#and how he can be scathing as he is also loving

[limerental]

ficletvember 2024 - day 12

yennskier post-s2 yucky tender gooiness

Having grown unexpectedly close in the winter spent at Kaer Morhen, Yennefer comes to a realization while in bed one morning with Jaskier.

That morning, Yennefer wakes to the sunrise warming the cold stone walls. The wind whistles through the narrow windows and the dingy old keep creaks and settles, but her bed is piled in furs and she has no obligation to rise and there is a warm body burrowed down beside her, his cheek against her bare shoulder.

Jaskier twitches in sleep, mumbling incoherently, never wholly silent even while unconscious. His messy hair tickles her neck, grown long, and he’s drooling on her from the corner of his open mouth. 

Something about that makes Yennefer feel fond rather than disgusted. She wants to press her fingers back through his tangled hair and kiss him awake, wants to push down the furs to reveal more of his body, her other hand stealing down through the dark hair on his belly. 

She wants to let him sleep a while longer, knowing that lately he’s been plagued by nightmares and bouts of insomnia after everything that happened the past months. He passes off the sleeplessness as bouts of creative fervor, staying up in Kaer Morhen’s dusty library writing drivel in his songbook. Most nights, she stays up with him, offering droll commentary and scathing critique. 

More than once, she’s dozed off in a high-backed chair in the library and woken to found that he’s carried her to bed, wrapped around her with his lips against her neck.

She spends most days in his company, both of them unclear where else they're meant to fit in the keep. The Witchers avoid her, Geralt won’t meet her eyes, and Ciri is curious and friendly enough but overly polite, never asking the questions she really wants to.

Yennefer suffers also nightmares, dark and churning and unspeakable, and every morning, she reaches to pull at a thread of chaos. Just to be certain that she still can.

Jaskier’s nightmares are often of fire and blood, shackled at the wrists while the flames climb the rafters overhead, broken fingers clawing at a locked door. Sometimes when Yennefer slips into his dreams to momentarily soothe them into something more pleasant, she sees herself with blood spilling down her slit wrists, feels the yawning fear that hollows his stomach. 

At present, his dreams are a fumble of disjointed images, some erotic and some comical with a bizarre overlap between the two. He mumbles something about sphincters and then ducks and his brows furrow, and Yennefer feels a strong and alarming surge of irrational affection for this ridiculous man sleeping beside. 

It makes little sense for the realization to come at that moment. That she loves him. Has fallen in love with him. Despite all his varied flaws or perhaps because of them. His simple, unfettered humanity. His baffling aesthetic choices. His constant whining and waffling. His heart, deep and compassionate and always aching a little. His cheeky lewd stupidity and his sincere and cliched candor.

Yennefer loves him.

It’s an unpleasant feeling, rising like acid reflux, because of course, realizing how she feels changes nothing. 

Jaskier couldn’t possibly love her back, not after everything, not being who they are. They’ve tumbled into this arrangement out of circumstance, leaning on each other for comfort and warmth through the long winter on the mountain, but this certainly isn’t his first choice. She’s seen his more pleasant dreams. The ones that span years with Geralt before she met either of them, the achey familiarity of years-long yearning fulfilled, all the right words said, all the old hurts soothed.

And if not Geralt, given the choice of any number of bedpartners across the Continent, would Jaskier ever possibly choose to wake beside her most mornings, the way she’d like to wake beside him.

The truth is that Yennefer is an afterthought, an unexpected pleasure that he’ll indulge in until spring, and then their paths will draw apart, and the cold isolation of her long and lonely life will sink back in again.

Jaskier wakes with his usual suddenness, snorting an interrupted breath, eyes blinking open as he scrunches up his whole face against the light. 

“Heh? Hughhg?” he grunts incoherently and then immediately begins to chatter. “Did I sleep in? Have we missed breakfast? Not missing much I suppose but– I just had the strangest dream about these massive waterfowl on a beautiful lake, and not gonna lie it got me going a-- Eh? Yennefer, why d’you look like that?”

“I don’t look like anything,” she says and rolls away from him, not wanting to know what face she’d been making as he woke.

Jaskier takes the opportunity to sling an arm around her waist and press his warm chest to her back, tangling their legs together as he kisses her shoulder. Not long ago, she may have balked at such open presumption that she would welcome his smothering embrace, but she does welcome it, she craves it. She turns her head to let him kiss her on the mouth, and he rolls his hips in a slow grind against her backside.

“You are not fucking me while thinking about large ducks,” she groans against his lips, feeling his very foolish thoughts pressed into her mind.

“It’s– they were alarmingly erotic!”

“Think about something else,” says Yennefer, and though she doesn’t usually like to impose herself so completely into another’s mind, wary of what she’ll find there, she allows her vulnerable fears to guide her into his thoughts.

Jaskier is thinking about the softness of her hair against his cheek, the scent of her, the sleep-warm feel of her body against his. He thinks how he’d like to wake every morning like this, how it would be enough just to hold her in his arms, to let his arousal fade to distant noise as he noses at her neck.

She hitches up a leg and reaches behind her to grip his hip and draw him to enter her, and his thoughts erupt in a slew of praises, not just for the heat of her cunt but for her raw and visceral beauty, her sharp edges, her pain, her desperate kindness. 

Yennefer feels small as his thoughts wash over her, battered by waves of longing, desire, and through it all a current of she can’t possibly feel this strongly toward little old me.

Idiots, both of them.

“Yen?” Jaskier asks, voice unsteady with alarm, and she realizes that she’s weeping, hot tears rolling to tremble on the ridge of her nose.

“I’m in love with you, you absolute fool,” says Yennefer and immediately wants to hide her burning, tear-streaked face in the pillows and pretend she hadn’t blurted that confession out so simply. 

Jaskier’s hips still.

“Really? Me?”

“No, I enjoy embarrassing myself and lying,” she says, frustrated. “Yes, you.”

“Oh.” An absent hand trails down her belly and back up. Lips mouth against the back of her neck. He resumes rocking up into her body with shallow rolls of his hips. “So would you call this love-making then? Given that I love you back, you wretched witch.”

His voice is hideously fond, his touch gentle, his thoughts a rush of warm elation.

“Call it whatever you’d like,” she says, hoping that he ignores how her voice breaks. She lets a hand fall on his backside with a smack. “Just get on with it.”

Jaskier proceeds to do so for the rest of the morning, brimming with giddy energy, all thoughts of nightmares forgotten by the both of them.

[solosclark]

You guys know what's interesting about this post. I chose photos that ranged from painfully youthlike to someone with an air of quietness, beaten down on the surface and then gradually on the inside. All with a special charm that can only be described as Luke. And to this day I still get notes about how he's sunshine or how baby he is. Which I actually don't get mad about. Because he evokes that kind of intense rush that hijacks reason. The thought is very tickling

nobody asked. but these are some of the most luke skywalker photos in the world. so true OP

[orcelito]

Took a few months but the situation at work is finally truly blowing up

I may or may not join in a workplace abuse claim against my old boss using old blog posts and discord messages of me venting as proof ☺️

It'd be me burning the bridge of having him as a reference later down the line, but honestly I think I can get by without him.

[emphistic]

A/N: this has been in the drafts for too long

Sukuna this, Sukuna that.

People call him irresponsible, stupid, a good-for-nothing piece of shit, a monster, a lunatic, all because of his looks and demeanor. You either love him, or fear him, because bless the scathed hearts of those who hated him. In the end, there was only one thing no one could ever call Ryomen.

Pitiful whimpers and whines came from beyond the door, just as Sukuna felt himself nearing Dreamland.

He cursed beneath his breath, turning around in bed and throwing an arm around your waist. His prayers to God for you to not hear Yuuji's sniffling were to no avail when he felt you slightly shift against him.

"Wha—?" Blinking back the sleep in confusion, you couldn't help but also yawn.

The lit-up red, glaring numbers on Sukuna's alarm clock read a time past three in the morning. You knew only that much, as your eyes took a few moments to adjust to the lighting in your shared bedroom.

"Brotherrrr!" Another cry rang through the apartment, and you — full of worry — turned to face your boyfriend, hoping for an answer.

The pink-haired man rolled his eyes in return, mumbling a small "Yuuji", and that's all you needed to know before you sat up in bed.

You shot Sukuna a reprimanding look, "So you're just going to lay there while your brother's practically clawing at the door for you? It actually surprises me how long Yuuji's survived in your care."

Sukuna propped himself up on an elbow, "Babe, c'mon. It's not that serious; he's just being his normal attention-seeking self. He'll get over it in no time and go scampering back to bed—"

"No, you come on. He's a kid, Ryomen, a toddler for fuck's sake. What if he hurt himself, or—or—or, worse? What if he—?"

Sukuna sighed, having finally given up on it all. The blanket fell to his waist as he sat up, placing a chaste kiss on your forehead before sliding out of bed.

It was a struggle to find his sweats in the dark, and he didn't even try to search for his hoodie, opting to fuck it and go shirtless. Yuuji's cries drastically increased in volume, and Sukuna was really beginning to wonder what was wrong.

Unlike most children his age, Little Yuuji never caused problems when it was his bedtime. All it took for the little boy to get knocked out was a movie. And get this, he never even finished any! Either you or Sukuna would turn on some old Disney film and the kid would be fast asleep usually twenty minutes in.

On the days where Yuuji wasn't interested in gawking at the characters on screen, he was cuddled up in your arms — sometimes Sukuna's, and reading a silly bedtime story until his breathing evened and his eyelids drooped shut.

Tonight wasn't any different. . . Besides the fact that Sukuna may or may not have put on a horror movie instead of the usual princess genre. He had manipulated his innocent brother into thinking horror was the best kind of movie there was, and forced him to watch one. Initially, you had tried to stop him, but then he shoved Yuuji's pouty face in front of you and, how could you turn down a cutie like that?

You had hoped Yuuji would just fall asleep before any scary stuff not suitable for a mere child showed, but no. Yuuji stayed wide awake for it all. Of course, he was sat on your lap the whole time, but there was only so much you could do to shield the little boy from all the terrors playing on the screen.

Sukuna tried to justify his actions, saying, "This'll teach him how to be a man; I'm showing him how cruel the world can be; that's all." But Sukuna could not be farther from the truth.

Immediately after hearing the bedroom door unlock, Yuuji ran — clutching his stuffed animal in hand — right into his older brother, seeking solace. And as Sukuna stood with the little parasite wrapped around his leg, crying into the material of his pants, he couldn't help but pinch the space between his brows. This was a terrible mistake, he thought.

Fortunately, you appeared behind your boyfriend just a few moments later, after having put on an oversized shirt, he noticed.

"Hey there, Yuu. What's wrong?" you asked, in a soft voice, just above a whisper.

You knelt down beside the boy, patting his messy bed hair. One thing these brothers had in common was their absolutely out of control hair, goddamn.

Yuuji, still not letting go of Sukuna's leg, turned to look at you. His tears were starting to come to slow, as they dried on his cheek, but he continued sniffling. His lip trembled as he spoke with hiccups coming within intervals.

"I—I had a bad dweam. Hic, you and bwother left me and—and never came back, hic. . ."

The toddler looked about ready to burst out crying again, but he didn't want to appear lesser of a man than his brother called him. So he stifled his cries as best as he could, bringing his chubby finger up to wipe away one of his tears.

"Aw, Yuuji, you know me and Sukuna would never do that to you. You're too important to us, y'know?" You booped him on the nose, "You're also too cute, and nothing's more manlier than that, Yuuji."

You saw the light return to his eyes, the little boy growing more and more like his usual lively self with every word you spoke. Sukuna took note of that; you were always so lenient and caring with his little brother, never blaming him for doing acts completely normal for his age.

Sukuna only spoke up after you picked Yuuji up in your arms, letting the kid rest his head on your shoulder as you ran your fingers through his hair.

"Lying too much is bad." He turned to you with a knowing look.

"Jealous much?" You smiled, a cheeky look plastered on your face. "Or are you just insecure about not being as manly as Yuuji over here?"

"Oh, please. We both know I'm as manly as it gets," Sukuna scoffed, settling back beneath the covers and beckoning for you to follow.

You walked over to your side of the bed, with a sleeping toddler in your arms. "He's already knocked out," you whispered, placing a kiss on Yuuji's forehead. "Let's let him sleep in in the morning; he seems tired."

Sukuna hummed in agreement, placing Yuuji between you both. "But . . . I'm not too sure I'll be able to go back to sleep now. I dunno, babe, I think I need a good night kiss, as well."

Careful as to not wake the little boy up, you stifled a giggle behind your palm, before planting a wet kiss on Sukuna's cheek. "Mwah!"

It was not a surprise when Sukuna pulled you back for a real, and more ardent, kiss on the lips. Sukuna's boyish laughter, your hushed giggles, and Yuuji's quiet snores were the only sounds audible throughout the apartment.

