#HERE'S YOUR QUID PRO QUO ; ( ANSWERED )

[tempportal]

@theseancekid said: 👀

"Trust me, Claire, Uncle Klaus is only your favorite because you don't have to live with that moron day in and day out. You know, one time, he smuggled an entire raft of ducks into our third-floor bathtub? He was feeding them frozen peas and giving them all their own names by the time I found out. No, no, don't laugh! This isn't a funny story! I'm not telling you this as a funny story! I'm telling you this so you understand what a nuisance your Uncle Klaus is!

...Okay, fine. Yeah. It was a little funny. After we got them all back to their pond, I mean. ...And you want to know something? Klaus is one of my favorites, too."

[to-the-stars8]

The Waynes' Nanny

Batfamily and Reader/ Bruce Wayne x Reader Chapters Ao3

My Type of Nanny

You wished Bruce hadn’t put you down as an emergency contact for the school. Every time one of the kids was sick or forgot something, the school would call you. Not even Mr. Wayne was all that impressed, and even thought it was a little sexist. He had called the school multiple times to inform them that he should have been the first person they called, but, alas, they never listened. 

That morning you had received a call from the principal informing you that Dick was in big trouble. When you asked what the “big” trouble was, the man refused to say and demanded that you get down to the school to see what had happened. You complied, leaving Damian in Alfred’s care. Bruce didn’t answer your phone call, more than likely in a meeting or on a date, so you decided to brave the storm alone. 

Dick was sitting opposite the principal with another boy sitting by his side when you entered. When the secretary announced you through, he hardly budged and continued to brood. Upon further inspection, it was evident that he had been in a fight. There was a cut under his eye, dirt all over his gym clothes, and a cut on his lip. Glancing at the other boy next to him, it was clear that Dick was the real winner of the fight. He was practically unscathed compared to the much taller, buff teenager next to him who was sporting a black eye, bloody nose, and a terrible head bump. 

“What happened?” You asked. 

“Won a fight,” Dick said with a smile. 

The kid next to him raised his fist to threaten Dick but was quickly stopped by his mother standing behind him. You bit back a chuckle before reaching over to press on the bruise blooming on Dick’s cheek. The boy winced before pushing your hand away. 

“Now’s not the time for your smartassery,” You remarked before turning to the principal. You gently pushed his face side to side to make sure nothing else was broken or bruised. When nothing else seemed out of place, you ruffled his hair before turning to the principal. “Alright, how’re we doing this?”

“Excuse me?” The man said, surprised. 

“How’re we doing this? Are both boys getting suspended, one getting suspended and the other…”

The principal laughed and waved his hands about like he was trying to get rid of any notion of the idea. “No, no, no. We won’t suspend either boy. Kids fight, we understand that here, but we do ask that, in return for not suspending the boys, a donation to the school be made. A quid pro quo, if you will.”

You were stunned into silence, surprised that money could be thrown about anywhere, and looked at Dick. He stared back at you expectantly, like he was waiting for you to call up his father and ask for money. The other woman was already getting out her checkbook while mumbling under her breath. 

“Absolutely not,” You said. “You can’t fight someone and get away with it.”

“Call Bruce, he’ll handle it.” Dick rolled his eyes and slouched in his chair. 

Before any other protest could leave your mouth, the secretary was already letting Mr. Wayne in. Bruce came in with an easy smile that charmed everyone else in the room, before stopping to clap his boy on the shoulder. 

“Looks like you got it rough, kiddo,” He said with a laugh. “Gotta stay off the playground!”

Everyone in the room laughed save for you and Dick, who mumbled something about how the other boy shouldn’t have messed with Jason. The principal went over the same request as before; donate and both boys would get off scot-free. You watched as Bruce’s hand slid into his pocket and pulled out his checkbook. As much as you didn’t like it, you held back the urge to reach over and snatch the checkbook right out of his hands. It wasn’t right to just pay your way out of a bad situation, but Bruce seemed to be happy to do it. 

Once the cheques were handed over to the principal, the boys were let go for the rest of the day. You scolded Dick on the way out, telling him that not only would he be banned from any and all games, but he would be spending his weekend in his room.

“No!” Dick whined before turning to Bruce. “You can’t let her do this! She’s not even my mom.”

“But she is your nanny, and it’s in her contract that she makes sure you don't turn into a brat,” Mr. Wayne said in a matter-of-fact tone. 

You smiled and thanked Bruce for backing you up, which made Dick exclaim, “Why don’t you two just get married already!”

You rolled your eyes, knowing that was just one of his ways to get what he wanted by saying something absurd, but Bruce scoffed. You caught that and quickly asked, “What was that scoff for? You think you’re too good to marry me?” Putting your hands on your hips, you stopped to look at Mr. Wayne. He stopped, too, suddenly realizing what he had done. 

“No. No, you’re just not my type,” Mr. Wayne said nervously like he didn’t want to say what he truly thought.

You snorted before mumbling, “And here I thought you were open to all.”

“What was that?” Mr. Wayne stopped to look at you. 

You put up your hands as you scooted around the man, urging Dick to get to the car. Mr. Wayne didn’t let it go though, following closely behind you as you continued to the car.

“Is this coming from the woman who has made a move on half of the people in the elite of Gotham,” Bruce remarked. 

“Hey, if you got to them first, I’ll respect it,” You said as you opened your car door. “I’m sure you rich boys don’t like to share.”

“I’m not going to be mocked by a door-to-door sales girl,” He said, leaning against the side of your car. 

Dick smiled to himself, glad that his plan of shifting the attention from him worked, and felt brave enough to even get out his GameBoy. As he played Mario, he listened to the two of you bicker like an old married couple. Alfred was right, the two of you really did like each other’s company too much. 

“Wow,” You laughed as you smacked your hands on the steering wheel. You glanced over at Dick in the passenger seat, seeing the GameBoy in his hand, and promptly reached over to take it. Handing it off to Bruce, you continued like nothing had happened, “Classist much?”

Mr. Wayne went to answer, but then he glanced over at Dick. He sucked in a breath and decided to let his comeback die there since it wouldn't have been suitable for his son to hear. “Just get him home and grounded.”

“Will do, and I’ll make sure to let Alfred know,” You said. 

“No!” Dick cried. Alfred’s punishments were the worst. 

You clapped the boy on the shoulder before winking at Mr. Wayne. Dick groaned, knowing full well that he was going to make sure you were never the first one to be called by the school again. 

[uwu-bxtch]

||I’M A GOOD GIRL OFFICER|| k.n.

summary :: “everybody knows that i’m a good girl officer.” OR detective!nanami is suspicious of you murdering your husband and you need to convince him otherwise.

content :: film noir au, detective!nanami, nanami kento x reader, suggestive, mentions of murder, quid pro quo, fem reader

a/n :: guys i was tryna go for those old timey detective films. film noir is the proper term. i hope yall like it, should i do a part two?

it’s late into the night when nanami kento finally has had enough of looking at paperwork. with a loud sigh, the detective stands from his desk and walks towards his mini bar. pouring himself a shot of whiskey, he contemplates the case at hand.

Jin Takeshi, the town’s most well known business owner, mysteriously died two days ago. being the best in his league, he was put on the case. all clues point to his wife, but no one would believe him. he’s been suspicious since she first appeared in his office with the cops. he just needed to find a way to prove his hunch. with another groan, he downs his shot before placing the cup down with a clank.

“a man who knows how to hold his liquor, i like that.”

he didn’t even hear you come in. kento looked behind him to see the devil herself.

“mrs. takeshi, how did you get in here?”

you hold your hand up to your chest, feigning sadness.

“please, (y/n) is fine. that name only hurts my heart more.”

unaffected, kento continues to give her a blank stare, waiting for her answer.

“you’re suspicious of me, why?”

leaning against his desk, kento quickly looks you up and down, analyzing your body language.

“your husband is dead and you’re my only witness, how do you explain that?”

you shift a bit in your big fur coat, avoiding his tense gaze. truly, you didn’t think you’d get this far but now wasn’t the time for any hesitation.

“i didn’t kill my husband, honest, mr. nanami.”

“yet you were so quick with his funeral.”

“he was a good man, detective!”

you might’ve gotten too defensive, noticing kento’s slight brow raise.

“you weren’t upset with him at all?”

you frown, faux offense written on your face.

“I loved him, he treated me goo—“

“then how do you explain this, miss.”

dipping his finger in his cup, he approaches you and wipes your under eye makeup, revealing a nasty bruise. he noticed it when you first showed up with the cops two days ago, but decided to look past it that day, not wanting to put you through more grief. you gulp nervously, not sure how you were going to get yourself out of this.

“seems like he pushed you past your limit that day. finally had enough?”

“h-how did you—“

“your husband was a prominent figure, so of course i did extensive research. gossip, articles, you name it. your neighbors are quite chatty.”

kento steps back to his spot on his desk.

“well, what’s a girl like me supposed to do stuck with a man like that?” you plead, voice dripping with desperation.

“i don’t know miss, but at the end of the day you killed a man.”

your eyes begin to prickle with tears.

“please, sir, i won’t survive in jail!”

you look into his eyes to find some type of sympathy, but he avoids your gaze. suddenly an idea pops into your head.

slowly, you open up your coat, clearing your throat to get his attention once again.

“you seem like you know how to treat a woman right.”

once your coat falls to the floor you make the short trip to the man. in nothing but a red lace panty set, you push your body against kento’s.

“ma’am this is in—“

you gently press your pointer finger to his lips as your other hand starts palming at his bulge.

