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solxamber · 2 days ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: My Consort Calls Me Shrimpy || Floyd Leech

You get isekaid into a novel where the perfect Empress got absolutely wrecked by the plot, and now you have to juggle a bland heroine, a traitorous consort, and a delightfully unhinged eel who’s oddly good at solving your problems.

Series Masterlist

You’re about three hours deep in line, squashed between a woman wearing an unsettling amount of dragon-themed jewelry and some dude intensely vaping in front of you. The line inches forward at the pace of continental drift, and you’re in no mood to be here.

You're here out of pure, misguided loyalty to your best friend, who’s practically shaking with excitement at the idea of meeting their favourite author—the world-renowned queen of girlboss fantasy.

In a valiant effort to distract yourself from your eternal boredom, you pull up her previous novels on your phone. Maybe, if you understood her work better, you’d understand why people would willingly spend this many hours standing on asphalt.

After skimming through some of her top titles, you can barely believe these are real book plots: Slaying the Patriarchy with My Stilettos? Lipstick and Blood Magic? Each one more ridiculous than the last, filled with protagonists who blast their enemies with a "feminine fury" and, honestly, you're just not buying it.

Why did I agree to this? you think, suppressing the urge to gnaw on your own hand out of boredom.

Suddenly, you spot a stray bird above—a pigeon, wobbling through the sky like it's had one too many lattes. You barely register the bird's existence until it lets out an alarming squawk and, in a tragic twist of fate, plummets from the heavens right towards your head.

In a perfect shot, it bonks you directly in the face, knocking you backward with an impressively dramatic flair. You spiral down, your vision blurring as you fall in slow motion, gasping.

In the last seconds of your consciousness, as chaos erupts around you, one solemn thought echoes through your mind: I hate pigeons.

And with that, you drift off into oblivion, serenaded by the panicked cries of your best friend and the distant wail of someone’s Lipstick and Blood Magic audiobook playing on full blast nearby.

You wake up, blink, and immediately realize that your bed is both way too luxurious and way too large. Rich, velvet curtains drape around you, shimmering with gold embroidery.

A chandelier overhead sparkles with enough jewels to fund at least three public libraries. The air smells like a mixture of incense, rose petals, and maybe faint hints of… burning tyranny?

Oh, dear God. You’ve been isekai’d.

Straight into that novel you were doom-scrolling through to survive the crushing boredom of line-waiting.

Your mind reels back to the summary you’d read. The heroine, a weepy maid with all the emotional range of wet toast. The consort, a charming traitor with “dreamy eyes” who betrays his own Empress for said toast. And then, of course, the villainess.

That poor, genius Empress who actually had talent and ambition, who could annihilate anyone with a flick of her wrist and yet was somehow destined to lose it all because of a love triangle involving a glorified housekeeper.

And now—you are that Empress. The Villainess Extraordinaire, Scourge of Kingdoms, War-Waging Prodigy, Mary Sue on Steroids… and now you're stuck in this tragic play of bad romance tropes.

You shoot upright in bed, taking it all in. Lavish room. Silk sheets. Jewels littered around like confetti. And then you notice a presence by your bedside. You whip your head to see… her. The heroine.

She's standing there, looking down at you with the wide-eyed wonder of someone who hasn’t yet discovered a single personality trait. Her face is soft, angelic, and you already know that beneath those doe eyes lies… absolutely nothing.

She's here to dress you, a task that apparently requires thirty minutes of excessive hair-braiding, enough layers to construct a mattress, and endless, mind-numbing conversation about the consort.

Oh, right. The consort. Your dear, disloyal boy toy who’ll soon be scheming against you. He’s probably off somewhere sharpening his cheekbones in a mirror, wondering if he can pull off “soulful yet traitorous” in the same expression.

The heroine starts tugging on your hair, a bit too enthusiastically for your taste. "Your Majesty," she coos, “Your consort was asking for you yesterday. He misses your attention."

You mentally scream. I'm running an empire, Susan! Who cares about his feelings right now? You're barely awake, freshly isekai'd, and trying to mentally tally your enemies, not exactly in the mood for his fragile ego.

And, technically, aren’t you the one in need of support here? Not the consort, who apparently needs a throne, a palace, and a shoulder to cry on every two hours.

"Oh," you manage to reply, voice dripping with an irritation that you pray she interprets as imperial grace. "Tell him… I’m thinking about military reforms."

The heroine’s eyes flicker in confusion. "Military reforms?"

"Yes. Reforms. Vital to the stability of our empire." You wave a hand, and she clearly has no idea what you're talking about. This maid was not hired for her intellectual curiosity, that’s for sure.

Then comes the worst part: her doe eyes start misting over. Great. You forgot. Crying is, apparently, her most crucial skill set. She clutches a sleeve to her chest, looking at you as if you’ve announced the arrival of a natural disaster. "Your Majesty… but what about your consort?"

You take a deep breath. Focus. How did this woman end up so crucial to the plot? What was it about her that was supposed to outshine an entire empire? It’s as if she’s constructed entirely from damp tissues and vague romantic inclinations. And this is the girl who’s going to take you down?

But you’re already devising a plan. You’ll keep tabs on her. Outwardly, you’ll play the role of the intimidating yet graceful Empress, while inwardly making sure that neither she nor the consort gets a single chance to stab you in the back. And as for the consort himself…

Well, when he finally arrives for his “audience,” you’ll be sure to give him the warmest, most menacing smile in your arsenal. For now, you’ll have to endure the heroine’s dramatic sniffles and the hundred layers of fabric she’s convinced you need.

As she fiddles with a particularly elaborate golden sash, you look at her with an eyebrow raised. “Tell me,” you say, feigning curiosity. “What would you do if the palace were to… burn down?”

Her face goes blank for a second. Then, she frowns and wrinkles her nose as if this question is somehow unsolvable. “Um… cry?”

Of course. Absolutely riveting. You sigh and try to look satisfied, which is hard when you’re mentally questioning how this woman has a heartbeat, let alone plot armor thick enough to take you down.

