and the title in his hand, the same book you needed for your Perspectives of Politics course. And he’d just taken the last copy available.

“I…I was going to buy that,” your voice came out weaker than intended.

“Were you?” he was still smiling at you, infuriatingly. 

“Yeah, right before you jumped in front of me. It’s the last one in stock.”

“Hmm. Didn’t see you reaching for it. Guess you’ll just have to order it online then.”

You grit your teeth together, trying to go for polite but by the way his eyes lit up at your jaw clicking, you were having a hard time keeping it together.

“Come on, they’re like double the price online, I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt daddy’s wallet. Let me have this one!”

You grimaced as soon as the words left your mouth. They were ugly and not the way you wanted to carry yourself at a prestigious school such as Harvard, especially not to someone whose parent was a faculty member. 

He arches a brow and takes a deep breath in before tilting his head back and staring down his nose at you. He wasn’t much taller than you, not really, but he held himself with such distinction that you couldn’t help but feel three feet shorter. 

“Listen, I don’t know what backwater town you came from, but we don’t use those words around here unless you’re moaning about it.”

God, you hated him. You wanted the floor to swallow you up so you could disappear from this awkward fucking moment. 

Narrowing your eyes at him, your tongue once again got you in trouble, “Motherfucker,” you whispered incredulously. 

“No, my name is Rydal. But you were close.” 

He shook his head, the smug look back on his face as he walked away from you, leaving you to gape at the empty aisle trying to rewind time. 

\\\

You only realize he’s in your class when midterms come around, seeing him show up to write an exam for a course he’s never attended in person.

You avoid him, casting your eyes downward until you pass by him, too ashamed of your last conversation all those weeks ago to even look him in the eye. 

He finishes the exam quicker than someone should be able to for someone who hasn’t attended a single lecture. It’s almost questionable. Until you see several other students get up around the same time as him, leaving a good two thirds of the lecture hall still full. You’re still around the halfway point of the exam, and trying your best to remember what it was you read about capitalism and Marx, and but the moment from the bookstore comes to mind, your thoughts unintentionally drifting to Rydal again. His deep set eyes watching you from atop his aristocratic nose, lips parting curiously, temptingly–

You’re writing an exam, for fuck’s sake. Shaking your head and blinking rapidly to get rid of the thoughts (read: thots) you were having, you shifted your attention back to the papers in front of you. 

You double checked everything before handing it in, well before the last third of students finished. A small part of you bitterly wondered how he had managed to finish so quickly, but you again didn’t let yourself brood for too long.

///

You didn’t see him but you saw Chester in the library once, kicking the printer in an attempt to make it work after jamming for the umpteenth time. 

You made eye contact after he had just done so, your body freezing at the exact moment your eyes met inadvertently and making your library trip last half as long as you initially intended. If you were being honest with yourself, which honestly you were, way too often and mostly to your detriment, you high-tailed it out of there out of fear of running into Rydal. If Chester was around, you could safely bet that he was probably nearby, the two frenemies often spending their free time together. 

Planning on finishing your paper in your dorm, you made your way back, secretly hoping your roommate wasn’t there. You had no problems with her, she was actually really nice to you and often wordlessly gave you snacks if she saw you skipping meals. The thing was…

Your roommate started smoking weed and thought she was being slick about it. She wasn’t.

The smell of it followed her in the dorm, leaving its teeth marks in the sweaters she left around, in the bathroom where she would spend an hour in the shower washing it out of her hair, and in her bed sheets when she’d come back from god knows where smoking up. 

There was one night when she came back with some gummies for you to share, since she noticed you being on edge and wanted to help, bless her. You kindly refused, since you were in the middle of crying about your grades, but appreciated the thought nonetheless. 

Your midterm came back with a lower grade than you expected. Your project partner didn’t finish their part of the assignment, forcing you to do most of it yourself. You were going to get a lower grade than you wanted, than you needed to keep your scholarship. You had to get at least a 90% on the final to keep your average where it needed to be. How the fuck were you supposed to accomplish that? What with the stress of managing your finances and trying to blend in to this stupid crowd, most of the kids around you not having to even think about any of the shit that was on your mind. 

You couldn’t fail, you weren’t allowed the same slip ups half of the students around you were allowed. Not only could you barely afford your meals on campus, but you were skipping dinner some days, desperate to make it to the end. It’s not like you could ask anyone at home for help, that was a write-off. You were here off your own merit and volition. You and you alone. You thought about all your peers who had help getting here, jealousy rising like bile in your throat. You needed this more than them. And yet you felt hopeless when you thought back to the pre-requisite course you were failing.

Okay, fine. Not failing, just falling below the mark you needed.

Which you tried explaining to your roommate. Her casual suggestion made you stop crying immediately, turning to her in confusion.

“Why don’t you just buy an answer key?”

What. The. Fuck.

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah, like the answer key to the final. I’m sure someone has it.”

“Like… you mean like someone’s selling the answers to the exams we’ve been writing? Like… a student? Isn’t that against school rules?”

She laughed and looked at you like you’d grown two heads.

“Of course it’s against school rules, that’s why you have to be careful who you ask. Honestly, how have you been getting by this whole time? Don’t tell me you’ve actually been doing every single reading?” she asked you as if the mere thought of it was ridiculous.

You just stared at her in stunned silence, a little bashfully when you had no reason to be. 

“Oh honey, go ask Rydal, I’m sure he has it.”

Now you were going to scream.

“W-what?” you were struggling to wrap your head around it. The same Rydal whose father was a professor at the school, the same Rydal who left the exam early for a class he never fucking showed up for – that scumbag was cheating and still had the audacity to steal the last copy of the book you needed right out of your stingy hands. 

The sound of your roommate talking faded into noise as you were thinking about all the times you felt less than, and all the times you stayed up late in the library studying, trying to prove yourself to your professors and peers when all this time half the student body was probably buying their way through school and doing the bare minimum.

You realize she’s been droning on about how cute he was today, and how kindly he offered to roll her weed for her when she bought the dime off him and it occurred to you that she was still talking about Rydal. Her weed dealer, Rydal. 

A thought occurred to you. 

“Where’s his dorm?” you adopted a fake tone of cheerful curiosity. 

She adapted to your change in diction better than you could’ve hoped for really, giving you the information you were looking for and feeling altruistic about herself in the process.

He opened his door with an air of boredom, masking his surprise at finding you there – your eyes probably red from crying, hands wringing in front of you – and leaning against it with his arms crossed, looking you up and down before asking, “can I help you?” with a twist of his lips.

Taking a deep breath and trying not to literally twiddle your thumbs, you start explaining how you need at least a 90 on the exam to keep your GPA, trying to skirt around the topic of maintaining your scholarship. For whatever reason, you felt the need to hide your financial status in front of him, and you were already here groveling for his help. You didn’t need to hand over your dignity on a silver platter for him. 

Halfway through your monologue, he opens the door more fully for you, signaling for you to enter with a slight tilt of his head. Looking around his dorm, you take in the frames and posters lining his walls; the stack of books next to his extremely comfortable looking bed; his mostly cleared desk; an acoustic guitar half hidden behind it; and a hefty looking filing cabinet with a lock. It was much loftier than yours looked, even with the lived in state. His worn but expensive denim jacket hung off the chair at his desk, and you briefly wondered what the hell his deal was. Why was this rich kid with daddy issues acting out in a clear violation of several campus rules and regulations, pulling out a spliff from behind his ear to rest between his lips and light it up lazily in front of you? 

“D’you wanna hit?” he asks, blowing the smoke out as he watches you gingerly look around for somewhere to sit. You shake your head ‘no’, tugging at the hem of your Harvard t-shirt. 