“i bet you can take care of me real nice. let me take care of you and we can forget this whole exchange, yeah?”

kento gulped, his cock growing harder every second. yes, he wouldn’t mind cracking you right over his desk, but this was unprofessional. he was better than this. he looks down at you and his resolve instantly crumbles at your doe eyes looking up at him. a ghost of a smirk appears on your face once you notice his demeanor fall slightly.

kento’s hands travel up from your ass to your waist, giving you ass a slight squeeze on their way up.

“is that a yes big boy?”

your voice was dripping with seduction. nanami closed his eyes, letting out a quiet ‘damn’ before leaning down to kiss you. his kiss was hungry but gentle. nothing but the quiet smack of your lips filled his office. the hand still on his bulge started to work on his zipper until you hear the door open.

“mr. nanami i’m heading out for the—oh!”

you instantly jump off the man, scrambling to cover yourself up with your coat. the secret gasped at the scene before her. the victim’s wife and suspect mackin it with the lead detective was not a good look. you quickly rush your way to the door where the secretary was still standing in shock.

“i should get going now, thank you for the meeting mr. nanami!” you hurriedly walk out of the office, leaving a disheveled kento and his secretary to stare at each other.

“i’m sorry you had to see that,” kento clears his throat, adjusting himself to look more presentable.

“see what? i’m heading out, calling in sick tomorrow too. don’t overwork yourself mr. nanami.”

the secretary also hurries out the room, leaving nanami alone with his thoughts.

what the hell did i just do?

MASTERLIST :: PART TWO

[fallen-gravity]

All jokes aside, despite the fact that multiple sources of canon tell us that Maui struggles with being empathetic and understanding where others are coming from when it comes to their needs in the way of emotional comfort, I'm gonna come out and say it: Maui is actually very good with being empathetic, but only in a very specific kind of way that only resonates with Moana.

(some fun analysis, please don't tag as a ship)

Here's the thing! I've been listening to Can I Get a Chee-Hoo? a lot lately, and the more I listen to it the more patterns I started noticing, and the more you unpack those patterns the more you start to understand why it worked to lift Moana's spirits, despite her being unreceptive to everything else he tried.

Namely that he went after her sense of identity.

Self-identity has always been hugely important to her. He's gotta know that better than anybody, given how many times she told him in the original that she is Moana of Motunui, and he *will* board her boat and sail across the sea, yadda yadda, you all know the rest.

And here's the thing! That's not even remotely close to the only time where the importance of one's identity comes up! (He, uh, wasn't there for one of those times, because one of those times was right after he took off and left at the result of frustration with his own sense of identity, but I digress for that specific situation), but do you know what the important thing to note about those other times is?

Both of those other times, she was reaching out and trying to comfort someone else by reminding them about their own sense of identity!!

I talked briefly about this years ago, but there's a tiny scene in the novelization for the first movie that's omitted from the movie itself. It's right after Lalotai, but far before Moana gets Maui to open up about his issues with abandonment. If I remember right, he's being a stubborn pouty mess about his hook not working, refusing to even get back on the canoe at all, and the way that Moana gets him to comply is with a speech that goes somewhere along the lines of "We will make it all the way to Te Fiti, and you will defeat Te Ka, and I know that because you are Maui." It's a tiny gesture, and nowhere near as sentimental as her later "You are not nothing, and maybe the whole reason the ocean sent me here is to help you see that”, (also from the novelization), but it works, because in that moment all he needs is that gentle push and a reminder of the strong and powerful person he sees himself as. It's not about how she feels about him, it's about him needing to have faith in himself. That's what works!! That's what motivates him to keep going.

The reason I bring all of this up is that Can I Get a Chee-Hoo? is his way of doing the exact!! same!! thing!!

The first line in the whole song!

You're down in the dumps, you think you're way off your game, but you can turn it around, just remember your name!

He's not calling out to some scared kid, he's calling out to the Moana he knows, the Moana who's unafraid to shout her name from the mountain-tops and not care who hears her! The Moana who stood her ground in front of the very same lava monster who took him down without flinching once! Maui doesn't need to say he's proud of her or that he believes in her, not directly, because this is his way of saying this is not who you are, you know who you are.

The whole song is calling out to that pride he knows she has for herself.

Who are you? Who are you gonna be?

He's not looking for a dramatic, over the top answer. He's only looking for things she already knows. She is Tautai Moana of Motunui, she's the human who restored Te Fiti's heart when he couldn't. She knows who she is! But she's lost her way, just as he had once, and this is his way of helping her help herself out of it. He makes a joke about their roles being reversed for the sake of quid pro quo, you helped me so now I'm helping you, but whether he realizes it or not, he's using her own words against her! "I know who you are. Do you? Do you remember who you are?"

He sings her praises, (literally), but none of them are exaggerated or overly boastful in the way he sings his own praises! (also literal). She's legendary, she's going to make history, but oh, you actually already did! I know your legacy! Everything beyond I know your legacy and your destiny and I know that you're great is only hypothetical to build her up! He never claims that she's going to destroy Nalo, or that she'll singlehandedly do anything impossible for a human, it's all can you imagine the stories they'll tell about you? because he knows that's what's important to her!

The reason it works is because it calls her to pick herself up, just as she had done for him. In the novel, where a song obviously needs to be replaced, it all boils down to the essentials of "...I’ve been low before, and I couldn’t see my path. And someone came along who I underestimated and she lifted me up. Someone I don’t want to underestimate herself right now.” It works because it's less about come on, we can fight this guy! in reference to Nalo and more about come on, I know you can believe in yourself better than that!

And perhaps the most important thing of all:

He uses her name.

It's established in the novelization pretty early on, even before they're reunited, that she misses him and all of the teasing and all of the nicknames that comes with him (not that she'd ever admit it out loud, she'd rather be caught dead). She's used to Curly, that name is second nature to her. She's annoyed by princess, but will still respond to it if he calls her by it. They're affectionate nicknames, by all means, but she knows Maui, and she knows he tends to fall back on teasing and jokes and avoiding the heavier topics.

When he calls her Moana, she knows that he's not messing around. He's not teasing her. There's genuine, serious truth to what he says.

Throughout the song, he uses nothing but her name. C'mon, Moana, you know you can do this. It's a lot different hearing I have faith in you, you're the bravest wayfinder there's ever been when it's attached to her own name. He isn't teasing her anymore, he's genuinely trying to reassure her of her identiy and her inevitable legacy and if all else fails then that's what I'm here for.

It works for her because he's demonstrating empathy towards the one thing that's more important to her than anything else. That's how she knows he cares. That's how she knows he listens.

tldr; Even though Maui isn't great at the whole understanding and empathizing with humans thing, the reason he's still able to resonate with Moana is because he's able to empathize with her in a way that others may not have been able to.

[syoddeye]

like i'm winning it - 02 wellspring

ghost x f!reader | 3k words | series page | ao3 cw: alcohol, threats of violence, power imbalance, sexual harassment (quid pro quo offer), reader is in over her head, male ocs You've never made it this far. Not on your own.

Win comes around a lot more after your date. 

He buys booths, bottles. Slips tips to any of your work friends who so happen to breeze by and drops bills on the host stand. In one month, more money passes through your hands than the last three combined.

You pay off the rent you'd been dodging. Renew the subscriptions to your motorized blinds and water filter. Get your nails done. A balance of necessities and luxuries. Indulgence to feel alive, practicality to stay afloat. 

In return, every night you're not working, you accompany him on dates—restaurants, galleries, and shows. Stuff previously out of reach for you. He asks you to read, dead scripts that'll never see the screen, but good practice. You show him your self-tapes. A list of the classes and workshops you want to take. And it's like that first dinner. No jokes, no teasing. Win takes you seriously. Says you got a gift, that you're a little diamond in the rough. Raw potential that only needs polishing.

But as nice as Win is, you're not naïve. His attention is a well that could dry up like Tahoe. You're determined to enjoy it while it lasts, though.

Mal stops you one night, just as you're shrugging your coat off, mid-sentence with Irina. She tilts her head and says there's a 'big guy' waiting for you out front. Your shift's covered, and your pay won't be docked. It doesn't click until she tacks on as an afterthought, "Does he always wear a mask?"

You stop, coat half-off, a cold rush prickling the back of your neck. So. Ghost is here. No big deal—it's probably something for Win. However, when you check your messages, there's nothing recent. Must be a surprise, you think, smiling as Irina jabs her elbow into your ribs, purring out, "Have fun, my little Star."

You pull your coat back on, zipping it to your chin as you bolt out of the dressing room. The club isn't quite to capacity, but you weave through the crowd until you reach the doors. You say goodnight to security as the doors swing open and see him dead ahead.

Ghost pops the door to a sleek red car, but the back seat's empty.

"Where's Win?" You ask as you climb in.

"You see 'im?" The door shuts in your face.

Rude. You don't recognize the car, but Win mentioned owning several. Even curiouser, there's no uniformed driver. Ghost slides into the driver's seat.

You give up on questions. All Ghost does is grunt and answer monosyllabically. 

You temporarily lose your ability to speak at all, anyway, when the sidewalks outside get cleaner and the stores trend nicer. You don't want to believe it when he takes a particular turn, heart swelling in your chest, but then yes—he turns again, and the street narrows, feeding into a set of chrome gates reading CynoSure Studios. 

You've never made it this far. Not on your own.

The car slows but doesn't stop as the red light of the gate's security sensors wash through the interior, then flick blue. The gates open automatically, and you're on the move again, passing warehouse after warehouse. All locked up and closed. Ghost takes you to the last one tucked in the corner. The car door opens for you, inviting in the breeze, carrying the faint scent of cigarette smoke with it.

"Get out, go in, and give 'im your name."

"Win?"

"No."

"Who, then?"