Sukuna was never one to like kids, having a little sibling and whatnot he was already quite experienced. So when people asked him if he planned on having any children, he never said "yes" (he also never said "no"). Sukuna never had a proper father by his side; he knew he wouldn't be much help with a family of his own. But now, he had you.

You were a good caretaker to Yuuji, and maybe, just maybe, Sukuna could also see you taking care of his own blood and flesh. Little squeals and giggles coming from a child with his pink, unruly hair, and the same grin on their face as so his. It was a dream, it was an idea, it was a want.

Sukuna wasn't a bad brother, would being a father be so different?

[meowzfordayz]

how they speak up for you — mitsuri, shinobu, kyojuro, sanemi, muichiro

Author’s Note: short and sweet, and hopefully a lil funny too. 😆

how they speak up for you — mitsuri, shinobu, kyojuro, sanemi, muichiro

Kanroji Mitsuri x Reader, Kocho Shinobu x Reader, Rengoku Kyojuro x Reader, Shinazugawa Sanemi x Reader, Tokito Muichiro x Reader

Word Count: ~800

CW: explicit language, mild sexual content

Emergency Request Fulfilled: could you write comfort for when Their S/o like absolutely hates speaking up for themselves, like someone could be walking all over them and they'd be like "Oh, its fine" bc conflict= worst enemy? I would like to request Muichiro (love him sm) and Sanemi if that's okay, and the rest you can decide (-if you want to add more.)

~faqs~

Mitsuri will be all over the situation (in a good way, ofc 😌)

“Baby, didn’t you want your drink hot?” —> she’s already staring daggers at the barista who made your drink 😒

“Hm?”

You do your best to conceal the pinch of your eyebrows, as well as the goosebumps raising on your arms 🥶

“I thought cold drinks made you cold, and you don’t like being cold?”

… “Hm?”

She’s not buying your nonchalance 🙃

“That’s it.” Uh oh. “I’m getting you your drink made right.”

😳🫣🫠

“Nonono, Mitsuri, it’s fiiine.” 😭

Arms crossed, her lips purse, eyes narrowed as you weakly grin and take a big sip 😄

“If you won’t let me get you another one, then at least wear my sweater?”

🤯 “Okay!” 🤭

So maybe she’s wearing a cropped tank top underneath — you’re only a mere mortal after all 

— #oops my thirst made an appearance 😅

Short girlfriend = scary girlfriend

And that’s a compliment 😎

Shinobu doesn’t need height, bulk, or a dick to defend you

Her scathing tongue and unnerving stare are plenty

Not to mention, she’ll go full Karen if need be, but the more eloquent, calculating, deceptively sweet version 😌

She can make anyone feel like a complete idiot in 2-3 sentences, give or take 

Which does include you, but you don’t argue too often 😅

Basically:

It’s highkey hot when she speaks up for you 🤭

But it may or may not make you cry when her sharpness is directed toward you 🥲

Fortunately, you in distress is also one of few things that immediately softens her — at least, when she’s the reason for it 🥺

Kyojuro always tries to solve your problems for you

Not bc he thinks you’re incapable, and not w/o your expressed consent/prior communication

But he just hates seeing you unhappy, uncomfortable, unsafe — really anything that isn’t grinning and laughing

He understands there’s a time and place for more difficult and painful emotions, but why on earth wouldn’t he go out of his way to ensure those times and places are as few and far between as possible????? 🤨

So, obvi, he more than willingly goes out of his way ☺️

“Do you want me to say something?” his quiet breath warms your ear, softening the frustration growing in your chest

“I dunno,” you sigh, gesturing hopelessly at the person who’d just cut you in line, “We’re all going to the same place anyway.”

“True,” he shrugs, “But that was quite rude and noticeable of them.”

“Do you want to say something?” you tease, elbowing his side with amused fondness

“Not if it discomforts you.”

“It wouldn’t discomfort me,” you mumble, cheeks darkening nonetheless, “You’re so cute.”

Albeit, you aren’t sure whether to feel proud or embarrassed when he somehow intimidates the person who cut you into leaving altogether 😅

On one hand, you know Sanemi has your back ☺️

On the other hand, you aren’t 100% positive that that’s a good thing 😬

“I swear, does that bitch even know I exist?!” 😤

… 🫣

“I bet she doesn’t! Otherwise she wouldn’t dare treat you like-” 😤

“And this is why she doesn’t know you exist.” 🥲

“Pardon?” 😐

“Sanemi, I love you, and I so appreciate how ready to go to war you are for me, but-”

“Ooh darling, you have no idea. Go to war? I will be the war for you.” 😤

“So sweet,” your eyes roll, “How about you just let me handle it?”

“And how are you handling it?” he scoffs, “With smiley face emojis?” 🙄

…

“You deserve kindness and honesty. Not her manipulative bitch shit.”

“I’ll block her.”

“You what?!” 😳

“Would that suffice?” 😅

“Actually… yeah.” Sanemi is very surprised. Gushing now, “I’m so fucking proud of you.” 🥰

It’s kind of alarming when Muichiro speaks up for you

Bc you get a faint taste of what he was like before he’d really opened up to love 😕

And that Tokito Muichiro is sharp and cold as steel w/ a -139% tolerance for bullshit

Impossible to impress 😬

But your Muichiro hugs you when you’re feeling low, rests his chin on your shoulder while you do your best to draft a stern, confident text msg to your asshole “friend”, and is more than happy to tell you what he would do were he in your shoes

… you usually ignore his advice 😅

Buuut sometimes he reaches over and hits SEND before you can stop him 🫠

“MUI! I was going to delete some of that!” 😭

“Nah, it’s great as is.” 😎

[tender-rosiey]

hi hii (　；∀；) since its geto suguru's birthday today (03 february), could i pretty please with a cherry ontop kindly request something about it? can be suggestive or fluffy!!! bonus points if satoru's teasing him all the way through because we love an annoying bestfriend

in bloom — geto suguru x gn!reader

a/n: what’s with me writing hurt/comfort for characters’ bdays—forgive me anon, but I have decided to make him suffer a little first 🙏 and hey I am late again but what’s new 🧍‍♀️

suguru wouldn’t exactly call himself someone who views the world in a poetic way.

he doesn’t concern himself with the meaning of the sun’s particular position behind the clouds today or the darkness of the sky that seems to mesh with the rays of the sunset.

it all seems a little too complicated for his liking.

nature is to be loved, of course, he thinks, but he just isn’t the type to go into details about it.

he just lets out a small hum of appreciation and a thankful sigh about yet another day accompanied with a good weather and a sun that doesn’t burn his skin but warms it just right.

that’s enough he thinks.

but right now? he sure hoped that nature was the topic that occupied his mind instead of the incessant sound of clapping.

it plays on a loop, and when he thinks that it stopped—even for a second—he starts hearing it in the rhythm of anything around him.

he wants to rid himself of all this misery and being sentenced to relive this event in every time of the day. he desperately wants to forget it all, but he halts.

wouldn’t forgetting it disrespect those who have passed? disrespect the tears and blood spilled? disrespect the pain that his best friend had to go through alongside him?

wouldn’t mean that he is treating the friends who died along the way as a burden that he needs to dispose of? but if forgetting is disrespectful then the remembrance is devastative.

what does he do? does he act on it? does he forget it or not? or does he tried to find a solution, a way to rid everyone of this burden—but then he halts yet again. it feels too much. it is too much.

so he does what he thinks is best and he pushes it aside, neither forgetting or remembering it endlessly—as much as he can.

a bit of time passes, summer bursts through the door, and he has never hated it so much.

the sun is scathing to his skin, and the sweat makes him feel disgusting like those in the star plasma group. but the shower is a place that he fear? hates? despises? loathes?

the shower head never failed to let out drops in a rhythm that wickedly mirrored that of the claps of the people in that cult.

he notices the worried glances of his friends—those he sees anyway—and he appreciates those who ask about him when they get the chance to—satoru. still, he feels suffocated, and he keeps wondering just what will set him free from all of this.

in what form will salvation come in?

it came discreetly, that’s what he knows, but he doesn’t know when.

he doesn’t know when he started to seek the sun’s heat more, the darkness’ quietness, or the fields behind his school, especially the fields behind the school. flowers are nice, but what role do they play?

they simply just exist. they do nothing effective to help him with solving his inner turmoil, so why does he sit in the field, gently playing with the petals of an iris?

it’s a lot of questions. he knows. he is also searching for answers.

and salvation? he doesn’t expect it to come in the form of you.

he doesn’t know when you made your way into his heart, and he knows that he started looking forward to your “good morning, geto!” to transform into a “good morning, suguru?”

maybe because he cared about you, but why does he do that? then he remembers some stuff. they’re minor, but they are what he remembers at the moment, and he thinks they’re enough.

he remembers the worried glances of his friends—you—and he appreciates those who ask about him when they get the chance to—you then satoru.

he starts to remember how you followed him and never left him to his thoughts, always considerate of his feelings and asking him to convey what he truly wanted.

like that one time you going to buy meals for everyone. after you asked everyone their preferences, you went to him—leaving him for last and at the time, he remembers feeling a little offended because why?

you asked the same question that you asked to everyone, “what would you like to eat?”

and he replied with his constant at that time, “i am not that hungry, but satoru probably wants something sweet so you can get him kikufuku.”

“I already asked gojo what he wants. what do you want to eat?”

he stills for a moment, and he opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out. you roll your eyes with a smile, ignoring his malfunctioning, and ask him something else, “what’s your favorite food?”

he blinks before murmuring softly, “zaru soba.”

“see? that wasn’t so hard, was it?” you smile and ruffle his before running away yelling, “the best zaru soba is on the way!”

in that moment, he couldn’t help softening his expression and the small smile that appeared.

another thing that he had assumed is that this journey through these thoughts would be a solo one.

last thing he expected was you dragging him out to the roof  of the school before asking him right away, “what’s on your mind?”

he resists. it’s not your burden to shoulder, and, frankly, it’s none of your business, so why should he tell you?

so he doesn’t and replies lightly, “nothing.”

for some reason, when your expression becomes ridden with sympathy and sadness and your hands gently hold his own, he feels something.

your thumb rubs his hand soothingly as you murmur, “it’s okay; you don’t have to say anything just—“ you take a deep breath “—just know that I am here for you, and I am trying to understand—“

“why?”

your eyes travel to his face, and he is barely keeping it together.

“why did she have to go through that? why were they delighted in her deaths?”

you listened to all his questions and thought of answers together. words never stopped flowing from him, and you never stopped indulging him. he remembers that first ray of sun that hit his eyes.

he had been spilling his emotions till sunrise, and you stayed. you weren’t talking to him like he is crazy either. you discussed it through and through.

you stayed, and you were trying to understand.

then he figures out that you frequent the fields behind the school. you tell him that you go there because sometimes you just need a break from everything that surrounds jujutsu and the school itself.

he finds himself agreeing that, yes, sometimes we need a break.

at some point,  he finds himself going there with you. the two of you talked about anything, not just the thoughts that plagued his mind (plagued?). 

satoru bugs him about where he goes after school, but he tells him nothing. he feels that letting the secret of the fields being known by anyone other than you two makes it lose something to him.

gradually, he starts going there before you. while he waits, he finds himself thinking about how the sky is brighter nowadays. maybe it’s the seasons or some kind science stuff that satoru is into.

he laughs off the thought then he begins to see your figure approaching the field, slowly but surely.

he takes in your shocked face then the smile that creeps up your face. suddenly, the sun shone brighter, but a small breeze kept him cool.

that’s when he realized that spring has entered, and the daffodils are finally in bloom.

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do not copy or plagiarize or you will be reported

[anghraine]

I finally read a good article about Austen and eighteenth-century socioeconomics that gives rough approximations of eighteenth-century prices/incomes in modern (I think c. 2014) currency, but is appropriately emphatic about just how rough those approximations must always be given drastic differences in the economic worlds we live in. It's actually much more about the economics than Austen, and particularly about how much descriptions of "middling" incomes and what was affordable to people who had those incomes is still a conversation about a tiny, tiny elite in terms of the overall population at the time.

Austen-wise, though, the author also found room for a tangent in which he goes off on a scathing condemnation of Mr Bennet in socioeconomic terms, which I do love to see. Most baronets generally had land and incomes far closer to Mr Bennet's than Darcy's and yet Mr Bennet can't be bothered to even slightly provide for his children's futures beyond what was legally required by his marriage settlement (even the girls' meagre inheritances mostly come from Mrs Bennet's money rather than his). The author acknowledges the passage about Mr Bennet saving to counteract Mrs Bennet's extravagance and also how this is an indictment of Mr Bennet as well as Mrs Bennet, something that criticisms of him often skate past, and even points out how enthusiastic Mr Bennet is about the convenience of Darcy paying for it all in a way that can be read as funny and endearing, but also as distastefully shameless.

