#and i'm not blindsided by it while reading

[twopoppies]

hi! im a new larrie and ive been reading a lot of your and other accounts masterposts but there are still some things im kinda confused about.

regarding bbg, im really confused on why B and her family would even agree to it in the first place. like when (or if) bbg ends and its revealed F isn't actually L's son, B and her family are going to receive sooo much hate so idk why they would even agree to be portrayed as the "villains" in L's life.

when B and her family were shitting on L and saying he was like his bio dad, was that also part of their plan? I feel like those things come from genuine anger and idk why they would agree to make L look bad.

some stunts still confuse me. like with holivia, she was in a relationship with Jason and the media made it seem like he was desperate to get her back, so was he also willingly participating in this stunt? if he was, I have hard time figuring out why lol. or with Caroline flack, she received a lot of hate bc of their age difference so why would they agree?

these are just some of the main things ive been wondering lol. thanks!

Hi darling. I'm glad to hear you're looking into things and thinking critically. I'll answer your questions, but these are my opinions. None of us know for sure why any of these people did anything.

I think when Briana and her family agreed to this, it was originally just to make some fast money. I really don't think it was meant to even get to the point of having an actual baby being used, and it certainly wasn't meant to last for 10+ years. I've said I think Louis doubling down on being a dad is because of some sort of legal issues that have complicated the matter. I think the Clarks/Briana are caught up in the same problem. I believe that they were initially sold the idea that Briana would be the baby mama and then Louis would say he took a paternity test and oh, it's not his kid. Louis would have his profile raised and Briana/the Clarks would get a bunch of money (the Clarks appear to have filed for bankruptcy the year BBG started, and Briana clearly spent all of her money on plastic surgery).

The Clark family and Briana were loose canons and posted all sorts of ridiculous stuff in the first five years. I don't think anyone was really in control of what they were doing. Certainly not Louis, who was pretending BBG didn't exist, and not Simon/Syco/Sony because they started the whole thing to tank Louis' reputation/punish him/get rid of Larry support, etc. If there was anger there it was more likely to do with wanting more money.

As far as Jason Sudeikis is concerned, it's possible Olivia blindsided him (given the fact that he was still referring to her as his partner so close to the debut of holivia). IMO, anything that was made to look as though he wanted her back, or anything making him look like he'd been cheated on, was dirty PR. Jason was the only one who came out smelling like roses. His show was more popular than ever, he won a bunch of Emmys, and he was on the covers of magazines... all because he was positioned as this "poor guy who is just taking care of kids while his ex cheated on him and is a floozy running around with a younger man." It was a PR war between his team (the same one currently representing Justin Baldoni) and hers (who is known to be equally as aggressive).

Caroline Flack worked for Simon Cowell/X-Factor when she was involved with bearding Harry. I'd imagine it's not very easy to say no to Simon when he's in a position of control over you. Also, there was way less public hate for the age difference at the time. Harry was treated as a sex object who loved older women practically from day one, and barely anyone batted an eye. As to why she continued to pretend she dated Harry, I have no clue – it could have been a contract she was unable to get out of, or maybe she liked the attention it brought her (especially as he became more and more famous). There's just absolutely no way that was a real relationship. Even if you don't think Harry and Louis had a long-term love affair, Haroline was in 2011. Take a look at any video of Harry and Louis from that time – it's so obvious they were besotted with each other.

[frenchy-and-the-sea]

Didn't expect to do this, but. Excerpt from a longer piece I'm working on from my Curse of Strahd campaign, because I was reading over it while trying to find something to work on in the midst of all of this awful shit and got slapped with some very on the nose feelings. Call it my WIP Wednesday, lol.

“But honestly, who is going to blame me for indulging in a little bit of absurdity right now? This whole situation is mad.” “Is it?” Now Ireena turns to face her, brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “How so?” This, from Ireena, is a real question, and not a sarcastic quip at Wyn's expense, so she takes a breath to quell the sudden scorch of fire in her chest and turns her attention back to her sketch.  “Where would you have me start?” she asks, very lightly. “The night that we spent safe among a full caravan of people on a well-traveled trade road, only to wake up in the middle of unfamiliar woods, alone, with necromantic mists chasing our every step? The haunted manor house so full to the brim with moral transgressions that it tried to eat us one floor at a time, and very nearly succeeded? Or perhaps the fact that less than two hours ago, we were sat down at the table of a woman who claims to see the future and told that, despite our inexperience and our incompetence and the fact that we have not so much as a whit of real skill between us, we are apparently meant to be this land’s saviors?” In truth, savior hadn’t been the word that Madam Eva had used. She had been more delicate, less certain; she had used words like ‘might,’ like ‘maybe.’ But she had still held out beseeching hands across her card-strewn table and told them that they carried hope on their shoulders, that she looked to them for the cure to the curse on Barovia’s stricken land. She had still said that they were what she had been waiting for.  The whole thing had been so absurd that Wyn still feels a little glow of pride when she remembers that she hadn’t laughed. Beside her, Ireena nods, slowly.  “I see,” she says, and she probably does, but Wyn can tell by her expression that she also thinks that Wyn is overreacting. The thought is nearly enough to spin up the grease fire burning in her gut again, almost enough to bait the howling animal — but then Wyn takes another breath, and sighs, and shrugs. “I expect that you’re the only one who does,” she says, smiling like there isn't a part of her that wants to start screaming instead. “But, as near as I can tell, I have two options: I can either wallow in the knowledge that this is our death sentence, and spend a very productive evening being a font of wretched despair and grim portent, or —” She makes a flourishing gesture down to the sketch in her lap. “— I can paint a beard onto the wizard. Considering that I expect to spend no small amount of time on the former, I’ve decided to indulge the latter while I have the energy.”

[carnation-damnation]

A hiatus, or semi-hiatus, of sorts.

Trigger warnings for cancer and parental death.

[terrainofheartfelt]

i 1000% agree with the point you made in the tags (and am now considering checking out my dark vanessa!!) i just also had a quick question about an aside you mentioned - in what ways do you feel prejudice has been woven into the way libraries organize information? i don’t mean to distract from the broader, more important message of the post, i’m just really curious about this as i’ve never really considered how organizational systems could have that kind of impact, and am now wondering how much of an effect it has on the overall institution of the american library system

oooh we love an academia question in this house!

Now, I am about 4 years removed from library school, so I'm going off memory and a quick cursory search, but I think this lithub article is a good jumping off point, but as a librarian I feel duty bound to encourage you to look up the sources they cite (they also misconstrue Thomas Dousa as from the University of Chicago when Dousa is actually from University of Illinois but whatevs)

to give a simple digest of a complicated issue, it comes down to the organizational system that most american libraries use (because it's easier to share resources/find resources if they're findable in the same way) was designed and implemented by cis het white men.

So, libraries of a significant size, like big academic research libraries where I work, use the Library of Congress (LoC) classification system to organize their books. the broad breakdown is that it sorts books into subject & catergory, then sorts them further by genre, author, title, year, volume, etc. the pros of it are that it's expansive, and was built with room to grow to make room for new subject areas, and one can go a granular as necessary to adequately classify and describe a work in the library catalog.

the main con of this system can be best described by the principle taught to me by my mother when she taught me how to use a calculator: Garbage in, garbage out. and that is when this LoC system was designed form only one perspective, that of a cisgendered, heterosexual white man, that point of view obscured other useful, and arguably, essential viewpoints for organizing information. because if only one perspective is sorting the information, their biases---no matter how unconscious---affect their priorities and what they value.

one way this is most obvious is with LoC Subject Headings. in addition to the call number system and everything else used to catalog a work in a library, every work is also ascribed Subject Headings, that, to use a library science term, describe the "aboutness" of the book. like: Literary Fiction, 19th Century; Music Literature, 21st Century. and since many of those subject heading were writeen by straight white men librarians, the language of them can be, well, racist, and homophobic, and transphobic, and sexist. a quote from the post I linked above:

Library of Congress Subject Headings, which are rooted in what Amanda Ros, a cataloger at Texas A&M University calls “the straight white American male assumption.” Research from Ros shows that about one-tenth of Library of Congress Subject Headings contain the word “men” in the title, compared to the number of subject headings that include “women.” Ros finds that without gender, race or geographic qualifications subjects containing the word “astronauts” in Library of Congress Subject Headings can be assumed to mean white American men. As Ros illustrates in a 2019 article for The Conversation, “Women are designated with ‘Women astronauts’ and ‘African American women astronauts,’ but there is no subject heading for male astronauts. A book about astronauts who are men would have the general subject ‘Astronauts,’ unless the racial identity prompted the use of a subject like ‘Hispanic American astronauts’ or ‘Indian astronauts.’ Likewise, a book about Russian astronauts would have a geographic subdivision added: ‘Astronauts – Soviet Union’ instead of ‘Russian astronauts.’

and even if their shortsightedness in designing this system wasn't malicious in intention, it is harmful in practice, especially when marginalized groups are the ones most in need of protection by libraries.

it's not that dissimilar from the conversation around software and artificial intelligence: programs are being taught that cisgender heterosexual white man is the default, and so the machine system adjusts poorly to the innumerable variations on that assumed "default."

so uh just to say, if prejudice informs the design of an organizational system -- even unintentionally -- the system will have ingrained prejudices of its own. but, I think I should note, librarians are aware of this, and are working on adjusting the resource descriptors to be inclusive as well as accurate. I remember reading in grad school about initiatives to change subject headings, and I'm pretty sure that task is a part of my workplaces diversity, equity, and inclusion strategic plan. the problem is being addressed, it's just a big and complicated one.

[bookwyrminspiration]

Explaining the chorus of dragons sounds like trying to explain a desi person’s family tree. It’s large, extensive, and everything is so intertwined that if you don’t know one thing, you can’t understand most other things.

-⚙️

Well I've never tried to explain a desi family tree so I don't know exactly how it compares, but like I haven't even scratched the surface of what's going on. That scene I was talking about isn't even one that moves the plot forward that much it's just a side-note in one of several relationships; it's like 5 pages total (although there is background from outside of that).

Kihrin having drunk sex with his stepmom who's actually his sister-in-law who's actually a person-eating shape-shifting monster is just like a huh I guess that might as well happen. I swear 50% of everyone he meets they're sexually attracted to each other within the hour. Only reason he isn't fucking more is because this one demon fucked with his mind and filled it with images of him being a horribly abusive person and enjoying it so now he doesn't trust himself to be intimate with others in case its true

But like there's so many other things happening. The story is being told at 3 different points in time simultaneously and I only know when 2 of them are, and they're all as complicated as that one scene. Half of what everyone says is either unintentionally wrong or they're flat out lying. There are so many words that are used casually that mean nothing to me (like all the countries...so many...).

Like I'm intrigued but also there's some things that just genuinely require a lot of focus and brain power to understand what the author is saying or what's happening and why it matters. Kihrin figured out that thing with the golden hair and the ancestry and I had to sit there for a few minutes and be like...what is he saying about being descended from who and how he knows that? Teraeth explained who his father is and I genuinely had to reread the paragraph about 5 times and I'm still not sure what I read. And then that thing with Doc and Ter-what's his name and the illusion, I'm still not sure what the fuck that was about like I just genuinely don't know what just happened. I read it but like I didn't get it and I'm gonna have to think about it.

I'm making a fuss about it being complicated and complaining but I do appreciate it; I've read so many predictable books and iterations of similar patterns, and while I do enjoy those books I like being caught off guard and having to think, not having the story handed to me. Nice change of pace to be so wildly confused about everything and not know everything's that's happening a hundred pages before it does :)

[neverendingford]

Can you please share your sources and everything you have about Palestine?

I...

I reblog furry art and cool nudes.

why are you asking me this.

[hwanghyunjinenthusiast]

Judas in the Window (18+)

pairing: priest(apprentice)!chan x fem!collegestudent!reader

genre: ANGST ANGST and smut (mdni), childhood best friends to..?

description: you return home from college, after not seeing your old town for three years. your childhood best friend has been waiting for you.

warnings: no. genuinely so sad. religious guilt, blasphemy ig, slutshaming, degradation (f. receiving), praise (f. receiving), desperation, fingering (f. receiving), humiliation, unprotected sex (do not do this shit), brief breeding kink, mentions of past unhappiness, reader has beef with her old self fr, alcohol consumption, pet names (darling, baby, some more i dont recall), LOTS of biblical references, i warned you this is incredibly sad and wether it's a good ending is certainly debatable, reader has both her parents (if u dont, same, just imagine the dad as adam sandler and the mom as gwendoline christie), the dad is the best character x

quotes from my proofreader: "i have a new pair of panties at the ready", "im horny and angry, some say hangry", "AAAAAA"

wordcount: 8.3k

a/n: it is 2:30 am. my proofreader is asleep and i might go crazy if i dont post this now, so if there are any mistakes in the last part i am sorry, ill fix it later lmao

Your room hasn’t changed a bit.

You’re not sure why the sight knocks the wind out of you. You suppose you’d thought your parents might do something with it - maybe give your dad a “man cave” or whatever other pained, heteronormative solution to hating each other. But it’s the same exact thing. Your bed, horrible orange wood, pink princess sheets, and your desk right beside you where you stand in the doorway, all cluttered with glitter pens and marker sets and a small mirror. 

“Isn’t this great, honey?” your mom squeals, old hands squeezing your shoulders. It takes you a second to reply. You’re not even sure you want to step inside the room. “Yeah, yeah, it’s great, mom.” 