The look Ghost gives you in the mirror tells you ought to try your luck with the stranger. Not him.

You step out and straighten your skirt, and risk one more question. "Can you at least tell me how long this will take?"

"As long as it needs to."

Helpful bastard. 

Your heels click against the pavement, the sound ricocheting down the boulevard of silent studios, the street stretching out, empty but for the murmur of jazz seeping through the warehouse walls. The door gives when you pull the handle, and warm air brushes over you as you step into the dimly lit, cavernous space.

In the center is a small set. Parts of an old school, traditional family home. A kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. A set of speakers on the cement floor. A man leans on the counter, staring at a spread of papers on the table. 

"Hello?"

He looks up, a smile slowly forming on his face. "Can I help you?"

You give him your name, eyes darting around, finding no others. "I think my–I think Win Goforth set this up?"

"Senior or Junior?"

"Junior?"

His golden oculars flicker, the faint glow brightening as something shifts behind his pupils—an interface scanning through a list, maybe a calendar. "Right. Come on in, then. You're the last girl of the day."

You laugh a little incredulously, confused, and glance back at the entrance. Ghost would hear if you screamed, right? He'd also…respond. Right? 

"I'm the last girl for…?"

"The Lumina Vitae shoot? The skincare line?"

Your steps falter. When you didn't hear back after you'd sent off a dozen self-portraits—your hands lit as best as you could manage with a desk lamp and a timed lens—you prepared yourself for rejection. You knew it was a longshot. No professional help, no proper gear, just hoping beyond hope they were good enough. Yet here you were, apparently in the running. 

"Oh, right. That shoot. Of course, thank you. Hard to keep up these days."

He chuckles. "Sure is. I'm Max, by the way. If you'd just…"

Max helps you onto the raised set, immediately positioning you under one of the dangling set lights. He retrieves a small control from amongst the papers, which you realize are printed stills of various hands carefully posed and photographed. 

"No paperwork to sign?"

He ignores the question and turns up the music. "Hands out." You do, arms slightly bent, palms facing down—basic stuff, he mentions. No papers necessary since he knows the Goforths. With a tap to his temple, a small photographic drone floats onto set from somewhere unseen. Its lenses adjust automatically.

"Remain still."

Then, it's all too fast, snapping photos at a dizzying speed, its movements fluid. He must take a hundred pictures, peppering you with generic, scripted questions. How long you've known Win, your day job, if you're a local, and your family. That sort of thing.

Suddenly, he stops, humming, dark shapes moving over his irises as he reviews shots.

"I'm afraid this lighting is too severe. Mind if we…?" He walks toward the bedroom. "There's a better lamp in here."

"Of course." 

You scurry after, the drone following, and sit on the bed, close to the nightstand where he turns on a gentler lamp. The light's warmer, softer. He instructs you to lay one hand over the other, slightly offset, and you're suddenly thankful for the manicure and the little luxuries Win's generosity affords you.

If this goes well, I could get more than a manicure.  

You buzz at the thought, at the domino effect this opportunity might have. You're so caught up in your daydreams that you barely notice Max moving closer, pupils dilating manually. He reaches out, his fingertip pressing gently against your chin, tilting your face toward his.

"Is Win your only agent?"

The question catches you off guard. You're about to correct him, explain that Win isn't your agent, that you wouldn't even call him your boyfriend, but remember your lie. "Yes."

The drone hums past, its tiny turbines leaving a heated wake. It hovers above Max's shoulder, an impersonal observer. "You're not affiliated with any other studio? You've never worked for Echelon? Parallax? You're not, ah, fucking some other big wig?"

You pull back, lips pressing together, but keep your hands in place. After years of trying to wedge a single finger in the door, scrabbling for every chance, you're not about to fold to a sleaze like him. He's not the first, not the last. Still pisses you off, though. "No."

His irises shift from the soft gold to a harsh, ophidian yellow. "No? Good. Then, maybe we can help each other. I'm, ah, inclined to give you this job. Your hands aren't bad. Small, but nothing a shop job couldn't fix. And no mods. No synthetic patchwork. I like that. Makes me curious how much of you is natural." 

You wrinkle your nose.

"Problem is, Win's signed to take half of your earnings," He shakes his head. "That doesn't seem right, does it? You're the one putting in the work."

You don't answer.

"Why don't we cut the middle man out?"

Dread and disgust churns your stomach. What he's insinuating, what he's suggesting—you think of calling for Ghost just to see Max wet himself. He must not know the lug's here. "And I'm sure you're offering this out of the goodness of your heart."

He snorts. "Of course not. This lot isn't booked until tomorrow morning, and there's a perfectly good bed here…" His voice trails. "I'm sure you can put two and two together, sweetheart."

Bile, sharp and bitter, rises to the back of your throat. You have half a mind to spit it onto his shoes, but instead, you swallow it down, determined to keep it together. 

"Thanks for your time, Max," Hundreds of nights coddling drunk assholes at the club have prepared you for this. "I'll be going."

Max doesn't budge when you stand, forcing you into the narrow gap between him and the nightstand. "You sure about that?" He ducks his head closer, the drone bobbing beside his face. "I'll tell Win you're being difficult, and you know, we actually go way back. Might be difficult to find work on a blacklist."

Your lip curls, Ghost's name tucked behind your teeth as a last resort. "You can tell Win whatever lie you want, I'm not doing this. Not for you, not for anyone. Win's been nothing but kind to me. I don't care who he is, I'm not going to–" You glance at the cheap stock bed, "I'm not going to betray his trust like that."

You don't know where you stand with Win—how serious he is about you, or if anything is even there—but you do know that he's been kind, generous, and this…Fucking some slimeball? Cutting him out for a stupid fancy lotion commercial? You couldn't.

Turning on your heel, you make for the door, fuming, and nearly fall off set.

There, leaning against the far wall beside the door, is Ghost. Arms crossed, relaxed, and looking bored as ever. Has he been inside the whole time?

Behind you, laughter. Max follows, clapping and squeezing an over-familiarly hand on your shoulder. "Oh, Win's got a live one, Ghost. Don't you think?"

What the fuck?

You jerk away from him and trip over your words. "What–I don't–Aren't you with Lumina Vitae?"

Max shakes his head. "Oh, I'm no, not at all. I just work for Mr. Goforth. This," He gestures at the hovering drone. "Is his toy. Feel free to wave. Win will watch this later." He taps his temple twice, and the tiny bot emits a melodic chime before lowering obediently into his hand. "Good job by the way, you passed."

"I…passed?"

Max steps around you. "Win's a high-value individual. The Goforths have enemies. Rivals. He likes to vet his, ah, company before he gets in too deep." He gathers the stills and shrugs. "Next time you see him, he'll probably have you sign an NDA. That's the usual timeline."

Heat floods your skin, blooming over your face and neck. The entire situation is outlandish, bordering on absurd, but that's the point, isn't it? It's a test. Win is the heir-apparent to one of the biggest names in film, his family worth billions. You knew that, of course, but you've spent weeks skating around it, choosing instead to lean into the fantasy, pretending it wasn't reality until now.

Max watches you stumble off the set unassisted. "Congrats again. See you around sometime."

Ghost stares past you as you hurry across the warehouse, desperate to put distance between yourself and the stooge. Your arms fold over your chest, hugging yourself tightly, the pressure a weak attempt to steady the choppiness of your breath. He peels off the wall, following close enough that you half-expect him to grab you, stuff you into the trunk, and kick off another leg of this hazing ritual.

But he doesn't. He doesn't say a word when you leave the CynoSure lot, or when you kick off your heels and curl against the door. You press your forehead to the cool glass, mind buzzing with static. Again, you're the one who breaks the silence.

"Does Win…Does he test everyone?"

"Yeah."

Your eyes snap to the back of his head. "Does everyone pass?"

"No."

"What happens to–"

"Don't ask."

"Can I ask one more?" You lick your lip and ask before he can refuse. "Would you have helped me, if he…if he tried something?"

The car jerks suddenly, swerving as it barely misses a motorbike you blast past. Ghost swears, hands choking the steering wheel. After a moment, his shoulders sag, and he cracks his neck with a grunt. "'Course. Don't want to be out of a job."

Ghost doesn't take you home. He takes you to Win. No message or call is needed. He's expecting you. You try to think of something coherent to say to him, but you keep circling back to fuck you. You can't say that, though, glancing at the man behind the wheel.

You follow Ghost from the car into the building, squeezing past him into the lift, and settle into a rear corner. One arm wraps across your torso, the other bent at the elbow, fingertips hovering near your mouth, the impulse to chew your nails loud. The doors close, and the lift starts, numbers climbing in a muted LED glow. You stare into the middle, at and through your reflection.

The jolt is sudden. The lift grinds to a halt, and you instinctively reach for the bars on either side to keep yourself from falling. White light shifts abruptly to red. Your gaze whips to Ghost, mouth opening at the sight of his hand eclipsing the screen, a thumb pressed firmly to the emergency stop.

"What are you–" The question shrivels when he takes one step and closes the distance. The space between you almost nonexistent, and erased further as he leans closer. His head tilts down, all angles and shadows under the crimson light. His eyes are a dimmer red than usual, earthy, like rust. His hands slip over yours, his weight shifting to apply pressure. You try to ignore their smothering warmth.

"You and I are gonna have an understanding."

Your tongue twists. You nod.

"You passed Junior's stupid test. Good for you."  Each word drips with disdain, clipped with irritation, like he can't believe you made it this far. "Doesn't mean your pretty arse belongs in this building, on 'is arm, or anywhere near 'is family. Don't care 'ow much 'e likes you or that cunt of yours. One step out of line, an' you'll be landfill. We clear?"