By the time she finishes with your dress, you've already come up with about sixteen ways to save the empire and seventy-two reasons why this love triangle is absolutely ridiculous.

In the mirror, you catch a glimpse of yourself. You’re the picture of beauty and deadly grace, an unstoppable Empress who could wield the fate of kingdoms.

And they want to reduce you to a footnote in the saga of this girl’s whimpering romance?

Well, that’s not happening. You’ve read the novel; you know how this story ends. And now that you’re here, you’re rewriting that ridiculous fate.

You try to keep a dignified expression, but inside, you’re screaming.

The entire reason you’ve gathered the harem is to graciously cut them loose and rid yourself of the ongoing melodrama. Because if there are no consorts, there’s no backstabbing love triangle, no tearful betrayals, and no doomed political coups.

You can practically taste the freedom already—so you clear your throat and begin, putting on your most diplomatic voice:

"Esteemed consorts,” you say, hands clasped. “Thank you for your service and devotion. You are now free to leave and may claim land and titles if you wish to remain in the empire.”

You pause, waiting for cheers or at least some relieved sighs. Instead, dead silence. You glance around and spot the heroine sneaking glances at the traitor consort, eyes brimming with pure unadulterated… something.

She looks like she’s five seconds away from throwing herself across a fainting couch. The consort looks at her for a moment and then back at you, entirely unimpressed.

Maybe they’re just in shock, you think, trying to keep it together. Maybe they need a moment to process the incredible gift of freedom you’ve just given them.

But then, from the back of the room, someone clears their throat—Floyd Leech. He raises his hand, a gleeful glint in his eye that makes your stomach churn.

See, Floyd was not a character that should’ve belonged in this novel. The man was unhinged. Slightly terrifying, if you’re being honest. He treated warfare like a casual hobby and had a grin that said I could absolutely cause problems on purpose.

And the worst part? Floyd was actually one of the few who stuck around in the original plot. After the Empress dies on the battlefield, he takes her body back to his home country, out of sheer love.

He's also the only one who got to call the Empress Regnant herself "Shrimpy" and lived to tell the tale. You'd swoon over the romantic implications if you weren't that same Empress who had bigger problems right now.

You steel yourself. “Yes, Floyd?”

“Can I stay?” he says, looking entirely too happy. “These other guys are boring, but you’re kinda fun to watch.” He stares at you like you’re some sort of exotic animal in a zoo. “Besides,” he adds, throwing an arm over a very uncomfortable-looking consort, “who’s gonna protect you if I leave? These losers?”

God help you.

Before you can even answer, the traitor consort steps forward, expression so intense you can feel it from across the hall. He clears his throat dramatically. “My Empress,” he says, taking a deep, tragic breath. “My heart is bound to you, like—like the tides to the moon. Like—”

In the background, the heroine lets out an audible, swooning sigh. Oh, please, you think. You’ve seen better monologues in toothpaste commercials. The consort glances at the heroine, clearly confused, then goes back to gazing at you with what he probably thinks is soulful longing.

Meanwhile, Floyd is grinning at him, shark-like. “Nice speech, buddy,” he says, clapping the guy on the back hard enough that the consort nearly goes sprawling. “But I think she liked mine better.” He leans in to whisper, loudly, “Besides, I bet you don’t even know her favorite food.”

The consort’s face scrunches. “Do you?”

“Nope!” Floyd beams, looking at you as if expecting some kind of reward. “But I’m gonna figure it out.”

The consort looks like he wants to protest, but before he can, another one of the harem—Lord Something-or-Other—steps forward, visibly shaking with emotion. He kneels, clutching a hand to his heart as if he’s about to propose.

“My Empress,” he says, voice wobbling with way too much sincerity. “Without you, my life is a barren wasteland. I would rather endure the endless, scorching sands of—”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Floyd groans. “Do you guys hear yourselves?”

“Can you not mock me while I pour my heart out?” Lord Something-or-Other snaps back.

“Sure I can. I’m multi-talented,” Floyd replies with a grin that’s somehow both playful and threatening. He leans against the throne, looking completely at home while you fight the urge to dive out the nearest window.

Now everyone’s in a frenzy. Every last one of these men—your so-called “consorts”—are lining up to deliver heartfelt soliloquies, tragic metaphors, and similes so flowery they might as well be a bouquet. You can barely keep a straight face as the next one steps forward, proclaiming that he would “gladly suffer a thousand winters if only to see her smile.”

As if on cue, the heroine wipes a tear from her eye, sighing dreamily. The consort she’s apparently in love with looks at her again, this time with an expression somewhere between pity and terror. But she doesn’t seem to notice, too busy whispering to herself, “Oh, how romantic…”

And then Floyd leans down and whispers in your ear, voice gleeful. “Y’know, if you let ‘em keep going, they might just start fighting each other for you. Free entertainment. Whaddaya think?”

You feel a headache coming on. “Floyd, please, I’m begging you—”

“What?” he asks, grinning wider. “I thought this was fun. C’mon, Empress,” he drawls, giving the title an absurd little flourish. “Let me stay. I promise I won’t let any of these guys stage a rebellion.” He smirks at the traitor consort. “Unless you feel like rebelling, huh?”

The traitor consort scoffs, bristling. “Unlike some of us,” he says, glaring at Floyd, “my devotion is genuine.”

“And boring,” Floyd mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

You let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Fine, Floyd. You can stay,” you say, hoping that giving him what he wants will end this disaster. You’re immediately filled with regret as his grin widens.

“Awesome! And you know what? Since everyone’s so devoted, why don’t we all stay? Make it a real party.” Floyd tosses an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the death glares from half the room.

Now you’re stuck with fifteen poets, one unhinged eel, and a heroine who’s still making heart eyes at a man who clearly isn’t interested. And as you sit there, feeling your last shreds of sanity slip away, you think, This is going to be a very, very long reign.

You’re making your way through the moonlit palace corridors, trying to mentally prepare yourself for the… experience that spending the night with Floyd Leech is sure to be.