“I’m getting dinner ready, you just settle yourself in!” she says, practically vibrating at your presence. She’s so happy, it jabs at your stomach with guilt, that you can’t even bring yourself to enter. You watch her disappear down the stairs, making a funny face when she catches your eye. You half-smile tiredly. Then you’re looking at it again.

It’s like a totally closed off time capsule. Your fingers play with the doorframe, looking at the stains in the carpet, that you vividly remember creating as a clumsy child. You see the stickers on your closet-door, and the faint outline of the stickers you’d taken down. You see toys, whose names you remember, you see terrible drawings over your bed, hung with glitter tape, and you see yourself. The you that you were certain you’d stuck in the dirt and buried. The one you’d worked over-over-overtime to never see again. She was somehow alive and well in this room. A part of you roamed with a horde of anxiety, birthed by the thought that once you entered, you and her would fuse together, and all the flaws you’d had would be reignited, and you would be miserable again.

“You not going in, champ?” you jump at your father’s voice behind you. You turn to see him exiting your parents’ bedroom, taking heavy, loggy steps towards the staircase. You shake your head: “No, I am, it’s just..” you pause and turn back to the room, letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s weird.” 

Your father pauses. He has his reading glasses pushed all the way down to the tip of his nose, so he leans his head back and squints to study you. “Well- well- well, why don’t you just try out for a bit, champ, and if you don’t like it, Uh, well, we’ll situate you on the couch. How’s- how’s that sound?” 

You smile softly. “Sure.” 

“Alright, champ,” he pats your back and finally starts his descent down the stairs. 

You nod to yourself and exhale deeply, face now turned back to the super menacing not-at-all-menacing room before you. Your fears are deeply irrational. You wouldn’t just revert back to your old self. Once you’re half believing it, you finally break the barrier, and take a step inside. 

It’s not so bad after all. Everything is very still. Dust kicked up from your presence slows down around you. You’re standing under the overhead lamp, and it’s not that bad. Not so bad. You drop your duffel bag and sit down on your bed. 

You feel a lot bigger, sitting with bent knees in the plush duvet. You recognize that you can’t be that much bigger than when you last sat here, 18 years old, heading off to college in the big city. And this was the kind of town where neighbors a dozen houses over came to see you off, waving at you with big smiles on their faces, an american flag hoisted up to the blue sky. You remember the grins stretched on their faces, and how you’d been panicked to start the ignition on the car. They’d looked like they were made of wax.

Movement flashes in your peripheral. You turn your head, brushing hair out of the way. The movement is coming from the crack in the curtains. Like Moses parting the red sea, your fingers delicately brush the flimsy fabrics away. You know exactly what - who - you’re about to see. Your heart presses, red and wet, into your throat. 

Chan.

He’s there in the window directly across from yours. You almost don’t recognize him at first. He’s shirtless, pacing around and picking things off the floor, and, God, he’d gotten so big. His arms are so shapely and firm and his stomach is toned and when he turns his back to you, you see how it ripples with muscle, and your mouth is drooping open in shock. 

This is Chan, you try to remember (memories flit of him in his dad’s baseball caps, him on the playground, or on the sandy paths that fade out from the roads on the outskirts of town), but grounding yourself in the memories of him as a kid only serves to hurt you. No, you decide, eyeing his naked torso through the glass, better remember him like this. Like an adult who has faults and wrongs, not an innocent child that you abandon in your haste to grow up. 

He’s looking at you. Suddenly, he’s fucking looking at you. For a moment it seems like he’s confused, maybe fighting with the danger of recognizing you as a real, actual person in the window. Then his eyes are softened and he’s hunched over the paneled window, face split in half as he stares back at you. He used to fit so easily in the frame of that window - now you watch his shoulders press against the framework, unable to squeeze in. 

Your cheeks are burning when you squeeze your eyes shut and smile apologetically. Your childhood best friend who you hadn’t seen in three years had just caught you staring at his fucking abs through his window. You fear he’ll take offense, especially considering how you’d left things off with him, but when you open your eyes, he’s grinning softly and shaking his head. 

He walks away from the small window, and you take this as your cue to leave as well. You fall back on the bed and groan pathetically, body jittery with embarrassment. 

“Y/n, sweetheart! Dinner now!” your mom caws from the floor beneath you and you feel 16 again. This was what you didn’t want. All the power you had accumulated was slipping through your fingers by the minute. 

It’s just five days, you remind yourself. Just five, measly days.

“Coming, mom!”  _____________________________

The fucking bell tower is going. Over and over again and it shouldn’t be this loud, you’re not that close to the church, but it is. 

You lie flat on your back in the smoldering dark, completely still. It’s so loud it feels like it’s coming from inside your head. Like the curved, rusted sides of it are bashing against your skull. You don’t understand how anyone could sleep through this. You don’t understand how Chan could stay here all these years. Maybe that’s just because you couldn’t see yourself here.

You don’t want to think about Chan anymore, but for whatever reason - you can’t decide if it was seeing him (so manly) so suddenly, or if it’s the ever-ringing bell in the distance, like a marker of the apocalypse - he won’t leave your mind tonight. Part of you understood that what had happened with you and Chan was natural, and not particularly anyone’s fault. So why did you still carry the heavy burden of guilt? Guilt that pinched at your nerve endings like the delicate tunes in a children’s music box.

You and Chan had met as children in church. It didn’t take long for you to be best friends. You’d sit next to each other on the neatly lined benches during sermon, then you’d tumble in the grass outside, and then you’d go to his house and play until dinner, after which you’d see each other again, talking from window to window. You spent very nearly every moment with him.

Then you grew apart.

It was a slow death. Seeing each other became a sort of horrific reminder that it was ending, no longer bound by church or friendship, but a mutual understanding. There’d be a sort of solemn silence whenever you locked eyes. Is this the last time? You’d wonder, and the longer it went on, the more you started to wish that it was.

And then it was. 

It was your fault. You were 13 and suddenly you were wearing makeup and your dresses were getting shorter, and you wished you were much older than you were. You started forgetting the principles they’d taught you in church. Or maybe you’d never really learnt it, only tolerated it for Chan. But years passed and by the time you were sixteen, you were being kissed and groped at parties and you were having sex in cars and smearing your lipstick on the rims of shot glasses. 

And Chan was.. Well, Chan. Chan was a skinny, virgin christian. And you liked him, but suddenly there wasn’t much to talk about. From one day to the next, all discussable topics evaporated in your hand, and talking to Chan became a stumbling, bumbling mess. 

After that you were just…. Gone. 18 years old disappearing down the dirt roads in the 2009 Toyota Tacoma, that you’d gotten for your sweet sixteen. Chan was standing on the roadside that day, but he wasn’t sure you saw him. Your wheels kicked up dust and that was all you left behind. A cloud of sand for him to grab at, looking lost in between your tire tracks. At that moment it felt like those last years were two seconds. You just slipped right out of his hands. 

Lying in bed and your heart is so heavy. Maybe it isn’t Chan, you conclude. Maybe it’s what he represented. The face of the church; the face of goodness, of purity; the face of the life you deselected. 

The cry of the bell tower becomes a song in the night. You fall asleep in the devil’s hour. _____________________________

The following day you’re reexploring. The air is dry and the sun beating down on your shoulders. You’re walking through the suburbs and then later the small town square made up of mostly parking lots. You feel peregrine, but trudging through on the pavement, it becomes clear you’re the only one who feels this way. 

Every citizen, every single one of them - in polos, in flower-print dresses, in sandals, in sunglasses - stops you to welcome you back home. They’re shaking your shoulders and they recognize you and can tell you your name and your age, and they say that it’s good you found your way back. Every interaction leaves you more depressed than the last. You’re ducking your head, crumpled up like an unsent love letter. 

Your steps are heavy, your own sandals dragging into the uneven tiles of the square. Then you’re lifting your head from the ground, and your feet have betrayed you. 

You’re standing in the opening to another street of storefronts, and 5 rows of neatly planted trees down, the church sprouts from the earth like a stake. 

It’s not just any small town church. A few steps lead up to a plateau, supported by large, white beams. They may not be Roman, but they’re there, and they’re made of smooth concrete. The building itself is made of red brick, although the color varies and looks dappled. Each side of the church has two stained glass windows, which you remember from your childhood. The door, huge and oaken, ends in a point right beneath a round window, and the bell tower shoots up, a mighty cross at its peak. 

You’re left a little breathless at it. You don’t remember it being so menacing. But there’s also something beautiful about it. How it looks at you like it’ll kill you. And how blunt it is about it. You’re blinking at it and wondering how you got here. It’s as if something’s possessed you, because despite knowing better, you begin to take calm steps towards it, eyes transfixed and soulless. 

You’re walking into the courtyard, gravel underfoot, and then you’re traversing up the steps, fingers barely brushing over the railing. Idling forward, you’re opening the door. 

“And when Mary birthed the-” 

Crrrrreeeeeeeaaaaaaaaak!

Every head snaps towards you, as you’re cracking the door open, and the trance lifts from you. Oh, shit. Your gaze grazes over the stacked benches, smiling apologetically and bopping your head.

You clear your throat. “I’m-” 

You lock eyes with the priest, whose service you just interrupted, where he’s standing before the crowd, bible in hand.

It’s Chan. 

“I’m sorry,” you squeak, voice now much meeker, and you don’t even know what to do, so you just step inside and sit down on the nearest bench. Slowly (and with low scoffs) the sea of heads turn around. One pair of eyes don’t leave you though. Chan studies you for several seconds longer, searching for something in your eyes, but you’re looking away. You just want him to continue. He does.

This is crazy, you think, and you can hardly believe you’re hearing his voice say those words, and it’s him in the clerical shirt. You supposed it made sense. You supposed you understood. But actually you didn’t, not at all. Not when he was supposed to live and change and evolve and here he is years later, dedicating his life to the one and only thing he knows! 

You’re tuning out the rest of his talk, vaguely aware of how his eyes flit over to you a little too frequently. Soon enough you’re absently clasping your hands together in a prayer and then people are lining up to thank Chan for his stellar service. 

You watch them from your seat, debating whether or not to leave without talking to him. Leaving wasn’t a bad idea. You were only gonna be in town for a week more, surely, you could avoid him until then. 

But you know you won’t do that. You want to talk to Chan. You want to feel his hand in your own. Partially you felt like maybe you could save him from just being a decoration to this hellscape for the rest of his life. You’re not sure you could go on living your life, when you know he’s just back here - still here. 

So there you are, planted in the line and hoping to save him from some dull future, and he’s shaking hands and smiling, but you can see how he eyes you, coming up on the line. 

“Thank you, Chan,” you smile warmly, and his hand is grabbing yours and it’s so soft and so big. He’s smiling too. Then you’re coughing and correcting yourself: “Uh- Father. Chan.” 

He laughs at your sputtering, clapping your hand between his two: “Oh, thank you, sister.” Emphasizing with pursed lips and wide eyes. You laugh along a little, but it’s strained. 

His smile fades slowly, and his face relaxes. He wants to say more. His fingers are still pulling your hand to his, and you just keep shaking it, because if you stop, it’ll be weird. Officially. 

“Oh, do you two know each other?” A bobbed woman from behind you in line is purring, unfamiliar hand on your back, and she doesn’t wait for you to answer before she’s talking again: “So, how do you know each other?” 

“Childhood. Friends,” Chan stammers, almost looking at you for confirmation, and you’re nodding along when the woman “ah’s” and “ooh’s”. “Oh, that’s wonderful, you guys!” And then you’re listening to her talk about some trailer down in Cassandra, and how her brother is fixing it up with his old friend, but there’s water damage in the lining of the room, and it’ll mold if they’re not careful, and it’s such useless information, you’re wondering how you’ll ever forget it. 

“Mrs. Lark, uh, I think my,” he looks at you, lips pursed, “my friend here needs to go, so..” 

Mrs. Lark gasps, embarrassed: “Oh, I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m babbling,” and usually Chan would reassure her that she wasn’t, but he has more urgent matters on his hands. “Good day, Mrs. Lark!” he says and sends her off with a bright smile. There’s a few more people in line and Chan sighs a little. 

“Can you-” he’s a little sheepish, suddenly self conscious about the clergy shirt that grips his neck, “Can you wait? Here? Just until I’m done-” 

“Yeah,” you say. He smiles gratefully. 

Chatter continues behind you with a slight echo in the large room. You wait by one of the stained glass windows, arms around yourself as you stare up at it. Each and every window was a different biblical figure, made up of small shards of colored glass. You always found it strange, looking back, how your small town church had this grand artwork. The eyes of the window peer down at you.

“Judas,” Chan comments, planting himself beside you. His voice echoes slightly in the now empty church. The whole place is both too big and too small for the both of you. “It’s an interesting choice.” 

“What?” 

“Why you chose this window over any other,” Chan breathes, eyes darting down to you, and he’s looking at you very intensely. Then, it dissipates: “I’m also drawn to this one.” 

A pause.

“I wonder why they’d make this,” you quip, feeling small beside him. “I think whoever made this wanted all sides of Jesus’ story illustrated,” Chan says. You shrug. “If it were me, I wouldn’t.” 

Chan tilts his head to the side and looks at you again. Your cheeks burn, so you smile a little cheekily. “Was that not the right thing to say?” 

Chan’s smile is gentle and bemused - almost adoring. “There’s nothing you can say in here that is wrong.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” you laugh and Chan follows along. “Oh, you don’t?” You’re both laughing together, glee filling the crevices of the holy place, while Judas eyes you from the window. Your laughter dies down again, and when the silence returns, your heart clenches nervously. There’s a beat. 