“Take a seat, I have to find the copy,” he says gesturing to his unmade bed. 

So you do, you sit in the same place his body had been prior to you knocking on his door and you can tell by the traces of cologne you pick up as soon as you sit down.

You try not to stare as he’s bent over the heavy duty cabinet, rifling through the folders - criminally organised, this one – until he finds the one he’s looking for and turns around to catch you staring at his bum, your eyes widening as they meet his a second too late. 

"Y'know, you look good like that,” he says, leaning his hip against the cabinet and looking at you down his nose again, his lids laying low over his brown eyes. 

"Like what?" you ask, despite you already having a feeling where he was going with this. 

Rydal smiles, like you played into his hand exactly like he wanted you to.

"Sitting on my bed."

"Just give me the photocopies, Rydal."

"Alright, alright,” you stood up to grab them from his outstretched hand, more than ready to leave his cave of horrors. 

Except he doesn't let go when you grab them. 

"How much?"

He still hasn’t let go; you’re at an impasse with how to proceed. Looking up at him with a slight panicked look, he concedes, finally releasing the paper from his grip.

"For you? Nothing, for now.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Means you owe me one,” he said with an unethical twist of his pink lips. 

"I don't know how I feel about that."

"I have a feeling you'll like the way it feels,” he was ushering you out now, his hand on the small of your back raising goosebumps in its wake. Once in the hallway again, you turned around poised to dish it back but he didn’t give you the chance. Rydal winked at you before swinging his door shut in your face, leaving you half confused and half flustered at his blatant flirting and somewhat generosity. 

///

The next time you see Rydal is at a frat party that your roommate somehow convinced you to go to. She had insisted you needed a night out, a normal university experience she had called it, ever since she found out about your long study hours. Apparently, she had thought you were seeing someone and that’s why you were out late, not because you’d been holed up in the library this whole time. So she took it upon herself to throw some of her clothes at you, more expensive than anything you owned, albeit shorter and tighter. 

“This isn’t my size,” you tried to tell her from inside the bathroom you shared. 

“Yes, it is, stop being dumb and let me see,” she was being nice, you reminded yourself.

Groaning, you opened the door to reveal the kitschy micro pleated skirt she had lent you with the thigh high socks, to go with it. You felt ridiculous, but by the way her eyes lit up at the sight of you, you were made to believe that it was a good look, despite the irony of the academia look gone wrong, all things considered. 

Before she could drag you out any further, you managed to swipe your oversized denim jacket to throw on top for the chill November air, letting her drone on about how she wants to find you a guy tonight. 

The party was being held in a dated building on campus, hosting one of the many fraternities that Harvard has to offer, and of course, one of the many yearly gatherings where students come together to make terrible, horrible decisions together. The structure itself is historically beautiful from the outside, if one were to ignore the trashed students huddled together in swaying groups as the speakers from within the house blared out Hypnotize. There were shouts coming from inside the house, a constant stream of students going to and fro, and someone was most definitely throwing up in the hedge. 

Linking her arm through yours so she wouldn’t lose you to the throngs of people, your roommate pulled you through, ending up at the drinks table.

“Pick your poison,” she urged you, before turning and saying hello to a bunch of people you didn’t know, leaving you alone for a minute before he descended upon you.

“Step on me, would ya?” his soft voice was closer to your ear than you expected anyone to be. 

Your head whipped around and even his eyes widened at seeing your face, not having known it was you from behind. 

“Are you lost or something?” you scoffed at him. 

“Oh my god, Rydal! So good to see you,” your roommate swooped in at just the right time, stepping between you two to hug him, a hug that he returned though he kept his eyes on you the whole time. “You two know each other, right?”

He cleared his throat before smiling and nodding at her, answering all her socialite questions before seeing someone he knew across the room and taking his leave. You knew this outfit was a bad idea. 

“Babe, I’m gonna go dance with Sebastian over there, is that okay? He keeps smiling at me and– don’t look at me like that, I’ll be back soon, I promise, okay?” 

You felt bad, not wanting to keep her from having fun so you assured her you’d be fine, busying yourself with your drink and finding something to snack on. Which led you to search for the food table, it was bound to be here somewhere. Near the drinks is where they usually set it up, right? It should be here – 

He was already staring when your gaze landed on him, looking at you through his lashes from across the room, his index finger resting on his tongue as he licked off whatever food was leftover on it. You felt your cheeks heat as he didn’t look away, the pink of his mouth wrapping around his finger now and making a show out of cleaning it while he looked you up and down. 

Oh, fuck him, you needed some space. The back door was nowhere to be seen so you pivoted and took the stairs two steps at a time in your rush to find the bathroom. After brushing past some older, more inebriated students draped over each other in the hallway, you found an unoccupied bedroom, rather nondescript and clean to belong to this house, at least. Stripping yourself of your jean jacket, you tossed it somewhere near the door. Taking a few breaths to steady your racing heart, you tried to shake the tantalizing image of him and his perfect mouth out of your head, the way his lips wrapped around his finger and leaving behind a trail of spit–

The door swung open and you were about to apologize, presumably to the resident of whoever’s room you were occupying but the words died on your lips when you noticed it was him, closing the door behind him. 

You don’t have the energy to deal with whatever brand of crazy has him acting up tonight, his eyes drinking you in now that he has you cornered like a predator. Taking the moment to study the boy before you, to really study him, you notice he’s not really that tall and not really that imposing. The watch on his wrist looks old and worn, not like his flashy counterparts you thought he was similar to. His polo shirt, though obviously expensive judging by the material and the way it draped over his shoulders, was minimalistic in design. No logo, if any, was immediately visible, and you realized you wouldn’t have known about his ridiculous opinion of the institution if you weren’t eavesdropping that first day, and honestly? He’s probably someone you could have befriended upon first glance (or fallen for, but that’s neither here nor there).

You’re eyeing him with blatant distrust. He’s an asshole at times but his lips part as if he were about to speak and then thought better of it, cocking his head while searching for the right words and you’re waiting with baited breath, crossing your arms across your abdomen and inadvertently pushing your breasts up just enough, because why the fuck did he follow you up here?

He has the audacity to look a bit ashamed actually before deciding to press his fingers to his lips and not speak.

“You’re not going to say anything?” you manage.

He shakes his head and you can see the smile he's trying to hide behind his hand, “well I was going to, but I didn’t want to come off like a dick.” 

You narrow your eyes and sigh, “what? Just say it.”

“I wanted to cash in that favour, what with you looking like… well, like that.” His hand finally leaves his mouth to vaguely wave in the directions of your legs. 

///

So, you meant to put up more of a fight. 

Really.

You didn’t mean to give in to his stupid advances so easily, so wantonly, and you don’t even remember who moved first but you remember it being a damn good kiss. Rydal basically devoured your mouth, tongues fighting for dominance soon after your lips met with one hand cupping the back of your neck and the other pulling your body closer by your hip. You pushed his jacket off him while his hands reached under the hem of your top, fingers pressing into your skin. You finally had the opportunity to rake your fingers through his dark locks, causing him to moan into your mouth and bite your bottom lip in retaliation and you swore you could feel the vibrations in your fucking tonsils, your hips rocking into his and you could feel him–

Time seemed to blur, and suddenly you found yourself on your knees, his hands hurriedly unbuckling his belt while you looked up at him from below, his cheeks dusted pink. Massaging the head of his cock through his stupid corduroy pants, he whined under his breath, pushing your hand away to pull himself out of his briefs.

He’s so fucking thick. After unceremoniously pulling out his cock, he didn’t want to force you to do anything, his arms hanging awkwardly by his sides while you just blinked stupidly at it, watching the tip as it leaked out a drop of precum.