Mostly, you’ve chosen him because, unhinged or not, he’s at least the most loyal out of this whole ridiculous lineup. Plus, there’s a kind of chaotic charm about him, like a very large, very untrained puppy with fangs.

But before you can even make it to his side palace, you’re intercepted.

“My Empress…” It’s the traitor consort. You sigh as he blocks your path, looking like he’s about to burst into tears. He’s clutching his chest dramatically, as if he’s seconds from fainting, and his voice wobbles with pure tragedy.

“Do you not love me anymore?” he blubbers, eyes shining with tears. “Why do you never choose me? Have I done something wrong? Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve graced my chambers?” He’s practically sobbing at this point, clutching at your sleeves like some tragic hero in a soap opera.

You stand there, blinking. “Uh… dude. I… what? ”

He looks at you with the heartbreak of a thousand rom-coms. “I thought you cared about me. I thought I meant something to you…”

You’re trying to process what exactly is happening (and failing spectacularly) when you hear an all-too-familiar voice.

“Yoo-hoo~!” Floyd’s voice echoes down the hall as he appears at the other end, looking like he’s just won the lottery. He practically skips toward you, a grin stretched across his face, his shark-like teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“Shrimpy!” he calls out cheerfully, giving you an exaggerated wave. But his cheerful demeanor drops like a rock the moment he sees the traitor consort clinging to you, tears streaming down his face.

Floyd’s grin turns into a much darker smirk, and his eyes narrow dangerously. He tilts his head, sizing up the blubbering man like he’s something he might enjoy crunching on for a midnight snack.

“Oi,” Floyd says, stepping closer, voice dropping into a lower, much more menacing tone. “What’re you doin’, crybaby? Gettin’ all snotty in front of my Shrimpy? That doesn’t seem real respectful, y’know?”

The traitor consort pales instantly, his tear-streaked face going from tragic to terrified in half a second flat. “I—I was just…” he stammers, trying to find an escape route.

“You were just what?” Floyd grins, but there’s absolutely nothing friendly about it now. “You got somethin’ you wanna say to her? ‘Cause I could help you say it better, y’know.” He cracks his knuckles for emphasis, and you swear the traitor consort’s soul nearly leaves his body.

And you? You’re exhausted. Normally, you’re pretty sure the original Empress would step in, say something appropriately royal and dignified to diffuse the situation. But at this point? You’re too tired to deal with either of them, and honestly, watching Floyd scare this guy senseless is a little too satisfying. So you just sigh and cross your arms, waiting it out.

“Look, I— I didn’t mean anything by it,” the traitor consort mutters, eyes darting between Floyd’s unsettling grin and your unimpressed stare. “I’ll… I’ll just go…”

And before you know it, he’s stumbling off, practically tripping over his own feet in his rush to escape Floyd’s glare. You can still hear his sniffles echoing down the hall as he disappears.

Floyd watches him go, then turns back to you with an exaggerated pout. “He didn’t even say bye. Rude, huh?” Then, just as quickly, his mood switches back, and he gives you a toothy grin. “C’mon, Shrimpy! Let’s go. You’re finally here!”

And without another word, he loops an arm around you, practically dragging you the rest of the way to his palace. By the time you arrive, you’re half-expecting him to start a monologue or make a big romantic speech, but instead, he plops down on the massive, plush couch, pulling you down next to him with surprising gentleness.

“There we go! See? Ain’t this way better than dealin’ with crybabies?” He laughs, leaning back and throwing an arm over your shoulders.

You give him a look. “Do you actually scare all of them off on purpose?”

Floyd grins, showing all his teeth. “Only the boring ones.” He taps his temple like he’s sharing some brilliant secret. “Can’t have anyone else thinkin’ they’re more special than me, right?”

Honestly, you’re too tired to argue. So you just lean back, letting Floyd prattle on about his grand plans for “getting rid of the competition.” At least, you think to yourself, you’ve successfully survived another day of being Empress.

The banquet table stretches out in front of you, each seat filled by one of your fifteen consorts, who are locked in an elaborate battle of “who’s the cutest?” You watch, sipping your wine like it’s medicinal, as they coo, flirt, and — at least in one unfortunate case — attempt a juggling act.

A consort on your left even starts singing a heartfelt ballad he very obviously wrote himself. You silently make a note to ask Heroine if it’s possible to declare some sort of moratorium on public serenades.

Just when you think the evening can’t get any more surreal, the doors burst open. Floyd strides in, late as usual, with all the grace and subtlety of a pirate commandeering the dinner table.

Without breaking stride, he makes a beeline for the coveted King Consort chair, ignoring the man who’s been trying to occupy it and who now looks as if he’s about to faint.

Floyd’s “gentle” suggestion to move aside comes in the form of a rather forceful nudge, and the poor consort goes skidding two seats down, clutching his untouched plate of tiny hors d’oeuvres.

Floyd plops into the seat, throws his legs up on the table, and proceeds to grab a handful of grapes like he’s claiming territory.

Instantly, fifteen men start having what can only be described as a collective meltdown. One consort gapes at Floyd, cheeks puffing like an indignant chipmunk; another begins audibly hyperventilating. Somewhere on the far end of the table, a man has already shed a single, dramatic tear.

Your maid Heroine sidles up to you, wide-eyed. She whispers loudly, as if she’s sharing a forbidden secret, “Your Majesty! You’ve broken their hearts!”

You stare at her, bewildered. “How? By letting Floyd sit down?”

Heroine nods, lip quivering. “They think you’ve… chosen! That’s the King Consort’s seat!”

“What? ” You glance at Floyd, who’s now lying back, casually chomping on a drumstick he must have acquired from who-knows-where. He doesn’t seem perturbed in the least.

“Yes!” Heroine sniffles, pulling out a lacy handkerchief. “It’s the sacred chair of royal favoritism!” She dabs at her eyes, gazing at you with something akin to heartbreak. “And here I thought you were a romantic.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” You rub your temples, feeling a headache coming on. “I just wanted a quiet dinner!”