“You keep busy?” you ask and the two of you are now facing each other. He sighs and nods, looking around. “Yeah, yeah, I got a.. Like a church get-together thing in, like, two days. I’ll be.. Preaching."

“Preaching,” you repeat, smile a little too tight. You wish you could say he didn’t notice. “Big Mr. Priest..” 

He laughs: “Technically I’m a priest apprentice,” he says, arms crossing over his chest. You roll your eyes. “So humble.” 

“What about you? Keep busy?” 

“Yeah, college,” you sigh. “You done?” he asks and you shake your head. “I wish.” 

His expression softens until he’s frowning. You want to squirm under his gaze, only because he looks so sincere and worried and you haven’t seen each other in three years. “You look tired.” 

“That’s not-” you begin, covering the slight ache in your heart with a laugh, “I just- Couldn’t sleep last night.”

“I thought living in the big city had you sleeping like a rock when you got to our quiet town,” he teases with a half-smile.

You shake your head, looking upwards at the ceiling. “It was that bell tower, just ringing, all night.” You shrug. Chan’s brows furrow and he looks up as well, as if he’d be able to see it through the tile roof. 

“The…” he trails off, sounding lost, “The bell tower doesn’t ring at nig-” 

Beep! Beep!

“Shit- sorry!” you curse, when your phone goes off loudly. Chan stands still studying you, while you squint at your phone. “I think- I think I gotta go.” 

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he coughs, index finger rubbing over his taut knuckles. You’re pushing your phone into your back pocket again, when he reaches an arm out to you. “Uh-” he pulls back self-consciously, “Would you want to-.. Maybe, come to dinner at my place? Tomorrow?” 

You’re a little taken aback, looking at him with a softly open mouth for a moment. “Uh,” you fight back a wide smile, “Yeah, sure. I’d- I’d like that.” 

“Great,” Chan smiles too and nods. “Just- just at the house right next door, or?-”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s that one. Still,” Chan blushes breathlessly. You chuckle awkwardly. “Okay.” 

“Okay. See you then.”  _____________________________

You’re not sure why the prospect of having dinner with Chan has you so nervous. And it is just a dinner, you remind yourself, as you’re picking out your dress, just two friends catching up. After some 45 minute debate you pick out a pretty sundress.

You’d like to think there’s more to it than just the fact that Chan is suddenly very pretty and muscular. Maybe it’s the chance to make a wrong right. Maybe it’s to find out who this boy is, that was a key part of your life for so many years. Maybe you think you can change him.

Either way you’re just waiting for it all day, ignoring your dad trying to lure you out with trick shots from your garage. “HIYA!” he screams, throwing ping pong balls at your window all afternoon.

At 6:30 PM you’re standing at his door and hoping you don’t look too dolled up. His house also looks mostly identical to your memory of it. There’s something off about it though, and you study it momentarily, only to realize the front garden has overgrown. The grass comes up jagged and sharp, and the bushes bulge over the fence gate, brushing you when you waddle inside. You click the doorbell, wait a few seconds, and then begin to suspect that it didn’t work. Then you knock and you hear him fumbling around inside: “Coming!” 

He opens the door (with some struggle), and then you’re standing before each other. He’s so domestic, in a striped, brown sweater and dark blue jeans, and curly hair is framing his face like a crown. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

He gives you a once over, smiling shyly: “You look great.” 

“Thank you,” you bow a little, “you too.” 

Then he’s letting you inside and you’re kicking off your shoes haphazardly, while he fusses back to the kitchen. “I made bolognese, if you don’t mind!” he calls and when you enter into the living space, he’s stirring a pan vigorously. You giggle a little, smile falling at the sight of a cross on the wall behind you. “Uh, yeah, of course.” 

Slurping tomato-sauced pasta and drinking a half-expensive wine that Chan had bought, you two laugh together. You mostly talk about when you were kids, then he’s talking about joining the church and you’re talking about college. 

“Is it hard? Out there?” Chan slurs a little, both of you tipsy and warm from the wine, having moved to the couch after eating. Now, full and face burning hot, you’re looking at each other differently. Chan’s got one arm on the couch rest, the other swirling the wine in his glass. He’s smirking a little and you hate how hot he is.

“It’s.. Exciting,” you counter, a little confused at his tone. He's close enough to radiate warmth onto you, when his eyes dip down to your lips for a second. “Yeah. You like exciting,” he drinks down the rest of his wine and sets the glass on the couch table. The moon, that’s been slowly traversing the star-speckled sky, gives the glass a faint halo. Chan basks in the moonlight, half lit and half shadowed. 

“I do. I do like exciting,” you giggle dumbly, still unsure where he’s steering the conversation. Chan smiles adoringly, because there you are sitting all blushing and warm in a sundress on his couch. The warmth disappears from his eyes then. 

“Was it exciting to watch me undress?” 

Oh.

Shit. 

You almost spit out a half-drunken sip of wine, gulping it down painfully and shaking your head. You set the glass down. “Chan! I’m-” you’re scrambling, “I’m really, really sorry. I- I was just- It wasn’t about your body, I was thinking about-” 

“Shut up.” 

Your mouth falls agape at his tone, offended and caught off guard. He’s still beside you, eyes much sharper than you remember, much colder. “Stop treating me like I’m still a kid.” 

“Well, you haven’t changed much, Chan,” you scoff. 

“Yeah, that’s why you were looking at me through your fucking window,” he scoffs as well, “because I haven’t changed.” 

You sit in quiet disbelief, trying to stay mad when his face is so pretty and so close to yours, and his jaw is clenched and his cheeks are flushed from the wine. You’re deciding whether to spit back or diffuse the situation. “Look, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m sorry.” 

The hand that was previously holding his glass lands on your knee. He leans in even further and you smell the sour air of wine on his breath. You shudder under his touch when he whispers: “I want you to be honest with me.” 

You’re looking up at him with wide eyes, heart beating in your chest like nails being knocked into wood. “Tell me what you want from Father Chan,” he muses, smirking slightly, while his thumb brushes back and forth on your knee. 

You’re completely out of breath and squeezing your thighs together, as slick begins to build up in your panties. “Come on,” he encourages, “Let it out. Tell Channie what you want.” 

“I want,” you’re shaking in humiliation, gaze cast onto the floor, “I want you to touch me.” 

“Come again?” he teases, grinning.

“Please touch me, Chan.” 

“There you go,” he mutters and finally gives in, hand brushing the skirt of your dress up your thighs, until your white, cotton panties are visible to him. The sight of you is so pornographic, he groans and dips his head into your neck. “Spread your legs for me, baby.” 

And you do, one of them drooping over his legs, while the other bends on the couch beside you. You’re already so worked up, because Chan is so beautiful and you never, ever thought you’d experience him like this. “Shh, shh, calm down, pretty girl,” he kisses your temple, as his fingers brush over your clothed core.

“Baby,” he tuts disapprovingly, “you’ve soaked through your panties.” 

You can only whine as his fingertips ghost along your dripping slit, and he’s nosing into your cheek like a big puppy. “‘M sorry,” you hiccup, and he grins and kisses your lips tenderly. “So polite for me.” 

He finally dips his hand into your panties, fingers rubbing circles into your pussy. You’re mewling and thrashing into his chest, basking in the sound of his strangled moan, when you thrash the leg in his lap and brush over his hard cock. 

His fingers move lower to dance along your slit and you grab his wrist strenuously. He hums a little. “Gonna put my fingers in your pussy and my tongue in your mouth now,” he’s mumbling and you can’t tell if he’s telling you or himself, but either way he does as promised, two fingers plunging into your sopping wet heat, while he dips his tongue in your hot mouth.

You're moaning into his lips. He’s kissing you so sloppily, spit spilling down both of your chins, and noses rubbing together, breathing scorching air into each other. His fingers are pumping in and out of you, then curling into that sweet spongy spot inside you. 

“Fuck!” you cry when he pulls away breathlessly, “so, so, so good. Chan- Chan, fuck!”

Your orgasm is building up in your stomach, with a pleasure that is simultaneously torturous. He’s looking at you so intensely, you feel like you might unravel under his gaze. “Fuck, Channie.”

“Yeah? You feel good?” he pauses his words, still curling his fingers in and out of you. His next words are somewhat uneasy: “Is this better than those other guys?” 

“Huh?” you mumble, chest arching and his mouth is watering at how inviting it is. “Back then,” he says, and it finally clicks what he’s talking about. 

“Pussy so good no wonder they all wanted a piece of you, hm? Such a slut,” he’s rambling now, fingers plunging in and out of you impossibly fast, while his other hand splays over your stomach, thumb tapping your clit. You cry out in ecstasy, unable to form coherent words to respond with.

“But you’re my slut, right?” His voice is raspy and right next to your ear. The thumb tapping your clit begins to rub circles into it. “Y/n,” he’s suddenly very serious, “say you’re my slut.” 

“I’m-” your voice crack in humiliation, cheeks fiery and eyes squeezed shut, “I’m your slut!” 

“That’s right,” he pants, trying to stop his hips from bucking into your calf. “And my slut is gonna cum on my fucking fingers right now.” 

Your orgasm feels otherworldly - maybe godly - and your whole body shakes in his hold, chest bouncing in his face and moans melodic in his living room. Chan works you through it, finally pulling his fingers out when your hands weakly push at his own.

You’re sighing heavily with hair messy and teased, slumped back on his couch. “Holy shit,” you say, grinning from ear to ear, completely dazed. Chan is watching you with a proud smirk and a tent the size of Texas in his pants. 

A thought strikes you then, and your grin is fading and your brows are furrowing. “Wait- Wait, Chan? Where are your parents?” you ask suddenly, sitting up and straight and pulling your dress down hastily. You snap your head around self-consciously. 

“Relax! Relax!” he laughs, “They don’t live here anymore, I bought the house from them, like, six months ago.” 

Your jaw drops. You wait just a second, hoping to catch a cheeky glint in his eyes, that might tell you he’s joking. You find nothing but blackness.

“You bought the house?” 

Chan looks at you quizzically, shrugging. “Yeah, I mean, they wanted to move, you know, see new things and I.. I just. Didn’t.” 

You can hardly fucking believe your ears.

“Chan!” you cry, frustration blooming in your chest and pounding in your head. “Why did you buy the fucking house? You’re gonna spend the rest of your life paying off the fucking mortgage, and you’re never gonna get out of here!” you shout, flailing your arms at his absurdity.

Chan narrows his eyes at you. “Sorry, city girl, we don’t all wanna pack up and live in a closet space for three years-” 

“Wha- Chan, this is not about me! How can you just.. Surrender to this place?” you shout and suddenly he’s raising his voice too. “Surrender?” he repeats, spitting it back at you.

“Yeah! Jesus, even your fucking parents wanted to leave, Chan. But you’re just- You’re gonna live out the rest of your life in this shithole and be some sort of- of priest?!” 

“I can’t believe you right now,” he stands up from the couch, and you follow suit. “In what world do you have the morality to come in here and tell me what I’m doing wrong?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you scoff, crossing your arms. 

Your voices are echoing in the empty house, wine glasses and sauced plates standing idly on the tables nearby. Your silhouettes are confined to the large living room window, standing on either side of the moon. 

“You know what that means, Y/n,” he laughs bitterly. “No, please, tell me,” you invite him challengingly, wondering (or perhaps fearing) whether or not he’d actually go there. He prods at his cheek with his tongue, and hesitates.

“You were a fucking slut, Y/n.” His voice is quieter, maybe ashamed. Tears sting at your eyes, when you look at him incredulously. How could you think you knew this man? How could you think there was anything left to salvage? 

“Fuck you, Chan,” you spit, spinning around before the tears can fall. He says nothing, just stands alone in his living room while you dash out his door, hands wrapping around himself. 

Exiting his house into the cool, summer air, you realize one thing. The bell tower had been the call of the apocalypse.  _____________________________

You were the walls of Jericho that night, crying and tumbling in your childhood sheets, muffling your cries in the fear that he’d hear through his creaked open window. What was this pain, you couldn’t decide. Was it how he stayed steadfast or how you metamorphosed, dying only to return once again? 

In the morning, you’re dull and gray. You’re drinking coffee out of your dad’s old tourist shop mug from a visit to Niagara Falls, sitting at the dining table with puffy eyes. Your mom eyes you worriedly from the counter, leaning into your dad to whisper not-so-discreetly. 

“Sweetheart, you wanna go with us to church today? They’re having this whole event, the kids’ choir will be there!” she suggests gently and you just want to shrug off all her affection. 

“No,” you deadpan. Your mom gives your father a look. He sighs. 

“Alright, champ, that’s- that’s your choice,” he nods, mustache scrunching up when he pouts. You sigh, feeling like an asshole. “Sorry, I just-” 

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart, you just rest!” your mom shushes you, scrambling around the kitchen, ever in the hunt for some lost appliance. “All that college must wear you out, you should rest while you can, hm?” 

They’re gone by noon. You sit in the shadowed corner of your bed, avoiding the strip of light that dances across your room from the crack in the curtain. 

You’re bored, scrolling on your phone, cheek puffed up against your pillow, when it slips out of your hands and hits the floor with a loud bump. You groan, feeling like the whole world is against you today, and throw your arm off the bed to grab at it on the floor. 

It’s halfway under the bed, and when your fingers finally remark the smooth surface, they brush against something else. It’s hard and it feels dirty. You lift your head to look and tug it out.

It’s your diary. 