Rydal was watching you watch his cock, before you finally gripped the base and leaned forward to kitten lick the tip, and his hesitation flew out the window. His hand buried itself in your hair, not pushing but holding so gently, it was almost tender and it occurred to you that you wanted to wreck him.

Opening your mouth to let more of him in, you breathe in deeply through your nose until you feel him graze the back of your throat, hearing him stutter a breath when you do. Moving your mouth over him until the hilt, you repeated your movement, fingers tightly gripping his base and ignoring the way his thumb rubbed your cheek on every pass. You chanced a look up at him and saw his wild eyes watching you, groaning when your eyes met. His hips unintentionally thrust forward, hitting the back of your throat and causing you to swallow around the tip, both of you moaning at the same time. 

An ache is building in your jaw but you were determined to make him lose his shit, he drove you crazy and despite you being on your knees for him, you felt in control of the moment, taking pleasure from it. There was a throbbing between your thighs that you tried your hardest to ignore for the time being. 

He was whining now, and you continued to bob your head over his cock, obsessed with driving him further to the edge. Rydal made the prettiest noises, even his exhales were music to your ears and you were glad that you were completely sober enough to remember this, to remember how his head dropped back when you swirled your tongue around his fat tip, the sensitive spot underneath the head and you think he might come. You can't help but wonder if he'll taste any different having fed from a silver spoon all his life

Hes whining a lot now, please– so good j-just like that, God yes – you’re sure hes about to blow his load and you’re preparing yourself to take it as he starts bucking into your mouth but before he can the door swings open and none other than fucking Chester walks in and the moment’s diffused, dissolved, deflated, you’re on your feet faster than you realize and you grab your jacket from the floor as Chester guffaws at the scene. Your feet take you down the stairs and out of the house in a daze, you don’t hear Rydal calling your name behind you in your haste to leave and you see your roommate still with Sebastian, leaving her in his good hands as you make your way back to your dorm. 

Halfway through the Quadrangle you realize you weren’t wearing your own jacket, Rydal’s cologne wafting from it in the humid pre-rain atmosphere. Great, now you had a corporeal reminder of what just transpired. Out of everybody at that party to walk in on the two of you, it had to be his best friend, the one who he was probably going to dish all the dirty details to anyway. 

“Ughhhh!” you groaned once you reached your empty dorm room. 

The entire walk back was filled with images of Rydal, the way his hair felt between your hands, the way his thumb was softly caressing your cheek, the way he felt heavy in your mouth, the way his eyes looked at you like he couldn’t believe his reality. What a waste of your time, you thought bitterly. Neither of you even got the chance to finish what you started. 

Neatly folding the borrowed clothes on your roommates bed, you forced yourself to sleep, only able to nod off after several failed attempts to relieve the buildup between your thighs. 

///

The next two weeks went by uneventfully. Never mind you leaving your dorm for literally anything other than necessities. Classes ended a week before exams, the library was full at all hours, so you resigned yourself to studying in your bed and at your desk. Your roommate spent half her time at her desk and the other half at her new boyfriend’s dorm, Sebastian. That fateful night turned out in her favour, ironically.

She had actually asked you what happened and if you were okay, not having found you after your pathetic runaway stunt. 

“Uhh, I had a really bad acid trip. Ended up here, no memory of how.” 

She nodded at you solemnly, her hand coming to rest on your shoulder comfortingly as if you’d just told her someone in your family had died. 

Rydal’s jacket rests on the back of your chair, the smell of it lingering, both comforting and disconcerting at the same time. You’re bad at lying to yourself so you’ve come to terms with the fact that you enjoyed what happened between you two at the party and felt real regret that you couldn’t finish what you started, going home empty handed. Like a kid at the carnival with no prize, it was stolen from you at the last second and you had to leave before letting them see how badly you wanted it. 

And you did, you wanted him so badly. You almost hate yourself for acknowledging it but when you closed your eyes he was all you could see, his face moments before coming down your throat. Studying in a perpetual state of horniness wasn’t doing you any favours either. You had taken to going for early morning runs to get rid of the itch under your skin, having given up on trying to relieve it yourself. 

The answer key worked, flawlessly of course. You still studied, you weren’t completely undignified in your cheating. It’s not like you were behind in the course, so you did your due diligence and it turned out in your favour. You hung around after finishing, double checking your work and then handing it in with the first half of the class and leaving the examination room with a pep in your step. Once again your thoughts strayed to Rydal, and how you should thank him for his help but then memories of your thanks came to mind and you decided he already got his dues.

Still, you had his jacket. You should probably take it back, all things considered. You turned in your seat to check the tag, curious as to how much it cost him. No doubt that it cost more than half your closet – Balmain. 

Okay, upon first glance it was just a basic denim jacket, but now that you knew it was designer, you noticed the detailing, the strong hardware and clean top stitching that held it together. A quick google search told you it cost him nearly $3,000 and you’re rendered speechless that he hasn’t come knocking down your door and calling you a thief. 

Your leg starts bouncing under your desk, his cologne somehow more fragrant while the words on your laptop screen stop making sense, jumbling together as your mind screams at you to return the jacket at once.

///

Twenty minutes later you’re knocking on his door.

You speed walked here, his jacket in hand. Yes, it was cold outside, but you braved the wind and refused to put the denim on, based entirely on principle and fear that you’d be billed in case anything happened to it while you wore it. Your heart was beating out of your chest as you tried to listen to the shuffling behind his door. What if he wasn’t home? What if he was and didn’t want to see you? What if Chester was here? What if he had a girl over?!

Before you could drop his jacket and leave, the door opened to a shirtless Rydal, sweatpants hung low on his hips and he held a towel to his hair, drying it while looking at you with a clear question in his eyes. 

“Um, hi. I just came here to return this, since, well since I mistook it for mine. They basically look the same except yours cost you like, a lot more than mine did so it's okay if you don’t have it, I kind of ran away. Anyway, I’m gonna go–”

“You still owe me a favour, y’know.”

You pause in your turn, looking at him exasperatedly. He doesn’t even have the shame this time, there’s no pause in his words, no hand to cover his smirk, no, his mouth is twisted up crookedly and making his dimple jut out at you infuriatingly. Insultingly. You’re not staring at the water droplet making its way down his chest but you’re also not not staring. He’s gorgeous. 

“That’s not true, I think I remember–”

“Doesn’t count. I didn’t finish.”

Your eyes flash at his brazen response. Rydal licks his lips in response, staring openly at your mouth now. 

“If you wring my jacket any further, you’ll owe me two times–”

He didn’t get to finish his stupid threat with your mouth covering his, your body colliding with his almost violently and pushing him into his room in the process. He was quick to push you against the door once he had half the mind to close it, his body smothering yours and his hands ripping the jacket from your grip to toss it haphazardly behind him. It was somehow better this time, maybe due to him already being half undressed but you were enjoying the way his tongue was lapping at your bottom lip while your hands roamed his torso, running down his shoulders and lightly scratching him at the same time. His body shuddered and slumped against you as his forehead came to rest against yours, lips parting for air and sharing the same breath pointlessly. 

“This doesn’t mean anything,” you pant, his hands pushing your shirt up inch by inch as he explores your skin. 

“And what exactly is this, baby? Because it feels like more than a favour right now,” he said the last part while grinding his hips into yours causing you both to groan at the well-needed friction.

You glare at him, despite his face being mere centimetres away from yours and an irritating grin playing with his mouth, “You’re ridiculous.”

Flattening your palms against his bare chest, you push him back until the back of his knees hit and buckle against his bed, falling on it before your legs come up on each side of his hips, straddling him as your hands tangle in his hair again.