One of the consorts, evidently hearing this, begins to wail, “But why, Your Majesty? We loved you!” It’s clear he’s already going to be composing several tragic stanzas about this moment.

Then Floyd — who’s been watching this entire scene with the amused look of someone who’s just discovered he’s won the jackpot — clears his throat, aiming a rather shark-like grin at Heroine. “Hey, little miss servant girl,” he says, his voice sugary sweet with a terrifying edge. “Maybe stop making Shrimpy feel guilty, hmm? Unless you want to join ‘em in the Royal Seat Shuffle?”

Heroine squeaks, as if he’s just offered to turn her into a garden gnome, and stammers an apology, hands fluttering as she edges away.

In the silence that follows, you decide enough is enough. “Thank you all for coming,” you announce, giving your consorts a forced smile. “This has been… lovely. But we’re done for tonight.”

The consorts hesitate, as if they want to protest. But when Floyd gives them one of his very special grins — the kind that says he just might take a whole different seat next — they practically stampede out of the dining hall, leaving behind a trail of emotional debris: teardrops, wilted roses, and a half-eaten plate of pastries.

As the door closes, Floyd leans back with a smirk, throwing an arm casually over the back of his new favorite chair. “So, looks like Shrimpy’s all mine tonight.”

You chuckle, half-exasperated, half-relieved. “Well, seems you chased everyone else off.”

“Don’t be like that,” he purrs, clearly pleased. “You know, you’re different now. Last time, you’d have been practically begging those guys to come back.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Maybe I’m just too tired to care anymore.”

He leans in, gaze softening. “Nah. You’ve just gotten tougher. And it looks good on you. The new Shrimpy’s got a spine.”

You smile, almost despite yourself, as Floyd raises his glass, winking. “To the new Shrimpy: long may she rule.”

The annual Talent Showcase Extravaganza for the Empress’s Affections has begun, and your consorts are pouring every ounce of drama and flair they possess into their performances, each desperate to secure that exclusive week at the countryside villa with you.

Unfortunately, it seems that the traitor consort — Mr. ‘I-know-the-theme-because-Heroine-can’t-resist-my-cheekbones’ — is dominating the competition. He’s wowing the audience with a perfectly themed tapestry, and you can already hear the maid giggling over in his cheering section.

This calls for drastic action.

You glance over to where Floyd is occupying himself by tormenting a pair of unfortunate ministers with tales of his more “creative” fishing techniques. With a sigh, you snap your fingers. He looks over, feigning annoyance at being interrupted in what he surely sees as “Minister Horror Story Hour.”

“Shrimpy, what gives? This is the first fun I’ve had since I got here,” he says, hands on his hips.

You clear your throat. “Actually, Floyd, I need you to… win this competition.”

He raises an eyebrow, incredulous. “What, by doing some fancy painting or something? Boring. If you want something painted, Shrimpy, I’ll fish out an octopus to do it for me.”

You take a deep breath. “If you do this, I’ll grant you any wish you want. Plus… an extra reward.”

Floyd pauses, smirking as he steps closer, his voice dropping into an exaggerated whisper. “Any wish, huh? Dangerous promise, Shrimpy.”

You raise an eyebrow, undeterred. “You in or not?”

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he sighs. “Fine. But I’m not painting. I’ve got something much better planned. Just try not to faint in awe, yeah?”

When Floyd finally unveils his “masterpiece,” the room falls silent. Somehow, he’s cobbled together a mosaic made entirely out of shiny rocks he probably pilfered from the palace’s prize garden.

The piece is of you, looking bold and triumphant, wielding what can only be described as a “battle spoon” against some sea monster (you’re guessing it’s supposed to be a shark, but it might just be a rock that looked vaguely fish-like).

“Ta-da!” Floyd announces, throwing his arms out. “The Empress: Rock ‘n’ Roll Edition. I call it, ‘Shrimpy, Queen of the Waves.’”

Despite yourself, you’re mildly… no, very swoony. Somehow, it’s both absurd and… kind of amazing. Floyd’s grin is pure mischief as he winks at you. “Like it, Shrimpy? Don’t worry, I can make one for the garden too.”

But your moment is interrupted by a loud sniffle from across the room. The traitor consort, clearly irate at being outshone, is tearing up, looking at you with big, watery eyes as if you’re the villain in this scenario. Heroine looks one step away from bolting to his side, but he raises a hand, his voice trembling as he murmurs, “No, I only want the Empress to comfort me.”

You shoot a silent plea to the universe, practically chanting, “Please, mercy, mercy…”

Floyd, never one to ignore an opportunity, steps up, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Sorry, bud. Shrimpy’s already spoken for tonight. You’ll have to get in line. Oh, and try not to tear up over her rock portrait, yeah? Not all of us can handle the majesty.”

The crowd erupts in applause, one point to you and Floyd — and you’re pretty sure Heroine’s sulking in the corner, still staring longingly at the sobbing traitor consort, but that’s a future problem. For now, you’ve got a mildly unhinged art piece to hang up and a certain mischievous consort to thank.

It’s another late night in the study when you notice the Heroine, your ever-loyal (if not a little clueless) maid, lingering by the doorway, watching you with an odd expression. At first, you chalk it up to her usual eccentricities. But as the minutes tick by, she doesn’t move, just stands there with a faraway look in her eyes. Finally, you set down your work and gesture for her to come in.

“Hey,” you say gently, “what’s on your mind?”

She hesitates, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s nothing, really…” Then, in a small voice, “It’s just… I never got to study like this.”

Your brow furrows, and as she opens up, the full picture starts to form. The Heroine, despite her noble blood, was barred by her father from studying—her dreams of an education crushed under his outdated beliefs.

She clung to the traitor consort, she confesses, because he seemed like an escape, even if a flimsy one. He was a nobleman with some level of authority, and for her, he felt like the only ticket to a different life.

Understanding sinks in. It’s not love she feels for him at all. It’s desperation, something almost like a distorted version of Stockholm syndrome.