Phone long forgotten, you lift it carefully, like an old relic, and push open the faded pink cover. You feel like you’re about to snap in half, when your eyes survey the graphite-smudged pages of your horrible, horrible handwriting. The pages emanate a mysterious air that has you leaning back in your seat.

You’re skimming through angst entries, that has you cringing and wanting to put it down, before you freeze suddenly, inhaling sharply at the scribbled out words before you.

‘3. august 2016

God, I miss Chan.’

The words come with the promise of stinging tears in your eyes.

“Fuck you,” you whisper angrily at the page, because you’re crying again, and you close the book and hold onto yourself so tightly that it hurts. “Fuck that. Fuck this.” 

It’s perhaps the worst feeling you’ve ever felt. It’s anger, it’s sadness, it’s humiliation, it’s confusion. How did it end like this, you think. It would be so much easier if you were kids again. If he was that dorky kid from your church, who wore his father’s baseball caps and had chubby little hands when he prayed. You can do it better, you think miserably, if you get another chance. But you don’t. 

For about fifteen minutes, you curl into yourself and wait for the feeling to go away. It doesn’t. The heavy weight of realization pools in your stomach when you realize you might carry this with you for the rest of your life if you don’t do something. It doesn’t have to end like this.

Suddenly you’re light as a feather, grabbing your jacket and your keys and sprinting out the door and down the street. The cross atop the spire watches you run to it, awaiting you ominously.  _____________________________

You’re disheveled and pulled apart when you arrive at the gathering, and for once the townspeople look at you like you’re out of place. You’re late, you know, because people are taking their leave, scattering and dissolving towards the town square, and the entertainment (the kids’ choir), all robed in white, are marching away together. 

You’re panting, stumbling further into the church garden, jumping at the sound of grills being closed and rolled away onto the pavement. 

“Y/n?” Chan can hardly believe his eyes, when he sees you standing between a bed of lilies. You turn around and see him, melting a little at how tired and sad he looks. “I can’t believe you came,” he whispers, a little sparkle of hope in his gaze. You smile fondly, “Me neither.” 

Chan moves to embrace you, but freezes when he suddenly remembers where you are. “Uh, I can’t, I have to-” he stammers, scrambling for a solution, for something better than turning you away, when you’re here, close enough for him to hold. He looks around, gaze following the churchgoers as they pass through the gates, before he’s bopping his head down to whisper to you again: “Go into the church. I’ll be with you in a second.” 

You walk through that heavy, wooden door, and when it closes behind you the scrambling of metal and people and footsteps and crying children is gone. With the door, you’re sealed in here, with whatever fate follows.

All the light in the church is filtering through the stained glass windows, and once again you find yourself drawn to him. Judas. 

Part of you would expect such an artwork to depict Judas as greedy and grim, as glutinous and gloomy; that he would be hunched over with a pouch of shillings, giggling at his evildoing. But the Judas in the window is so.. Sad. 

He’s blue and gray and his eyebrows are upturned and for the life of you, you can’t figure out how the unknown artist must have managed to portray such despair in glass. You stand in the middle of his reflection on the floor, all blue and gray yourself, and you’re not sure it’s really because of the light.

That’s all the church inhabits at that moment. You and Judas, and your shallow breaths, and the stirring of dust in the air. There’s nothing holy in there with you. Just you and him.

You hear the door open to your right. You know it’s Chan, somehow you can just feel it. He must sense something in the air, because he says nothing, just walks up to stand beside you, and only then do you speak again.

“I always felt a bit like Judas,” you muster a breath.

Chan pauses and you can feel him looking at you. “Me too.” 

You furrow your brows, and finally look up at him, and there he is in his clerical shirt and his matching pants, his right cheek glowing bright blue. The whole room is so heavy, you lean against the bench behind you. 

“That’s not.. That’s not how it’s supposed to be.”

Chan doesn’t ask you to elaborate. He understands. “God made it that way,” he’s nodding with a pained expression on his face, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself. You laugh a little and hate how much love you feel, when Chan half-smiles at the sound.

“God.. Yeah,” you half-gesture to the sky and Chan giggles. Then you’re both quieting down again. “I can’t tell if it was you or God I turned my back on,” you say and you’re looking at Judas again, and how one, jagged hand holds onto his chest.

“Maybe it was both,” Chan says and there’s this unreadable expression on his face. You’re laughing again, cheeks apple-round. “I’m pretty sure it’s blasphemous to compare yourself to God.” 

“Yeah?” he laughs, “I think so too.” You’re looking at him again when he’s gulping hard and the joy drains from his face. A small frown curve his lips. “I’m sorry about yesterday, you know.” You look away.

“Me too,” you say. Chan can’t help the way his heart leaps when, without sparing him a glance, you grab his hand in yours and squeeze it. He squeezes back.

He gasps painfully and when you turn to him again, he’s choking back tears, face turning red. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. “I just wish… Fuck, I mean, we’re too different, aren’t we?” 

You nod. “We are.” 

“When are you leaving?” 

You smile disingenuously, hoping it’ll cheer him up. It doesn’t.

“Tomorrow.” 

Chan is crying, there’s no denying it now, no chalking it up to sniffles. Tears, turning yellow from the sun behind Judas’ back, trail down his cheeks and he wipes them aggressively, but they just keep coming. Deep, despaired moans bounce off the ceiling and walls of the church.

“Can I-?” Chan begins, unable to form words between his heart-rattling sobs. “I just- I need to-” 

“Yes,” you say, and there’s not a single doubt in your mind, that this is what you both want, as you take a step forward and pull his lips into yours. 

Chan’s lips taste like every color of Judas, of blue, of yellow, of gray, of green. Salt hits your tongue when his tears trail down to where you’re connected, and he’s still crying into the kiss, hands finding your waist and clutching so, so hard. 

“Please don’t cry,” you whisper in between kisses, “you’re gonna make me cry.” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, but he doesn’t stop. He’s too caught up in memorizing the way your body feels under his hands, the way you’re moving against him, the way you’re pulling him by the collar of his clerical shirt, and how your nose feels shoved into his. 

His warm hands slide your shirt upwards, burning against your newly exposed skin. You pull away only to tug it over your head. Chan whimpers when he sees your chest, cupped by your bra and he pulls you into his chest to unhook the back, head looming over your shoulder. Ear pressed to his neck, you can feel the way it contracts, when he hiccups. 

As soon as he’s done, straps sliding gently down your arms, you’re pouncing on each other again, lips meeting rhythmically in the blued sunlight. Blindly, you’re unbuttoning his clerical shirt, fingers shaking against his chest. His hands clasp over yours soothingly, urging you to slow down. 

The whole ordeal is strangely silent, even Chan has stopped crying now, and the only sounds filling the church are the brush of fabric and your muffled moans into each other’s mouths. You’re whining though, when his shirt finally pushes off his shoulders and his torso is right in front of you and under your hands. 

You whimper at the sight alone, running your hands over his arms and over his chest down to his abs. Chan smirks at you. “I knew you liked it,” he mumbles to himself, almost childishly. 

This comment slows you down, as you’re pulling back to laugh, and you’re both shirtless in front of each other, hearts huge and glowing. Chan smiles at you adoringly while you laugh, face scrunched up and eyes crescents. 

“You can’t say that when I’m trying to fuck you,” you say finally, hair a mess on your head and lips pursed to keep yourself from laughing again. Chan loves your dumb face. He takes your hands in his and rubs the palms with his thumbs. “I know.” 

“Can I-?”

“Yes,” you whisper, agreeing before he can even get it out. Chan nods and holds you, gently guiding you onto the floor, where your entire body is marbled by the light hitting the glass. Chan stands over you for a moment. 

“You’re just gonna stare at me?” you joke, but your arms are sneaking their way up your torso. “Yeah,” Chan responds, but he’s already kneeling down in front of you, moving your arms away. 

“You are so beautiful,” he says it as if it almost pains him, but he’s straddling you and fumbling with your jean-buttons, beginning the tedious task of peeling them off your legs. You want to say something snarky, but he has you breathless and blushing, all you can muster is a meek: “Thank you.” 

He looks up from his work on your jeans at that, smiling at you fondly. 

You kick your jeans off your legs, while he begins to undo the buckle of his own pants, shoving them down his legs at the first opportunity. You’re both almost naked, you in your panties and him in his boxers, and you’re wondering why he’s showing no signs of moving them off you, dick hard and scorching fucking hot against your clothed core. Then he plants his arms on either side of your head, and rolls his hips into yours.

The moan you let out is coming from deep in your fucking soul. Only something godly could pull that out, you decide, sopping fucking wet from the star-like heat it has against you. “You sound so pretty,” he whimpers and does it again. Then again and again and again, and you’re arching your back and the both of you are moaning and groaning, filling the church with humidity. 

“Chan,” you muster, sounding on the verge of tears. His head is lowered onto your breasts, panting hard into the impossibly soft skin. “I-Inside. Now.” 

Chan wants to say something sexy, but he’s so desperate for you, that all he can manage is: “I agree.” 

He’s scrambling wildly to tear his boxers off and you do the same, lifting your hips to remove your drenched panties from your core. When you’re left bare, he lets out a choked moan, because immediately your hole clenching and gushing slick onto the tiled floor. The church floor, no less. 

“So fucking beautiful, and mine. Belongs to me,” he babbles, eyes wounded, but fingers spreading your folds open, as he lowers his head to remark on them. You mewl, fingers clawing at his shoulders. “Miss you,” you squall and he looks up at your face again. “Okay,” he responds, body moving back up to your face. Then he mutters against your lips: “Miss you too.” 

He’s kissing you again, so warm and wet in your mouth and humming into you. You claw at his back and whine wildly, when his hand steers his dick through your folds, lubricating itself in your plentiful wetness. 

He pulls away and you chase after him with sorrowful eyes. “I need to see your face when I push in,” he explains very sincerely, and you somehow understand that, yes, he needs to see it. You nod.

Then he’s pushing into you. He bursts through your gates, all thick and veiny and totally raw against the walls of your pussy. He’s slow, studying your face tenderly for any signs of discomfort, even when he grimaces from the euphoric feeling. And God, your face is so perfect, all scrunched up and twisted in pleasure, mouth agape and eyes squeezed shut. He will remember it forever.

He’s rocking in and out of you, and it’s slow, and it’s love, and it’s mature, and you’re moaning simultaneously, foreheads pressed together, as he fucks you into the floor. 

“Are you close, darling?” he pants against your cheek and you nod, because you are. Because it feels like your body has been working its way up to this final point, and every other milestone has just been a hillpeak on the way to a mountain. “Yes, yes, yes, I am.” 

“Good, so good for me,” he’s speeding up just a little bit, working the two of you closer and gaining leverage from his bruising grip on your hips. Your hand slides up his neck, from where he’s nuzzled into the side of your nose, and you whisper breathlessly in his ear: “Please cum inside, please, please.” 

And Chan’s head spins at that, thrusting so hard you’re entire body jerks. You, all filled with his kids, all soft and big stomached. The thought has his thrusts - now quite swift - becoming sloppy and has him spurting cum. You come at the feeling of him spurting inside you, spluttering you full of white seed, so much that it’s spilling out at the base of his cock. 

You’re both stilling, bodies expanding eagerly for air, and he’s still so close to you, still inside you, still buried in your hair, nose huffing breaths into your ear. The church is so painfully quiet, you begin to hear your own heartbeat. This was it. This was the narrow end. There was no other way. 

Lying your head on the tile and tilting it, so your eyes dance over the floor beneath you, you realize that Judas is no longer the artwork, no longer the masterpiece: It’s you and Chan on the floor, arching into each other and bathed in his light. To an unknowing outsider, the expressions you carry would also seem misplaced, just like Judas had to you. But you both know, still clinging onto each other like angels that flutter from the sky and into hell, that it was because of the end you had ensured for each other.

“I love you.” 

Chan whispers the words into your neck, voice thick. You realize he’s crying again, because you feel burning hot tears dribble down your neck, and his shoulders are shaking. You curl your arms around him.

“I know. I’m sorry. I love you too.” 

[kwistowee]

I don't know how well I can put my thoughts about this exchange into words, but I'm gonna try.

Kate has resolutely kept her walls up around Tyler for the majority of their interactions, but she just chose to be incredibly vulnerable with him. She let him see a fraction of how much pain she carries with her and it stops him in his tracks. (The camera literally stops panning around them the moment her dam bursts, and he stands completely still as she pours out her guilt over her past failure.)

Tyler respects Kate. He admires her capacity to read and to tackle this thing they both love. But now, for the first time, he's beginning to understand just how challenging storm chasing again actually is for her. How much fear and sorrow, how much trauma and torment it carries for her. He is stilled by the realization that this clever, fascinating woman is trapped under the weight of her past, and he gently encourages her to consider taking ownership of that pain by acting rather than surrendering.

But she's not ready. She side-steps his question entirely, stating that he should rest so he doesn't miss any storms the next day while wiping her tears away and trying for a bit of a smile.

And look at the way that shatters him.

He cuts himself off from replying and the grief in his face as he shakes his head and looks down shreds my heartstrings. Storm chasing is absolutely the last thing on his mind right now; he's concerned for her. He has taken every possible opportunity to seek her out in an effort to understand her since the moment their paths crossed. So maybe he's blindsided by the idea that she thinks his primary concern is not missing any storms. Normally, that might be true. He absolutely loves his job. The joy he finds out in the field chasing tornadoes radiates from his entire being every time he does it. And yet none of that passion comes close to how much he is centered on her and her pain in this moment.