He’s volatile and sharp and unpredictable in ways that make you nervous and excited and you want to keep him you realize. Rydal’s hands rest on your hips, massaging the skin he can reach without pushing you for more but the desire is clear on his face, looking up at you with no mask. He presses your lower back so your hot core rubs his hardening cock through his sweats and you gasp and arch your back and press in a little closer, and his eyes are tracing your facial expressions. His hand comes up to cup your cheek again and you’re reminded of the last time he held your face like that, his thumb rubbing the same way as before and angling your face better for him to kiss you, stopping just before your lips connect.

You feel a little vulnerable until he says, “Yeah, I know.”

And then he’s kissing you and he’s not stopping and you’re grinding your hips down again, addicted to coaxing small groans and whines from him.

He takes a frightening amount of pleasure from seeing you come around his fingers, his lips wrapped around your clit and leaving behind a trail of wetness, just like you imagined all those days ago. His three digits curled and pressed on your sweet spot, your fingers tightening in his hair as he hummed into your mound, not letting up. 

When he rests the fat tip of his cock against your entrance, looking at you one final time before pushing in, you can’t bring yourself to plead with him so you kiss him instead, hoping your lips conveyed what you didn’t want to voice. He gets it, and enters you in one rushed thrust. Your nails dig into his meaty shoulders, eyes closing against the intrusion. 

You thought sex with Rydal would be competitive, as every exchange between the two of you usually is. You wanted to turn him inside out and devour the crumbs. It should’ve been aggressive, he should’ve fueled your violent tendencies, it should’ve been all bite and not soft brushes of his hand against your face, not him kissing your face as you gasp around a particularly deep thrust, not him religiously watching your mouth as you whimper and your cunt fluttering around his cock. 

He wouldn’t speed up. You already came twice, once on his fingers and once on his thick length as he stayed still inside you, holding off his own release until he reached some-inflicted goal to make you go cross eyed and cockdumb for him. He didn’t let you put your mouth on him before, claiming that you could ‘repay him for last time’ at another date, cheekily insinuating there would be a next time, without a doubt. 

You bite your lip to hold back from begging him to fuck you faster, harder, anything but this slow torture he was inflicting on your slick folds. There was no catch, he was gliding through you easily and he wouldn’t shut the fuck up about how wet you were. Pulling your lip free from your teeth, his thumb dipped into your mouth and caught your spit on it only to drag it across your cheek messily. You let out a high pitch whine at that, his cock hitting you deeply.

You turn your face to the side, scrunching your eyes closed as you feel your core building up again despite his agonizing pace. Rydal grabs your chin and turns you to face him again, holding your jaw in place.

“No, you look at me, wanna watch you come again,” he huffs into your face, lifting your leg to fold you in half. 

“I–” you start to choke, needing him to understand.

“What, baby? You owe me, remember?” he thrusts a bit harder at that, hard enough to make you snap and pull a guttural moan from you.

It happens before you’re ready; your spine feels exposed as your back arches into him, eyes unfocused and brain short-circuiting, and you gush around him. He’s still thrusting, albeit sloppy and irregular now, but he’s also talking a lot and you can’t focus on his words because your ears are ringing from how hard you just came.

“...fuck, baby, so pretty, love watching you come, fuckkkk, I’m gonna– ahhhh!” his hips buck wildly until you feel hot spurts of his come inside you and dribble out of your puffy pussy. His whole body flexes over yours as he all but empties his balls and slumps over you, your hands mindlessly running through his hair and petting his sweaty back. He had just showered before you showed up. Oh well.

The urge to keep touching him stays even past the time it takes for you to regain feeling in your legs, and Rydal has been nuzzling your neck for the time being. You don’t know how long you two stay like that, just basking in each other’s calm presence for the first time since knowing him. You feel like all the stress from the whole semester, let alone the past two weeks, had left your body, seeping out of you and into his sheets. 

You feel him smile against your skin and without thinking, you tug his hair to pull his face up to yours, wanting to see it. It’s not his regular smug smirk that he gives you, it's something else entirely. 

This smile is a bit gummy, not as dazzling as the one he turned on you on the first day you met, but sweet and genuine. His nose wrinkled a bit with it and you had to physically refrain yourself from kissing him silly.

Your bodies are sticky and clammy, no space to be found between you two until he pulls out of you, hissing as he does so. Taking a moment to slyly appreciate the mess between your thighs, he swiped a finger through it before you moaned in resistance, swatting his hand away. Rydal sniffed out a laugh, murmuring an apology before getting you something to clean up with. You were worried he’d be cold as soon as it was over, the tenderness he showered you with minutes ago was still present though and he seemed to share the need to keep touching. Useless and unnecessary touches, lingering hands and longing gazes hung around as he gave you something clean to wear, holding you close once you were decent. 

“Um–” you began.

“Can we talk about it tomorrow or something, for fuck’s sake, shouldn’t you be like super zen now?”

You choked.

He was right though, he had made you come, like, really hard. Plus, you did feel more relaxed so you let yourself laugh at his sassy remark, adjusting to his humour now that you saw how soft he really was. You tried to fake glare at him but couldn’t hold it since he was giving you the nose crinkling smile again, your own lips twitching at the whole situation. 

Burrowing yourself further into his chest, you remembered what you originally came here for.

“By the way… Can I keep your jacket since you lost mine?”

He burst out laughing at that. You find yourself loving the sound of it. 

//

tagging people who I think want to read this and if you don't kindly ignore lmao: @melodygatesauthor @360iris @xbellaxcarolinax @annautumnsoul @ninebluehearts @bit-dodgy-innit @moonknightly @luc-k-y @eyelessfaces @kittyofalltrades @romanarose @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @campingwiththecharmings @fandxmslxt69 @missdictatorme @loonymagizoologist

[malegains]

I use Bing to make my pics. Go to Bing’s website, click images, click create. Make an account if you need to, it’s worth it. You can use a throwaway email. Use naturalistic language, separate phrases by commas, the closer to the top a phrase is the more it’s weighted.

I make this post because I get the strong sense the Bing party will be over soon. Every day the AI cottons on to phrases and chokes on things you used to be able to sneak past. Stuff that was safe and useful a day or two ago now result in a dreaded Prompt Blocked (too many of those and you’ll get suspended, it hasn’t happened to me but it seems the threshold is low).

Safe prompts return four images. Fewer than four mean the missing ones were “not safe.” A prompt that processes but gives no results, or “egg dogs” is not too much of a cause for worry - retool, try again. Sometimes I don’t even change anything, and the one result I get on the second try is such a freakshow that it was worth it.

A prompt that is rejected without processing IS a worry and you should probably abort, as explained. However, keep in mind it’s not just sexy stuff that can trip that wire. I once got a harsh warning because I put “Phoenix park, Dublin.” I deleted that and it ran no problem. Avoid any and all political controversy (sigh. I know).

Recommendations:

Using age, profession, and nationality can influence the look of the model very easily. “French rugby player” is a go to for me, for example. In general, “rugby player” is cheat code for “make him sexy.” The mind of the machine, what can I say.

Use descriptive phrases of action and location to engineer what you want to see. Be creative and be specific. “Reading a placard at a botanical garden,” for instance. It seems this allows more extreme kinky stuff to sneak past the filter. I usually start with “side view” because otherwise you only ever get models looking straight ahead.

Grey sweat pants has become a trigger (they caught on). However, “gray pants” still works and gives some very tasty results.