Landfill. "We're clear."

Ghost grunts and lingers a moment longer, his eyes dropping, and for a second, you think—no, you're sure—he's sneaking a look at your tits. But then one hand lifts, and he plants it against your neck. His thumb settles in the notch above your collarbone, pressing lightly. A scan passes over you, invisible but invasive, crackling in your ears. Then he pulls away with a huff, apparently unimpressed by what he found.

The lift moves before you do. When the doors open, it takes every ounce of willpower to unstick yourself from the corner, legs unsteady beneath you.

The condo is quiet. Ghost disappears ahead without you, before you can toe off one heel in the foyer. Your feet throb, but it's nothing compared to the cement block of stress resting on your shoulders. You should've stayed at the club. Between the 'test' and Ghost's brief, terrifying warning, you think you're close to collapse. You walk as quietly as you can, slow, still at a loss for what to say to Win.

You turn the corner into the living space and flinch at a loud pop, followed by a familiar burst of sparks. A champagne bottle sparkler flares, held aloft by a grinning, dressed-down Win. "There's my beautiful star, my Stella," he calls out, jerking his head. "Get your cute ass over here, and let's celebrate, baby."

This night keeps getting better.

"I look cute, huh?" Win teases as you reluctantly tiptoe closer. "Like I'm you. All I need is a skirt."

You don't know how much longer you can keep playing along. "Win, we need to talk–"

He pours the champagne over two glasses, spilling a bit as he looks between you and the bottle. "I agree. We've got to talk contracts." A wide and knowing grin spreads across his face. "Just got the call—you're in, babe. You're gonna be a Goforth Girl. You got the gig."

You blink. "I what?"

Win chuckles. "Don't look so shocked. I've got a buddy over at Lumina. This one was a gimme. Not all of them will come this easy, but hey, it's your first big one, right?"

You sit before you keel over, swallowing hard as your stomach turns in slow waves. Disbelief, confusion, and the remnants of your indignation tangle together in a knot. Your first gig. A real one. Not some odd job handing out flyers in costume or paid-in-exposure promo modeling. A real commercial for a real company with real reach. Still. You need to say something.

"Yeah, but Win, we need to talk about your friend. Max? The creep at CynoSure? He, um, he told me–"

"We'll cover that, too." He brushes it off with a casual wave as he hands you the flute of champagne. "Got a form or two for you to sign in addition to some business about exclusive representation." He looms over you, ringed fingers twisting the stem of his glass. 

You gape up at him, your head a mess from being pulled in so many directions in one night. It would be crazy, right? To say no now. Max's voice echoes in your head, steady and certain: Win's a high-value individual. The Goforths have enemies. You can't blame him for wanting to protect himself, to protect his family. If roles were reversed, wouldn't you? And if you're going to continue your…entanglement, isn't signing papers in your best interest, to protect yourself?

Win extends his drink. "You'll be a star. We'll make it happen."

We'll make it happen. What else can you say to that? To his complete confidence in you?

Your smile is a brittle thing warped into a crescent, and you watch it in the reflection of your glass as you lift it. "Well, to us, then."

The glasses clink, and you swallow a bitter sip. Win draws you back onto your sore feet for a prolonged kiss.

The slap of bare feet against the floor breaks the moment, eyes popping open as you make a noise into Win's mouth. Across the room, in the kitchen, Ghost reappears. Shirtless. He looks even bigger now, his back a hulking mass of muscle, ridiculous in its sheer width. Scars line his skin, some mods, some implants, but the rest speak to his chosen career. Black ink coils up his arm in a cluttered tattoo, and his skin's slick, the dampness of his blond hair suggesting he came from the shower.

Win pulls away, his mouth smudged with your lipstick.

"Ghost! Join us, we're celebrating! Grab a glass."

The behemoth pauses at the refrigerator, glaring. Despite his state of dress, he's taken the time to hook a cloth mask over his ears, one of which looks puffy. His brow furrows and his gaze shifts between you.

"No." He grinds out, voice low, and a shudder runs down your spine. He lumbers off, water in hand, and Win tuts in playful exasperation.

"Such a buzzkill. Now," His mouth skims your cheek, moving to your ear to whisper. "Where were we, baby?"

[celticcrossanon]

BRF Reading - 20th of November, 2024

This is speculation only

Cards drawn on the 20th of November, 2024

Question: Is King Charles stopping the British media from reporting on Meghan's 'pregnancies'?

Note: I have a very hard time believing what I am getting from the cards. I want to revisit this in a week or so and just check my results, so be aware that this answer could change.

Interpretation: Yes

Card One: The Six of Pentacles

This is the card of charity, of giving and receiving material help, of generosity, community, and support. The energy here is of someone asking and receiving a favour from those in power - getting something that is of benefit to them in return for future benefits to those that granted the request.

I think that this is King Charles asking the British press not to go public with what they know about Meghan's 'pregnancies', in return for future favours from The King - I feel like those are more media access to certain events or more interviews or something like that. There is a sense of a time limit on the favour, as if the media has said OK we will hold off until this date or this event or for x number of years but not beyond that. I'm not getting legal energy, although that could be involved, but this card is speaking of a quid pro quo arrangement - a 'you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours' sort of thing. Pentacles is the suit of material wealth and status, so maybe some honours have been promised? I can't think of what else might be involved in this arrangement. I don't think it is so obvious as handing over x amount of money to do y, it feels more informal? gentleman's agreement? less obvious and traceable? than that.

Card Two: The Sun

The Sun upright is a 'yes' card in the tarot, so this could be a 'yes' to my question.

Usually I get 'favoured child' energy from the Sun card, but this time I'm not. Instead I am getting regal energy - kingly energy.

I keep hearing 'Le roi est mort, vive le roi !' in French, with the strong association of The King to the Sun. I'm thinking of King Louis XIV, the Sun King, and how he believed himself to be the direct representative of God on earth and as such he had a divine right to wield the power of the monarchy, and how he deliberately chose the Sun as his symbol to convey this association - an infallible Sun-King - and I'm reminded that King Charles is also said to believe in the divine right of Kings.

So maybe King Charles sees it as his right to stop the news about Meghan's pregnancies being released in the press? The energy of this card is of a King who believes that he is entitled to ?privileges that other people don't have? It's hard to put into words - a Sun King, someone who is above the law, who sees everything he does as right because he is the anointed king - it is that sort of thinking that is behind this agreement. I keep wanting to write 'interference' or 'deliberately blocking of bad news' but I can't because the energy is of someone who doesn't see his actions that way - it is someone who sees his actions as the right thing to do and not harmful or destructive or hurtful in any way. They are 100% convinced that they are right and therefore whatever they do is also right. It's an alien mindscape to me and one I find very hard to express clearly.

Card Three: The Hermit

This is the card for Prince Harry, and it is giving me Prince Harry energy. Here he is, in the dark, sheltering behind the fire and heat of the Sun his father. If The King is doing this (and I still want to check to make sure I am not misinterpreting things), then he is doing it to protect Harry, not Meghan. He is hoping that Harry will learn some wisdom from this and that the affair can be covered up or dealt with privately so Harry will not be impacted by this in the future.

Underlying Energy: The Page of Swords in Reverse

Pages are communication and messages. Swords is an air suit, so communication through the air, i.e. the internet, the radio etc. The Page of Swords can be an immature communication energy, so more gossip and celebrity news than serious stuff, particularly malicious or petty gossip, and that fits the news about Meghan's pregnancies.

The card is in the reverse, so the news is stopped, halted, can't get out for some reason.

Having this as an underlying energy confirms that stopping some news from spreading is the reason behind the actions in the reading.

Conclusion:

As much as I don't want to believe it, it looks like The King has entered into some sort of agreement with the press to stop the news about Meghan's pregnancies coming out, an agreement that feels like it has an expiry date and one that is based on an exchange of favours, although I'm not sure what the newspapers get out of this. The King is doing this to protect Harry, not Meghan, and there is a sense of hope that Harry will learn from this experience (my comment is hope springs eternal, even when it has never happened before). The energy os that The King doesn't think that he is doing anything bad or shady by making this agreement, instead he thinks it is right ??because he is doing it?? or because he thinks that he is right and therefore his actions are right as well - it's a hard energy for me to comprehend and express.

I will be revisiting this question and checking to see if this is right, as I find it hard to believe that The King would go this far in protecting his son.

[chiefdirector]

Remembering | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten

tw: some suicidal thoughts referenced (one sentence)

-----

“What do you know about your case worker, Kade Sullivan?” Grey said, still keeping his gaze on (Y/N) despite her looking away and back through the glass to watch Tim questioning Diaz. “We believe that he may have had some involvement into how Regina Diaz got to a position to leverage both you and the department.”

“Right. I never really saw Sullivan. He stayed away from me. I met him once, maybe twice. He likes to keep a professional distance.” She slowly answered. 

Grey lifted his coffee cup up and took a small sip. “You’re a good judge of character, (Y/N). Did anything seem off about him? I know it was a while back but anything helps.”

“He seemed a bit odd, nervous even. But I put it down to him being paranoid about the operation. I mean it can’t be easy for these caseworkers to not have consistent contact with their UC’s.”

“What do you mean? Did you not check in with him daily?”

“No.” (Y/N) said, looking down. Now that she said it out loud, it was strange that Kade never requested to check in with her and Williamson often. “He wanted weekly check-ups. He never said why though.”

“Is there anything else? At all because the more you can remember, the less leverage Regina will have to bargain with us.”

“I’m sorry, Wade. I really am. I can have a look through some of my journals from that time, I think Tim kept them.”

Grey nodded his head. “Please. I guess it’s now down to Tim.”