But he can't tell her that. He's not ready to admit she is his primary concern and I think he recognizes in this moment that she's not ready to hear that yet either. She has effectively ended the conversation and dismissed him for the night. So he raises his eyebrows in a subtle agreement to go along with what she has said and he clamps his mouth shut. He returns her research notes to her and silently exits the barn to give her space.

And I cannot stop thinking about how much he just conveyed about the depth of his feelings for her with just a few micro expressions.

[endless-ineffabilities]

Diet Pepsi (18+)

A modern Aemond Targaryen x girlfriend reader smutshot

When we drive in your car, I'm your baby So sweet Losing all my innocence in the backseat

a/n : how do I explain this? I suppose the song Diet Pepsi got stuck in my head, and when I watched the music video, the only male lead I could envision in that sorta situation is our Aemond/Ewan. So here ya go! Reading time... depends on what you get into 😉💋

masterlist

themes/warnings : pure smut, filthy actions and filthy language, complete disregard for sports car interiors, old money boyfriend Aemond x bratty internet starlet girlfriend reader, sticky surfaces, foggy windows, wayward fingers, sliding tongues, and YES YES YES

"What's goin' on in that pretty head of yours?"

Your boyfriend glances at you from the corner of his eye, barely, his attention remaining on the road. But his veiny hand reaches over to squeeze your thigh, fully exposed beneath the scrap of pale pink fabric that you try to pass off as a miniskirt.

Mission accomplished. After only a few minutes of pretending to stew while looking out the window, he is quick to sense that something is amiss with his kitten.

"Nothing," you respond in the best downcast tone you can manage, fighting the urge to clench your thighs to trap his thick fingers in the warmth between.

"Come on now," he clicks his tongue, "don't play around."

"I don't know what you mean."

"You've barely looked at me since you got in the fucking car." Poor baby. You're getting to him, as planned.

Time to rile him up in a way that only you can. "Do you think Maris is pretty?"

He scoffs, "Don't start, kitten."

"So you do," you egg him on. "I knew it. You were looking at her tits earlier. I bet you loved it when that skank bent over in front of you. Gave you a good view."

"Kitten, please," his grip on your flesh tightens, trying to get you stop. "You're being ridiculous."

"And you didn't answer my question, Aemond," you snap back, grabbing his hand and prying it from your leg.

"Fuck's sake," he groans. He then rests both his hands on the steering wheel, at the standard 10 and 2, grasping onto it so roughly that the leather squeaks.

You called him Aemond. Not babe. Not handsome. You must be pissed, for some imagined reason, and he simply does not have the time.

Impatient, he goes off on a tirade, "You've asked me this shit before, babe, and my answer remains the same. I don't care about any other girl. You're the only one that I want, that I will ever want."

Licking your lips, and looking slyly at him behind your done-up eyelashes, you say, "You could've fooled me." He raises his brow at your childishness, muscles flexing under his tight white shirt as he makes a sharp turn. You continue, "I know what I saw. You want her, is that it? Is it because she's got status like you?"

"You have status," he corrects you, "The whole damn country practically knows your name."

"But it's not the same," you moan. "I didn't come from money. My blood isn't blue."

He sighs audibly, "We talked about this. None of that fucking matters, kitten. Especially not to me."

You cross your legs, leaning against the car door as if to inch away from him, your devilishly handsome silver-haired aristocratic boyfriend. The very one you're so keen on tormenting now. "You don't know how I feel."

But he does. You've long since lost track of the countless times you've been blindsided by an uncharacteristic wave of self-doubt. You, infamous for being one of the bubbliest and most outgoing personalities on the internet, your lifestyle guides and fashion spreads a mainstay on every social media platform.

But ever since you started dating Aemond, you can't help but feel unworthy sometimes. He is Aemond Targaryen after all, a glowing young heir to one of the most powerful families in the country, his lineage extending back to the great Valyrian empire.

Old money, as they say. That was his life, but before him, you thought old money was just some fashion trend that dominated your Pinterest boards.

You met at a charity gala for the Hightower Foundation. Unaware of who he was, he was simply a hot guy you set your sights on, and you managed to get his attention by accidentally spilling your espresso martini down his crisp tailored shirt.

Women were not usually that forward when approaching him, especially not those who ran in the same circles as him, like the Baratheon sisters or the Tyrell heiress. But you were different. You were simply, unabashedly yourself. Your biggest asset was you - your personality, your style, your genuine warmth that allows you to build connections with anyone in the industry - you didn't walk into a room with the snootiness and entitlement of a girl born with a silver spoon in her mouth.

The chemistry was instant, overriding any superficial issues that may arise from someone like him getting with someone like you. Which is why you snuck out of the gala together, and fucked each other senseless in the backseat of his car, sweaty and giggling and whispering sweet nothings like you were already long-time lovers back then.

As you are now, nearly two years later. Aemond's love for you has only grown a thousand fold, and he shows this every day.

The car idles at a stop sign. He reaches for your face and implores, "Kitten, look at me, please."

"No," you impetuously say, making him drop his hand.

"Baby, come on."

"Don't feel like it, Aemond."

The light turns green. The car zooms past houses and open fields. Shops and smaller, unknown places of business. They all come together in a blur. The tension is at an all-time high in the car, just as you intended.

He makes several maneuvers, and the scenery outside begins to look unfamiliar to you. The street you enter next is particularly quiet, almost empty, all the shops closed for the day or boarded up. It's likely on the outskirts of King's Landing, far from the Targaryen estate in its central area of Red Keep.

"You still gonna be a brat?" he asks lowly.

You smirk, "Don't call me a fucking brat."

"Have it your way, kitten," he says, and it sounds like a promise. The car pulls up to a vacant parking lot behind an old restaurant, the surrounding area covered by a thin tree line. There is no one, and nothing in sight.

He leans back, and takes a few deep breaths.

"You've been a bad girl, my kitten."

"Have I?" you bite your lip, no longer fighting the urge to clench your thighs. The miniskirt rides up higher, and his eyes become drawn to the sight, his cock hardening underneath his blue jeans.

He hums, leaning over and grabbing your jaw towards him with one hand, "Yeah, bringing shit up like that. Like I would ever look at anyone besides you."

"Wouldn't you?"

"Want me to fucking mention the time you actually flirted with the Stark boy in front of me?"

"I wasn't - "

"Shut up, kitten," he spits. "I'm not dumb."

His voice dips low, and you feel your cunny growing wet and slick. Gods, he is so hot like this. Assertive yet downright sensual. He only wants one thing, and you will surrender it to him in a heartbeat.

"What you gonna do 'bout it, handsome?" You lick your gloss-covered lips and you are caught off guard when he pushes his thumb inside and orders, "Suck."

You obey. His pupil significantly dilates in one eye, while the sapphire fixture in the other glints beautifully. He looks regal, and he's all yours.

"That's right," he breathes, his vision clouding over in lust as he feels the pad of your tongue, "fucking minx. Always so insolent, huh?"

"Mhmmm." When tears blur the corners of your eyes, he takes his hand and sucks right where you did. Then he pulls you in roughly, kissing you with everything in him, the lewdest grunts of pleasure escaping him when you push your tongue past his teeth.

"Come... come 'ere," he places you on top of himself, straddling him in the driver's seat, the lace of your underwear rubbing against his denim. "Gods, this fucking skirt." He pokes at it, lips curling. "You torture me, darlin'. Now you gotta make up for it."

You jut your bottom lip out, dragging your bright pink fingernails across his cheek. His mouth parts at the sight of his pretty little kitten practically begging for it.

"Is that so, handsome? Why don't you make me?"

He anchors his fingers in the thin bands of your underwear and in a sure and decisive flash of movement, he rips the material apart. He throws it over his shoulder, and it lands in the backseat, among the littered lollipop and bubblegum wrappers you leave behind. He loves it when you suck on that hard candy shell in front of him. It's partially the reason why your penchant for sweet treats has gotten worse.

Your pussy is exposed to the cool draft coming from the AC of his car, and it's a good and familiar sensation. He fondles your clit, little slow circles, making you whimper. He presses on, eager to unwrap his kitten like a piece of candy to be devoured. The zip of your miniscule skirt slides down, and your bare ass and cunny is revealed to him.

"Gods fucking damn, kitten," he rasps, then slowly buries three whole fingers into your slickness, spreading your folds, pumping in and out.

"Aghhhh, baby," erupts from your glossy mouth, breath hitching as he picks up the pace. In and out. Out and in.

His face appears almost sinister, clouded over in lust, his bottom lip trapped under bunny teeth, but then he whispers, "I love you, kitten. I love you so fucking much," and you see him as your Aemond. He's offering more than just his body - to you, he has already surrendered his heart and soul.

"I love you too, baby," you respond in as firm of a voice as you can manage, made even more difficult when he probes that sweet spot inside your sopping cunt.

You leak onto his fingers, droplets of your milky white substance beginning to pool in his palm.

"Ask me again," he snarls, shapely lips pulling back to reveal his sharp teeth.

"Wh-what?" you reply in a daze.

"That stupid question," he says. His pace doesn't slow; if he keeps up, you just might forget how to speak, save for incoherent noises that make his cock twitch.

"You'd rather be... b' with... a fancy heiress," you try, pausing when he pinches your hardened nipple over your crop top with his other hand. "Maris... Baratheon... or Floris... or - "

"Look at me, princess," he says, "You feel that? You feel me? There's your fucking answer."

"Not enough," you shake your head feebly, keeping up the ruse. Judging by the buldge he sports, he's into it too.

Smirking, he pulls his glistening fingers out of you, and helps you out of your crop top. He chucks the material somewhere, before ducking his head and nipping at the mounds of your breasts.

"Unnnghhh," you hear him, muffled by your flesh. He undoes your lace bra and sucks wildly. You cradle his head with both hands, keeping him pressed against your tits. His tongue flickers out to taste your skin, and he angles his face so that your eyes meet when he takes a nipple in his mouth.

"Shit, baby," you whimper, heating up all over from the sheer intimacy of it all.

His mouth lets you go with a resounding pop, and he tilts his head toward the backseat, hands gripping your hips to guide you. He follows suit, removing his white shirt in the process, as well as his jeans, shimmying them off his legs as he scrambles after you.

He smacks your ass with an open palm as it is raised in front of him in full view, the sharp sting of it only making you grow wetter.

You shuffle onto your hands and knees, looking back to see him already in position. His fine Valyrian steel chain dangles from his neck, the one thing still on his person. His boxers are also discarded, and his length is fully erect, slapping his stomach when he leans over to hastily cover your mouth with his. Your tongues battle for dominance, drool dripping down your chins. You feel a strain in your neck from twisting back to accommodate his kiss, but you don't care.

You feel it poking at your backside, feel him, his cock all slippery from hot precum dribbling down the sides.

He rocks back, hands digging into the soft flesh of your ass, keeping you in the prime position for him to take.

In a swift movement that nearly drives you insane, he twists downward until his face is level with your opening, and he buries his tongue in your soaking pussy. You know he likes it rough, so do you, and this is his way of getting you ready.

"Fuuckkk," you collapse forward, the side of your face colliding with the smooth leather seat. He twirls his tongue around, and you swear you can see stars.

You must have blacked out for a split second, delirious from the high only he can give you, because a moment later you feel his tip edging itself slowly into your cunt.

"Ready, baby?" he asks.

"Fuck me," is your strained plea.

His cock stretches you out, inch by inch, your slicked walls straining against his sheer size. A whining noise leaves you, music to Aemond's ears, and when he's fully sheathed, he exhales, "So pretty. Such a good little slut for me, kitten." That sends you over the edge.

You move forward slightly, then back again, your ass slamming right into his pelvis. He gets the message, smart boy that he is.

With an animalistic growl, he proceeds to frantically buck his hips into you, his huge cock just about splitting you open. He slaps your ass as he goes, making you tremble.

Each thrust sends shockwaves throughout your body, causing your eyes to roll back in your head. Your dripping cunt begins to feel that familiar ache, your lower belly spasming from his ceaseless thrusts. Your knees threaten to buckle, and if they do, you imagine that his firm throbbing shaft will be enough to keep you propped up.

"Aemond... baby... " your moans echo in the car, joined by his, "Yes... yes, kitten... so fucking good, taking me like this... pussy so sweet for me... "

The filthiest of words spill from the two of you like prayers from the damned, just begging to be answered. And seven hells, with the way Aemond makes you feel like you're floating amongst the skies, he just might be your salvation.

He does not relent, intent on rearranging your insides with how deep he buries his cock inside of you. You don't want him to stop. You never do.

You have to hold onto something to keep steady, to keep from utterly flopping down in a mindless haze. Your palms reach for the fogged up windows, and Aemond angles your bodies so that you're half-seated atop his thighs. He grabs hold of your breasts as leverage, squeezing them as your leaking cunt squeezes his cock.

The angle allows him to fill you better, and that heated coil unfurls in your belly, a signal that you are about to reach your peak.

He draws forward, pressing his mouth to the back of your neck, licking your sweat with reckless abandon.

"Baby," he moans, "I'm gonna cum... gonna fill you up... "

"Oh, yeah?" you answer in a high-pitched, wanton manner.

"Yeah," he breathes.

"You promise?"

He chuckles, and you feel the sound reverberating as your back is pressed to his chest.

"My sweet kitten," he purrs.

"I'm getting close, baby," you let him know, and he takes it as his cue to pound his cock inside faster. His lips are pressed to your ear, arms wrapped around your torso possessively.