Anyway, it was nice to enjoy an academic text again, lol.

[paulmccart]

We're Not Gonna Take It! And the Story of How We Almost Did

Protesters outside of the PMRC senate hearings.

Are you a victim of rock? Well maybe you aren't, but all the way back in 1985 a group of prominent D.C wives felt that they were.

These women, with the help of Beach Boys member Mike Love and Joseph Coors, the owner of Coors Beers, formed the PMRC (Parents Music Resource Center).

Their reasoning for forming as co-founder Susan Baker put it:

"It started because one day my 7-year-old came in and started quoting some of Madonna's lyrics to me, wanting to know what they meant. And I was shocked. I knew that you had to be concerned about movies and TV, but I didn't have a clue that my 7-year-old would be exposed to inappropriate songs."

The goal of the PMRC was to give parents more control over what their children could listen to. As well as implementing a rating system for music with bad language, sexual themes, and anti-Christian messages just to name a few. Eventually the group made a list of the fifteen worst songs, in their opinion and labeled them "The Filthy Fifteen".

(And it also happens to make a killer playlist)

Besides a rating system and lyrics printed on album covers the PMRC had several other goals including:

"...records with explicit covers be wrapped or kept under the counter; that record companies reassess contracts with performers who engage in sexual or violent acts on stage; that broadcasters be pressured to exhibit "voluntary restraint" by not airing offending music videos, which would also be rated."

All that noise coming from the PMRC culminated on September 19th, 1985. When a hearing in the senate occurred. Two musicians were called in on behalf of the music industry, Frank Zappa and Dee Snider of Twisted Sister. Two of musics most studious and serious creatives.

Zappa and Snider both gave eloquent defenses of what they deemed to be free speech.

But the PMRC had a trick up their sleeves... or so they thought.

They'd also invited John Denver to speak that day, assuming that he would stand with the side of "family values" but they were mistaken.

John Denver's testimony was the most scathing that day. He cited his own experience with having some of his music banned from radio. Even going as far as comparing the PMRC and groups like it to Nazi book burnings.

So what did the PMRC end up accomplishing? You know those tiny explicit labels in the corner of some albums? You can thank the PMRC for those. When they were originally introduced they were called "Tipper Stickers" after one of more outspoken PMRC members Tipper Gore (wife of Al Gore).

So while we didn't exactly take it, for a time we almost did. And thanks to testimony from Frank Zappa, John Denver, and Dee Snider, we can regularly enjoy any kind of music we want to- even the songs that promote the occult.

Both photographs come from Mark Weiss who photographed the event for Rock Scene Magazine.

[muiitoloko]

I looooved the daddy severus fanfic aaaaghhhh ❤️ but now can we have what he needed to do to have the baby lol

Breeding kink severus PLEASE!!! Xx

Title: A Second Chance

Summary: Surviving the war was only the beginning for Severus Snape. With your love, he learns to embrace life, finding comfort in the thought of a future that includes a family of his own.

Pairing: Severus Snape × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: I'm so glad you loved the Daddy Severus fanfic! ❤️ And I couldn't resist your request, so I went ahead with the breeding kink idea—but decided to keep it light and wrote a completely new one-shot instead. Don't worry, it's more on the sweet side, nothing too kinky 😅. Hope you enjoy this one just as much! xx

Also read on Ao3

Severus Snape never imagined he would survive the war, let alone find himself married years after the defeat of Lord Voldemort. In truth, he hadn't even expected to live past the moment Nagini's fangs had torn into his throat. The pain had been excruciating, but it was fleeting—quickly overtaken by the cold, creeping numbness of death. He had welcomed it, that final escape from a life filled with darkness and deceit. Everything had gone black, and he thought that was the end.

But death had not come for Severus Snape that day. Instead, he had awoken to the sterile smell of potions and the clinical brightness of the Hogwarts infirmary, with Madam Pomfrey's stern face hovering above him, muttering incantations and administering salves to his ravaged neck. She had told him that the war was over, that Voldemort was defeated, and in those first few moments of lucidity, Snape had wanted nothing more than to slip back into unconsciousness. He had nothing left to live for, after all. But fate, as it often did, had other plans.

Snape had been in a coma for two long years—two years during which the wizarding world had moved on without him, during which he had been declared a hero by none other than Harry Potter, the boy he had once loathed. Potter, in his infinite idiocy, had come forward with memories—his memories—evidence that Snape had been working as a double agent, risking everything to protect the son of the woman he had loved more than life itself. It was Potter’s testimony that had spared Snape from Azkaban, and it was Potter who had ensured that he was awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, and hailed as a hero in the aftermath of the war.

Snape thought bitterly of that fool of a boy now, sitting in the grand sitting room of one of the Prince family’s old mansions. The house had been passed down to him as the last living heir of the Prince family, a lineage he had long since stopped caring about. His mother’s bloodline had never brought him anything but misery, and yet here he was, a reluctant beneficiary of the wealth and status he had once despised. He rubbed the large scar on his neck, the mark left by Nagini’s fangs a constant reminder of how close he had come to death. It barely allowed him to speak without pain, a daily torment that was only mitigated by the potions and treatments he had to endure.

And that was where you came in.

You had been sent by St. Mungo’s on behalf of the Ministry of Magic, assigned to take care of Snape’s throat, which often swelled and caused him intense pain at random times. The venom of Nagini had remained in his bloodstream, a sinister reminder of the Dark Lord’s most loyal servant. Snape hadn’t wanted you there. In those first few days, he had made every effort to drive you away, using every tactic at his disposal—scathing remarks, icy glares, and, when words failed him, the sheer force of his silent, menacing presence. But you hadn’t been intimidated. You had insisted on staying, refusing to leave despite his best efforts to scare you off. You were patient, determined, and unfailingly kind—qualities that Snape found both infuriating and, inexplicably, disarming.

He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when things began to change between the two of you. Perhaps it was the day he had tried to intimidate you with a particularly venomous glare, only to find that you met his gaze with calm resolve, refusing to back down. He had pressed you against the wall in a fit of frustration, intending to finally break through that maddening composure, but instead, he had found himself kissing you—fiercely, desperately, as if you were the only thing tethering him to this world. That kiss had quickly turned into something more—something that left you both breathless and shaken, your bodies entwined in a feverish, almost primal need.

Months had passed since that first heated encounter, and somehow, through a series of events that still seemed surreal to him, Snape had found himself married to you. He looked down at the simple, yet elegant ring on his finger, a symbol of a life he had never imagined for himself. The ring was one he had chosen himself, purchased with the money he had saved over the years as a professor—years of putting up with those insufferable, brainless children. The irony of it all was not lost on him. Severus Snape, the cold, unyielding Potions Master, now had a wife, a home, and a life that was, in many ways, far more normal than he had ever thought possible.

He had thought he would hate it—the domesticity, the mundanity of it all. But as he sat in the quiet of the old manor, the fire crackling softly in the hearth, he realized that he didn’t hate it. Not at all. In fact, he found a strange sort of peace in it—a peace he hadn’t known in decades, if ever. It was a peace that came from knowing that, despite everything, he had somehow found a place in this world—a place with you.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, and he looked up to see you entering the room, a soft smile on your face as you made your way over to him. You were dressed simply, yet elegantly, your presence filling the room with a warmth that he still wasn’t quite used to, but which he had come to cherish nonetheless.

“Severus,” you greeted him, your voice soft and soothing as you approached. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged slightly, the familiar discomfort in his throat a dull throb that he had long since learned to ignore. “As well as can be expected,” he replied, his voice low and rough, a result of the lingering effects of the venom.

You nodded, your expression one of understanding and quiet concern as you reached out to gently touch his hand, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of his wedding ring. “I’m glad,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his with a warmth that made his chest tighten. “You know, you don’t have to bear this burden alone. I’m here, Severus. I’ll always be here.”

He looked at you for a long moment, the weight of your words sinking in, filling the empty spaces in his heart that he had long thought would remain void. He had spent so many years alone, so many years building walls around himself to keep others out, that it still felt strange—unnatural, even—to have someone who cared about him, who wanted to share in his burdens.

But you were here, in his life, in his home, and he had somehow, against all odds, found himself falling for you in a way he hadn’t believed was possible. You had been a light in the darkness, a beacon that had guided him back to the land of the living when all he had wanted was to fade into oblivion.

“I know,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion as he looked down at your hand in his, the warmth of your touch grounding him in a way that nothing else could. “And I’m… grateful.”

You smiled at that, a soft, genuine smile that lit up your entire face, and for a moment, Snape felt something stir within him—something that had been dormant for far too long. It was a warmth, a flicker of hope, of love, that he had thought he would never feel again.

Without another word, you leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, a kiss that was soft and sweet, filled with all the affection and tenderness that you had brought into his life. Snape closed his eyes, allowing himself to get lost in the sensation, to savor the moment, the connection between you.

When you finally pulled back, you looked at him with a quiet intensity, your eyes searching his as if you were trying to understand the depth of what he was feeling. And in that moment, Snape realized that you did understand—that you knew him better than anyone ever had, perhaps even better than he knew himself.

“I love you, Sev,” you whispered, your voice filled with a quiet conviction that left no room for doubt. “I always will.”

But Severus Snape had never been one for grand declarations, especially when it came to matters of the heart. The words I love you felt foreign on his tongue, weighed down by the years of pain and loss that had shaped him into the man he was today. Instead, he preferred to convey his feelings through subtle gestures, through actions that spoke louder than words ever could.

And tonight, he intended to show you just how much you meant to him.

Without a word, Snape leaned in and captured your lips in a kiss, one that was slow and deliberate, full of a restrained passion that he had kept buried for far too long. His lips moved against yours with a careful intensity, as if he was savoring every moment, every sensation. His hand slid up to cup the back of your head, his long, slender fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer to him.

You responded eagerly, your body leaning into his as the kiss grew more heated, more urgent. Snape’s other hand found its way to your waist, his grip firm but gentle as he guided you onto his lap, your dress rustling softly as you straddled him. The fabric of his dark robes brushed against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth that radiated from his body.

When he finally broke the kiss, his breathing was slightly uneven, his dark eyes filled with a hunger that you had rarely seen before. He looked at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat, his gaze piercing through you as if he was trying to convey all the things he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Without breaking eye contact, Snape’s hands moved to the hem of your dress, his fingers grazing the soft fabric as he slowly pushed it up, revealing the smooth skin of your thighs. He let out a low, almost inaudible groan as he felt the warmth of your body against his, the sight of you on his lap stirring something primal within him.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice a hoarse whisper as he traced the outline of your hips with his hands, his touch possessive yet reverent. It wasn’t quite I love you, but it carried the same weight, the same depth of emotion. It was his way of claiming you, of letting you know that you belonged to him in every sense of the word.

You shivered at his touch, your own hands moving to his shoulders, your fingers brushing against the cool, smooth fabric of his robes. His grip on you tightened slightly as he pulled you even closer, pressing your body against his as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against you, a clear indication of just how much he wanted you.

“Severus…” you whispered, your voice filled with a mix of anticipation and desire as you felt his lips ghosting over your throat, leaving a trail of soft, heated kisses in their wake.

Snape didn’t respond with words. Instead, he let his actions speak for him, his hands slipping beneath your dress, his fingers tracing the curve of your spine before moving lower, cupping your ass and giving it a possessive squeeze. His lips found their way back to yours, capturing them in another deep, fervent kiss as he shifted beneath you, positioning himself so that his cock was perfectly aligned with your entrance, the heat of your arousal palpable through the thin fabric of your underwear.

Snape’s gaze was intense, his dark eyes boring into yours as he uttered a single, hoarse word: “Bedroom.” The command was rough, almost strangled, a reminder of the ever-present pain that laced his throat. You could see the discomfort etched into the lines of his face, a sharp pang of concern shooting through you. Was he okay? Was the pain too much for him? But before you could voice your worries, Snape dismissed them with a hard, determined look. He wasn’t going to let anything interrupt this moment.

In a swift, fluid motion, he lifted you into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as you clung to him. His strength surprised you, the lean muscles beneath his robes belying the quiet power he possessed. You could feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against you, straining through the fabric of his impeccably tailored trousers. The sensation sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine, igniting a fire in your belly.

He moved with purpose, carrying you down the dimly lit hallway of the old manor, his long robes billowing around him like shadows. The silence between you was thick, charged with the unspoken desires that had been building between you for months. Snape’s grip on you was firm, possessive, his hands settling on the curve of your ass as he held you close. The tension in the air was palpable, the only sounds were the soft rustle of fabric and the faint creak of the floorboards beneath his boots.

When he finally reached the bedroom, Snape pushed the door open with a gentle nudge of his foot, striding inside without hesitation. The room was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. The bed—a grand, four-poster affair draped in rich, dark fabrics—stood at the center of the room, an inviting haven amidst the darkness.