-----

“Hello Officer Bradford, I’m glad to see you back in here again after your break. You kept me waiting for longer than I had hoped.” Regina said, posed as a wall of confidence as she had done during every other talk with the detectives. “I found it rather rude.”

“Not my problem.” Tim retook his seat opposite her. He had stepped out when Regina had started to get irate with him, he needed her as calm and rational, well as rational as a drug queen-pin could be, before he could get anything viable from her. 

He remembered the day he had arrested her, how helpless and frightened she seemed. She was backed into a corner, but now she had a fighting chance and by God did she know it. “You wanted a deal. Let me say this one more time. Tell us about Kade Sullivan and I’m sure the District Attorney will be nicer to you.”

Regina smirked. “No. I have something you want. So I lay out the terms. You know what I want after our… exchange but I want something first. I think that is only fair, considering your situation.”

“My situation?”

“Oh you know. How (Y/N)‘s being back in LA will cause some problems for you and your colleagues.” Regina watched, laughing softly as Tim’s face twisted in confusion. “You really think that just because I’m sitting in handcuffs that I wouldn’t follow through on my threat.”

“Whatever it is, call it off. Now!”

“How about you do something for me first, Officer Bradford. Quid Pro Quo.”

“Fine. What do you want?”

“I want you to tell me how it felt two years ago when I forced (Y/N) to vanish. How it felt to lose your wife and not being good enough to find her.”

Of all the things he expected her to say, this was one of the last. He had thought that she would have asked to walk free, or a reduced sentence at the least, but she just wanted to relish in his pain. 

She wanted to know how numbing it felt for him to filter by day to day, his reason to carry on with each day painstakingly stolen from. She wanted to enjoy the powerlessness he had felt when each lead led to another heartbreaking dead end. She wanted him to be reminded of each day, and how they got more and more painful as time went past. Her demand was a reminder of the nights he would drink himself to sleep because that was the only way he could close his eyes and not see (Y/N) face in his mind.

It was a reminder of how he couldn’t look at daisies without crying, or enjoy music, or find a purpose. It was a reminder that he had become a hateful shell of who he used to be, and that even though she was back with him, he didn't know if he would ever get that piece of his former self back. It was a reminder of how he planned for an easy way out for himself if the grief got too bad.

Regina wanted to remind Tim that she had taken it all away before, and that she could take it all away again. And she wanted him to admit that.

“So, Officer Bradford. What will it be?”

Tim launched himself up so he could lean down on the table and over her, “You should know how I felt. It was probably the same way you did when your husband died when the LAPD raided one of his warehouses. I was there that day. I took him, so you took her. But I got my wife back, but your husband is still six feet under.”

“How dare you!” Regina screeched, as she rattled in the chains, trying to find her way out of the cuffs. For the first time since she had been arrested, she lost her well maintained composure.  

Tim took a step back from the table. “Thank you for cooperating. Prison transport will be here for you soon.”

“But what about our deal?! You won’t know what's coming without me.”

“I think we’ll be fine, Ms. Diaz,” Tim kept his back to her as he stopped at the door “because we now know that we were being hunted, so now we can prepare. So, thanks for the heads up. Enjoy prison.”

As soon as the door shut behind him, Tim leant against the door, trying to make sense of what had happened. Surely she was bluffing, they could monitor her calls and her visitation  to try to not allow her to give any command, but if she was as intelligent and conniving as she had presented herself to be, she would find a way around it. 

As he heard Grey and (Y/N) exit the observation room, he pushed himself off the door. Grey held himself strong, not showing any panic or concern at this stage, but his eyes darted in thought, clearly going over the possibilities of what could happen now. (Y/N) presented herself similarly, except her tell was the fiddling of her wedding band. She used to play with her engagement ring, but due to the dangers of the job and the possibility of it causing harm when in contact with a perp, she quickly replaced it with a plain wedding band, identical to Tim’s.

“So what now? You don’t really believe her, do you?”

(Y/N) moved to place her hand on Tim’s arm. “I wouldn’t put anything past her.”

“Then it’s settled,”  Grey said, “We hope for the best and plan for the worst.”

Part Ten | Part Twelve

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Tags: @xceafh  @kmc1989  @buba424 @salty0cracker @iamasimpingh0e

Tags are open :)

[graciereadshannigram]

this idea for a fic has been kicking around my brain and refusing to let me rest so here's my attempt at getting it out so the bees can leave me alone.

~

Will's voice was a weapon, sharp and commanding as it sliced through the air. Stop right there," he said, his gaze intense as he pinned Hannibal with a look that brooked no argument. "Don’t lie to me."

He watched closely, almost hungrily, as Hannibal’s mask of composure slipped. It was a mere moment, a flicker of something hungry and unguarded that danced across the psychiatrist's face as his meticulous person suit slipped just an inch. The dilation of Hannibal's pupils, a tightness around his jaw—subtle, yet unmistakably a reaction.

"Oh, you like that?" Will’s words slipped out, almost without permission, tinted with a darker, more dangerous curiosity. He savored the slight falter in Hannibal’s stance, the way his usual poised demeanor wavered under scrutiny.

Hannibal attempted to regain control, his voice smooth but slightly strained. "Will, I think you misread—"

"No, I don’t think I did." Will stepped closer, once again denying Hannibal his obfuscations and cutting off the distance, his words a clear no to any form of retreat. "And I just told you not to lie."

The reaction was immediate. Hannibal swallowed, his gaze flitting across Will's face, perhaps seeking either escape or permission. "You’ve always had an effect on me, Will. I admire everything you do, as long as it’s true to your nature."

Feeling a surge of power at the raw honesty, Will took another deliberate step, reducing the space to just a breath away. His voice was softer now, a menacing whisper, "Even if it’s in my nature to control you?"

He watched the visible shudder that ran through Hannibal, the breath that hitched a bit too loudly. It was exhilarating, this visible sign of Hannibal’s composure crumbling, an acknowledgment of the dynamic that Will had always suspected existed between them but had never dared to explore.

"I didn’t mean to seduce you so soon, but I can make it work," Will mused, leaning in closer, forcing Hannibal back against the wall. He could now see, unmistakably, the arousal in Hannibal’s eyes, the quickening of his breath. It was intoxicating, the power, the control, the undeniable rush of answering arousal that coursed through him, knowing he had Hannibal right there, on the edge.

Hannibal looked back at him, his expression a mix of shock and that darker, deeper allure they seldom spoke of. "Will—"

"Tell me about the betrayal, Hannibal," Will cut in, his tone steady, one hand coming to rest against the wall by Hannibal's temple. He needed to hear it, needed to understand, even as he navigated this charged, dangerous game they were playing. "Why did you do it? Why manipulate me–and everybody else–so thoroughly and think there would be no repercussions?"

Hannibal’s voice, when he finally spoke, was calm but thick with an emotion Will couldn’t quite place. "I wanted to see you liberated, Will. Free from the constraints you so blindly follow."

"And yet, here we are," Will shot back, his voice soft but deadly, other hand coming up to fully surround Hannibal with his body. "You’re the one constrained. Does it feel liberating?"

Hannibal’s response was to close the gap completely, pulling Will in so their bodies were flush from hip to chest. "Quid pro quo, Will. I have laid bare my truths. Now show me yours."

The direct challenge ignited something fierce within Will. He met Hannibal’s gaze, his smirk widening. "If my truth involves dominating you, Hannibal, would you accept that as part of my nature?"

A faint smile touched Hannibal’s lips as his composure began to rebuild. "I find my defenses quite...receptive to your advances."

"Good," Will breathed out, a curl of satisfaction unfurling within him. This was just the beginning, a new dynamic unfurling, and he was eager to see where it would lead. "Because I’m just getting started."

[redjaybathood]

And why exactly do people need to pay money for you to acknowledge what Israel is doing to Syria but you do it for free with a smile on your face when talking about what Russia is doing?

Buddy, I am honoured by your trust, but I am not in fact a freelance reporter from Syria who supplies you, an anglophone, with reliable information on Syria in English. You're not paying me. You're not paying any cause I benefit from.

You're paying the guy on the ground.

I'm asking for this because there's gotta be some quid pro quo here; I entertain your anon entitled xenophobic asses and you support the cause we both presumably stand behind - remember, y'all can get any ask answered for free if you go non-anon. But you don't.

And buddy, I don't know what is going on in that fucked up head of yours, but I am very much not smiling when I talk about russian war crimes. My country is at war with the russians, for ten years now. I lost my home because of it. You bet I will let y'all know what your favourite "anti imperialist" empire is doing here in Ukraine. I have a special tag for it, russian war crimes. Feel free to browse.

But yeah, I think giving money directly to Syrians is a good way to show your support for them. After you did that, I will know that you're not a troll looking for an easy mark, you are a serious person who really cares about Syria, you're just socially anxious and thus unable to go off anon. If you don't have a $5 to spare... That's okay. Just don't come to my ask box. Good?

[sgiandubh]

Hello! I have a new drinking game suggestion! If you haven't listened to that podcast yet (the part about Outlander and Sam starts at 51:00) how about a sip every time she mentions her recommendations for watching the series, stressing that it's something scorching? Also, every time it is said that he is single and dates a lot, in addition to being 🔥 The segment lasts about three minutes, surely no one could get drunk in such a short amount of time!

Dear Drinking Game Anon,

Please forgive the delay - almost everybody, even the trolls, answered the salvo of Deux Moi (that is a bastardized translation of 'Me Too', I bet the farm) Anons and perhaps you found me wanting. Oh, well: I never gave three dried shits about being FIRST.

Not even #sorry for the length, Anon.