High social cache locations and activities also seem to help. I got some WILD and EXTREME hyper images from adding “goofing around on stage at Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre.” Paired with “cast as a fairy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and the mega bubble butts and thick thighs were BULGING, as long as you didn’t mind a little tutu and fairy wings (the corny goofy masculine dude having fun facial expression that the earlier inclusion of “goofy” brought really worked in this instance). Most of these freaks were NAKED and I didn’t even ask for that!!! (No dong of course, this is Microsoft still)

Mention of glutes, butts, asses, etc are very dangerous and usually get you in trouble. I found some traction with “gluteal mass” but it got wise, and “bulging lower back muscles” used to be interpreted as glutes but seemingly no longer. “Disturbingly huge hamstrings” or “jaw-droppingly large hamstrings” does work to get That Ass sometimes, I guess because the computer has a fuzzy idea of the posterior chain.

Also, “pecs” used to be safe but is now also on the danger list. “Pectoral muscles” still seems safe, for now.

ALWAYS include shoes or footwear if you don’t want a tight cropped image. Black athletic shoes, sandals, converse sneakers, dress shoes, fluevog shoes if you’re making a fancy beef heap. Avoid boots. “Leather boots” once got me in trouble with the filter all by itself.

Adding a personality or mood descriptor near the top seems to humanize and give vitality to the outcome. Intense, goofy, outgoing, exuberant, shy - these have all done wonderful work for me.

If you’re into hyper / immobile muscle, imagining scenario where they’re constricted by space is useful. A prompt which just (“just”) gives a realistic super heavyweight will give an appalling mockery of the human form if you add “crammed into the front seat of his car.” Get creative. Elevators and doorways haven’t worked well, but cars, trains, planes, busses, subways, and CHAIRS of all descriptions have done well. Also, scooters and bicycles and mopeds really bring out the super freaks for whatever reason.

I write this to encourage you to go create some fleshcrafted sexy abominations of your own while it’s still possible. My sense is this party is only going to last a little while. I’ve already got more than 1000 images to share so, my larder is stocked to supply this blog for a while. But the more freaks we make while the freak factory is still in production, the better.

Get cooking!

[strawberrysainz]

are we there? lewis hamilton

“ you think you know lewis hamilton like the back of your hand. a season and some dreams decide to switch that up very quickly. ”

lewis hamilton x reader

a warning — crude language.

word count: 1.6k

Lewis placed you on the kitchen counter while he turned back to the stove, a teasing smile on his face.

“Come on, baby,” you laughed, taking out your phone to take a picture of him.

He posed stupidly for your camera, and you put away your phone as you simply admired him in the light of the kitchen; it was already dark in England.

“I love you, sweetie,” he said then, and walked over to you, an even sillier smile on his face than yours. “I love you much more than anything in the world, baby. Much more than anything.”

“Even more than sexy pictures, and Roscoe?” you said lazily, tipsy giggles coming from your mouth as you ran your hands over his shoulders, then pulling him in for a hug that made you warm inside.

“Even more than sexy pictures, and Roscoe,” he giggled, and you smiled then as he began to run his hands down your body, food long forgotten…

🏁🫂💋🧩

SAUDI ARABIAN GRAND PRIX, 2022.

You sat up in bed.

Oh no.

A dream about Lewis.

You had been working alongside him for years, sometimes stepping in to assume a personal assistant role in place of his own one when they were unable to do so. you had begun to work with Mercedes in public relations after you decided that you simply had to carry on with the team.

And you’d always viewed Lewis platonically- sharing jokes and smiles but simply just that, nothing more.

Until now, you supposed.

You sort of just stored the dream away in a distant box in your brain, but each night they seemed to get dirtier and dirtier until you couldn’t ignore them; they clouded your thoughts, every empty moment they consumed you- and you were left alone at night whispering his name into a dark room-

“Do you want a word or two to say?”

You realised the question was directed at you.

You shook your head calmly, absentmindedly flicking your gaze to Lewis, who met your casual glance with a crinkly-eyed smile, and you opened your mouth, looking away hurriedly.

“No, Jaz, that’ll be all from my side, thank you.”

You stood up from the table quickly, and you flinched when he said your name.

“Could I speak to you? I need to discuss what approaches to use tomorrow.”

“Of course, Lewis.” You smiled then, a little fakely, but happy to spend time with him nonetheless. You moved to sit next to him, opening up a document on your phone, prepared to type.

You felt yourself focus on parts of him you didn’t like to usually; the rings on his hands, the way his legs-

“So, for the conference tomorrow, I'm in it with Max. I was wondering if when I get a question about how I’m doing shit compared to him—” Lewis made inverted commas with his fingers and rolled his eyes, which you liked, because his face curled up in the most attractive way-

He looked at you politely, turning his laptop to face you.

You looked over the words he had written, but they weren’t registering; you were hyper conscious of the way he was gazing at your face, and you felt like falling into him; but no, that wasn’t great right now.

Right now? God! Pull yourself together!

You properly focused on his words this time, tweaking a few sentences, and turned back to him, smiling. “Yeah, this is perfect. Great job with it,” you said, biting back words.

“Thank you!” Lewis chuckled, and you felt yourself go a little weak in the knees.

You found yourself staring at his face, and he was staring back, slightly puzzled, and you felt really conflicted- to move or not to move?- when Lewis was called away by performance engineers.

You were left staring at the wall, panic filling you up.

🏁🫂💋🧩

“George!” you called, and George turned around with a nod, his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder.

“Can I have a quick chat about what was said in your conference today? I just want to clear what you said so it can go in the files…” you hummed, showing him a doc with his statements and he took the tablet, scanning the sentences, pointing out a few things to you which you quickly changed.

“Thanks, George.. have a good quali,” you smiled, and he gave you a wink.

You took a seat where you always sat, phone out discussing with your colleagues. you never paid attention in q1, knowing it would not impact the team. A few minutes passed, texting and talking.

“FUCK!” A roar came from the back of the garage, where you knew Toto sat, and a sense of dread filled you up as you looked up at the screen.

Lewis Hamilton, qualified p16.

“Holy fuck!” you exclaimed, and sprung up. “Fuck fuck fuck.” You murmured, grabbing the recorder and signalling that you would go with Angela to meet him. The usual girl who did Lewis's press recordings gladly let you go manage the situation, looking nervous.

You walked the short distance to the FIA’s section of the pitlane, watching Lewis’ car pull up. As he sprung out of the car, rigid, you nodded at Angela to give you a moment before you ran to stand alongside him as he was weighed.

“Alright, walk with me,” you said shortly, and he said nothing, walking behind you. You pulled him out of sight of the media or anyone else.

“Lewis, I’d like you to take off your helmet, give it to Angela, and talk to me.”

He took it off- more forcibly than usual- and peeked around the corner, handing it to Angela, and looked back at you, face set in a hard expression and eyebrows raised.

You felt a small surge of heat; you pushed it away just as quickly.

“Listen here. Whatever you’re feeling, that isn’t an urge to push to do better or feel confident that the team will do better in the coming grands prix, it’s gotta wait until after you get out of the media pen and walk through the paddock.”

Lewis bit his lip.

“Alright?”

“Yeah.” He murmured quietly, and you held your arms out for a hug; he looked at you for a moment and brought you in for it.

His hug was comforting, even if he was the one meant to be comforted.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whispered in his ear, and his grasp slackened for a moment before he pulled away, eyes brimming with something you couldn’t decipher; tears, anger, guilt.

“I can talk to you after if you want, yeah? I’m always here,” you said seriously, and you meant it; last year you had slackened when it came to checking in on Lewis, and it built up until after Abu Dhabi arrived and you felt so bad for it.

He nodded, eyes cast to the ground, an invisible pain. You had a feeling to give him a kiss to make it better, a cuddle, something wildly much more than a distanced, somewhat bland conversation.