Without breaking his stride, Snape crossed the room and laid you down on the bed, his movements careful but deliberate. The mattress dipped under your weight as you looked up at him, your breath catching in your throat as you took in the sight of him. He stood at the edge of the bed, his tall, lean figure imposing and commanding, his dark robes making him look every bit the cold, enigmatic man you had first met. But now, there was something more in his eyes—a burning need, a primal desire that he could no longer suppress.

Snape’s hands moved to the clasp of his robes, his fingers deftly undoing it before he shrugged off the heavy fabric, letting it pool on the floor at his feet. He remained silent, his gaze never leaving yours as he began to unbutton his shirt, each movement slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. The pale, angular planes of his chest were revealed inch by inch, the faint scars and the dark trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his trousers only adding to his rugged appeal.

Your mouth went dry as you watched him, your pulse quickening with each piece of clothing he shed. By the time he reached the waistband of his trousers, you were practically trembling with anticipation, your body aching with the need to feel him against you.

Snape didn’t rush. Instead, he paused, his fingers lingering on the waistband of his trousers as he looked down at you, his gaze dark and hungry. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, roughened by both his desire and the ever-present pain in his throat.

“I’m going to fill you,” he rasped, the words sending a jolt of arousal straight to your core. His expression was one of pure, unbridled lust, his eyes locked on yours as he added, “I’m going to put a baby inside you.”

The raw, primal promise in his words left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as heat pooled between your thighs. You could feel the wetness gathering there, your body responding to his words in a way that was utterly instinctive. Snape’s eyes flickered with satisfaction as he noticed your reaction, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to grasp your ankle, pulling you toward the edge of the bed with a firm, steady grip. You let out a soft gasp as your back arched, your dress riding up higher, exposing more of your skin to his hungry gaze. Snape’s hand slid up your calf, his touch sending sparks of electricity coursing through you as he pushed your dress up, revealing the lacy fabric of your underwear.

“Take it off,” he ordered, his voice hoarse but commanding, a dark edge to his tone that sent a shiver down your spine.

You obeyed without hesitation, your hands trembling slightly as you reached down to slip the dress over your head. The fabric pooled on the floor beside the bed, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Snape’s gaze raked over your body, his eyes darkening with desire as he took in the sight of you.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, the word almost lost in the roughness of his voice. His hand moved to your hip, his fingers tracing the delicate lace of your underwear before slipping beneath the fabric. The feel of his hand against your bare skin sent a jolt of pleasure through you, your breath hitching as he caressed you with slow, deliberate strokes.

You moaned softly as his fingers found your wetness, your body arching into his touch. Snape’s gaze was fixed on yours, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart race. He moved his fingers with a practiced precision, teasing you with light, feathering touches that left you gasping for more.

“Do you want this?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that sent shivers down your spine. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation as you looked up at him. “Yes, Severus, please.”

Snape’s smirk widened at your desperate plea, his hand leaving your core to grip your thigh, spreading your legs wider. He moved between them, his trousers slipping down to reveal his throbbing erection, the sight of it making your mouth water with desire.

He positioned himself at your entrance, his tip brushing against your wet folds as he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss. The sensation was electric, his lips moving against yours with a fierce, possessive hunger that left you dizzy. You could feel the tension coiling within him, the barely restrained need that pulsed through every inch of his body.

With a low growl, Snape pushed inside you, the thick length of him stretching you to the brink as he buried himself to the hilt. The sensation was overwhelming, your body trembling with the sheer intensity of it as he filled you completely. You could feel every inch of him, the heat of his skin against yours, the raw power in the way he moved.

He set a slow, deliberate pace, his thrusts deep and measured, each one sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. Snape’s gaze never wavered, his eyes locked on yours as he claimed you with every thrust, his hands gripping your hips with a possessive strength that left you breathless.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his voice rough and strained as he drove into you with a primal, almost savage need. “Mine to fuck, mine to fill…mine to breed.”

The words sent a shiver of pleasure through you, your body tightening around him as you let out a low, breathy moan. Snape’s hands gripped your hips harder, pulling you against him with each thrust, his pace quickening as he lost himself in the intensity of the moment.

You could feel the heat building within you, the tension coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. Snape’s name spilled from your lips in a breathless chant, your hands clutching at his shoulders as he drove you closer to the edge.

Snape's breath was ragged as he buried himself inside you, his trousers bunched up around his ankles, trapped by the boots he hadn't bothered to remove. It didn’t matter to him—nothing mattered now except the primal, driving need to fill you, to claim you in the most profound and intimate way. His dark, greasy hair clung to his forehead as he hovered above you, his pale, angular face set in a mask of intense concentration and desire.

His thrusts were deep, deliberate, each movement calculated to drive you closer to the edge, to ensure that every inch of him was felt within you. His normally stoic expression was marred only slightly by the flicker of pain that crossed his features when he dared to speak. The venomous scars on his neck, the constant reminder of his near brush with death, flared in protest with every word. But his voice—deep, roughened by the damage to his throat—slipped out when he could no longer contain the twisted fantasies that had consumed him.

“Mine,” he rasped, the single word filled with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours as his hand gripped your hip tightly, holding you in place as he thrust into you again, harder this time, his need taking over. “You’re mine.”

The room was filled with the sound of your bodies colliding, the soft crackling of the fire the only other noise breaking the silence. His boots scraped against the floor as he shifted, driving into you with a relentless pace that left no room for doubt about his intentions. The weight of his body pinned you beneath him, the full force of his need pressing down on you.

His mind was filled with images—visions of you swollen with his child, your body heavy with the life he’d put inside you. The thought only spurred him on, fueling the dark hunger that had taken root within him. He could see it so clearly in his mind’s eye—a little girl, with your beauty and his cunning, a powerful witch who would carry on the legacy he had never thought he would pass on.

“You’ll give me a daughter,” he whispered hoarsely, the words a struggle, each one tinged with the pain it caused him to speak. But he had to say it, had to let you know the depths of his desire. His fingers dug into your skin as he pounded into you, the force of his thrusts sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. “You’ll carry her, and she’ll be perfect…just like you.”

The idea of breeding you, of seeing you swollen with his child, made him almost desperate in his movements. His pace quickened, his hips snapping against yours with a brutal precision that left you gasping, your hands clutching at his shoulders, desperate to hold onto something as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

His breathing was labored, the strain of holding back the pain of speaking clear in the way his chest heaved, but he couldn’t stop now. His fingers moved to your clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles as he watched the effect it had on you, the way your body responded to him, the way you trembled beneath him. It was intoxicating, knowing that he had this power over you, that he could bring you to the brink of ecstasy with just a few well-placed touches.

“You’re going to be so beautiful,” he continued, his voice barely a whisper, thick with emotion. “Round and full…carrying my child. My daughter.” His eyes were locked on yours, his gaze intense and unwavering as he thrust into you with a newfound urgency. “I’ll protect you…both of you…no one will ever hurt you.”

His words were rough, almost growled out between clenched teeth as the fire within him built to a fever pitch. He was close, so close, and he could feel you tightening around him, the telltale signs of your impending climax pushing him even further.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice low and commanding despite the strain. “I want to feel you…want to feel you fall apart around me.”

You were helpless to resist him, your body obeying his every command as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. Your climax hit you hard, your entire body tensing as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. Snape watched you, his gaze dark and intense, his grip on your hips tightening as he drove into you with a final, powerful thrust.

He could feel you convulsing around him, the tight, wet heat of your climax pulling him over the edge with you. He let out a low, guttural groan as he buried himself deep inside you, his release flooding you with a heat that seemed to burn through him.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your heavy breathing, the crackling of the fire, and the faint rustle of the sheets as Snape remained still above you, his chest rising and falling with the effort of catching his breath. His dark hair fell forward, obscuring his face as he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips rough and warm against your skin.

“You’re mine,” he whispered one final time, his voice barely more than a breath. “And you’ll give me everything.”

His words hung in the air, a promise, a vow, as he slowly pulled out of you, the sudden emptiness almost jarring after the intensity of what had just passed between you. He laid down beside you, pulling you close to his chest, his long fingers tangling in your hair as he held you tightly, as if afraid to let you go.

In the silence that followed, Snape closed his eyes, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. But even as sleep began to take him, the thought of you carrying his child—his daughter—brought a small, almost imperceptible smile to his lips.

For the first time in years, Severus Snape allowed himself to hope for the future.

After the intensity of your shared moment had begun to settle, you found yourself recovering faster than Severus, whose chest still heaved as he fought to catch his breath. His dark eyes were closed, his pale face flushed with the remnants of passion, and his hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. For a brief moment, you simply watched him, your heart swelling with a deep, unspoken affection. It was in these quiet moments, after the storm of his desire had passed, that you felt closest to him—that you saw the man behind the formidable exterior, vulnerable and human.

You moved gently, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to the scarred skin of his neck, your lips lingering just above the spot where Nagini's fangs had once pierced him. His eyes fluttered open at the sensation, and he looked down at you with a mixture of exhaustion and something that might have been tenderness, though he would never admit it aloud. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he might protest your ministrations, but you silenced him with a look, your eyes conveying a wordless command.

“Don’t move,” you whispered, your voice soft yet firm as you began to reach down, your hands deftly unfastening the boots that had remained stubbornly on his feet. Snape tried to protest, his brows knitting together in irritation at the thought of you taking care of him, but the protest died on his lips when you fixed him with a pointed stare.

“Be quiet, Severus,” you instructed gently, though there was no mistaking the steel behind your words. “Let me do this.”

For once, he complied, his lips pressing into a thin line as he allowed you to help him. It was an act of trust, a rare thing for him, and you didn’t take it lightly. You removed his boots with care, followed by the trousers that had bunched awkwardly around his ankles, your fingers brushing against his skin as you worked. Despite the lingering heat between you, your touch was tender, almost reverent, as you undressed him, revealing the lean, angular planes of his body that were usually hidden beneath his dark, forbidding robes.

When you were finished, you summoned your wand with a simple flick of your wrist, casting a quiet cleaning charm over the two of you. The warm, tingling sensation of the magic swept away the remnants of your passion, leaving you both feeling refreshed, though the intimate connection between you remained unbroken.

You returned to his side, snuggling against him with a contented sigh, your head resting on his chest as you traced lazy patterns on his skin with your fingertips. Snape’s arm wrapped around you almost instinctively, his long fingers threading through your hair as he held you close. You could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, a soothing rhythm that calmed your own.

Lifting your head slightly, you rested your chin on his chest, your eyes meeting his with a mischievous glint. “At this rate, we’ll have a baby soon,” you remarked with a teasing smile, your tone light despite the weight of your words. “You’ve practically made love to me every day since I mentioned you’d be a great father.”

A faint flush colored Snape’s cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or something else, you couldn’t be sure. His gaze flickered with a mix of emotions—desire, uncertainty, and something deeper, something almost fragile. You knew that the idea of fatherhood had taken root in his mind, had sparked a longing that he hadn’t fully realized until you had voiced it aloud.

“It… seems to have stuck in my head,” he admitted gruffly, his voice low and rough as he avoided your gaze, his fingers still gently tangled in your hair. “The idea of… breeding you, of putting babies inside you… it… it turns me on to no end.”

There was a vulnerability in his admission, a raw honesty that was rare for him, and it made your heart ache with affection for the man who had always kept his true self hidden beneath layers of cold detachment. You reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing lightly over the scar on his neck as you leaned in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I love you, Severus,” you whispered against his mouth, your voice filled with a quiet conviction that left no room for doubt. “And I’d be honored to carry your child… our child.”

Snape’s breath hitched at your words, his dark eyes searching yours as if trying to find the truth in them. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost reverent. “You… would?”

You nodded, your smile widening as you rested your forehead against his, your heart swelling with love for the man who had once believed himself incapable of it. “Of course. There’s no one else I’d want to share this with… no one else I’d trust with this.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of Snape’s lips, and he let out a shaky breath as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive tenderness that spoke volumes. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to hope—not just for the future, but for a future with you, a future where he could be the man, the husband, and the father he had never believed he could be.

As you lay together in the quiet of the old manor, the fire in the hearth casting a warm glow over your entwined bodies, you felt a sense of peace settle over you—a peace that came from knowing that, despite everything, you had found each other. And as Snape’s hand drifted to rest on your abdomen, his fingers splayed over your skin in a gesture that was both protective and tender, you knew that the love you shared would be enough to carry you through whatever came next.