He lets himself go, decorating your insides white with his Targaryen seed. You glance down and see it spilling out of your cunt, milky rivulets staining the once-pristine leather seat. His cock convulses in your pussy, waves of his release pulsing like fragmented aftershocks. It hits the right spot, bringing you to that little death, your walls contracting from the dizzying pleasure he gives you.

With that stupid and blissed-out smile on your face, you lean back, collapsing on top of him. You soon find yourselves curled together on the backseat, a mess of sweaty and satisfied limbs.

His silver hair is matted against his forehead, and you reach up and brush them away. He catches your hand and presses a loving kiss to the back of it.

He props his head up on one arm, as you draw lazy circles on the firm planes of his chest. You whisper sweet nothings to each other, as you had on the night you met.

"You should rile me up more often, you little brat," he smirks crookedly.

You roll your eyes, but peck his lips anyway with a cheeky smack, "Isn't that all I do, baby?"

"Sure, kitten," he says, "and I fucking love you for it."

"Oh, baby," you purr, and your wayward fingers reach down to stroke his half-erect cock. His brows raise in amusement, but it only takes several good pumps before his shaft is again taut from your touch. You whisper, "I love you too."

And so the second round begins.

Taglists (refer here to be added)

Vhagar - @gwaynehightowerswhore @kravitzwhore @litchifaerie @g-cf2020 @9431789 @noxytopy @fan-goddess @m00n5t0n3 @diannnnsss @nsr-15 @the-awkward-barbie @rockstwrsz @yellowstonebaby @urdeftonesgrrrl @eddieslut69 @callsigncrushx @starwarsdinosaur @qweq-6802 @tulips2715 @hotdismylife @joyismm @itseunaimonia @just-mj-or-not @crystal-siren @zaldrizzes @all-for-aemond @ajantanijhum @darylandbethfanforever9 @vhwyrm @purpleskiesandroses @technicallystrangereview @jjkysnk

Targaryen - @angel6776 @different-tale-student @binchissimo @teasweeter @raging-panda @rhaenys-nyra @gelacat0413 @simplymurdock @yariany02 @barnes70stark @stupid---person @lonan-hane @thescooponsof @donalesaa @rosey1981 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @wabi-sabi1090 @girl-lost-not-found

P.S. eagle-eyed readers can probably spot the nod to chemical override ;)

[timkontheunsure]

"and if he's only here as a prisoner, what kind of monster does that make me?"

Ok think I've finally worked out what was bugging me with them miscommunicating when Blitz yells.

"Would he want me if he were free?" Stolas' starting premise is if Blitz wasn't ok with the deal, and didn't like him; then he's a monster and an abuser.

If it's was only sex to Blitz, then he's just like Stella.

It's why he gives up, saying he has his answer; when Blitz assumes the crystal must be a prop for more of their deal.

"tethered to someone in such an unfair way". Ok this bit had my mind immediately go to the divorce.

The marriage was arranged by someone must more powerful than Stolas, to someone he'd never choose for himself. An "entire life's been written in stone" in fact; he thinks he's done the same thing to the man he loves.

While it is perfectly reasonable for Blitz to get angry, feeling blindsided and dismissed; asking for a "fucking minute", the next bit reads very differently to both of them.

"You spring this feeling bullshit on me. Are you fucking kidding! *Kicks open the door* Can I get a Fucking minute to think after everything you put me through! You pompous rich Asshole! *Stolas' flinches the same way he does when Stella screams at him.*

"Treat me like one of your little butler imps. You can't just Dismiss me like that. I mean you royal Fucks think you can think you can do this every single time. Like you can just play with our feelings, because we're smaller and not as important. Well I'm Not letting you bitch. *Flinches again* Let's Go!".

Blitz is telling Stolas that he doesn't want to be sent away, and that he wants think about it. His abandonment issues are fully kicked in.

He's trying to force Stolas into a fight, to get him to engage with him. Likely a repeated pattern from his last serious relationship with Voroskia.

Trying to pick a fight, to get to make up sex, to get them back to 'normal'. Because that's how he's been dealing with their "complicated" for a while now. If it's about sex he knows how to deal with what they have.

(Blitz is word perfect on the fight with Verosika after all; so they probably got back together a few times after stealing from her).

Blitz immediately goes to "I can do better", and try give it back; when he thinks Stolas doesn't want to see him anymore.

"you royal Fucks think you can think you can do this every single time."

But that's not what Stolas is hearing right now. Stolas hears is 'your all the same. All royal are as bad as eachother'.

It's very close to Striker explaining how the world works during his torture.

And now he thinks that the only man he's ever loved hates him because what he is.

That's what he meant by "think so of low of me".

And he's not exactly wrong. Fizz even calls Blitz on hating that Stolas is a prince.

And Blitz does say "They're all the fuckin' same". (Blitz isn't wrong for calling out Stolas on how he treats his staff either)...

Then there's the bit that seems fairly contentious. Stolas portaling Blitz out.

Stolas is a domestic abuse survivor, only a couple of weeks out of the hospital, because his wife tried to murder him. He's going freak out at loud voices, angry swearing, and doors being kicked in.

He going assume that this is Blitz getting a few kicks in on the way out; not him genuinely trying to talk through their problems just because of the format.

They are both stumbling over eachothers trauma landmines here.

Neither is wrong.

Not Stolas for walking away, or making the shouty person leave.

Not Blitz for getting scared, upset and feeling abandoned. Thinking Stolas isn't giving him a chance to think it through.

Blitz is going to get that time he wants to think it over. It's not an all or none thing.

He now has his business safe and secured in his own hands, and knows that Stolas likes him too. Those are biggys.

It's entirely up to Blitz what he wants to do now.

[creepswrites]

Hi, I just read your hcs about reader struggling with anxiety and depression, it was really great! I am also sorry you're going through tough times rn, I really really hope you'll feel better soon. Tbh I've been going through something myself and reading the Sinclair brothers' hcs, it reminded me of an idea I've wanted to eequest for a long while. I would like to request for the Siclair brothers (separately) x gn!reader headcanons where the reader struggles with mental health issues, but since they don't really leave Ambrose they can't get to their medication. How would they approach the brothers about it, would they hide it, how would the brothers react, you know.

Of course you can work on this when you feel like it, if you're not feeling like it with what's going on in your life. Or scrap the idea altogether, or add whoever you want. Thank you so much for letting me get my thoughts out tho <3 You are valid. You are loved. You are seen.

thank you for the kind wishes, i do appreciate it :) i tried to keep this relatively inclusive as to what exactly reader is suffering from but some stuff may be a lil specific. and don't worry, writing helps distract me so i'm happy to do this <3

SINCLAIR BROTHERS x GN! READER WHO NEEDS THEIR MEDICATION

BO SINCLAIR

You absolutely tried to hide it at first. How could you not?

Bo wasn't exactly... understanding about that kind of thing

I mean, you've seen how he acts with Vincent sometimes and thats his own brother. You don't want to imagine how he'd treat you if he knew...

But you knew the longer you went without your prescriptions, the more difficult things would get

It started small. Your moods would change randomly and very drastically - one extreme to another or you'd have trouble sleeping or oversleeping or - your least favorite - you'd lash out at one of the brothers for seemingly nothing

Bo noticed. He didn't say anything about it because he assumed that, if it was that important, you'd tell him

So when you had a full on meltdown on the kitchen floor one afternoon, he was blindsided

He had no idea it'd gotten this bad and, unfortunately, his first reaction was to get mad at you. He yelled at you, tried to get you to pull yourself together. After all, if you had been suffering, you would've told him! Right...?

It's not until your crying abruptly stops that he realizes he fucked up. You shut down on him, near catatonic as he tries to apologize

He's scared. And when he's scared, he lashes out. You know that. It still doesn't make it hurt less

The brothers agree that there needs to be regular trips made so you can get your medication. Lester offers to take you since he's the one who goes to town the most anyways

You and Bo get into an argument about it once or twice because he doesn't understand why you wouldn't tell him

His heart breaks a little when you tell him you didn't think he'd believe you or would look at you differently for it

He reassures you that no, never. He totally understands the moodswings, the angry episodes you have, those things

Once you're on your meds again, you two promise that if anything major like this happens for either of you, that you can always lean on each other

Bo takes time getting there but he grows to understand you and figure out how best to help you!

VINCENT SINCLAIR

You tell Vincent pretty early on that you need medication

While you don't give him many specifics as to why, you tell him that life will be better for all of you if you keep taking them

At first he's a little apprehensive of letting you go into town so Bo goes with you to pick it up

Not because he doesn't believe you! But because he's scared you're still trying to escape

He wants to know what they're for so he's not above snooping around to read the labels

(You'd tell him if he asked but he didn't know that)

The amount you take surprises him and he tries to think about what you're like off them, in a morbidly curious way

He is, however, insistent that you're taking them consistently and without interruption. Vince makes sure you take them every day and gets on his brother's cases if they give you a hard time about it

They're not cures though. You both find that out the hard way when he finds you trembling in the corner of his shop like you were in freezing weather. The panic attack was violent and took you by surprise but Vincent holds steady

He sits with you, humming soft melodies to try and ground you

When you're ready, he hugs you and you just break down into tears. You'd never wanted him to have to see you like this, you don't want him to think you're some fragile china doll who can't take care of themself

But he would never see you like that. You explain that, while the meds make them less frequent, you're not cured completely

Things will slip through the cracks sometimes and that's okay! He'll always be there when you need him

When he catches you scratching yourself anxiously, he buys you gloves and makes sure you keep your nails short

He catches you picking at your face and gets you small bandages you can place over the spots so you don't obsessively pick

Vincent is always doing little things to try and improve your quality of life, even if you're taking medication!

LESTER SINCLAIR

You don't really tell him but you also don't hide it from him either

He notices you taking pills every morning and every night and is able to put two and two together

Probably asks you what they're for once you two have been dating for a bit but it doesn't really change much in your relationship

He's relatively chill about it though and offers to take you into town to pick up your meds

Likes to hoard pills for you so you never run out - it's an irrational fear of his but you think its sweet

Whenever you get sad, Jonesy and Lester are both right there to comfort you however you need

Sometimes, when the bad thoughts get too loud, Lester catches you staring vacantly into the bathroom mirror or out windows and he worries

One night you wandered out into the woods, barefoot and freezing, just because you felt so out of touch with your own body

Everything felt fake and floaty and you just needed to be out somewhere harsh and grounding and real

You love Lester, you really do, but there, in the forest all alone, all you could think about was how empty you felt

He finds you early the next morning and he was clearly worried sick, still in his sleep clothes with just a flashlight and an anxious Jonesy

Once at home and warm from your shower, he pleads with you to talk to him about it

You finally spill about how you've felt completely dissociated from yourself, even with all the meds you're taking, and it just got to be too much

He gives you a hug and you both agree to try and find other ways to shock you back to reality that don't involve you wandering into the forest at night

Turns out, an ice cube on the back of the neck works wonders to snap you out of whatever stupor you've found yourself in!

Lester is as involved with it as you'd let him. Never ashamed or afraid to lend you a hand with anything!

[alexa-fika]

ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! Last request before I sleep

Here me out shanks with a 13 year old daughter (who has his iconic red hair) reader who absolutely despised him because he's the reason why her town got attack (Shanks keeps flirting with her mother unknowingly he accidentally made her into an outcast)

Reader who's snarky, a bit rude but polite and well mannered (unlike shanks)

Reader who's always reading and very elegant royalty like but not spoiled and very serious all the time (unlike shanks)

Reader who's secretly insecure and scared that she's always gonna be in her father shadow

Reader who is always in the whitebeard pirates (THOUGHT THIS WASN'T A WHITEBEARD REQUEST BUT I MADE IT ANYWAYS?)

Reader who always dye their hair into black

Reader who bonds with ace because of their daddy issues 🥰

That's it. That's the tweet

Roots ( Ace x f!teen!reader)

Part 2

A/N here we go, I dont feel with this one, I feel like I missed the whole vibe you were trying to get when you submitted the regret, I spend a week just staring at the screen trying to think of how to approach it and I can’t say I choose the right one

Dokucha frowns as the book on her hands is ripped away from her hands, only to let a small smile as she recognizes the candy cane-patterned bracelet

"Ace, you're back," she stated, looking up at the grinning man squatting on the railing

"I'm back," he responds, jumping down from the railing and bringing the girl into a side hug

"What have you been up to today?"

"I am actually taking a small breather before I continue training; I believe it's Haruta's turn for a session," she stated gingerly, clenching her hands in a lower position

"Turn?"He furrowed his brows at her words and the implications behind them

"Dokucha, how many sessions have you done?"

She bites at her lip, shifting her gaze away from his

"This would be the seventh," she muttered

"I told you to stop pushing it, you're only thirteen dokucha, it's okay to train, but this is too much," he scolded

"Is this about Shanks?" he muttered, kneeling down to her level

"I don't want to fall behind."

" I know you don't, but are you just going to waste your life trying to catch him?

Isn't that what you don't want to do? To live your whole life trying to surpass your old man?"

"I can see it in their eyes, Ace, every time we go on a mission; all they can see is him, they don't think of me as Dokucha, they just see his daughter," she murmured, teary eyes flickering back to the man

"Then let them. They have no place in your life, so why would you care what a bunch of strangers think?" he asked

He frowns at the small unconvinced hum that leaves the teen at his words only to bounce back as an idea comes to mind

“ Hey, I found a cool place on my way back; it’s only a few minutes on the Striker; wanna check it out?”

“But Haruta is expecting me…”

“Don’t worry about that; you said you still have some time, right?”