That podcast is some mighty BS you are kindly asking me to dissect for you. So I just listened to that S focused bit again, as I am writing the answer. Fasten your seat belts.

I mean, where the hell do I begin? Everything is so unlikeable and so cheap about that podcast, I could start wondering if *urv is not poor man's Deux Moi, if you see what I mean (she came in first, alas). No, they don't give a flying fuck about S, in fact both of them have no idea even who he is, since they are mispronouncing his name repeatedly and need to check Wikipedia for his basic trivia. Their cackle does not really bring anything new to the table and it has all the predictable bits: his fandom 'who thinks he is dating his costar' (zero about the Mommies, its most vocal part, who definitely think he doesn't - interesting, huh?), him being on Raya and 'obviously dating' (yeah, yeah, we've seen the results, Dubai Hooker and then 'No Toxic People' on top), OL being a 'historical fantasy series, like GoT' (Lord give me strength), but you know, chock a block filled with sex (😱🤣). So it all boils down to the girl being 'identified in DMs' (by who, I wonder? 'Always Hands On' *urv?) as a 'creative type'. The core of the debate was, in fact, whether it was or not a first date and what about the lack of drinks on that table - it never occurred to them Einsteins that was a dead giveaway of those pictures being totally staged, eh?

Nothing to write home about and I honestly fail to see where the fuck did those women notice the girl 'lovingly gazing' at S. At any rate, this is so artificial I could cry and it does sound like a quid pro quo type of favor Deux Moi did to PR. It actually gave me the same 'shoehorned in' feeling as C's Remarkable Weekend non-photos featured in that magazine, in 2019. The two 'gossip columnists' clearly didn't prepare anything at all about it and DGAF pretending to be plausible liars. One more time, it felt cheap and a desperate retcon of the Dubai Hooker Walk of Shame, plus the added insult to injury Alice Don't Panikian was.

But, as always, there's more to it. And at this point, I do wonder why and actually how on Earth nobody in this fandom ever thought to find out what the fuss was about Deux Moi, at all.

[I was brutally cut, just here, Anon, by the worst power outage in our neighborhood for ages - heat does that to old, clunky European capitals. Sorry for that.]

Deux Moi came out of obscurity during the COVID-19 pandemic, when people were locked down at home, bored and depressed. It markets itself as a gossip column with a twist, almost never checks facts and apparently has no problem being seen by many as a neo Hollywood Dumpster Diver of sorts. To counter all sorts of possible legal problems, it launched itself and prospered because of the mandatory 'Anon pls' opening to each and every submission. It allows them to never feel or take any responsibility for the content it posts. The reason she can do this is the US Supreme Court's 1964 decision New York Times vs. Sullivan, which allowed media (including gossip sites) more liberty in expressing their opinions. It only sanctions actual malice in doing so, which simply means that if you hate Steven Cree (random example) and publicly comment he is a talentless bore, there is nothing he or his PR can do about it. But if you publicly comment that Steven Cree is a pedophile or a drug addict (OTT made-up stuff inserted here on purpose) and you fail to prove it with facts, well - that is actual malice all the way. You'd better pawn your silver spurs and sell your first born, because they will come to get you and won't do it with grace. In fact, as recently as 2022, the US Supreme Court refused to revise its doctrine on this particular point of law, further linking it to the US Constitution's First Amendment, that deals with free speech and strongly protects it:

[more on this, here: https://edition.cnn.com/2022/06/27/politics/supreme-court-new-york-times-sullivan/index.html - make no mistake, this is a very high profile political decision, for obvious reasons; therefore, I shall not further comment, you make up your own mind about it, according to your own creed. But I know what I think, and what I think is the analogy was promoted by a very conservative Supreme Court].

Deux Moi will never be that sophisticated, but that does not mean it was never above any possible threats & scandal. Its public image heavily relies on the mystique of an incognito mastermind, who, like the Mahdi, Shia Islam's Hidden Twelfth Imam, walks this Earth and sees/knows everything. From there to eternity, victimization is never far away:

[full article, here: https://www.cosmopolitan.com/entertainment/celebs/a43620663/deux-moi-identity-dark-side/ - I don't believe a single word of what the person shares, just so you know; for many reasons].

I mean, she is no Louella Parsons, no Hedda Hopper, hell - not even Liz Smith. And funny she mentions Taylor Swift (who I like more and more by the day, hahaha), who went for her via her PR, recently, in quite a clear fashion:

Wow, mother of all dragons: ' a marriage ceremony in the UK', that 'wasn't (...) legal (...) and wasn't made official'. Excuse me? RINGS A FUCKING BELL IN OUR OWN BACKYARD? Hell yes, rings a fucking steamer foghorn. Anyways, Tree Paine was not amused at all and the excuses were paltry, to say the least:

Sorry for the long quote, Anon, but I found Glamour's piece very enlightening, for once:

[our Spanish mafia girls could read the whole article here: https://www.glamour.com/story/taylor-swifts-publicist-tree-paine-thinks-deux-moi-needs-a-reality-check]

I still wonder why this 2021 'Anon pls' was never disputed and at least partially proven true:

Even better, check out this Reddit thread, just to see what The Casuals commented:

[whole thread, here: https://www.reddit.com/r/Fauxmoi/comments/nzx8mw/ok_i_am_dying_to_know_who_this_is_about/]

I wouldn't describe this as people being exactly 'shocked'. Interesting reactions, at any rate, and not a Stan in view.

Go figure, indeed.

I hope this answers your ask, Anon. It took me a long while to write, due to unforeseen reasons, but I certainly did it with pleasure and two or three well-placed grins.

[quietlyimplode]

Clintasha Advent (6)

Prompt Clint & Nat in her early Shield days: she doesn't understand the act of giving presents without expecting anything in return and/or doesn't want to accept a present as she doesn't want to be even more in Clint's dept (in her way of thinking). Have a wonderful Advent season!

For/Prompter: @callousedhandskindhearts

Warnings: much of this is under the cut because a lot refers to quid-pro-quo gifting, and what that meant for the girls in the red room. There is nothing graphic in there as it’s all conversations.

Word count: 680

A/N: if I had the time, I’d make this longer. I hope your advent season is also lovely.

.

Clint looks at the candle Maria shows him.

“I think she needs something different than a candle,” he tells her, smelling it then putting back.

The shopping centre felt like a bust.

“What are we going to do with her at Christmas?” Maria asks, holding up another for him to smell.

“She’s not a lost dog,” he replies disdainfully.

“Do you think she even understands the concept?”

The words feel offensive to Clint as he looks at his friend with a disapproving frown.

“I’m not being mean,” she starts.

“I’m just saying, that if you give her something and she has nothing to give you, do you think that she’ll feel obliged to give you something… you know, in the way that she previously been made to?”

Clint feels his heart sink.

He understands what Maria is getting at.

“You’re not being mean, but calling her a whore?”

Maria hits him.

“No, you know that’s not what I meant. I’ve been by your side for this journey. I’m the one that’s been debriefing her, just like you have, and we both know how she reacts to being given things. She either doesn’t take it, or feels the need to give something back. Remember the bed incident?”

Clint remembers.

Natasha hadn’t slept in it until he flat out asked her why.

He wishes he hadn’t heard it.

How the girls of the red room had to earn their bed and then been chained to them. How’d she’d asked, standing tall across for him if Sheild was the same.

He’d wanted to be sick as he hold her no, nothing in the room required any sacrifice of self.

Clint stops in front of the books and groans.

“Can you talk to her about it?”

Maria picks up a best seller and puts it back.

“Me? Why can’t you?”

Clint shrugs, “I dunno, it just feels weird.”

Rolling her eyes, Maria agrees, she can read in between the lines, and knows the looks between them.

She throws the candle at Clint.

“Get this for Coulson,” she laughs.

.

Maria waits until she’s driving in the car with Natasha, the invitation accepted with encouragement from Clint and suspicious look.

Maria gets the feeling that Natasha only agreed because she wanted to say something too.

They’re ten miles into a drive before Natasha speaks.

“Clint is going to get me something for Christmas isn’t he?”

Maria hazards a look at her.

Natasha’s eyes look out the window.

“Does it worry you?”

They may as well cut to the crux of the matter.

“Yes.”

Maria wants to put her at ease, but likely it’s not the easiest thing to do.

“Would you prefer he didn’t?”

Natasha doesn’t answer straight away.

“Where I come from, presents and gifts don’t mean what they do here. To accept it, it means unlearning a lot.”

Maria is quiet.

She understands.

She doesn’t want to.

“Does Christmas have the same… trauma?”

Maria knows it’s the wrong word and probably too forward but she’s wondering if there’s a way that they can celebrate without triggering her. Without it being a day that Natasha would rather stay in her pyjamas and read a book.

The non answer is probably all she’s going to get.

“For the record, it doesn’t mean the same here, a gift is just a gift. Nothing needs to be reciprocated, you’re not in anyone’s debt.”

Maria turns into the car park.

“I’m always in his debt. These little things just cement it further.”

Maria opens her car door, then moves around to Natasha’s.

“Why are we here?”

Maria nods to the large shopping Centre.

“I’ve got some shopping to do, and you’re going to help me.”

.

1/ Clint/Nat/Laura + traditions

2/ Clintasha + temporary blindness

3/ Clint/Nat/Maria + traditions

4/ Natasha and Yelena watch the stars

5/ Clintasha - stab wounds + wrapping presents

[tempportal]

@numbfour said: 👀

"Klaus Hargreeves? ...I mean, yeah, I know who he is. Unreliable. Obnoxious as all hell. Never pays anyone back. Couldn't stay on-task even if you put a gun to his head. Can't throw a punch to save his life. Got the attention span of a fruit fly. He could get lost just walking in a straight line. Total moron.