[justaz]

this got longer than i meant it to so im putting it under the cut

merlin and morgana watching arthur and gwen be The Couple in camelot. they are heartbroken, jealous, and tired- no, exhausted. they've arthur and gwen for years and fell madly and hopelessly in love with them (respectively). however, they care for the both of them and if they’re happy together then merlin and morgana will simply bite their tongue. besides, its not like their feelings are reciprocated so there’s no use in stirring up trouble.

but the pain eats away at them until they are shadows of their previous selves. merlin is quiet and demure while morgana’s lighthearted snark is growing harsher and harsher. it comes to a head when morgana makes a scathing remark to merlin about his feelings. before, her comments had been directed at others, arthur more often than not, but never toward merlin. they were in the same boat so why would morgana target him?

but she did and things get a little tense. then merlin finds a spell and shows morgana and the two of them, utterly exhausted and desperate for an end to their agony, agree to take part in the spell together. merlin concocts the potion and they both down it. the next day, merlin and morgana are as happy as can be. it was a startling 180° from the morose and downtrodden duo they had been not even twelve hours before to the happy, on cloud nine, nothing is wrong with the world people that hummed as they danced around the castle

merlin and morgana exclaim to one another how freeing it is to not feel such a heavy burden of unrequited love. they mention how easy it is to breath. how they haven’t been this happy and carefree in years. of course, like everything else, there comes a price

to be rid of feelings like love, the opposite feeling would take it’s place. a lot of people believe the opposite of love to be hate, but it is in fact indifference. it starts off slow where gwen makes inside jokes that morgana cant remember. then it moves to them having trouble remembering arthur and gwen’s names. then their memories begin to rewrite themselves to remove arthur and gwen from their minds. eventually, they roam the halls, arm in arm, without even a glance at either arthur or gwen bc they cant find it in themselves to care about these two random strangers. who would?

arthur and gwen go to gaius who has already noted their odd behaviors and has been looking into it. the rest of the knights join them in gaius’s chambers bc they had also noticed how weird they were acting. lancelot is quiet and brooding until arthur pushes him to confess what he knows.

lancelot tells them how he fell for gwen the first time he had come to camelot. she flushes and arthur seems upset but lancelot continues. he tells them all how despite, or maybe because of, his love for gwen, he let her go to be with arthur bc she was happy with him. he hesitates and gwen encourages him. lancelot mentally apologizes to his two magical friends and spills the beans. he explains how morgana has loved gwen for years and how merlin has loved arthur for years. the three of them had bonded after arthur and gwen were engaged about how much it hurt watching the person you love be happy with someone else.

slowly, he pulls out a vial filled with glittering, dark red liquid - dark like blood. he hands it to gaius and explains how they had come to him a few days ago with that and said how it would cure his pain. it would wash away his love for gwen so he wasn’t crushed under the weight of it. he says he never took it bc he didn’t think it was right but merlin and morgana had already taken it. he wasn’t sure what the side effects were going to be until he saw them that afternoon.

gaius finds what the potion is and explains how it did in fact wash away their feelings of love for arthur and gwen and with the absence of love, indifference took hold. he wasn’t sure if their missing memories could be attributed to the indifference or if the spell took to wiping the memories to prevent the love from regrowing.

arthur and gwen are quiet, guilty and upset that their closest friends were going thru such turmoil and they weren’t aware at all. leon clears his throat and asks how to cure them. gaius grimaces and read the book a bit more before responding that a counter potion would do the trick, it would neutralize the previous potion by bringing back their memories and feelings. arthur is quick to agree but gaius interrupts that once the counter potion has been administered, everything will come back at once. everything.

they question him and he explains that every memory, every word spoken, every touch, and every feeling from the past 7+ years will run through them at the same time. considering they’ve been dealing with unreciprocated love and watching the one they love be with someone else for the past couple of years, it wouldn’t be that farfetched to assume that they would look and sound like dying animals. suffice to say, it wouldn’t be pretty.

in spite of the guilt and fear in arthur, he insists that they have to bring merlin and morgana back. he doesn’t want to put them in pain but he cant just let them wipe themselves away and continue on with his life as if he didn’t just lose his best friend and sister. they spike merlin and morgana’s wine with the potion and, as gaius predicted, merlin and morgana both drop to the floor, screaming and crying in pain, pleading with anyone to make it stop and take the pain away.

gwen hides her tears in elyan’s shoulder, arthur uses his long taught skill of being an Emotionless Prick of a Prince his father taught him to not cry. the tears stay in his eyes and do not fall. a few minutes later, merlin and morgana are both catatonic on the ground, limp and staring at nothing. their breathing is slow, so slow they almost appeared dead.

lancelot and gwaine help merlin up and take him to his chambers while leon and percival do the same for morgana. no one mentions what happened and merlin and morgana stay locked in their rooms for two days before being able to get up out of bed. they aren’t back to their shadow selves from two weeks prior, nor are they the happy go lucky duo from the past few days. instead, they are slow and quiet and barely even there. they’re barely even people anymore. simply going through the motions.

[mins-fins]

hold me tight

&&. yes it took you a good couple of years, but it's nothing making out in a pool can't fix!

pairing: na jaemin x gn!reader

genre: fluff, sorta kinda sorta suggestive

warnings: kissing (is that a warning?)

word count: 1.4k

notes: this is a snippet from a longer form thing that i have given up on, but anyway, who else loves na jaemin?? if we ignore the fact that i only learned how to swim like one week ago….. i really like pools now that im not almost drowning every few business minutes 😁 i also really like na jaemin, and my last nana work was angst so i have to make it up to you all ⭐️ also, sort of kissing writing practice, it's terrible, don't focus on it pls xoxo

your arms are crossed as you slide the glass door open.

"jaemin".

"hm?"

you sigh, a heavy breath leaving your lips. he giggles, escaping your scathing stare by diving under the water. your corresponding groan gives him yet another thing to smile about, even when he's attempting to hide from you in chenle's pool. "how the fuck are you swimming at eleven pm?"

when jaemin rises again, he snickers, somehow able to keep his composure after almost inhaling a bunch of chlorine. "it's fun, y/n, why do you nag me so much?"

"i'm not nagging, i just need to make sure you don't get hypothermia".

he pouts like a child being punished. "your boring y/n" he sings, smile still tugging at his lips as he lays on his back, basking in the water that keeps him afloat.

you again sigh, rolling your eyes as you sit down at the edge of the pool, legs crossed. "and you act like a child, jaemin".

though he would usually feign offense at such words, it seems a switch flips in his head, and he swims his way over to you, leaning his arms against the ground you sit on. "you love me, though".

you chuckle, now that's amusing. "do i?"

jaemin hums, nodding, smile unmoving as traces shapes into your leg. "you do, that's why you aren't snitching on me to chenle".

you scrunch your nose at the feeling of his wet finger on your body. "what are you gonna do if i don't follow that?"

"strangle you, maybe".

the threat is said with such certainty that you laugh, because there's a hidden sense of playfulness behind the warning. "you can't strangle me, you need me".

he scoffs, pinching your knee and chuckling at the yelp he receives. "you sound like jeno".

"is that an insult?"

"you two are just as desperate as each other, so.. yeah!"

your eye roll is stuck to you at this point, maybe you simply expect such words from your best friend, because it doesn't exactly furrow your eyebrows as much as it makes you giggle. you slap jaemin's hand away from your leg, childishly sticking out your tongue at him. "your a bastard".

"i'm being honest, come in with me?"

now it's your turn to scoff, listening to the rhythmic whistles and silent splashes of water. "no, you're crazy".

"oh come on! you aren't leaving me to entertain myself alone, are you?"

"i can entertain you while being dry".

he narrows his eyes, arms crossing over his chest underwater. "you are boring".

you click your tongue; "how sad".

"y/n!" he's quick to whine. "how are you going to come out here to nag me then not get in the water?"

"well i didn't come out here to swim".

"then you should leave".

he pouts again, and you sigh again. it's always like this with na jaemin isn't it?

you roll your eyes as he starts staring at you with that look. "okay fine, i'm sorr— AHH!"

your statement is suddenly cut off when he uses his superhuman strength to pull you down from your place, and you fall face first into the pool with a huge splash.

when you finally come to, jaemin only stares at you with that same shit eating grin. "oh you assho—"

"hey! you can't punch me in chenle's pool!"

"and whose gonna stop me?"

you yelp again when he splashes water in your direction, just barely closing your eyes in enough time to avoid the water attempting to enter them. "you think your sooooo funny huh?"

"hilarious, even".

you grimace, shaking your head aggressively back and forth in an attempt to get some of the water out of your hair. "fuck you".

jaemin frowns again, but he can barely hold in his snicker, and now it's your turn to cross your arms underwater. he moves his hair strands out of his face, staring at you for a weirdly long time. "i mean.. you look pretty like this".

you deadpan, cheeks just barely flaring up at the words. he says it all the time, y/n, it's not weird..

but na jaemin himself is weird, so you shouldn't be thinking all that into it.

"are you flattering me so i don't murder you?"

he snickers, looking down, seemingly as nervous about it as you are. "oh so i'm not allowed to compliment you now?"

"you're a weirdo, i always have to question what you do".

jaemin gasps loudly, clear offense in his tone, you can barely hide your smile as you see his reaction. maybe it's a bit strange how his eyes linger on your smile, but what can he say? it's pretty, he needs to make you laugh again.

"y/n".

you blink, staring at your best friend with eyes full of desire. did the outside air just turn up in temperature? it can not be this hot in early march. "yes?"

he hesitates for a moment, as if contemplating his words, which is probably the strongest sight to ever meet your eyes, because when na jaemin wants to say something, he says it. you sometimes forget he even has a thought process with how abrupt he is.

"can i kiss you?"

maybe it's the way it falls from his lips so naturally, or maybe it's the way his lips press together, they do look particularly soft, his constant use of lip balm clearly paying off.

you stare, the air getting significantly hotter, the water should be combatting that, right? your super attractive best friend who you totally harbor no romantic feelings towards just asked for permission to kiss you.

you chuckle. "in chenle's pool? really?"

your stalling, trying to correctly collect your word as your wondrous, beautiful best friend, na jaemin himself, stares at you like you're the only person in the world. has his gaze always been that heavy? when did your hands begin getting so clammy? what if you simply trust fall back into the water and drown? maybe it would be easier to avoid the awkwardness of this situation then..

"hey, when you have a chance you take it".

you laugh again, he really is something. you don't say more, simply pull him forward by his shoulder, finger itching to trace the skin of his bare chest. not before the kiss y/n, have some composure.

jaemin traces his fingers over the line of your jaw, and he pulls you in. his other hand slides down to your right hip, drawing a small squeak from you as your hands move up to his hair.

he wants to savor the moment, take a picture of it and hang it on his wall, there's a certain hunger in the way he groans against your lips, thumbs caressing the sides of your cheek. your arms are quick to wrap around his neck, still feeling the hairs on the back of his neck.

"you're so eager".

"you're the one who asked" you breath, gritting your teeth. "and besides—" you lean forward to take his lips again, the heat of his body transferring to yours. "—you wanted this as much as me didn't you?"

your desperation is quick to manifest, it manifests in the way you exhale sighs and whines, it's just something with na jaemin.

you two slowly.. swim(?) backward, your back hitting the surface of the pool wall. "oh chenle is going to kill us".

jaemin snickers. "why? it's not like were fucking in the pool".

you stare at him incredulously, of course he had to bring that up out of all things, but your face still heats up, and his lips turn up. "oh? do you want to fuck in the pool?"

"no you— pervert! we are not going to fuck in the pool!"

"okay okay, it was just a suggestion" he rolls his eyes, squeezing your hip.

you scrunch your nose, splashing water in his direction. "hey, let's just make this easy, go out with me?"

your jaw almost drops. is this man really serious?

"are you really asking me out in chenle's pool?"

"not as romantic as i wanted it to be but.. it works".

you would punch that smile off na jaemin's face if he wasn't absolutely adorable, oh, and you also really enjoy kissing him down. "okay stupid, but make it a good first date".

"i always keep my promises!"

and if you kiss him again? well that's no one else's business.

[dyinggirldied]

On My Propaganda: Why You Need To Read DEBUT OR DIE

It's a transmigration story taken place in modern world, specifically idol world. The author has done lots of research, with how realistic the setting is, whether it's within a company that sees its employees as objects or within the fandom, with how scathing, brutal, utterly familiar comments from antis.

The MC, Park Moondae, is utterly loveable. In a sense, he is similar to Cale Henituse. He is intelligent, cool, calm, decisive and collected. He is also like a father , or brother figure, protective and caring of his teammates despite initially wanting to distance from them, thinking them troublesome, etc. He also has a puppy nickname (from fans). He is also an orphan who has to grow up too fast and think people around him don't care for him.

FOUND FAMILY: his whole teammates LOVES and WORRIES about him. They are very sweet and funny but because there are 6 of them (7 if you count MC) it can take a while to remember the names.

There is more to see regarding the body where MC transmigrated into.

Pretty boys. Enough said.