“I suppose so, b-

“Great, you head to the Striker; I will catch back up in a second; need to get something before we head out,” he said, running off

“W- Ace! I din- and he’s gone” she mutters at the retreating form of the commander, taking a glance down at the striker that had been tied to the Moby Dick

“I guess no harm in a small ride.”

-

“How did you find this place?” she muttered

The two found themselves sitting on the Striker, their leaves soaking in crystal clear water as they watched all the fish swim around them, curious about the two visitors

“I visited this island before on one of my missions.”

“Hm”

"Listen, Dokucha, I have told you about my father, yeah?”

“Yes, you did.”

“The reason why I'm so pushy on stopping what you’re doing is because I made the same mistake, and it cost me over 15 years of my life” he started, noticing how his words had finally gotten the girl’s attention

“ I spent all that time trying to follow my father’s legacy, to surpass him. To become the pirate king, to Defeat whitebeard. All the while, it just ate me inside; I was blindsided and led by my anger toward him for all those years. I missed many opportunities to enjoy, to have a carefree childhood just to accomplish that goal”

“How did you…why…”

“Why I stopped?”

“Yes”

“I found pops.”

“ I thought your goal was to take him down to prove yourself?” She asked now facing his way as her legs Straddled the Striker giving him her full attention, loookimg up at him in confusion

“It was; I spent the next few days going after him even after he took me into the moby; every day, I would try.”

“I refuse to believe that” she scoffed with an amused laugh

“I'm serious!

Tried over a hundred times, and every time, I would end up with either a bloody nose or thrown into the sea.”

She covers her mouth as she lets out a muffled laugh at the thought of a grumpy, drenched Ace

“A-Anyway, after that, Marco and later Pops talked with me; it made me realize how useless it was to try to take Pops down and follow after someone else’s dream.”

“Din’t you feel disappointed?”

“Quite the opposite, I felt free for the first time, felt free to make choices based on what I wanted and not to surpass my father; it’s led me to where I am now, and it was the best realization I made in my life.”

“…”

“Keep it in mind, okay? Let’s head back for now,” he said, pushing himself up, extending a hand to the girl as he prepped the Striker

“How do you think I should start?”

“Start what?” He questions, manauvering the Striker through the waves, slowing down as he puts his attention on her

“Letting go”

“Maybe you should start with this,” he said, flicking their head

“Jerk, what was the reason for that?”

“Stop trying to change yourself; your roots are coming out; why don’t you let them grow?”

“Ah!” She exclaims covering her head at his comment, missing the way he sighed and shook his head only to come back to her senses as a weight was placed on her head

“You should be proud of yourself, the way you look, the way you are; at the end of the day, it’s yours, not his; now might be the best time

She looks up at the ravenette questioningly, his iconic hat now missing from his head and gingerly placed on hers

“What do you mean?”

He simply gestures to the new vessel now anchored next to the Moby Dick

“What is he doing here.”

Thoughts?

Taglist:

@Imaginarydreams

@amethystviolin

@h0n3y-l3m0n05

[wintersoldiersoul]

Drowning

A/N: Not sure how I feel about this one but I'm currently going through this situation with my boyfriend and I thought that writing about it might help me feel better. Haven't gotten to the part where I talk to him about it but maybe this will inspire me.

It was late. Too late. You should be sleeping but it was impossible with your mind racing. You and Bucky had been together for almost a year now but you never really felt secure in your relationship with him. Maybe it was the way that your last boyfriend had broken up with you out of nowhere. You wish you knew why, but you always felt like Bucky was going to run. 

As much as you loved him, you also wanted more from him. More reassurance. More romance. More small gestures to show you that he cared. And you couldn’t blame him for not giving them to you when you hadn’t asked but as much as you preached the importance of communication to your friends, you were a hypocrite. You could never apply that to your own relationship.

Everytime you tried to express your feelings, you couldn’t do it. What if I’m right? What if I tell him that I’m afraid he’s gonna leave and he finally takes it as his chance to do so? You would think. Or what if I plant the idea in his head? 

All of this was made harder by the fact that you were younger than him. While he was established with a career, living on his own, you had just graduated college and were back living with your parents. Finding a job felt nearly impossible despite the countless resumes and cover letters that you sent out every single day. Your brain constantly flashed back to a conversation you had in May, where you asked him if you would stay together when you moved back home. Your hometown was less than an hour from where Bucky lived in Brooklyn, so in your mind it was a no brainer. But when your question opened up a conversation that blindsided you.

Bucky explained that he was ready to be settled down. You were shocked when he had said the words, “Sometimes it feels like we have an expiration date.”

The next morning he said he was being ridiculous. That he loved you and of course the two of you would figure it out. But ever since then, you hadn’t been able to relax. Even now, a month into you living back at home you still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to change his mind. You saw him just as often as you had when you were still living in the city. You didn’t mind taking the train to go see him 3 or 4 times a week. But the stress and anxiety was weighing on you. Combined with adjusting to post-grad life, you were not doing well. 

You had never felt so lonely in your life. All of your college friends had also moved back to their hometowns while most of your friends from high school were still dispersed around the country. The job search left you feeling defeated every single day. And the lack of things to do and structure made life feel meaningless. It was safe to say that you had hit a low point. 

But you wanted to hide it all from Bucky. Because what if you brought up how hard it was to find a job and he realized that this wasn’t going to work? What if you told him how lonely you were and he was offended that he wasn’t enough? He knew that you struggled with anxiety and he was no stranger to mental health issues of his own but you just found it impossible to open up to him about all of this.

So there you were, in the midst of another sleepless night overthinking everything. Laptop opened, frantically searching on LinkedIn for jobs in the hopes that one thing just might work out. You read back your text messages from the past few days. Does he seem distant, or is my stupid brain playing tricks on me? As your spiral continued, you could feel a panic attack brewing. You tried your best to focus on your breathing but it became impossible. You just wanted to talk to Bucky. You needed to talk to Bucky. 

Fuck it, you thought. Losing him would be horrible, but so is living in this fear. Through your tears and shaking hands, you typed a message.

Y/N: Are you awake?

You shook your legs and bit your nails as you stared at the screen waiting for those three dots to show up.

Bucky: Yeah.

You took a deep breath as you sent the next message, trying to not go crazy over the dry single word he had responded with.

Y/N: Can I call you?

You desperately wished you could be with him right now to have this conversation. To analyze his body language in person. But you weren’t with him and you wouldn’t see him til the end of the week and you needed to get this out. Now.

Bucky: It’s late. I’m trying to get some sleep. 

You knew work had been kicking his ass lately. He was putting in insane hours, usually waking up at 6 and not finishing up til midnight. You knew he needed to rest and you almost responded back saying nevermind, and goodnight. But no. You needed to be a little selfish or you would crumble. Tonight felt like a turning point. Or a breaking point.

Y/N: Please Bucky. I really need to talk to you.

Bucky: Ok

Pressing dial on his name, you felt your heart rate increase even more. You tried to take deep breaths to calm your tears but it didn’t help. You were practically sobbing by the time he answered the call. “Bucky…” you said into the phone. 

At hearing your voice, Bucky was alert. He could tell that something was wrong. You had never cried in front of him. “Y/N? Baby, what's wrong? What's going on?” His desire for sleep was completely gone. All he cared about was you. He knew that he wasn’t the best boyfriend. He knew he could treat you better. But the years of trauma he had experienced made it hard for him to be vulnerable with anyone. He loved you so much that it hurt him and he hated himself that he couldn’t fully give himself to you. 

“Bucky, I’m not okay. I’m really really not okay,” you practically hyperventilated. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t keep living like this. I can’t.”

“Shhh, can you take some deep breaths for me?” He said calmly. “I need you to calm down and tell me what's going on.” He listened quietly as he heard you breathe deeply.

“Bucky, I’m terrified,” you finally spoke after a couple of minutes. “I don’t feel secure in our relationship. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells constantly because I’m petrified that you’re gonna leave. That one day you’re just gonna decide that you’re done with me because I’m too young and I live with my parents and I don’t have a job. And trying to find a job has really been taking a toll on me. I’m trying so fucking hard but it feels impossible. It’s so defeating waking up every single day to an email inbox full of rejections and I feel worthless and stupid. I’m not doing well not being in college anymore. I don’t have any structure to my days and life feels really fucking pointless right now. I’m so lonely. Fuck, I’m so lonely, Buck.” You took a pause, bracing yourself for his response. 

“Baby, why haven’t you brought this up sooner? Why haven’t you told me any of this?” There was genuine shock in his voice. 

“Because!” You cried. “I don’t want to remind you about how hard it is to find a job right now. I don’t want you to think about the fact that I live with my parents now while you have your own independent life. I never want to remind you of it because I don’t want you to change your mind and leave. And I don’t want you to think that you’re not enough for me because I’m lonely. I love you so much but I just… I really fucking miss my friends.” 

“Y/N, I need you to listen to me. Like, really listen to me. I am well aware of your situation. I know it’s hard to find a job right now. I’m not gonna leave you, okay? I’m committed to this. To you.”

You sniffled. “But you said that you wanted to be settled down. That we might have an expiration date.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry for that. I never should have said those things. When we had that conversation I was tired and not thinking clearly. And I spent that whole night wide awake thinking about how stupid I was and how stupid I would be to let you go because you need some time to find your footing after college. I hate that those words affected you so much. I’m so sorry.”

You talked to him for a while longer, pouring out all of your insecurities that you’d been holding back. After a while, the conversation started to shift to more normal things.

“Baby,” Bucky yawned. “I love you so much but I gotta go to bed. And tomorrow after work I’ll come see you, okay?”

“Okay. I love you too.”

Your worries wouldn’t fade overnight. You wouldn’t suddenly be able to get a job. Your friends wouldn’t all come back to you. College was over and life was drastically different. But at least now Bucky knew. And he wasn’t going to leave.

[annieqattheperipheral]

a facilitator from nhlpa's mental health first aid program First Line

One of the things I do with them, the teams that I work with, it's called The Mask of Masculinities and on the one side of the mask, we put, what does the world see? How does the world see me? And then on the other side, we put, how do you feel? What are you hiding?

And when we do that activity, it's incredibly powerful because not only do you have a bunch of male hockey players playing with glitter and feathers and things like that. But when they read the mask there's this shared story of having to be tough, having to be aggressive, having to be dominant, being the provider.

And on the other side, there's vulnerability, there's mental health, there's suicidal thoughts. Some even use the mask as a way to come out because they're bisexual or gay, but they have to hide it because of the narrative.

Every time I interview with men or with the players, we always ask, is there anything else you would like me to know? Anything else you would like me to say and, unanimously, every time they say, thank you for letting me talk. Thank you for letting me share my story.

Sorry, I'm starting to cry because it's just the pain is just so deep. Sorry. And there's no voice for them.

I think things are getting better. I think now we are having conversations that we never would have had before. You know so there are still entrenched narratives that they need to change because there is such a huge call you know, for people to-- how do I do this differently? How do I do this differently? Because it is a crisis in our sport.

Highly rec the entire vid. Also includes a couple of the 20 nhl players that volunteered for the program, including Joseph Woll and Ryan Strome.

As well as Corey Hirsch, former stanley cup winning NHL goalie who suffered with OCD while playing until he got help. His podcast Blindsided hosted with psychiatrist Dr. Diane Mclntosh is excellent.

[writerswall26]

My Sweet Cairo (Part 6)

Synopsis: The Ravens' Soccer team Captain fell in love for Cairo Sweet

Warning: Slight cursing, Student-Teacher relations, Anger rage. Other than that, none that I know of (but feel free to correct me)

Words: 2.4k

Masterlist | Previous Part | Next Part

A/N: So there's this complaint about why R helped Mr. Miller. I want to explain that it's not about helping him per say, it's about the what could've been scenario in R's mind. As was stated a few parts ago, it's personal. Also, I was listening to Blindside the entire time I'm writing this. I think this is Cairo's song, or their song. Happy Reading!

After the whole ordeal between Cairo and Mr. Miller, the school did release an announcement regarding the issue, telling everyone that the charges against Mr. Miller was dropped and untrue. They also informed the students and teachers about the inappropriate relations between them and that it is not acceptable and highly discouraged to engage in such relations.

So far, students hasn't said anything about Mr. Miller, just that they were saying how fucked up it must be for Cairo to be doing what she did to Mr. Miller. Poor man, she heard them say.

"How are you holding up?" Winnie asked when she saw Y/N sitting alone in Mr. Miller's classroom.

The taller girl turned to Winnie with a small smile. "I don't know. I guess I’m relieved that I made something possible."

Winnie sighed, holding a hand on Y/N's shoulder. "It was brave, you know, what you did. I heard you laid it out there, what happened to your dad."

Y/N gave out a pained smile. "It's the only way I know they would listen. Also the first time I've talked about it since it happened."

Winnie gave her a comforting smile as she patted her shoulder. Then they heard Y/N's phone ringing, Cairo's name popping out. Y/N stared at it for a while before flipping her phone over as she sighed.

"Has she tried to contact you?" Y/N asked Winnie who nodded.

"A couple of times."

"Did you talk to her?"

Winnie shook her head. "Don't have the guts to after what she did. Maybe in time, but not now."

Y/N understood her. Winnie's been with Cairo for what seemed like forever. They were inseparable. They were best friends and yet, Cairo still managed to do this to her. It was sad to see a beautiful friendship turn into dust just because of vengeance.

"Will you talk to her?" Winnie asked her.

She was quiet for a brief moment before shaking her head no. "I don't know if I can. Every time I see her, what happened to my dad keeps popping in my head. I don't want to remember it anymore."