...Oh, yeah, and he's my little brother. So if you don't want to spend the next ten years drinking all your meals through a straw, you should probably not be talking so loudly about how you're going to kill him."

[hauntedandmurdered]

Clannibal AO3 FF ("Can't stop thinking about you")

{snippet - link to the full story below}

[...] Something about Dr Lecters appearance was still as remarkable and mesmerizing as ever. Even at first glance, it was obvious that he was wearing a tailored suit that emphasized his defined shoulders. In the meantime, a few light strands had mingled with his anthracite hair, but that didn't make him seem any less sublime. In contrary, Starling found herself thinking that he looked better than ever. Healthier, even. The colour of his face, which he had lacked hidden from daylight back then, now resembling ripe olives made his skin look firmer and younger.

"Hello, Clarice," he broke the silence before she could speak. His gaze pinned her to the spot, drilling into her marrow like poisoned arrows. To her own surprise, she did not back down. It was the first time they faced each other without protective armoured glass or bars, she noted, yet she had the secure feeling that she was not at the mercy of any danger.

„You shouldn’t be here“, Starling said shaking her head in disbelief. „They don't just monitor your tracks, Dr Lecter. Their lack of confidence in me certainly leads them to observing my neighbourhood to make sure I don't make a move that gets in their way. This is not exactly the safest place to stop by for a jailbreaker.”

„Are you worried about me?“, he asked and took a large step towards her. She did not move.

„No, I’m worried about us“, she hissed at him. „What are you doing here? Tell me. Tell me now.“

"Is it so hard to believe that I care about you and wanted to check on your well-being? Clarice, you must have learned a thing or two about me over the years. You wouldn't disappoint me with the simplexity of your colleagues, would you? Why, that’s beneath you, Clarice."

„Why is that, Dr Lecter?“ Starling felt her lips trembling with both fear and excitement. She kept eye contact. „Why do you like me? I need to know for good.“

„Quid pro quo?“, he said softly with the hint of a smile. It wasn't one of those calculating smirks from him that she was used to from earlier times and that had made her feel like a stupid schoolgirl who couldn't compete with him. In a strange way, it seemed honest and genuine. „Isn’t it quite obvious why we’re drawn together, hm? Don’t you feel things you can hardly allow yourself to feel when I am around? And don’t you think about us in situations – practices – that almost make you dizzy with desire? I know I do. In fact, I knew I did ever since you came back to me into the dungeon after our first interrogation. These stimuli are new to me, Clarice, I have to explore, investigate and question them. I can't compare what you bring out in me with empirical values.“

Starling felt the blush rise to her face. Her thoughts only revolved around one agonising question. How many dead bodies had he walked over to stand here now? What sins had he taken upon himself to confront her like this? Whose blood was on his hands? All the questions that piled up in her mind were a protective wall so that she didn't have to face what he actually wanted from her.

„Make an effort to answer now, Clarice. Quid pro Quo“, he whispered and took another step in her direction. She couldn't help noticing that he moved forward gracefully like a dancer. His gait was as light as a feather and deadly quiet like the slithering of a cobra. She had to bear in mind that a monster lurked beneath the gentleman’s disguise. [...]

[vivemonroi]

Ok, it’s just a draft of a translation of the first part of my Charlastor fic (English is my second language). But I think to post it in English, I wrote it like 4 years ago, when the pilot came out. If you notice any mistakes dm me please :3

“The suburb of 'Pentagram-City' could hardly be called serene, rather sparsely inhabited, as most of its denizens preferred to spend their days of indefinite punishment in the city where they could hire a prostitute, grab a drink, or die a gruesome death—anything seemed better than watching the pitiful imitation of local stars. Yet, by a strange twist of fate, right here and now, one could find the daughter of the ruler of the Underworld and one of the most powerful beings of Hell engaged in precisely this mundane activity.

— How did you die?

The question came out awkwardly, unpleasantly slicing through the tranquility of the quiet evening. Charlie shivered, instantly regretting daring to open her mouth and voice it aloud. But Alastor did not flinch, still gazing into the bloody sky of Hell, his lips stretched in a serene smile. Perhaps the demon hadn't heard her? No, considering how meticulously he listened to every word she spoke, that seemed very unlikely.

— You don't have to answer; I understand it's personal…

— I was shot.

His response was brief and to the point, a sharpness uncharacteristic of Alastor that puzzled Charlie even more, but curiosity quickly overcame tact.

— Was it police or…

— Hunters.

— Oh, I see. Sorry.

Coming out of his trance, Alastor looked at her in surprise.

— Why apologize, ma chérie? My demise isn't your fault, and let's be honest, it's not as if I didn't deserve it, though I must admit, I never thought I would die like this. The electric chair, yes, but a bullet? Pathétique! Such a banal method, I would even say barbaric, one shot and that’s it, what about the feelings? Personally, I preferred knives, ah, those emotions: fear, pain, the realization of the end of one's pathetic life…

Toward the end of his sentence, the pleasant French jazz from his inner radio was replaced by crackling and static. Noticing the princess’s slightly frightened look, the demon made a gesture very much like tuning into a radio station, and the melody returned.

— As much as I enjoy discussing my favorite pastime, I see you're uncomfortable. So, let me propose a counter-question, shall we engage in a little ‘quid pro quo’, ma chérie? Why did you ask?'

Charlie hesitated.

— No reason.

Alastor theatrically, almost paternally shook his head in disappointment.

— And this demoness dares teach us redemption! Yet she's not averse to the sin of deceit herself. And after so many sermons! I expected better from you, dear, you wound me deeply.

— It's silly, Al, I don't think you'd understand.

— Ah, but it's up to me to understand you or not, you know. I could have chosen not to answer your question. Asking a sinner how he died? Quelle vulgarité! And coming from the Princess of Hell herself, I think I'll broadcast this; my listeners will be shocked to learn that…

— Alright, alright! I'll tell you, but.. just don't laugh, okay?

— Can’t promise anything.

Charlie sighed; expecting such from him was indeed too much.

— Okay.

She paused for almost a dramatic effect and timidly began:

— You see, I was born here, in Hell, but you... you were born there, in the mortal world. Your main life was there, but... I know nothing but Hell.

She fell silent again for a few seconds, as if bracing herself to utter the next phrase.

She continued:

— I want to see trees, Al, the Sun, the Earth's Sun, animals, the sea with its beaches. I want to dance in the rain, shiver from the cold, languish in the heat! I wish to care for flowers, walk through the city for groceries, help the homeless. Smile at passersby and have them smile back! Greet neighbors, ask for some salt, and share pie recipes. But most of all... most of all, I want to see a rainbow. A real one, after a strong summer storm, when animals and people emerge from their shelters just happy to be alive. I.. I want to live!

On her last words, Charlie's uncertain whisper turned into a shout, and realizing this, she quickly covered her mouth with her hands, blushing with embarrassment. From the city, the drunken songs of bar regulars carried over, occasionally interrupted by the agonized scream of some unfortunate soul, but it seemed no one heard her, or if they did, they frankly didn't care. The audience from the receiver applauded approvingly, Alastor's eyes narrowed slyly.

— Sorry, as I said, it's very silly…

— Not at all, mon trésor, the desire to explore the unknown is perfectly natural for such a curious creature as you. But you're overlooking the fine print: diseases, poverty, wars, miseries, murders, hunger, and I'm not just talking about the physical sensation, lust, debauchery... shall I go on?

Charlie sighed.

— I know, Al, damn it, I grew up in a literal Hell, my whole life is that fine print.

She turned onto her stomach and shyly bit her lip.

— Just... sometimes I feel like I don't belong here...

Alastor laughed, Charlie thought his laughter sounded like radio interference mixed with distorted off-air laughter, but Husk and the other residents of the Hotel disagreed with such a comparison. "It's like dragging a rusty saw across your balls," he would say. Angel, and surprisingly, Vaggie, nodded significantly in agreement. Niffty usually kept quiet, though she admitted her boss's laughter gave her chills.

— Ding-ding-ding, bingo! We have a winner: the charming Princess of Hell who has finally realized the obvious. Honestly, dear, I'm surprised you only realized this now!

— Laugh all you want, Alastor. I shouldn't have started talking about it...

She began to rise from the ground, but Alastor easily grabbed her hand, stopping her.

— Wait, I didn't mean to offend you, at least not this time, really, hold on, no need to create drama out of nothing, please, go on.

Charlie looked at him skeptically, sighed in resignation, and lay back down.

— Don't get me wrong, I know my home is here, my family, my friends... but sometimes, just for a moment, I imagine what it would be like if I were born into a regular family, there. We would live on a farm, raise cows, shear sheep, sow wheat, pick apples. Dad would teach me how to ride a horse, and mom how to sew clothes. I would have a little brother or sister, and a dog! In the evenings, we'd all gather together and listen to music, and on Sundays, go to church...

— Church? I doubt your father would be let in, unless you're talking about the church, ha-ha! Si tu vois ce que je veux dire!

The radio listeners obediently laughed, Charlie shot him a warning glance.

— Oh, you should understand me, my dear, I'm a radio demon, notice 'radio' comes first. It's hard for me not to comment on such a wonderful monologue, especially when you speak with such passion.

A treacherous blush spread over her already red cheeks. She averted her gaze, embarrassed.

— Anyway... you get the idea, but it's just dreams, all I can do is help others reform, to leave this place, even if I never will.

Charlie felt uncomfortable; she hadn't even told Vaggie about this, why did she suddenly decide he would understand? When her heartfelt confessions were not met with an explosion of applause or the demon's own laughter, Charlie finally dared to look his way. To her shock, his face was frighteningly serious, though his eternal smile still lingered on his lips.