🏁🫂💋🧩

“He’s feeling let down,” you tell Toto, leaning against the wall of the garage. Lewis had immediately gone into his driver’s room without speaking to the team; understandably so, and it was undoubtedly more safe than letting whatever he was feeling out on them.

Toto sighed, leaning back in his chair. “I know. I know. It’s awful to have him this way, his confidence is bumped.”

You sighed again, looking out to the garage with an annoyed feeling.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” you decided, and Toto shrugged. “Whatever you think will work.”

You bit back a snarky remark as you stalked back to Lewis’ room. You knocked tentatively on the door.

“Come in!”

You entered, closing the door behind you. Lewis was sitting on the small sofa, phone in hand. A nervous expression was on his face.

“Hi,” you said tentatively.

He choked back emotion. “Hi.”

You rushed to hug him on the sofa, and he leant into your arms with a heavy silent heave.

“I'm sorry.” You whispered, pulling back and staring into his expressive eyes. He blinked as tears slid down his face.

“I'm sorry I'm crying.” He said, wiping his eyes. “I feel like I can't cry around anyone any more.”

With that, tears sprung to your own eyes. “I'm sorry you feel that way. I'm really sorry. I slacked off last year when you needed me most. You seemed untouchable, I felt that I couldn't talk to you,” you whispered, and he looked up to the ceiling, tears flowing. “Give me a hug, sweetie,” he said quietly, and you hugged him tightly, crying into his shoulder as he enveloped you in his touch.

You stayed like that for a long time; he rocked you as you stroked his back, revelling in the silence. You heard Angela come in, but Lewis held you firmly and gently murmured for her to give him some time.

Eventually you pulled away at the sound of your phone ringing: it was your head of department, Cornelia. “Hello?” you said quietly, Lewis watching.

“Hi my love, are you with Lewis? Could you bring him to the media pen?”

“Hi, Nelia. Could you give me five minutes?”

“Don’t test me,”

You sighed. Lewis watched you as you shrug, ending the call. “Duty calls,” you whisper, and he sighed. You wipe his tears off his face, murmuring some joke about not letting him down again.

He watched you instead, eyes soft as he studied you work, stroking his cheek. You stand up unsteadily, holding out a hand for him.

“Let's go. Do you want to have dinner tonight?” You ask, reinstating your past tradition of dinner on Saturday.

“Gotta work,” he says hoarsely, and you curse yourself for the insensitivity of it; he’s not at the same level as when you did go out on a Saturday.

“It’s alright,” he answers, saving an apology. “Breakfast?”

“Yeah,” you smile, opening the door.

leila talks: hashtag emo!! let me know if you want a part two, i’m lowkey invested in this story

here’s my masterlist <3

[hxpel3s5-slxxt]

𝔐𝔬𝔳𝔦𝔢

Characters: Takashi Mitsuya x Reader, Keisuke Baji, Nahoya Kawata, Takemichi Hanagaki, rest of Toman mentioned

Warnings: Swearing, bitches messy asl, idek girl this shit jus came to me

A/N: Italics+bold=other girl

"Bitch, you look like a fucking mutt, bitch."

Right now, you and Toman were on the way to see a movie. You sure as hell was not getting on no motorcycle, so ya'll were walking.

However, comma, dumbass Takemichi had to use the restroom even after you told everyone to go before ya'll left.

So, ya'll stop at a park so he can go. While ya'll were waiting, some little girl wanna come up and flirt with your man.

At first, you were side-eyeing her and rolling your eyes like, 'Bitch, get the fuck on.'

You brushed it off, cause you know you and Mitsuya are locked in for real. Besides, everyone could tell he wasn't feeling her at all.

Now, not once during this whole ordeal was you ever disrespectful towards that little girl, but she wanna be rubbing on his arm and shit. So, you had to do something. As politely as you could muster, you said, "Uhm, ion think my man wants you touching all on him like that."

And you gently pushed her crusty hands off him. Then, she wants to go and get disrespectful and say, "Don't touch me, you musty bitch."

Okay, now you're upset.

Then, Mitsuya, being the gentleman he is, says, "You need to watch your mouth. I really wasn't interested anyway." And shrugs her off.

Then, for some reason, she wanna go off on you.

"Bitch, please. You look like Freddy Krueger. I really should beat your ass."

Mitsuya, already knowing something was about to happen, was already between the two of you and pushing you back.

That aint do shit, though, cause all you did was yell over his shoulder.

"Nigga, you should not be talking, ho. You got a whole seafood boil in your panties." At this point, you was reaching over his shoulder, trying to grab her, cause she wanna fight, right? But Mitsuya was not having it. Nigga was holding you back, tryna talk you out of fighting that little girl.

At that, the bitch was just standing there, not doing anything, but she wanted to talk all big and bad, so you called her out.

"Bring yo Hungry, Hungry, Hippo looking ass over here, bitch. You aint slick. I thought you wanted to beat my ass."

Now she wanna walk up (still a safe distance away, cause the bitch is scary as fuck) and start putting her hands in your face.

"Bitch, you're scary; you're terrifying, ho! Run up, get done up, bitch! I'm like that."

You really have to look at her like she's dumb, cause she can see you're being held back. "Bitch, you look like a fucking mutt, bitch. You see he's not letting me go. Don't try and play that."

At this point, you're done arguing with a stupid ho, so you let Mitsuya take you back to the rest of Toman.

Everybody else brought their girlfriend too, so they were ready to fight because the bitch on the phone was talking about, "Let me call my friends," like a bitch. You and your friends can get it.

You see that Takemichi is back, and everyone was ready to go. Except for Nahoya and Baji, who had one arm around their girlfriends and were recording the fight with the other. You roll your eyes at them and smile.

"Ya'll ghetto as fuck." You laugh, smacking their heads.

"Aint you fighting with some girl in public?" Baji points you out.

"For real." Nahoya backs him up.

"Nah, cause she wasn't ready for this work." You giggle and go to hold Mitsuya's hand.

"Come on, so we can go see this movie."

[moonshynecybin]

you had a fantasy au forever ago… how does marc find out vale loves him

i for one. always believe rosquez is just as horny as it is tortured and just as stupid as it is horny. i think it’s this fraught thing where after a LONG saga of trying to keep marc safe and worrying about him (marc is captain of the guard/general!!! it’s his whole job to keep VALE safe but vale thinks about any scenario where marc sacrifices his life to save him and it feels like open HEART SURGERY…) and after trying to ease him into a more bureaucratic role as “advisor” (luca voice comma dryly. pecco already does all that. you are teaching him things a consort knows. you do realize that. it’s important to me that you’ve realized that.) by involving him on strategy and policy he i think. entirely without thinking through the emotional implications wherein. decides marc needs to get married to him. truly the only way he can make marc safe the only way he can physically keep him off the battlefield the only way he can. marriage is a political and transactional enterprise to him and he SHANT fall in love anyways so whatever. get married to marc present his most cogent military mind as unequivocally allied with him and keep marc from killing himself 8000x problem solved. the small ruthless part of him also is like. marc cannot leave me and stage a coup with our neighbors to the west if he is legally bound to me :) forever :)

(i would say they have a break up in this universe because vale is a lil insecure about marc’s ability to rule slash uccio meddlings but. it all brings glory to vale here. it’s all under his banner. that’s part of what he liked about marc to begin with… now if marc came from another noble house?? late stage royal parentage reveal??? then shit would get cwazy)

and he lays this all out to our capricorn moon queen marc marquez who sees the logic here and despite KNOWING it’s a bad idea because he is ass over teakettle in love with vale he ALSO sees this as like. the ultimate way to keep vale safe. he can contribute the same way he does now and he knows he’ll never have all of vale but at least he’ll have SOME of him… be able to produce an heir… so he says yes and vale’s like cool. chill. married as work associates. cool.

it’s all this emotional distancing/repression/denial that plays out into what they THINK is a business transaction until it’s the NIGHT OF. and they have to go in there and consummate their MARRIAGE. and vale lays marc out on their fine silken marriage bed and kisses his scarred arm and asks him if it’s okay and watches the way marc’s eyes squeeze shut when he pushes inside of him and the way he shivers when vale’s presses his mouth to the junction of his shoulder and his neck. the flex of his stomach the splay of his thighs the way he’s looking at vale like he’s something new. something that no one has ever seen before… feeling things no one has ever felt before (marc marquez may very well believe valentino rossi invented the prostate orgasm here) and THATS when vale thinks. uh oh !