She’s convinced herself he’s her only way out, though it’s clear as day that he doesn’t deserve her loyalty. The man’s barely got two brain cells, but he’s got freedom—and for her, he must have looked like her only way out.

The realization hits you hard, like finding out your favorite dessert is made with broccoli. No wonder she’s been swooning over that guy. She’s not “in love”—she’s just starved for any path out of her cage. Your heart softens, and you give her a gentle, if slightly exasperated, smile.

“Well, that won’t do,” you say firmly. “How about this? I’ll teach you myself. Then, when you’re ready, we’ll get you the education you deserve.”

Her face goes through a series of hilarious expressions, from shock to joy to the kind of wide-eyed, wobbly-lipped excitement normally reserved for puppies seeing their owner after a long day. And so, your lessons begin.

Over the next few weeks, you teach the Heroine to read, and she devours each lesson like a kid in a candy store. She’s throwing herself into her education with such energy, it’s like she’s forgotten the traitor consort entirely.

And you’re thrilled—partly for her growth and partly because it means your coup odds have just dropped by a solid 90%.

Soon, Heroine’s loyalty to you is ironclad, her former starry-eyed infatuation with the traitor consort completely extinguished. You’re so relieved you could dance, and, maybe more importantly, you realize that the kingdom’s other daughters deserve the same chance.

In a flash of imperial inspiration, you draft a new law requiring all daughters, noble or otherwise, to attend the academy. The state will foot the bill, so no one has an excuse to hold their daughters back.

Later that night, feeling unexpectedly sentimental, you return to your room to find Floyd sprawled on your bed, grinning like he’s just heard the world’s juiciest gossip.

“You look smug,” you say, arching an eyebrow.

“Nah, just… pleased,” he drawls, giving you that signature mischievous smirk. And before you know it, he pulls you into a surprisingly tight hug, his arms wrapping around you with unexpected warmth. “Look at my Shrimpy, changing the world one law at a time.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks despite yourself. “Oh, stop it,” you mutter, though you don’t pull away.

He chuckles, giving you an affectionate squeeze. “Nah. You’re doing great, Empress. I’m proud of you.”

You’re speechless. Floyd? Sentimental? But as he holds you, laughing at your stunned expression, you can’t help but feel a little…smitten.

You’re reviewing reports in the study, savoring the rare, blissful calm, when the double doors burst open like some villain from a badly written romance novel. There stands the traitor consort, dressed in what looks like…a suit made of loose, strategically placed peacock feathers, a sequined sash, and—oh, yes—face glitter.

He strikes a pose, does a dramatic hand flip, and announces, “Behold! My love for you is eternal, as boundless as the stars, and as bold as my outfit!”

You're thinking about ordering Floyd to chase him out with a chair, when you catch Heroine’s expression—somewhere between horror and volcanic rage.

With a fierce gleam in her eye, she steps in front of you, looking like she’s about to deliver an exorcism. “You…” she begins, her voice so cold even the peacock feathers on his shoulders look like they might molt in fear. “You miserable, egotistical, fashion-disaster-in-waiting!”

He’s stunned, blinking like a child caught sneaking candy. “W-what? Heroine, you used to help me with my plans!”

“Yeah, well, that was before I got a brain cell,” she snaps. “I actually know my worth now, and it’s definitely not tied to whatever fever-dream cape situation you’ve got going on.” She points to his glittering sash. “What, did you rob an arts-and-crafts store on the way here? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

He stammers, visibly shrinking, feathers quivering with fear. “Y-you were always there for me…”

“That was when I was too naive to realize you were the human equivalent of a trash fire!” She’s in full swing now, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, spitting out insults that would make the court jester blush. “Please, the Empress has standards, and you’re down there with questionable cabbage soup.”

He reels back, totally caught off-guard. By this point, you’re honestly not sure if you should applaud or slowly back away.

With a smirk, you lean forward and say, “Well, since you’re dressed for the occasion, why don’t you strut that ridiculous ensemble back to your own country?”

He opens his mouth, gapes like a fish, and finally closes it, completely defeated. Without another word, he shuffles out, feathers dragging behind him in a sad little pile.

The second he’s out of earshot, you sigh, look up, and thank the universe for finally sparing you from that headache. The Heroine just dusts her hands off, grinning like she’s just won the greatest battle of her life, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how terrifyingly competent she’s become.

Floyd has been hounding you about his reward for days now, showing up at all hours with the persistence of a cat at dinner time. You’re mid-sentence in a policy meeting, mid-sip at dinner, even mid-bath when you hear him shout from outside the door, “Hey, Shrimpy! Remember my prize? Don’t forget now!”

Finally, in a moment of resignation, you sigh and wave him in. “Fine, Floyd. What do you actually want?”

He grins, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that should probably have you worried. “Make me king consort.”

You open your mouth, ready to laugh and then say something like, “No chance,” but then…you pause. Because—why not? He’s loyal, he’s your particular brand of chaos, and honestly, the idea of using it as an excuse to disband the harem is almost too good.

You’d get to tell everyone you’d found the “love of your life” and keep your mornings free of peacock-feathered declarations of eternal devotion.

“Alright, Floyd,” you say, shrugging as if you just agreed to a dinner plan and not a royal title. “You’re king consort.”

For a solid five seconds, he’s frozen, blinking like he’s not sure if you just announced the best prank of the century or an actual royal decision.

Then, with a roar of laughter, he picks you up, actually tossing you in the air like a sack of grain. “SHRIMPY, I’M KING CONSORT! WOOOO!”

Ministers nearby practically leap out of their chairs in terror, and one drops his teacup with a spectacular crash.

“Oh, and by the way,” he says, setting you down but keeping a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t think I forgot—I still get that week alone with you in the countryside. Just you, me, and the great outdoors.”

You’d expected to feel dread, but instead…you’re kind of excited? Because it turns out, when there’s no glittered consort in sight, Floyd’s brand of mayhem might just be exactly what you needed.