— I don't often say this, and it means a lot, but you, Charlie, more than anyone else, deserve a chance to get out of here.

The radio static that usually accompanied Alastor's voice quieted to such an extent that she could hear his soft baritone almost without interference.

Charlie still didn't dare look him in the eyes, the darn blush spreading to her neck, but an uncertain smile appeared on her lips.

— Do you really think so?

Alastor propped himself up on his elbows and looked at her with feigned bewilderment:

— Well, of course! After all, the essence of Hell is to punish sinners. First, you need to have at least a chance to wreak some havoc. If you had ended up here on your own, it would be a different story, but as it is, it's just bo-o-oring.

Even though his words touched that string of her heart, her feelings, which she dared not speak of, even to herself, seeing him almost shyly look away, she decided to leave that topic alone.

They simply lay there for a while, listening to the sensual performance of some early 20th-century French song whose name Charlie didn't know. Each was lost in their thoughts until Alastor sprang to his feet as if scalded.

— Well, I can't promise a rainbow... Get up, Your Majesty!

— Alastor, what are you...

He impatiently extended his hand.

— Hurry up, I might change my mind.

"Here goes nothing," Charlie thought, taking Alastor by the glove. In an instant, they were somewhere else.”

Hate it? Love it? Tell me!

[hereathemoment]

“I can break the mating bond”

            The bottom trim of Nesta’s cape slips against the stone floor, gliding into a halo around her feet as she stops in front of towering stone bars lining the length of a cell. The man within sits against the wall in the far corner, with his hands clasped and dangling between the bent V of his legs and hidden in the shadow of the window’s small glow. Nobody bothered to give her any information beyond the rudimentary understanding necessary for today’s mission. The threat in the East is embodied by one man with untold power and before her sits one of his few confidants. Rhysand didn’t command her here because of the power she stole from the Cauldron, no—her power is apparently too unruly and disobedient for her to risk using it without his direct supervision. Instead, she was reduced to that of an errand boy, sent to the Prison as a messenger. Nesta is to inform the prisoner of his impending death should he continue with his silence. She remembered the Inner Circle discussing it—who was to go to the Prison, discussing her—a perfect mix of threatening and expendable, and she agreed to go, resigned to the mirage of choice they’re known for. It doesn’t escape her that the cell this fae sits in now was very nearly hers, had her sister not rejected Amren’s suggestion and picked the House for her instead. Nesta didn’t know then that Cassian was written in the fine print, a required quid-pro-quo for a warm bed, and she wonders if she would’ve preferred the comfort of a cell had it been offered to her.  

            “Your execution will be held in the morning. You have until then to tell the Night Court what you know and decide where your loyalties lie” The hollowness of her voice fades into the empty corridor of the Prison. “If you refuse…may your next life grant you more fruitful loyalties.” She twists at her parting words, making the announcement brief and perfunctory but offering him the hidden well-wishes of her own heart. She is within a foot of the doorway before the low timbre of his voice reaches her, echoing in the space between them. His tone is not frantic or angry as she may have otherwise expected, but promising, “They call him a bride-stealer sweetheart. I was sent here for you, Nesta.” The dull click of her heels reverberated against the stones as she turned to face him. She doesn’t question how he knows her, doesn’t bother wondering how he knew she’d come. “And how,” she begins, “Do you think to take me?” Nesta only finishes once she’s facing him once more, “You’re the one captured in a prison cell, and I am the one about to walk free.”

            His sardonic smile contradicts her, but he merely says, “Come with me. I think you’d like Koschei,” he adds with a gentle laugh, “I know he’d like you.” Koschei… the fae male doesn’t seem bothered at all that he’d just betrayed his master’s name. Odd, considering neither Azriel nor Rhysand were able to carve it out of him just hours ago. When Nesta seemed unimpressed and seemed unbothered to deign an answer, the man continued, “I have a unique ability to see within someone’s heart and see their most innermost, dearest desire. Koschei appreciates my particular skill of… making dreams comes true. It’s proven to entice quite the loyal following.”

            “Ah, another Court of Dreams then,” Nesta scoffs, without acknowledging his slip. “Spare me,” she says harshly, but her mind follows quietly with, what I want cannot be given. He offered that she go with him, but he's not going anywhere considering his circumstances. Nesta was ordered to deliver a simple message and she had. Her job here is done. She makes her leave with a subtle eyeroll and quick clench of her fists. But she had only made it a few paces away before the prisoner’s next words immobilize her entirely, the heel of her right foot frozen about the ground mid-step. One, two, three stalled seconds continue for small eternities as hope and freedom and happiness is dangled in front of her so cavalierly by this smirking fae lounging on the dirty floor of a dingy prison.

“I can break your mating bond.”

The silver in her eyes is told by the excitement on his face and she throws herself against his cage, her hands digging into the stoner pillars separating the two of them. Nesta’s power slithers through her veins, twinning around her anger and burning her alive. “Promising someone what they want most is a dangerous game to play when you can’t deliver.” Her words come out as a growl, more monstrous than they’ve ever been, more fae than she’d care to acknowledge. But what he had said… what he had offered her… it was alluring and seductive and wholly impossible. She’s new to this world, but she’d never be so naïve as to believe him. But, if it were true…

            He carried on calmly, though the small curve of his mouth betrayed his delight at seeing her seethe. “Come with me, Nesta. Join us.” Through the buzzing in her head, she dimly marks the irony of an imprisoned man continually offering her freedom. His gaze is steady, his posture relaxed, his mind sure of her choice. “My execution will be held in the morning. You have until then to decide where your loyalties lie.”

Why that little—

He sighs, perfectly content with his situation, certain her loyalties lie with herself. Nesta wonders what he knows about her circumstances—about her family’s betrayal and her gilded servitude. Or maybe he’s heard about the stories Feyre had spread about their childhood, and just assumed the eldest Archeron sister would be selfish enough to break the sanctity of a mating bond on whim. His low chuckle escorts her out as she leaves without another word. The draw of his offer is too great to be dismissed, but her caution prevents her from accepting outright. So Nesta just leaves. Confused. Angry. Tempted. By tomorrow morning indeed.

[puckpocketed]

What do you think of the Goodrow trade? How does this factor into the Sharks' future plans, and who do you think he'll play with next season?

yay for the fans who liked him and are glad to see him back here. I'm happy that they're happy! I didn't know him whilst he was a Shark, I hope he grows on me like a barnacle <3

I don't think about lines enough to speculate confidently on what this means for the Sharks in the future, so I can't really answer that part of your ask, sorry!

my unserious answer is i hope one of our prospects gets stapled to him goonwag-style - maybe the plan here was to give kunin to macklin and goodrow to smith? giggling. our beautiful leg weights <3

okay okay time to break character <3 sorry i DO have a Serious take on this one. Per this article (and serveral others) there are reports that Goodrow isn't happy because the Sharks were on his no-trade list. We are not a contender, we aren’t even looking to be one for a hot minute, he wants to keep playing and winning cups, so that makes sense! I don’t know if you made a mistake using the phrase ‘trade’ but… it might not be far from the truth. The going sentiment, per the same linked article, is that there was a quid pro quo situation between Mike Grier and Chris Drury that the Sharks would pick Goodrow up off waivers. This is unconfirmed by official sources. All we have here is looking to the future for any transactions between the two in the wake of this trade. If there was some under the table handshake situation going on... I don't like it at all.

The rest of this answer is going off the assumption that what is being said in that article is true.

The spirit of a no-trade list, of signing any contract, is the reasonable expectation that your wishes will be respected. Players have waived their clauses in the past, but that's on them. To have two GMs collude to basically trade a player to a team they did not want to go to is scummy as HELL, and to me it is a worker's rights issue. If my boss and I agreed to terms on a contract, I would be pissed off if they found some legal loophole around it, and I would feel screwed over. If I found out my new employer was a part of that? I wouldn't feel too good about those guys either.

I have and will make jokes about Goodrow trying to escape. they're funny! but in the end I don't think it's good for the culture to have someone here who possibly doesn't want to be here and isn't committed to the team due to resentment. someone who isn't committed because there are no playoffs aspirations. I'm not saying he would actually behave this way, I don't know him! I'm sure he's a good fella in the end. but I think leaving that up to chance by circumventing the terms of his contract is a stupid move. and skeevy. did I mention skeevy?

More broadly, contracts need to mean something. If two GMs can just shake hands in some backroom deal and ignore the player's explicit wishes about where they want to play, what's the fucking point in signing ANY ntc/nmc? where's the certainty then, if this loophole is open? whats the vibe here? has this happened in the past? will it happen again? I hope the CBA addresses this whenever it's time to negotiate again. and I super don't care about the whole "life isn't fair, players get exploited all the time, shady dealings happen all the time" angle, I don't want devil's advocates answers - my point is that it shouldn't happen, it's wrong, and I hope the player's union they got going on fights to make sure it doesn't happen again.

in a less structured conclusion..,,, the narratives are funny BUT i do be living in the real world lmao!! fuck all bosses forever fuck all gms forever yes even the 'good' ones!! all bosses are bastards and their interests will often run counter to the interests of the worker !!!! players are people with families and long-term plans of their own and presumably when they sign contracts they plan around those contracts accordingly assuming the terms will be honoured!!!!!!!!! their kids and spouses are also people whose education/careers/relationships will all be affected by trades !!!! players are NOT simply assets !!! nor are they simply characters in stories!! i do lean in to the narratives but again this is the REAL WORLD and a worker is being screwed by a boss and thats bullshit .

thank you for listening and im sorry if this wasn't the type of answer you were looking for </3