"I understand." Winnie said, nodding. "But you can't run away from her forever. She's quite a persistent girl, if you hadn't noticed. She'll do everything in her power to get you to talk to her."

Y/N pursed her lips. "Did you know Mr. Miller was in love with her?" She asked, turning to Winnie who looked shocked. "I'm sure as hell she felt the same. That's why she acted that way, she knows what he felt but didn't pursue it."

"Y/N," Winnie called out but before she could continue, the bell rang so Y/N gave her a smile as she put her duffel bag on her shoulder.

"I'll see you around, Winnie." She bid the other girl goodbye before she walked out of the classroom and into her physics class.

Y/N was hanging out at home when she heard their doorbell ring. She was not expecting anyone at all. But she thought maybe Jasmine is here because she's board again. So when she opened their front door, she was shocked to see Cairo there, looking lost. Y/N's face immediately darken as soon as she saw Cairo.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, a bit harshly if she was asked but she doesn't care.

Cairo gave out a small smile, shaking her head. "I don't know."

"Go home, Cairo." Y/N said and was about to go back inside when she felt small hands holding her wrist, stopping her to move.

Y/N looked at their hands to which Cairo immediately pulled back. "Please, let me talk." Cairo said, her eyes misty with tears.

Y/N sighed as she walked back and closed the door behind her again. She looked at Cairo with a bored look as she stood in front of the shorter girl.

"What do you want?" Y/N finally asked, staring down at Cairo who fidgeted for a while before she took a deep breath and looked at Y/N's eyes.

"I want to say I'm sorry." She started but Y/N shook her head.

"No." Y/N told her coldly.

"Please." Cairo cried, her voice breaking and for some reason, it broke Y/N's heart into pieces to see Cairo this way.

"I know what I did was messed up. I know I hurt you, and Winnie, and Mr. Miller. I've been holed up at home, thinking of what I did. I— I messed up. And I'm really really sorry." Cairo's voice breaks, then turns to a whisper.

But Y/N cannot seem to hear what she was saying, it's like her brain doesn't want to listen, to process what Cairo was saying.

"You're selfish, Cairo. You only think about yourself, with no remorse, you do what you do to get what you want. You use people around you who genuinely care and love you. And then for what? For your own pleasure?"

Cairo just hung her head while Y/N berated her. This is the first time in her entire selfish life that she felt ashamed, she felt disgusted by herself. Y/N has a way with words that just stuck.

"And you know what hurts the most?" Y/N asked, her voice broke which got Cairo lifting her head to see the tears streaming down Y/N's eyes. And it broke her. "I really thought you liked me. I thought what you felt for me was real. And it fucking hurts to know that it's all part of you fucked up plan."

"But I did, Y/N, I do. I like you, so much."

Y/N scoffed. "Oh, do you?" She asked sarcastically.

"I do. And with all the lies and schemes that I had, you're the only thing I was sure of, what I feel for you. I like you." Cairo was never the one to express her feelings but if this was the last time she would see Y/N, then she's willing to lay it all there. "I think I'm even in love with you."

Y/N scoffed, wiping the tears in her eyes. "And why would I believe you? After all you've done, why would I?"

Cairo walked towards her, wanting just a bit of closeness from Y/N. "Because you're the realest thing that's ever happened to me."

Y/N shook her head, stepping back as she leaned on the closed door behind her.

"You don't get to do this. You can't just ruin people's lives and expect them to believe you!"

"I don't expect you to believe me, I just want you to listen, I just want you to know what I feel." Cairo said, walking closer to Y/N.

"Leave, now." Y/N spoke, turning away from Cairo.

The shorter girl watched Y/N breathing heavily. She felt she was hurting Y/N the longer she stayed. So she nodded even though Y/N couldn't see her. And with one final attempt, she walked closer to Y/N, tiptoed and gave Y/N one final kiss on the cheek before she walked out of the taller girl's life once and for all.

"I love you." Cairo whispered, and then she was gone.

Y/N watched Cairo go, losing her faster than she had her.

Cairo and Y/N's paths did not meet even when they're in the same English class. Cairo was suspended for 2 weeks after the whole ordeal and it was then that the school introduced a substitute teacher in Mr. Miller's absence. The teacher was great, she was as into literature as Mr. Miller but she was not as good as Mr. Miller was.

Winnie and Y/N stuck together the entire time. They would meet each other for lunch, go grab breakfast together, wait for each other after class, and walk home together as well. Y/N doesn't know how or why, but she assumed it was because of their shared trauma and the betrayal they both got from Cairo.

"She's coming back tomorrow. Are you ready to face her?" Winnie asked while they were on their way home.

Y/N pursed her lips as she shrugged. Honestly, the thought of seeing Cairo again made her feel nothing. There was just nothing.

"I actually don't know."

Winnie nodded and there was silence again until Y/N spoke.

"Have you talked to her lately?" Winnie asked.

Y/N shook her head. "She's been texting and calling but I haven't responded to any of it. Although, she said something to me a couple of weeks ago. I don't know what to make of it."

"What?"

"She told me she loves me."

Winnie stopped on her track for a moment, looking at Y/N with wide eyes.

"That's... a shocker." Winnie said, going back to her senses as she continued to walk with Y/N.

"Tell me about it."

"Who would've thought that you, Y/N Y/L/N, would be the one to melt that vengeful and cold heart of Cairo Sweet." Winnie said, shocked and amazed.

"I don't even know if she was telling the truth." Y/N said truthfully.

"One thing I know about Cairo, is that she's never let those words leave her mouth. Not to her parents, not even to Mr. Miller. So you should wear that like a fucking medal." Winnie said, giving her a soft slap on the arm.

"Shut up." Y/N chuckled, rolling her eyes.

"Let me see that medal." Winnie told her, pulling her body to see the invisible medal she was supposedly wearing.

"Get away from me, you creep." Y/N joked as she turned her body away.

Winnie kept messing with her until she spoke.

"Are you gonna go to work tonight?" Y/N asked, turning to Winnie who gave her a confused look.

"Why?"

"Would you like to have dinner with me and my mum before you go to work? She's home right now, no hospital duty."

Winnie gave her a teasing smile. "You want to introduce me to your momma?"

Y/N rolled her eyes before she chuckled. "I'm being a good friend here, at least appreciate that."

Winnie laughed. "Alright, superstar. Lead the way."

Y/N rolled her eyes. "It's like you don't know where it is."

"Shut up!" Winnie laughed, pushing Y/N who was laughing as well.

The duo kept teasing and pushing each other until they were on Y/N's door.

"Mum, I brought a friend with me." Y/N called out as she led Winnie inside their house and into the living room where Y/M/N's fixing the table.

"Is it Jasmine?" Y/M/N asked but was a bit shocked when she saw Winnie. "Oh, it's not Jasmine."

Y/N chuckled as she walked to her mum and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "This is Winnie, she's a friend from English class."

Y/M/N nodded before she turned to Winnie and gave her a warm hug. "Welcome Winnie. It's very nice to meet you, I'm Y/M/N."

Winnie smiled widely. "Pretty nice to meet you too, Mrs. Y/L/N."

Y/M/N waved a hand. "Y/M/N is fine, darling. Come sit and let's eat."

"I've seen you before, haven't I?" Y/M/N asked Winnie when they finally started eating.

The duo looked at each other with questioning looks before turning to the older woman.

"Oh, I remember!" Y/M/N clapped her hand, pointing at Winnie with a wide smile. "You were friends with that girl who Y/N kissed at the championship game!"

That was awkward!

The duo let out an awkward laugh as they kept kicking each other under the table.

"I uhm... I was indeed there with the girl Y/N kissed, yeah." Winnie answered awkwardly.

Y/M/N noticed the weird atmosphere so she dropped the subject, but not before she asked some questions.

"Were they together?" Y/M/N asked, causing the two to look at each other once more.

"For a hot minute, yeah." Winnie's gonna take one for the team here since she knows Y/N is still not ready to talk about Cairo.

"What happened?" Y/M/N asked again.

"Mum." Y/N wanted the topic to end but her mother shot her a look that shut her up.

"Well, uhm... it really was complicated and I don't want to be the one to say something about it. I'm sorry, Y/M/N."

The older woman nodded before she turned to Y/N with a knowing look. "Speak or you shall not eat a single drop of food from my fridge."

That is a threat. That is a scary threat and Y/N is not about to contest that.

Winnie watched the mother-daughter with amusement.

Y/N sighed. "We dated, for a bit. And then something happened and we broke up."

Y/M/N squinted her eyes, piecing two and two together. "Is it because of what happened with your English teacher? What's his name? Mr. Miller?"

"Mum." Y/N tried but she could see that her mother's not stopping until she knows something. "Yes, it had something to do with what happened to Mr. Miller."

"Is it similar to what happened to your father?" Y/M/N asked, a shake was heard in her voice.

"Let's stop talking about this, yeah? Let's just eat." Y/N said, holding her mother's hand as she smiled at the older woman.

Y/M/N stared at her daughter for a while, pain written in her eyes, but this time, not because of her late husband but because of her daughter. She felt so bad for her daughter, she felt pain knowing that her girlfriend hurt her this bad.

"Let's eat then." Y/M/N said, turning to Winnie who was giving her a sweet comforting smile. "Enjoy the food, Winnie."

Winnie smiled and nodded before they continued eating. The awkward atmosphere was soon replaced with laughter and teasing from the two kids. Y/M/N just watched them, even joining from time to time to tease her daughter. After dinner, Winnie bid them goodbye to go to her work.

"Thank you for the dinner, Y/M/N. Everything was so delicious." Winnie said from the living room while fixing her things.

"Come by anytime, sweetheart. It was lovely having you here."

"Good night." Winnie said before she was out with Y/N on the porch.

"Careful on your way to work." Y/N told Winnie and gave her a hug.

"Thank you for the wonderful dinner, your mom's wonderful." Winnie said before she went to her work.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Could you elaborate a bit on what the "half in-half out" deal that the Sussexes wanted (and were denied) actually involved? It comes up pretty frequently and I'm personally pretty unsure about what they actually were asking to receive and why the royals shot it down leading to total megxit.

Half-in: They wanted to be part-time official working royals to represent The Queen and the BRF but no longer cooperate with the royal rota for coverage of their activities and control how the public interacted/engaged with them.

Half-out: When they weren’t on official duty for The Queen/BRF, they wanted to make their own money through commercial deals for content, products, speaking gigs, and paid appearances, and all interactions with the press would be invite-only (aka no invite, no press access).

Why The Queen refused: It would have made the BRF pay-for-play, when their greatest asset is being “accessible” to all kinds of people from all walks of life. A pay-for-play system benefits only the wealthy and those who can afford it, drastically reducing the kind of reach, impact, and recognition the BRF has.

Why it led to Megxit: The Queen said “either you’re in or you’re out, full stop.” Meaning that if Harry and Meghan wanted to be official working royals and represent her/the BRF, they could not make their own money, control media/press access to their events, and limit the public commentary (aka censorship). But if they chose to make their own money, control access, and restrict the public, then they could not be official working members of the royal family. The Sussexes didn’t like that so they said “fine, we quit” and moved to California instead.

Here is Harry and Meghan’s first official statement about leaving the BRF and yes - it was first released on Instagram (vs the usual palace authorities):

This statement came after some leaks and scoops from Dan Wooten in The Sun. You can easily see what they envisioned for half in/half out:

Modernize the "spare" role in the royal family

No longer be senior members of the family, but continue representing the monarchy as needed

Being financially independent

Live part of the year in North America pursuing their own interests while living the rest of the year in the UK doing royal work

Raise Archie with appreciation for tradition

Launch their own charity

Collaborate with The Queen, Charles, William, and staff.

Still remain your beloved Duke and Duchess of Sussex

(My interpretation: They wanted to travel on the BRF's dime; attend signature BRF events; raise Archie as a fully-blooded Prince of the Realms; monetize their titles and social media; fund their personal charity work on the back of The Queen's, Charles's, and William's own works and efforts; and spend the glamorous British social season in the UK being royal, spend the shoulder seasons in Canada representing The Queen, and spend the brutal Canadian winter attending the glamorous Hollywood awards season and traveling the Caribbean Commonwealth nations. YMMV.)

When this statement was published, two things happened:

Everyone went to the Sussex Royal website to read their plan and immediately began laughing/rolling their eyes about how tone-deaf and ridiculous some of their demands were.

The BRF reacted with the royal equivalent of "wait a fucking minute."

Neither reaction was what the Sussexes expected. They expected total praise and support from the press and they expected the BRF to totally roll over and beg them to stay (and we know that because of the stories that Sussex-friendly press were writing). So immediately the Sussexes began clapping back - both at the public and at the BRF. For example, see this cflapback to claims that they blindsided the BRF with their "resignation" as senior royals by none other than Omid Scobie.

Also while they were clapping back via the press and social media associates, the content on their Sussex Royal website began getting changed and updated in real-time based on the critical commentary from the press (and likely alo the initial reactions from the BRF) in an attempt to show that the Sussexes still remained fully in control of their "Spring 2020 transition", like so:

As a result, the original manifesto angry-posted on January 8, 2020, is no longer easily available - most of the blogs that I’d consult for the original manifesto are no longer available (like Cat's original blog, which Sussex Squad forced down in 2021) and the ones that remain, their archives are enormous that it's like searching for a needle in a haystack. You can still find it, but it will require a LOT of patience because this was like a powder keg exploding - everyone came crawling out of the woodwork with commentary and criticism.