You’re slumped on the throne, staring into the void as a minister drones on about the scandalous rise in scarf-wearing among the commoners.

The man is red-faced and foaming at the mouth as if he’s narrating the downfall of civilization itself instead of just… knitted accessories. With each drawn-out sentence, your urge to grab his own scarf and dramatically tie it around his face grows stronger.

“And, Your Majesty, don’t you agree that such… frivolousness undermines the dignity of the empire?” he sputters.

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, one mental toe dangling into the sweet abyss of existential crisis. How did your life get to this point? Did the previous Empress really deal with scarf politics? You contemplate just passing the crown to the nearest potted plant. Surely it couldn’t do worse.

Then, like a savior bathed in sunlight, Floyd appears. He slinks in casually, eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of glee and malice. He takes one look at Wedgeworth’s scarf-induced fervor and rolls his eyes. “Oh, I see the scarf issue is really eating away at the Empire,” Floyd deadpans, clearly unamused at the absurdity.

The minister stammers, blinking like he’s never been interrupted in his life. “Well, actually, I was explaining to Her Majesty—”

Floyd raises a hand. “I’ll take it from here, Lord Scarfington. Very urgent royal matters, wouldn’t want to keep the Empress from them, now would we, hmm?”

The ministers exchange horrified looks, but when Floyd locks eyes with them, his expression darkens into a gaze that could probably scare the teeth off a shark. Ministers shuffle out, muttering about “the sanctity of scarves” and how they “never liked those shellfish folk anyway.”

When you’re finally alone, you look at Floyd, and he gives you a grin. “Come on, Shrimpy, I’ve got a surprise.”

He leads you through a series of narrow, winding hallways you didn’t even know existed until you arrive at a small, hidden courtyard surrounded by high walls and shaded by some flowering trees.

In the middle of it is a picnic spread that looks… questionable. There’s food you don’t recognize: odd, glistening items that could pass as snacks in a very brave galaxy.

“I brought some delicacies from the Coral Sea,” Floyd announces, looking way too proud. “I even cooked some of this myself.”

You smile, hoping he means the less suspicious dishes, but as you take a bite of one of the “unique” items, you immediately realize your error. It’s a taste explosion, and not in a good way; you’re fairly certain you just ate something alive. Floyd’s already laughing, watching you try to hold back a gag.

“Oh, that’s rich, look at your face!” He claps his hands, doubled over with laughter.

But then you try the food he actually cooked, and it’s… it’s really good. Your eyes widen. “Floyd, you didn’t tell me you could cook!”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Guess you just have that effect on me, Shrimpy.”

As you eat, you feel the weight of scarf debates and mundane ministerial crises slip away. Floyd’s teasing you about your reaction to the Coral Sea snacks, you’re pretending to smack him, and somewhere between the laughter and the food, you realize you’re completely relaxed. You’re even… happy.

Then he casually picks up a pillow, eyes glinting with mischief. “Hey, Shrimpy,” he says slowly, “bet I can take you down.”

“Bring it, fish-boy,” you fire back, grabbing a pillow.

A feather flies. Then another. In no time, the two of you are engaged in a full-on pillow war, feathers floating through the air in chaotic puffs. You swing a pillow with all your might, narrowly missing Floyd, who dodges and counters with a playful shove, sending you sprawling onto the blanket, laughing so hard you’re almost crying.

In the flurry of feathers and laughter, you realize just how much you care about him. And as if reading your mind, Floyd suddenly stops, pinning you down, his face hovering just inches above yours. His usual playful grin fades into something softer, more serious, and you find yourself staring up at him, completely captivated.

You kiss him, right there, surrounded by scattered feathers and half-eaten snacks. “I think I’m in love with you, Floyd,” you whisper.

He grins, looking almost smug. “Knew you’d come around eventually, Shrimpy. You’re a smart one.”

You roll your eyes, laughing, and pull him into another kiss, feeling lighter than you have in ages. Whatever royal nonsense tomorrow brings, you know you’ve got him—and for now, that’s more than enough.

Vacation plans with Floyd start out so simple in theory, but the minute he said, “Countryside? Nah, Shrimpy, we’re going under the sea,” you just nodded because, hey, you did promise a reward. Plus, how bad could it be?

Bad, it turns out, is relative. Upon arrival, Jade, Floyd’s brother, gives you a grin that says welcome, poor soul. “So, my brother’s finally gone and gotten himself an Empress. How unexpected,” he says with a glint in his eye that suggests he’s got a bet running on how long you’ll last.

But you’ve barely survived Jade’s interrogation when Azul, Coral Sea’s resident business octopus, swims up with an entire briefcase of contracts and a grin that spells danger.

“Welcome, Your Majesty! I thought we might discuss a mutually beneficial agreement,” he says smoothly, his tone so charming you almost miss that the contract slides in a 50-year lease on your kingdom’s fishing industry.

“So that’s how it is here,” you think, snapping back to business mode. You haggle until both sides are happy, but the second you reach across to shake Azul’s hand, Floyd swoops in, sighing dramatically. He grabs your hand, practically prying it out of Azul’s. “Alright, Shrimpy, enough time with the fish dealer. You’re mine this week.”

Before you can blink, he’s thrown you over his shoulder like you’re a stray potato sack, striding away from an open-mouthed Azul and an utterly delighted Jade who looks like he's a minute away from bursting out popcorn.

By the time he hauls you to your guest room and plops you on the bed, his usual grin has given way to an expression you’ve only seen on annoyed cats. He’s holding your hand in a grip that could rival steel, not letting go even as he sulks like a kid who just lost his favorite toy.

“Floyd,” you say slowly, “is something wrong?”

He looks away, puffing out his cheeks, refusing to answer. It's downright adorable in an overgrown, slightly unhinged eel sort of way. You squint at him, reaching over to grab his face, smushing his cheeks together until he finally makes eye contact. “Hey, I can’t read your mind, Floyd. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He mutters something too low to hear, and you lean closer, arching a brow. “What was that?”