There is a manhwa adaptation on Tapas but it's ongoing. I think it's about to be on 2nd arc(?). Not sure but the art is beautiful and do justice to the novel in my opinion.

[hollowed-theory-hall]

hello 👋👋👋

thoughts on Blaise Zabini? there is some scenes in HBP when he's cold pureblood who is looking with hate on Harry

in fics he's usually portraits like pretences boy, no biggot, but in canon he's like it actually

wanna read your opinion ;)

Okay, I actually really like Blaise Zabini and find excuses to write him into my fic. Like I think he's a bitchy bigoted asshole but I love him anyways.

I love the conversation we have with him, Pansy, and Draco at the beginning of HBP, since it's our best look at how the Slytherins interact with each other. I used it a lot in my Theo Nott meta because it's a really good piece of character work that I really like. Like, it shows how none of them are really friends and I'm here for it. I love their scathing friendship where they would all sell each other for one corn chip.

With all that, let's talk about Blaise:

He's good-looking. His mother is mentioned as being incredibly beautiful and clearly her son got it from her:

He recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes;

(HBP, 143)

He can be cold and aloof. Like, Blaise is often described as looking bored or indifferent, and it's not common that he shows much of an emotional reaction:

Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at Malfoy; apparently they had had no inkling of any plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his haughty features.

(HBP, 151)

(Haughty is a word often used for attractive characters in HP, to my above point)

Now, Blaise is intelligent. Like, he seems very aware of people and what bothers them most (which he uses to be an ass). He's not quite a bully like Malfoy, but he likes knowing what's going on with everyone. In the other quotes I bring up I'll mention that as bored as he looks, he's clearly interested in the gossip. He loves having information others want. He likes having that power over Draco, particularly since they seem to have a kind of ego war going on on the down low. (in my opinion, Zabini wins since he's the one who actually manages to look cool and collected).

We also know he's in NEWT potions, so, he likely had an O in Potions adding to the point about him being intelligent.

As I mentioned, he is kind of an ass:

Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.

(HBP, 143)

“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, “there have been rumors for years. . . . I remember when — well — after that terrible night — Lily — James — and you survived — and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary —” Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to indicate amused skepticism.

(HBP, 146)

As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back along the train.

(HBP, 147)

But he's an ass in a very different way from Draco. Draco is in your face with mean comments and making fun of things in an obvious very verbose way, Blaise is an asshole in an aloof kind of way. Like, he thinks himself too good to go out of his way to bully people, and he doesn't need to actively do anything. He's all scathing looks and raised brows and subtle acts of minimizing and belittling people.

He isn't actually close to the other Slytherins and treats them not that differently from how he treats Harry.

It was fortunate that Goyle and Zabini were snarling at each other, [...] “So, Zabini,” said Malfoy, “what did Slughorn want?” “Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” said Zabini, who was still glowering at Goyle. “Not that he managed to find many.”

(HBP, 149)

Blaise doesn't have respect for Draco, Crabbe, or Goyle, and he doesn't need to say it, he shows it. He snarls at Goyle like he would at Harry (who he disrespects and thinks less of). He says there aren't many well-connected people, clearly meaning everyone in the compartment besides himself. He's a dick.

Like I mentioned in the post about Theo, the Slytherins aren't actually friends. Draco uses Blaise's last name, not the first one. They aren't close and they're both aware of it. @indigo-scarf wrote a great post about how Draco and Blaise aren't actually friends, but it isn't unique to them. Crabbe and Goyle turn on Malfoy instantly in book 7 when they think him weak. Even in OotP, they do nothing to help Draco when Harry and George attack him. And Draco clearly doesn't actually trust any of them as in HBP, his main confidante, and friend is Moaning Myrtle. All these Slytherins hang out together because it serves them, not because they like each other.

Similarly, Theo clearly hangs out with Draco in books 5 & 6 only when he has no choice. Pansy is dating Draco, but is making eyes at Blaise like Draco is her second choice. But Blaise doesn't seem interested in Pansy in any way and thinks she is lesser than him as well. Blaise and Theo clearly aren't friendly either as they never hang out and Blaise calls him by his surname, etc. Basically, none of them actually like each other, though I assume some of them do respect each other (to different levels throughout the books. Though I headcanon Blaise and Theo have some grudging silent respect for each other as they consider each other intelligent and on the same level, while they both look down on most of the rest of their year including Draco, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle).

Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy’s hand aside. “He invited Longbottom?” “Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” said Zabini indifferently. “What’s Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?” Zabini shrugged.

(HBP, 150)

Here again, Blaise is ridiculing Draco subtly. Basically saying "well, duh, don't be an idiot," without outright saying that but making Draco feel it all the same.

He's also showing how he ravels in getting an invite when Draco didn't. Blaise likes having the cards and power in a situation.

“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He asked me about Nott’s father when I first arrived. They used to be old friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? I don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.” Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly humorless laugh.

(HBP, 151)

And Blaise knows how to get to Draco who is clearly upset. Draco wishes his snide comments were on Blaise's level. I just really enjoy how Blaise shows his disdain for people. And how he thinks of himself as better.

“And you think you’ll be able to do something for him?” asked Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and not even fully qualified yet?”

(HBP, 152)

Again, in the above quote, he belittles Draco and shows his doubts about him and how much Voldemort actually wants him in his service. And he's 100% right that Voldemort is expecting Draco to fail, something even Draco didn't quite realize yet.

All this isn't friendship. It's acquaintances who dislike each other but need each other is what it is. I know that when I'm writing them, that's what I go for. They were raised to see other people as connections or tools, not as friends. So real friendship is rare with these sorts of purebloods, it exists, but it's rare. Like, some of them probably like each other and enjoy each other's company, but I imagine they wouldn't like, actually trust each other.

Ginny calls him a poser and she is somewhat correct. I think Blaise does believe in everything he says he does, but he isn't as cold and bored as he appears. I think he likes knowing gossip and information others don't even if he appears nonchalant about it. That is definitely a pretense, but the bigotry isn't.

I know many fics paint Blaise as someone who isn't actually a bigot (because he's black) but he is. I think he is one of the characters who's honestly an unapologetic blood purist:

“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. “Even you think she’s goodlooking, don’t you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please!” “I wouldn’t touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like,” said Zabini coldly, and Pansy looked pleased.

(HBP, 150)

He sounds exactly like Bellatrix "Blood Traitor is right next to Mudblood in my book" Lestrange.

Obviously, he says what he is supposed to and what he's been taught all his life, but I think these are his honest views from what he knows. Like, in the Wizarding World skin color clearly doesn't matter much, but blood, oh, they care about blood.

This is somewhat interesting considering the Zabinis aren't among the Sacred 28, whether it's because they immigrated to the UK after Cantankerus Nott wrote the pure blood dictionary or they really are not pure-blooded enough, is unclear. I headcanon it's the former and that the family moved to Britain more recently, after the dictionary was written in the 1930s. And, it kinda makes sense. Like, if the Zabinis were in the continent and backed up Grindlewald, and then after he fell they needed a new start someplace that didn't have as strong feelings about Grindlewald and them, so they moved to the UK. Grindelwald never reached the UK and therefore, they could live there without that stain attached to their name. That's like, my headcanon about the Zabini family.

Despite all his Slytherin tendencies and intelligence, Blaise is quite arrogant. I mentioned he's prideful and thinks himself better than Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle for example, but he thinks himself so above others that he's untouchable. You see it in how loos-lipped he is regarding his mother's crimes:

Zabini, who was interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold).

(HBP, 145)

Like, how do you accidentally let that slip in casual conversation?

It's clear he thinks he and his mother are above the law and that no one could do anything to them. He believes in this so much that he doesn't care outright mentioning she maybe murdered her husbands in a room filled with people who don't like him. He feels that secure in none of them doing anything or being able to do anything. (I bet his mom bribed a ton of people).

In my headcanon, Blaise and his mother are pretty close and are each other's only confidantes. Like, they sit together to gossip and judge people. She asks him whether he thinks this next husband is good enough or rich enough. I headcanon she's also cold, bitchy, and arrogant and Blaise models his persona after her (and perhaps her brother or father, but only relatives on her side).

I also imagine he knows his mother killed his father and that she sat him down and explained why so he does back her on that decision. He has his doubts deep down about his mother's ways, but he isn't ready to examine them, or planning on doing so any time soon.

So, yeah, I think Blais is an asshole pureblood bigot who doesn't really have friends and is so incredibly arrogant. But he isn't a bully, he shows his disdain through cold looks and indifference. He also has the potential for interesting character dynamics with his mom and I like him a lot.

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 21: Wriothesley x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 5459

Warnings: Afab!reader, prison, handcuffs, solitary confinement, abuse of power, desperation play, noncon, vaginal fingering, watersports, piss

A/N: Once again cutting it close but I made it!

⭐

Evidently kicking one of his guards in the face was enough to warrant a personal visit from the Duke of Meropide himself. Go figure. 

Cautiously straightening up from the grumpy slouch you’d fallen into against your cot, you look over to the narrow doorway at his sudden and unexpected entrance. You can’t help noticing that he appears to take up most of the doorframe with his tall, stocky build, the solitary confinement cell they’d shove you into so small that he seems to fill the already cramped space with his presence. And you don’t exactly like the way he shuts the door behind himself either. 

You’d only been a prisoner in the Fortress long enough to know its head warden was a rather elusive fellow who didn’t often make public appearances aside from the brief glimpses one could catch of him walking down the steel lined and reinforced corridors. Being on the receiving end of a one-on-one talk with him so early on in your sentence did not seem to bode well for the rest of your stay in this deep sea prison. 

“… what are you doing here?” You hedge, warily watching him lean back against the opposite wall directly across from you with his arms folded over his broad barrel chest. This was your first time seeing him up close like this, and you were admittedly rather impressed with how very large he was. 

Or maybe intimidated was the better word. 

Sighing faintly through his nose, Wriothesley settles into place and pins you with a level stare that doesn’t tell you much about his reason for being here, but it does seem to solidify that your initial thoughts on the matter were correct. This couldn’t be anything good. 

“You should be glad it’s only me.” He drawls in a surprisingly light, affable tone for what he was saying. “A few of the other guards wanted to handle our newest troublemaker themselves, but I know how they do things and I told them I’d take care of it. You’re a lucky little inmate if I do say so myself.”

You restlessly shift on top of your cot, shooting him a suspicious look. “Why would you do that?” 

He gives those broad shoulders of his a rather disinterested shrug. “You’re a woman. Simple as that. I generally try to be a bit more lenient with the fairer sex when I can, even when they foolishly decide to kick one of my guards in the face.”

You self consciously draw your bare feet in at that, tucking them under yourself where he wouldn’t be able to easily see how naked and bare they were after the penitentiary officers relieved you of your standard issue shoes for the transgression. As far as you saw it, your penance had already been paid. Both in the form of how very chilled your toes were and also the last few hours you’d spent in here with absolutely nothing to do. 

But the way he looks over at you with a vague air of stern authority reflecting in his chilly blue gaze seemed to suggest he was not in agreement with that estimation. 

“That doesn’t sound very on the up and up to me,” You murmur, listlessly flexing your wrists where they were restrained behind your back to test the give of the cuffs around them. Nope. Still just as unrelenting as the last time you’d checked. “Does the surface world know about this? Something tells me The Steambird would love nothing more than to run a scathing exposé about the questionable practices of not only the Fortress staff but its own Duke as well.” 

“I’m sure they would too. Luckily though they’re not going to get their hands on this information any time soon to run that article in the paper.” 

“You - -“

“I think that's enough banter for now.” He smoothly cuts across you, his mild tone leaving no room for argument on your part. “Let’s talk about you instead. Wanna’ tell me why you decided to attack one of my guards like that?” 

Primly sniffing, you turn your head to look elsewhere in the room but there’s not much else to focus your attention on other than the stand alone toilet in the corner and the wall. You settle on the wall. “I don’t see why I should explain myself to you.”

“You should do it because I asked. Nicely, I may add. I don’t have to be polite about it, just keep that in mind.” 

You can’t quite stop yourself from prickling slightly at the soft note of warning in his voice. What was with this guy? Either he was on a massive power trip down here where no one of a more civilized nature was there to keep an eye on him or he had an ego the size of Fontaine with the attitude to match. You really didn’t think you liked him very much. 

“Fine. I kicked him because he grabbed me even after I told him not to. I was defending myself. Simple as that.” 

Stirring at the bitter vindication in your voice, Wriothesley slowly unfolds his arms to let them hang loose down at his sides. It’s so slight and subtle, but something about the change in his body language does not make you feel very optimistic about how this was going to play out, and you anxiously shift on your cot again. 

“Interestingly enough, I heard a somewhat different story. You were refusing to cooperate and go where he was telling you to go. He only grabbed you, as you put it, to get your butt in gear. Isn’t that right?” 

“It was unnecessary.” You hiss back, hackles starting to rise. 