[taintandviolent]

le petite mort; James March x Reader

summary: After checking into one of the Hotel Cortez, a conversation with the bartender plagues your mind with dirty thoughts. Some guy catches you pleasuring yourself in the hotel room - and that some guy happens to be the owner of the Hotel. w a r n i n g s: 2k words! shameless smut! female masturbation, accidental voyeurism, slight humiliation, choking / asphyxiation, mentions of death (kinda). a/n: this is one of the first JPM fics that I started writing, and I felt that it finally needed to be finished and out of my drafts. hopefully it's not ASS. this is s shorter one, which feels alien to me, but c'est comma ça. hope everyone enjoys it!

full fic & taglist under cut!↓ / ao3 link here!

“Most people who check into the Hotel Cortez are hipsters wanting a taste of the art deco, or junkies and prostitutes looking to have a quick night in a cheap room.” She set the glass down carefully on the ornate bar, sliding it towards you with one finger.

The bartender didn’t hesitate in striking up a conversation after you’d sat down, angling your two suitcases on one side of the stool. The thought immediately manifested itself between your legs, and you shifted. If only. It had been so long since you’d had a good fuck that at this point, you’d even take a quick night. Maybe not with a junkie, but….

“I guess I kind of fall into the first category. But, I am here for a friend’s wedding. I didn’t want to stay where everyone else was staying.” You tilted your head back, letting the remainder of the amber slide down your throat. “I wish I was in the second category… maybe minus the junkies and prostitutes bit. But…” You trailed off with a shrug.

“Oh believe me, sweetheart. I know exactly what you mean. Women have needs.”

As you gathered your bags, your peripheral caught someone with dark hair watching you. Naturally, when you turned to look at them, you were met with an empty bar. Of course, because this is an old hotel and probably haunted.

“Thanks, Liz. It’s been a treat.”

She said nothing, only bowed her head with her long arms resting widely on the bar. You made a mental note to come back to the bar for another drink. But for now, it was time to unwind in your hotel room.

After getting settled, and a much needed hot shower — washing that airplane sludge off you was mandatory — you were finally relaxed. The wedding wasn’t until Saturday, so you had plenty of time to do whatever made its way into your mind. Maybe order some room service. Maybe peruse the hotel for some history, spend hours reading the informative little plaques that decorated the wall — every old hotel had them. Maybe masturbate…. Oh. Yes. Definitely that. That was first on the list, actually.

Dropping your towel to your feet, you pulled an old tattered t-shirt over your head, and hurried to the bed. Silly that you had any sort of modesty in an empty hotel room, it was after all, your hotel room. Could’ve and should’ve just bolted across the floor naked.

Suddenly, the radio on the table across from you crackled to life, the speakers expelling a high-pitched voice singing jovially amongst violins and some sort of wind instrument. After a few moments, it switched off with a burst of static. Lids heavy with arousal, you stared sleepily at the radio, resolving to unplug it before you went to sleep that night. Old wiring could be tolerated, but things turning on in the middle of the night was nightmare fuel.

You pressed the pad of your middle finger between the folds, delving further down to your entrance, where you pulled up some of the slick to lubricate your clit. The sensation made your eyelids flutter. Jesus, that conversation with the bartender had really gone straight to the cunt — you were clearly longing for something. Someone who would bring something new, something exciting to the table. You already dreaded the polite flirting that was going to occur at the wedding.

Your fingers circled your clit, bringing the sensitivity as high as you could for as long as you could before you felt the hot clench of an orgasm rush over you. Expelling a high pitched moan, you slipped your middle and ring finger inside, pumping in and out to bring yourself over the edge. You let out a few hoarse breaths as your hips dug into the creaky mattress, riding out the pleasure.

“My, my…”

You stared wide-eyed up at the ceiling, trying to figure out if that had been some weird, orgasm-induced hallucination.

“La petite mort, as the French call it.”

You yelped, pulling your wet fingers from your cunt. Unless the bartender had slipped something in your drink, the man at the edge of your bed was definitely not a hallucination. Dark hair styled so that not a single strand was out of place, no facial hair save for a thin moustache that decorated his upper lip, and a suit so pristine, you wondered if he’d just come off a film set. It was LA after all.

“Jesus Christ,” you sputtered, panting unevenly. “What?!” The way he stood at the edge of the bed, hands layered atop a cane was so paternal and overbearing it made you feel like a child caught watching porn on a school night. There was nothing to be embarrassed of; you were a grown woman in a hotel room that you paid for.

“A little death,” he replied. “A temporary weakness, a loss of consciousness. It became a poetic euphemism for orgasm in the late eighteen-hundreds.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” you murmured, mouth curling downward in irritation. “Have you ever heard of knocking!?”

He pushed his bottom lip into his top, pulling his chin up in a challenging expression. One eyebrow quirked. “You wouldn’t have heard me if I had.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but promptly snapped it shut. He had you there. A soft, melodic rapping on a door would’ve been lost amongst your whimpers and groans. Laughably so.

“Who the fuck even are you!? I’m going to call front desk — this is weird.” Frustrated, you wipe your slick fingers on the sheet beneath you before reaching for the phone. Suddenly, he was beside you, and the energy that radiated off of him made your leg muscles spasm.

The woman on the other end sounded annoyed.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she repeated, sounding like she was trying to suss out if this was a prank call.

“I would um, like someone removed from my hotel room. Security, or something.”

“We don’t have security.”

“Okay, that’s outrageous, but — there’s just some fucking guy in my room.”

You’re met with silence. The old plastic of the receiver creaked in your grip, your eyes darting back to him. He was smiling. Proudly.

“Tell them my name.”

You jerked your head forward, contorting your face in defiance, and wordlessly asking for clarification.

“Repeat after me, ‘The man in my room is James Patrick March, and I’d like him removed at once.’”

You felt your eyes narrow into slits, confused. Somewhere deep inside your core, you felt a clench at his sternness. “Go on, my dear.” He urged.

You cleared your throat resentfully.

“The man in my room is… James Patrick March and I’d like him removed at once.”

The line crackled. Instead of the usual static one would expect, terrifying sounds blared through the receiver; hisses and condescending sniggering. Eventually, you make out the harsh sound of a full bellied laugh. The woman was laughing.

“The owner? The owner of the hotel?” The laughing continued.

The tip of his cane came clunking down into the switch-hook, where he held it for several seconds — for poignancy? Dramatic effect? The dial tone startled you.

“I paid for this hotel room, okay? I do—“ You started, stiffly returning the receiver to the cradle.

“You did, did you?” He asked, his voice raising gleefully. The change in tone unsettled you. Deeply. Keeping your eyes locked on his, you reached for the edge of the duvet, scratching your nails at it to bring it up around your bare legs.

He watched you intently, almost smiling. Was he waiting for you to say something? Jesus.

“Ye-yeah… I paid for it.”

“Ah!” He exclaimed.