“You’re my Shrimpy,” he grumbles louder, still not meeting your eyes. “And the handshake with that fish scammer went on too long.”

It takes every ounce of self-control not to burst into laughter. “So that’s it, huh?” A laugh slips out despite your efforts, and his pout deepens, though his grip on your hand stays as firm as ever. “You silly eel,” you chuckle, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “As if anyone could match me like you do?”

That does it. His expression softens, the pout melting into that slightly unhinged, overly excited Floyd smile you know too well. “See, Shrimpy, that’s why you’re the only one for me!” he practically shouts before pulling you into a spin that has you clinging to him for dear life.

He kisses you again, and you’re so breathless you half-expect a storm outside to rise to match.

But it doesn’t matter—he’s too busy swearing up and down that he’s not letting anyone else get a “single fin” on you. And somehow, as you laugh together, it feels like you really are on a vacation you never knew you needed.

The ceremony for crowning Floyd as your King Consort goes all-out, much to your delight—and, judging by the expressions around the room, their absolute horror. The whole throne room is so packed with flowers and banners it might as well be a festival.

You’ve made sure that this is a spectacle the diplomats and ministers will never forget. After all, the more smitten you look with Floyd, the less they’ll try to “reason” you out of it. And if they have any opinions about your choice, well, they can keep it to themselves—or they can talk to Floyd.

As you lean in to place the crown on Floyd’s head, he’s giving you a smirk so bright you swear it’s practically a stage light. The second the crown touches his head, he dips you into a kiss that is equal parts “fairytale ending” and “scandalized gasp from the old guard.” The ministers are barely holding in a collective gasp. Someone clutches their chest like they might need medical attention.

Over on the sidelines, you can see Jade and Azul clapping way too enthusiastically for the room’s mood. Meanwhile, everyone else looks like they’re watching you deface a holy artifact. You pull back with a satisfied smile, fully aware of the whispers swirling through the room.

Now, to seal this newfound reign in your own… unique way.

You turn to the front rows where your now-ex-harem stands, looking various shades of awkward and confused. These “prizes” will be going back to their respective nations, and it’s about time. “Ambassadors,” you announce, your tone absolutely oozing sincerity, “I believe you’ll be taking back your… prizes. Enjoy.”

The diplomats exchange looks, clearly unsure if they should feel insulted or relieved. You give them a regal wave and watch as they shuffle out with the ex-consorts in tow, one of whom lets out a dramatic sigh loud enough to reach the rafters.

Just as the room finally starts calming down, you glance over at the row of your ministers—many of whom look like they’d rather have run off with the consorts.

These are the ancient relics of nepotism who have only ever accomplished growing their own egos and possibly a few money-siphoning schemes. You decide now’s the time to deal with them, too.

Smiling so politely it almost looks sweet, you say, “Ministers, thank you for your service. But I’m sure you’ll understand when I say…” You pause, voice dropping to an icy sweetness, “You’re dismissed. Please kindly fuck right off.”

Several of the men freeze, as if unsure they heard you correctly. One or two start spluttering, “But—Your Majesty—this is—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Floyd cuts in, grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying this far too much. “You’re free to go! You wouldn’t want to disappoint the Empress, would ya?”

It takes a second, but the room clears of protesting ministers soon enough. Then you turn to the waiting group of young scholars, women who fought their way up to the top on pure merit, many of them owing their presence here to your recently passed education reforms. “Welcome,” you say with a genuine smile. "Your interviews will be conducted tomorrow"

Their reactions are priceless. Several tear up on the spot, whispering thank-yous so heartfelt you nearly tear up yourself. One of them murmurs, “This is a dream come true. Thank you, Your Majesty.”

You feel a swell of pride. This is what you’ve wanted to see—a competent court, fresh talent, and the chance to make a real difference. Just as you’re soaking in the satisfaction of this triumph, Floyd leans over, clearly up to something.

“You’re done now, yeah?” he asks with a conspiratorial grin.

“Uh, yes?” You've barely said the words, only for him to suddenly scoop you up and throw you over his shoulder, entirely ignoring the royal dignity of it all. The young scholars stare, completely unsure of whether to salute or run.

“Floyd!” you half-laugh, half-scold. “You could at least let me walk out on my own!”

“Nah,” he says, casually strolling down the hall with you like you’re a sack of potatoes. “You’re mine now, Shrimpy. And besides, it’s tradition for the King Consort to carry his Empress, isn’t it?”

“I’m pretty sure it isn’t,” you mutter, but you wave cheerfully at everyone as you’re carried off.

As he strides out of the throne room, ignoring the horrified gasps and protests behind you both, Floyd grins. “Any more old men to fire? ‘Cause I’m having a great time.”

You shake your head, smiling. After all, you’re the Empress—who’s going to stop you now?

Your empire has transformed. The old guard, once weighed down by nothing but scarves and scandals, has finally given way to a bright-eyed group of scholars and ministers, most of whom—much to the old ministers' horror—are brilliant young women now leading the realm.

Among them is your ex-maid, the heroine herself, newly appointed as Minister of Diplomatic Affairs and already so intimidatingly competent that foreign diplomats quake just a bit when she enters the room.

And the grandest twist of all: you declare that your successor will not be by blood but by merit. The heir to the throne will be the sharpest, most capable mind in the empire, regardless of their birth.

You’re already giddy as you imagine the ambitious parents prepping their offspring for the grueling tests you’re planning—challenges you’ll design alongside your newly assembled council.

After hours of being regal and respectable, you finally get back to your chambers, ready for a night of blissfully ignoring politics. Floyd, your beloved eel, is already sprawled on the couch like he’s conquered half the known world, arms open and ready to receive you. You practically collapse into his embrace, sighing as you burrow against him.

“So, Shrimpy,” he drawls, smirking. “Fix the whole empire yet?”

“Almost,” you laugh. “At least I’ve retired the Scarf Parliament. That’s enough for today.”