“Not in a prison it’s not. You’re expected to follow orders, little miss inmate. Without question. The guards are well within their rights to make you do something even if you don’t want to do it.” 

“Well, he didn’t need to touch me to accomplish that!” 

His brows taking a sedate trip up to his hairline, Wriothesley looks at you like he’s equal parts impressed and puzzled by your growing anger. Could he really not see what the problem was with having an unknown man suddenly putting his hands on you like that? If he'd get close enough you wouldn’t have minded giving him a good kick in the face too, and you think he must see that in your expression because he lets out a quick laugh.   

“Goodness, you’ve certainly got a short temper. I’m starting to see now how the situation escalated like it did. Maybe I should give you a bit more time to cool off and we’ll see if you’re feeling less mouthy when I come back.” 

You’re so shocked by the abrupt shift in the conversation that you just numbly watch him push off from the wall and make the short pivot towards the doorway, reaching out for the handle. It’s only when he’s got it halfway open and you realize he’s actually serious about leaving you in here even longer do you lurch forward with a jerk. 

“Wait!”

Wriothesley pauses and glances back at you. He doesn’t say anything though so you quickly rouse yourself, cobbling together a haphazard entreaty on the fly. 

“Please don’t go. I don’t like it in here. I’ll cooperate, I promise. Please?” 

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before lashing out like a brat then.” 

“I wasn’t being a brat! I just … I’ve never been in a prison before and I’m so scared. I’m not used to being around this many men. The guards were yelling at me and I panicked. I didn’t know what he was going to do to me. He could have really hurt me or — worse. I swear it was just self defense, I didn’t mean anything by it. Really.” 

Batting your lashes at him, you fix the Duke with your best sad look of helplessness and even conjure a filmy sheen of moisture into your eyes for effect. It was one of the trusty ace’s you kept up your sleeve and one that tended to work on even the most resolute, emotionally unavailable men, but Wriothesley just stares at you with a less than impressed frown tugging at his mouth now. Dammit. 

You hadn’t expected him to be completely immune to your ploys and feminine wiles, and you don’t exactly have a back up plan in mind as he shifts his weight back to thoughtfully settle inside the tiny room again. 

“Hmm. If I remember correctly … you’re the one who’s in for scamming people, aren’t you? Is that poor little put out face how you got all those gentlemen to sign over their life’s fortunes to you?” 

A genuine flush starts to crawl across your cheeks, more than slightly embarrassed at having your innocent act fail so miserably. “That has nothing to do with this. I’m telling you the truth.” 

“I bet.” Scoffing a quiet laugh, he once again brings his arms up to cross them, pinning you with a pointed look. “Cute trick though. I’m sure you’ll be quite disappointed to find it won’t work half as well as it did on the surface down here. Well, maybe with the male inmates it might get you somewhere I suppose. But it’s not going to do you any good with my guards and it’s certainly not going to have any effect on me. Perhaps you could give it a try on one of the female officers next?” 

You shoot him a biting look of warning at that, making Wriothesley chuckle another brief sound of amusement at your expense. 

“Ooh, how scary. It looks like someone is in need of a major attitude adjustment to me. But don’t worry, we’ll take care of that in due time.” Still quietly laughing, he begins to turn back towards the door. “Enjoy the rest of your timeout. I’ll see you again in a few hours.” 

Your eyes immediately pop open, widening to the approximate size of dinner plates, and you lurch forward again when he starts to push into motion. 

“Wait!” 

Pausing once more, Wriothesley turns just enough to peer over his shoulder at you. “What is it now?” 

“You can’t … what do you mean ‘hours’? You can’t leave me in here that long!” 

“Oh? Is that so.” 

You sputter at that, realizing in a distant sort of way that he was actually, really truly serious about this. Not only did he plan to leave you locked inside this solitary confinement cell for who knows how long but he was also perfectly comfortable with the notion. Not even an ounce of guilt or shame! 

“This is — it’s a human rights violation, isn’t it?” You desperately stammer, foolishly thinking you might be able to get through to him if you just reasoned with him enough. “No food, no water. Nothing but a paper thin blanket in here to keep me warm. And I thought you said you like to be more lenient with female inmates. Or was that just a trick to make me trust you?” 

Studying you for a long, drawn out moment, Wriothesley finally breathes out a slow exhale and rocks back to stand inside the small room with you yet again, fully this time so he can swing the door shut with a casual flick of his hand. 

“That only applies to the female inmates who don’t test my patience and make everybody’s job harder than it needs to be. I gave you a chance to get in my good graces and behave but you refused. Tell me why you think that should have earned you any sympathy from me.” 

“It’s not about sympathy, you ass.” You growl at him, furiously working your arms against the unbudging handcuffs behind your back. “It’s about common decency! You can’t treat people like this just because you’re on some tyrannical head trip. But if you’re so dead set on doing this then at least take these damn things off. I can’t even use the toilet like this!” 

“Sure you can. I bet you haven’t even tried yet.” 

“Ugh! You are infuriating! How am I supposed to pull my pants down or wipe like this? And — and I don’t even see any tissue paper in here! What am I supposed to use, my hand?” 

He makes a considering face at that, as if it was a reasonable enough idea and you were simply too unreasonable to see that, which just pisses you off even more. Perhaps you would have been a little less on edge and a little less focused on this particular problem if you didn’t have to pee so bad. You’d already been stuck in here for a tortuously long stretch of hours since the incident first happened, no way could you last a couple more. 

“Please.” You sob, letting some of your desperation bleed into your voice now. “You’ve already taken everything else from me. My freedom, my life, even my shoes! At least let me keep my dignity.” 

“I’m telling you,” He intones, the abrupt drop in his voice down to a strict whip crack startling you somewhat. “You do not need your hands to go. You’re being a bit dramatic about this, don’t you think? Or is it just that you want me to help you with it?” 

Your spine snaps ramrod stiff, a curling tendril of real unease snaking through your cramping gut now. Surely he couldn’t be … “You wouldn’t.” 

“Oh, but I certainly would. It seems to me you’re forgetting a rather important detail, miss. I’m in charge here, not you. I can do whatever I please whenever I so choose. Would you like to try me?” 

You reel back in abject shock, feeling your shoulders quake with the impotent rage coursing through your system. There was even a hint of fear underneath that red hot current too, if you were being honest. It just didn’t make sense to you how he could speak to you like this, treat you like this and threaten you like this, all in good conscience with nary a sign of guilt to show for it. And this was all somehow legally sanctioned by the powers that be? 

Clearly seeing the raging confusion and uncertainty on your face, Wriothesley takes a casual step towards you and you suck in a sharp little gasp. Quickly drawing your legs up onto the cot so you can kick at the thin mattress and scoot as far back from him as you can. There’s nowhere you can feasibly go with your shoulders against the wall though, and you realize just how limited your options really are in such a cramped space with no shortage of sinking dread. 

Undeterred by your frightened reaction, he comes to stand over you in only two short strides, further reiterating how very trapped and cornered you were in here. You try very hard to keep a brave face but you can’t quite manage to conceal it when he was looming there like that. He was just so big and obviously powerful, if the size of his arms was anything to go by, so of course you’d be scared! 

The helplessness of having your arms secured behind your back doesn’t help either, and all you can do is cower when he sedately reaches out a hand towards you. A multitude of possibilities fly through your head all at once, each worse than the last as you imagine what sort of humiliating trial he was going to put you through next. You probably should have just kept your big mouth shut. 

To your shuddering surprise though, he merely wraps his massive hand around the back of your neck in an unexpectedly gentle yet firm grip, nudging you from the wall just enough to fit his knuckles between. Wildly trembling there on the cot, you hesitantly tip your eyes up to look at him. You didn’t understand what he was doing. This was not what you’d imagined when he’d said he would help you, thinking he was going to drag you over to the toilet and take your pants down himself, or perhaps even make you urinate on the floor like an animal. That is not what seems to be happening though, and you have no idea what to make of it when he lifts his other hand to reach for your lap, tracking the motion with a great deal of fast mounting horror. 

He doesn’t even give you a word of warning before he does it, just unceremoniously shoving his broad palm between your legs to cup you through your pants, and you jolt so hard you nearly come right up off the cot. He keeps you in place with his hold on your neck though, leaving you with such a limited range of movement that all you can do is squirm in place, hissing at him like an incensed cat. 

“Wh - what are you doing? You can’t … you can’t touch me like this, you bastard!” 

“Well, that’s quite a mouth you’ve got, isn’t it? Perhaps you need to have it washed out with soap when I come back.” 

Whimpering softly when that casually delivered threat hits its mark, you uselessly kick your legs up in an attempt to fight him off but of course it doesn’t work. Even when you press your bare foot into the bend of his elbow and push he doesn’t even budge. The Duke just keeps holding your cunt in the palm of his hand like it was meant to fit there and you frantically clench the muscles in your lower body, the warmth of his hand suddenly making it feel like you need to go even more than before. This could not be happening. 

“Leave me alone!” You warble, starting to pant from the effort of trying to wriggle free while holding back the urge to empty your bladder at the same time. “This is — a gross abuse of power, do you hear me? You’re sick! W - what do you think you’re doing to me!”  

“I think I’m teaching you a lesson that you should have learned a long time ago.” He tells you, perfectly calm and collected despite all your restless fidgeting. “Given your attitude and the long list of crimes you committed, I’d wager you think yourself pretty much untouchable huh? And it may have even been true at one point but unfortunately for you that’s no longer the case.” 

Pinching your neck just tight enough to make you squeak a hurt little sound, Wriorhesley all but scruffs you like you were nothing more than a misbehaved kitten to make you be still. The sharp pinprick of real tears rushes into your eyes as you roughly seethe, painfully stiff and halting in his hold. Immobilized like this, you can only follow the motion of his other hand when he lifts it from your cunt to demandingly tug the waistband of your pants lower. 

“I’m afraid you’re playing by my rules now. And before you start in on it again, no, I will not be facing any recourse for it regardless of how much you throw a fit over it. This is my fortress, little miss inmate. You’d do well to remember that from now on.”

He reaches into your pants then, slipping rough, callous worn fingers straight down through the top of them, and you plaintively mewl at the gruff way he worms it lower to dip into the space between your legs. Even trying to squeeze your thighs shut isn’t enough to dissuade him and Wriothesley merely bullies them apart, stretching your bottoms out as he angles his hand downward to find your slit. 

The first indelicate swipe of a blunt fingertip over the fleshy crease makes you jolt so hard your head slams back into the wall with a dull thud. He doesn’t seem to care though, slowly working his digit back and forth for a drawn out moment to encourage the fleshy lips to part for him. And gradually, they do. Not of your own volition or even with any conscious thought to the matter, but the insistent nudge against your labia still has its intended effect. 

As soon as he can dip that finger inside you he does, spearing through fleshy creases and folds to locate your clit. He presses down on it firmly enough to make your thighs twitch around his wrist but he doesn’t hurt you, which manages to surprise you slightly. For a man who looked like he’d be more of a meathead than anything else, someone who was much too focused on stroking his own ego to concern himself with the pleasure of a woman, he’s unexpectedly adept at rubbing you just right. Not too soft yet not too hard, all while not missing his intended target completely. It was astounding in a way. 

You hate it though. Even when your body grudgingly responds to his steady ministrations and you feel your pussy start to warm up to the masculine presence between your legs, you still mentally curse him for everything he was worth. The one and only good thing about this is the more he keeps caressing over that responsive pleasure button the less urgent your need to go seems to be. Maybe this was good after all. If your cunt was too busy getting fingered you wouldn’t have enough time to think about how badly you needed to pee. 

“There. That’s a little better now, isn’t it?” He murmurs when you stiffly relax into it, rewarding you for your good behavior by bringing a second finger to your soft clit so he can caress you over a wider surface area now. “If you would have just listened to the instructions you were given we wouldn’t have to be doing this right now, would we? Maybe next time you’ll stop and think before you act out.” 

Groaning a soft sound of protest under your breath, you screw your eyes shut and try to turn your head away from him. He was far too close for your liking, his warm breath ghosting softly against your hair where he was bent close over you. But Wriothesley’s hold on your neck is as good as iron, and all you can seem to do is reluctantly shudder in place for him, earning a brief click of his tongue when you halfheartedly try to twist away from his hand. 

“Don’t get yourself all worked up again. And you were starting to look so obedient too. Just relax. I’ve got you, you little brat.” 

You noise a threadbare sound of disagreement into the suddenly static charged air, your legs flexing in vain against the sheets underneath you. It’s clear you were losing the fight though — and then he switches up the motion of his hand, going from carefully deliberate nudging at your clit to flattening those long, broad fingers over the apex of your mound so he can firmly drag them back and forth. The very sharp surge of sensitive arousal that shoots through you in response probably would have bowled you over on the spot if he hadn’t been keeping you held upright and in place, shuddering intensely with a faltering mewl. 