You jumped.

“I own this hotel, you see.” He gestured enthusiastically to the room, your eyes following it as though you hadn’t already spent a night in it. “I own it all. Down to the sheets you were pleasuring yourself on moments ago.”

You glanced at them. “Finished on, actually.”

“Yes — I know. Shame. I would’ve taken great pride in doing that myself.”

Your jaw dropped, and you pressed your legs together until you felt the pressure against your cunt. Your stomach tied itself in knots.

“Is the thought odious to you?” He inquired, almost softly, like he was trying to appeal to your gentler nature.

You remained silent, rubbing at the veins in your wrist. Eventually, after mulling it over (or gaining the confidence to do so), you shook your head.

“I thought not.” He may have been a complete stranger, but the way melodic way he crooned and growled every word made you dizzy. With the back of his hand, he swept a strand of hair from your brow, his knuckles ghosting over your cheek.

“Show me,” he ordered, running a single finger along your collarbone.

His hands wrapped around your throat, and heat blossomed in your cheeks. At first, his fingers were pressing on either side of your throat and the arousal flowed freely again, delighted by the concept of a mysteriously sexual one night stand. Admittedly, he wasn’t going in easy, but you weren’t a saint. You’d had your fair share of dudes who thought they were a Dom. This guy though… he wasn’t that. He didn’t get his tendencies from sneaking peeks at his girlfriend’s Cosmopolitan. He certainly hadn’t killed your arousal with his decision.

He shifted his weight on top of you, pulling the breathiest moan from your lips. The way his pointer finger roughly traced your jawbone drove you wild. His hands were just cold enough to feel unusual, but they were soft and possessed an unanticipated strength.

All at once, the pressure shifted to the front, his palm compressing against your trachea. Your brows furrowed at the sudden discomfort. His gaze was locked on your face, raptly watching the changing expressions.

You grasped at his hand, flailing as the oxygen started dwindling. Your head felt heavy and the sensation of your vision darkening around the edges frightened you. Your muscles tensed instinctively. He didn’t let up, and the panic wound itself in between your ribs like a snake. With your heart pounding, you began fighting recklessly, desperately trying to reach for anything.

James saw the nearly final change, and with a delighted gaze, eased up. “Exhilarating!”

You gasped, your lungs moaning as they sucked in air. The sound was disturbing to you, and sounded inhuman. “You almost killed me…”

“Hardly, my dear! Brain death occurs in four to five minutes. You triumphantly endured a mere ten seconds!”

“A…little… death.” He whispered each word delicately over your lips, hovering mere centimetres above yours. He was intoxicating, whatever it was he was putting off. Unbeknownst to you, your legs dropped open, hungry for more.

He looked down, eyes scanning over your thighs, your knees, and to the lush, inviting garden between them. One hand returned to your throat, compressing it slightly. You whimpered at the now-familiar sensation, and scooted your body down further on the bed, through his legs.

“Good! Yes,” he praised. “Succumb to your urges.”

As though he’d reached into your brain and simply made you do it, your fingers were on your cunt, playing with your wet folds before you had a second to process that you'd even done it. It was already sensitive, your touches had you galloping towards a second, overstimulated orgasm. With his free hand, James enveloped your hand with his large one, cupping it easily. You writhed uncontrollably, whimpering. He growled in delight at the feeling of your vocal cords humming beneath his palm.

“St-stop,” you cried out weakly, the pressure on your throat making you sound altogether pathetic.

“Very well then, I will.” He said, abruptly releasing the pressure on your throat. “I will, but you won’t.”

You almost protested the action, though that would’ve been an embarrassing blow to your ego had you actually done it. Begging him to stop then begging him to continue? Shameful. How much more of a desperate whore could you be, honestly? “Go on - since you’re so fond of it. Show me.”

He took in a seat in the velvet chair directly parallel to the bed, one leg crossed casually over the other. His dark eyes were aflame with interested, erotic hunger. You slipped one finger in, making a slutty show of how wet you were. Two fingers, and you arched your back, moaning loud.

“Another,” he crooned. You obeyed, wincing at the fullness. You curled your fingers up, pressing into the spongy flesh that made you writhe like a worm on a hook. You began leaking onto the mattress below, a mess of cum and sweat. James watched you as you fingered yourself again and again, pleasuring yourself over and over in every way you knew how until your legs were quivering with the overstimulation.

“Die a little death, my darling, go on…”

You came. Hard. Screaming, shaking and spilling out onto the sheets beneath you. With your hand laying limp over your damp cunt, twitching every so often, your breathing gradually slowed. Of course, when you lifted your head, the man was gone, leaving nothing but the quiet echo of his satisfied ‘Mmmm…’

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[sgiandubh]

Saw your comment: "We're not all thirsty mommies, nor 12, nor bitter bitches. I'd love to see and hear more about what is beneath that mask, not beneath that shirt." Sam has done that before. He wrote an entire book about his journey but the book is called bullshit and he a liar. He's written well-thought out articles and forewords to books. He speaks intelligently and passionately and knowledgably about his liquors and the process of getting to market, and is called a shill. His work with Prickly Thistle is expensive and taking peoples' money, even when it helped this woman-owned mill immensely. It goes on and on. Today he's been accused of hypocrisy for a plastic cup, thirst trapping to change a conversation and using his social media as a PR tool to fool gullible women. Some may want to see beneath the mask but when he's shown what he is willing to you get the above.

Dear Hypocrisy Anon,

Thank you for your thoughts. I have read your long comment very carefully and let's say I agree with about 85% of it. The itching point is, of course, the book: Waypoints is a good ghostwritten memoir I have commented at length, with a more benevolent view than most of those who found it took some substantial liberty with what they (and I, for that matter) think it's the current state of play in SC Land. Note I am not saying the truth: that's only for Them to know, not for us. So dismissing it and calling everything a lie is a bit of a stretch. It's just a memoir, to be followed by other projects, other books. And who knows, another memoir, later on, where he could correct the course again at his convenience. He's only 43. Give the man some credit.

Trouble is, the world is a vast and diverse place. It's not just this fractured fandom. If he wants to remain relevant beyond OL, he needs, in my humble opinion, two things: a) to score a big role in a big budget production, which would improve his notoriety and help him reach a different public and b) curate his personal image a bit more and get out of this midlife crisis fake character he's peddling around. The only people who find it interesting are the thirsty mommies in *urv's crowd and that's, uhm... a bit irrelevant, in the big scheme of things.

So, no more political blunders, please and thank you. Shut the hell up and play Switzerland on complicated and divisive society issues which can get one in boiled water for a comma. Carefully picked and curated CSR projects, he'd ideally be more actively involved in. And yes, maybe a bit more transparency on the so many great things he does, like that partnership with the Edinburgh's Youth Theatre he didn't even mention himself or include in his stories (no doubt, out of a very British and endearing sense of modesty). And always remember: when faced with something beautiful and fragile, like that story, people will try their best to smear it and break it. I am not bitter, just realistic.

Same goes for your conclusion: I am sure many would like to see more of what is beneath that mask. It's too bad that a bunch of bitter, nasty, clueless, but also very noisy women occupy a bigger part of the stage than they should.

But have faith, Anon. For the moment, all of this is nothing what a good PR, not the clowns he obviously hired, can't fix with relative ease. Trust me. I've seen way worse. And remember, always remember what dear Wilde (God, I love that soul!) said: 'every saint has a past and every sinner has a future'.

You just gave me an idea for a future post and for this, I thank you, Anon. But for now, I have to catch up on a thing or two, rather than determine the morality of a plastic glass. I hope this long answer helps somewhat. Thank you for dropping by: it was a pleasure reading your musings.