It makes your head positively spin from how potent it is as your hips reluctantly judder under the exquisite pressure. You were feeling more and more delirious by the moment, especially when you were aware of your pussy slowly wettening for him. He could feel it too, and he murmurs quiet words of praise at you for being so pliant for him. 

That alone is almost enough to lull you into a throbbing daze wherein you don’t even think to protest when Wriothesley finally directs his damp fingers even lower to press into your entrance. It’s only when he pushes in, smoothly sliding a thick digit into your cunt with enough soft, gooey friction that you woundedly lurch in your spot, and you abruptly snap out of it. 

Mild alarm registers in your mind at the unexpected penetration but it quickly ratchets up to full blown, squirming panic when you realize a moment later how insidiously cruel this really is. The heavy presence of him inside you puts additional strain on your bladder's muscle control, the resulting weak flex pulsing through your entire cunt to make your inner sleeve sensitively contract around his finger. All at once that insistent pressure to let go until you were mercifully empty roars back to life full force and you renew your struggle with a frantic little whimper. 

Wriothesley just shushes you though, sedately withdrawing his hand from your pussy just so he can then push in with two fingers. The mind numbing stretch to your body makes you weakly thrash and clench your teeth in an attempt to stop yourself from involuntarily pissing everywhere. But he seems to know what he’s doing and he’s hellbent on doing it, curling those broad digits inside you to push on up on your upper wall and jab towards where your heavy bladder rests inside you. 

“Oh - oohh — waaaah, stop it! Please! I - I don’t want to …” 

Readjusting his grip on your neck, Wriothesley pointedly nudges your face in his general direction to make you look at him even when your head drunkenly lolls in his grasp. “What’s not getting through that pretty little head of yours, huh? It doesn’t matter what you want. Your needs and desires are of no concern to me. As long as you’re here under my care you’ll do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Understand now?” 

Blubbering rather pitifully while he continues to almost idly fuck his fingers into your aching bladder, you just stare up at him in wide eyed disbelief. Not only were you incredibly taken aback by his misuse of power, his total lack of empathy for you, but the fact that he seemed to be actively trying to make you piss yourself strikes you as particularly alarming as well. Why would he want to do this to you? It didn’t even make any sense. 

But you stubbornly clench down even when the tears start to run over and track hot streaks down your face, fighting tooth and nail to keep your continence under control. It’s a losing battle when his fingers were so thick and heavy, churning your guts with every sharp little jab against your interior. And as the seconds tick by you can’t quite decide which is worse — the way his rough ministrations make your pussy noisily suck at his fingers, slurping loudly each time he plunges them inside, or if it’s the way your desperate attempt at tightening up just makes you squeeze down on him even harder. 

It’s a dizzying, confusing rush of sensation slamming into you all at once, head spinning so fast it almost comes as something of a relief when you feel the pressure in you start to tip. Wriothesley practically forces it out of you, demanding your body respond to him with such insidious precision that you simply can’t help but cum. 

And you do, seething viciously through your teeth while you tersely judder and shake into an unexpected yet not unwelcome orgasm. It leaves you reeling in his hold, woundedly lurching while you gasp and squeal, hips bucking uncontrollably as he continues to fuck his fingers into you. Deliberately milking your release for everything it’s worth and dragging it out until you sensitively angle your pelvis away from him, moaning a dire sound of frazzled distress. 

To your reeling, punchdrunk surprise, the Duke allows his fingers to carefully slide out of you and leave your tender cunt altogether, and you wheeze a grateful sigh at the reprieve. You’re not entirely sure how you’d managed not to vacate everything in your bladder throughout that process but you feel vaguely proud of yourself in the aftermath, in a far off, dreamy sort of way. 

You even manage to straighten up enough to shoot him a relatively sharp look of victory that you’re certain is not in any way diminished by the fact you were flushed hot and still trying to catch your breath. 

He just looks down at you though, those icy crystalline blue eyes taking some of the wind out of your sails for how unmoved they were. 

And when Wriothesley slides his hand out of your pants you foolishly think this bizarre trial is over, that you’d bested him at his own game and now he had no choice but to give up. 

Your triumph over him is regretfully short lived though, and a haggard, hissing gasp catches in your throat when he presses his palm down on your lower stomach. Jerking at the pressure, you immediately try to twist out of his grip even when it yanks on your neck but he holds you fast. A little more firmly he pushes down, not enough to crush or hurt you, yet it’s more than sufficient to make the tension in your bladder start to give out. 

You couldn’t stopper it. Not after being attacked from the inside and now the outside. All you can do is helplessly squeal and squeeze your thighs together as tight as you can but it’s no use. You feel it coming, eyes starting to roll back in your head when the first tiny trickle slips out of you. And once that small allowance is made, involuntary though it may be, it’s like you lose complete control all at once. 

Another dribble of piss quickly follows and then a full on stream, forced right out of you by the uncomfortable pressure on your guts. Wailing a stricken sound of humiliated defeat, you bonelessly slouch back into the wall and let your legs fall open in a wide spread while it just keeps coming out of you completely against your will. The warm, wet sensation rapidly spreads underneath you, soaking into the cot and even right through your pants. You’ve never felt quite so deeply embarrassed as you do watching that stain spread across the material as your hips twitch at the onset of great relief that comes with it, knowing Wriothesley was watching you piss yourself the same way. 

He doesn’t let up on your stomach until he seems to be certain there’s nothing left some few moments later, slowly retracting his hands from you and then straightening up to leave you sitting in your own soiled clothes. Weak and broken, you just lie there without even making an attempt to close your legs and hide the evidence from him. Not only was it much too late for that but there was also too much of a mess for you to conceivably hide any of it. 

Your pants were soaked. 

The middle of the mattress was as good as waterlogged. 

There was no way you’d ever be able to forget this mortifying ordeal for as long as you might live, and something told you Wriothesley was going to personally see to that himself. 

“Well,” He intones, casually straightening out his tie where it had gone askew. “I’d say that takes care of that. I trust you’re feeling better now, little miss inmate?” 

Listlessly rousing at that, you send him a halfhearted and tearful glare. “Screw you …” 

“Ah, so you’re still inclined to be mouthy with me I see. No matter. I’m sure you’ll be singing a much different tune the next time I check in.” He starts to pull away from the cot as if to leave but seems to think of something else, turning back to you again with a stilted exhale. “Seriously though, I hope you’ll take this opportunity to reflect on your behavior so we don’t have to have another demonstration like this one. I don’t like throwing my weight around unless I absolutely have to. You’re going to get yourself hurt down here if you start running your mouth with someone who’s a little less nice than me. Just some food for thought.” 

He does leave then, calmly walking over to the door which he tugs open and steps through, shutting it with a click behind him. The sound of a rattling set of keys turning in the lock rings loud in the tight, cramped little space as you’re left alone in a quickly cooling puddle of your own piss with only your deeply embarrassed feelings for company now. 

If this was how the Duke did things in his fortress then perhaps it would be wise to behave him from now on. At the very least you didn’t want to get on his bad side again. 

⭐

Crossposted: here

[bellewintersroe]

Daniel Ricciardo x Reader Spice 🌶️

Anonymous asked: Hi!! I would love to see you write some more daniel Ricardo smut, maybe it starts out as a media thing and they eventually get together and everyone goes wild thinking he was just being his normal sweet smiling self. Maybe in some Interview he lets something spicy slip. <3

Warnings: smut 18+, talks of sex, oral, Daniel being a little bit naughty- I didn’t know how to include them starting as a media thing, so I altered it slightly, hope that’s okay! It’s a little short

When Daniel and I first met I was working as an interviewer on the paddock. It had been my life long goal to work around F1, and soon my work gained a large following, especially on social media. It felt good to finally represent women working within motorsport, of course there was hundreds more who deserved recognition, possibly more than I did, but I loved spreading the word for young girls with a dream that they can work in a mainly male dominated workplace. The job was fun, it always ran (most of the time) smoothly, I gained many, many more friends, but one person in particular I became particularly close to. Daniel Ricciardo, currently driving for red bull, he had been one of my best friends from the beginning. We’d always stop to chat, his interviews were always the most fun (not to be bias) and he was also one of the most supportive and sweetest about everything I did. I came to learn very quick that my feelings for Daniel had scathed way past a friendship and after one boozy night our feelings became known and the rest was history. My relationship with Daniel was so intimate and fun, we’d sneak around a lot of the time, keeping our relationship semi out of the public eye for the first couple months. Privacy, not secrecy was the best thing for us.

The best thing of all was when I had interviewed him the many times after we’d gotten together. I’d find our cheeks flushed way easier than before, we’d hold eye contact for a little too long, and there was subtle touches here and there that was difficult to resist.

“Here I am with Daniel Ricciardo, the winner of the Monaco Grand Prix today!” The excitement was oozing from my voice as my boyfriend stood to one side, beaming away. “Congratulations Daniel, we’re all so proud of you! How does it feel to get your redemption from 2016?!” I held out the microphone as his hand engulfed mine, holding it closely.

“Incredible, y’know. It’s such a surreal moment, I’m pretty speechless.” He laughed, borderline breathless as his eyes scanned over my face. There was a glisten in them that Redbull had threatened to take away, but not anymore, Daniel wanted this so bad, and I was so proud of him for achieving it. “Well I’m super proud of you, I couldn’t be happier.”

“Aw, c’mere.” He engulfed her in another hug, arms tightly squeezing around her waist. To onlookers we were witnessing the couple sharing an adorable moment, Daniel being as innocent as ever. “How are you gonna celebrate later?” I then asked, feeling his hands slowly trail off me. “How are we gonna celebrate?” His eyebrow then perked as I felt my breath hitch and a heat rise to my face. I was rarely speechless as an interviewer.

“I don’t think everybody wants to know how we’re gonna be celebrating later..” He joked as I raised a hand to my face. “Oh- Daniel!” My cheeks were burning overwhelmingly, and the sound of his giggles only made it worse.

“No they don’t, you’re right, let’s keep that off camera…”

Keep it off camera we did… well, semi off camera. Daniels phone was angled down to me as I gazed up through my lashes, lips wrapped all the way down his twitching cock. “Fuck, that’s it baby, keep looking at the camera. So sexy.” The Australian groaned as I deep threaded his member as much as I could.

Daniel was moaning and groaning, seething through his teeth as he fucked into my face. Spit was drooling down his cock and my lips and a small gag caused him to pull off. “Fuck. Such a good girl.” Daniel praised, wiping at my chin. I was sure half my makeup had come off with it, but I didn’t care.

“I’m your good girl.” I panted, reaching out to nudge him down onto the bed. Tonight was his night, his celebration, I rode him endlessly, with every inch of energy I could muster. Daniel didn’t take too long to explode his cum inside of me, he was a shivering moaning mess, sweaty and exhausted from the pleasureful night.

“Best celebration ever.” Daniel poked fun at the interview earlier in the day which had now gone viral. Nobody expected Daniel Ricciardo and myself to be in such an openly honest relationship, nor did they expect the smiley man to be capable of such dirty things, but they were so wrong… “Oh, Daniel…”

[nohoperadio]

I like Jane Austen a lot. I'm gonna attempt to say a few things about why:

It's very refreshing to read good fiction that takes seriously the importance of doing good by other people, and takes it seriously on lots of different scales: like there's big interpersonal conflict and moral dilemmas and stuff, but there's also like, spending an hour talking to your dad about cheerful things because you know he's likely to sit stewing in anxiety over something if you don't, even though you're kind of depressed at the moment and would rather be alone with your thoughts. That's a situation too!

Seriously it feels like not long after Austen fiction writers collectively agreed that all the interesting material was in the parts of the human mind that are normally hidden or repressed, or in people trying to forge some individual authentic path that's in conflict with the world or something, idk, maybe it's good that the thing I'm gesturing at happened. But I'm very glad we have at least one great novelist whose characters are primarily concerned with matters like "how can I best be a good friend to the people I care about?" and similarly-shaped questions.

I think part of this is just that like, there is no part of her that believes goodness is boring, she fundamentally takes for granted that people who are trying to be good are more interesting and complex and deep than people who aren't, and it's very hard not to agree with this when you're reading her.

Something about the very particular tone of her comedy is connected to all this, she's mocking, near-scathing about all her characters including the ones she likes, but it's from a place of like... the most important thing in life is to hold your principles sacred, but also it's a guarantee that you and the people around you will fall short of those principles many many times, but also the correct attitude to take towards these human limitations is laughter instead of despair, but also the most important thing in life is to hold your principles sacred. She really makes it feel like "people are ridiculous" and "people are important" are two sides of the same coin, idk this is more abstract than I want it to be, but something like that is the vibe.

It's frustratingly difficult to say anything general about her fiction that doesn't make it sound boring... anyway I love her is the point.