You snuggle closer, closing your eyes, and for a second, you think back to the ridiculous, drama-filled story that threw you into this life. Maybe the original author had a point, or maybe she just really liked throwing you curveballs.

Either way, cuddled up with the love of your life while your empire flourishes, you can’t help but think, yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing.

Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #floyd leech x reader #floyd leech x you #floyd x reader #floyd x you #floyd leech #floyd #trash novel chronicles

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heesimp · 2 days ago

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I lwk keep imagining Heeseung doing a livestream and you’re just sitting there bored and decide to give him head when he’s talking to his fans like>>>> help😭🙏🙏

HOT. au where idol!heeseung’s sextape gets leaked so he becomes a pornstar instead. bye

also I thought about this tiktok/live the entire time I wrote this ha

“What time is it for me? Oh, I think it’s midnight…Yeah, couldn’t sleep.”

Heeseung sits behind his desk and leans against his gaming chair, giving his fans a small peek of his bedroom. They can see his door and artwork that keeps on his shelves and walls but they can’t see the bed where you lay sleeping peacefully with your back turned.

“Missed you guys,” he says with his voice kept low. His eyes flicker over the screen of his monitor to see you naked underneath his sheets. “Why am I talking quietly? It’s night time, isn’t it? I don’t want to wake the members up.”

They seem to buy it for now. Heeseung’s soft melodies that put you to sleep still air throughout the room, songs that describe sex and sensuality floating around as it permeates within the chat room of his livestream. He sees the comments—ones he can read—and smirks when the people watching him call him out for the nasty lyrics.

It takes him back to just thirty minutes prior when he was making a mess of you on his bed, shoving his cock and fingers so deep in your hole that he was sure you’d feel him as melodic lyrics talk about having sex all day and night. He hasn’t seen you in a while due to busy schedules but now that he has his own room and the walls are relatively thick, he’s got no problem plowing into you without abandon.

“Wet the bed? Yeah, that’s a good song.” Heeseung rubs his chin and flicks his eyes over to you before looking back at the chat. “What am I looking at? What do you mean? What could I possibly be looking at?”

The uptick in his voice sends his chat room in a frenzy. He feels like he might as well be high off his last orgasm and knows his fans can sense his change of attitude. Seeing you half naked in his bed doesn’t help calm his mind anyway.

Heeseung chats with these strangers for a while before you stir. The music drowns out the sound of his bedsheets ruffling and he turns up the music just a smudge in case you make any more noise. To his pleasure, you turn to face him and immediately catch that he’s on a livestream with the glow on his face.

“I’m not tired,” Heeseung says after a beat of silence, looking at his monitor before looking at you. The sight of your naked chest makes him bite his lips, tits spilling out of the blanket as you do your best to sit upright and cover yourself. “Not tired at all. Are you guys tired?”

His cock jumps when you shake your head. “I could keep going.” Heeseung’s attention returns to the screen as he runs his free hand through his hair. “You guys are too funny. What do you mean, why am I acting like this?”

Your tired eyes seem to understand exactly what he means and your own mind drifts over to what transpired before you fell asleep. With a careful step, you make room for yourself underneath the desk and let Heeseung situate himself in his chair as you spread his legs by pushing his knees apart.

This isn’t the first time the two of you have fooled around on a livestream but it is the first time he’s done it with his camera on. Heeseung loves looking at his comments as you get him off and loves all of the tweets and posts after the fact, speculating that he might’ve been distracted during the livestream. These scenarios fuel him to keep going and he thinks he might have a little taste for exhibitionism.

He looks down at you. Your cheek rests against his knee and his thumb comes to brush just underneath your eye with a gentle touch. He bites his lip when he looks past your eyes and sees you completely naked underneath him, tits bouncing as you get comfortable with your bare pussy towards the floor.

“Mm,” he moans subtly. “Can’t wait for the weekend. We don’t have any plans, for once. What are you guys up to?”

Heeseung pretend to grab his water in order to lift his hips from the desk and let you pull his boxers down. His cock is still soft before you. Your lips come to press gentle, quiet kisses over his warm dick while he gulps the water down and flexes his thighs to keep himself calm underneath your mouth.

“Coming to Korea? Wow.” Your tongue moves over the head of his cock and repeatedly licks over his slit in a back and forth motion, which makes him choke and cough. “You’ll love it here. I know I do.”

You pay no mind to him with his subtle flirtation as you work up his cock until it’s hard. Heeseung is always like this, so sensitive that one touch makes him harder than a rock in no time. Being on the road and away from you is tough and his hand can only do so much. Your warm mouth dropping spit to coat him for a blowjob is what keeps him hard.

“What’s up with my music?” Heeseung laughs, biting his lip as you engulf his tip in your mouth. Your wet tongue is warm to the touch and his balls feel heavy with you around him. “Nothing. I just like these songs.”

That’s not a total lie. He loves them because he fucked you to this music before turning on his camera. You give his balls a squeeze when you catch him in the lie and Heeseung winces, trying to hold in his moan.

“You guys are hearing things,” he tells the chat when they start speculating that someone might be in the room with him. “Why do I keep looking down? I don’t know. I didn’t realize I was doing that.”

Another lie, but you let him go this time. You push your head down to force the entirety of his cock in your mouth and feel as his hips jerk at the sudden movement. Heeseung can only smile painfully and hold in his grunts while the camera is on him. Looking down at you isn’t an option since his fans have caught on to his line of sight but the thought of getting caught turns him on. He’d probably invite them to watch you suck him off if that wouldn’t cost him his job.

You look so cute on your knees like this for him. Heeseung avoids looking down at you but sees your mouth move from his peripheral vision and holds your hair out of your face as you push yourself up and down on him. You’re insanely wet to the point where you might as well be dripping right onto the hard wood of his floors. Hearing him talk to his fans about everything but what’s happening is turning you on far more than you’d like to admit. Seeing him flirt with fans on stage fuels your jealousy and winds up in mind blowing sex when he comes back home to you. You’re the only girl he’d ever want around his dick anyway.

You know Heeseung is close by the tightened grip he has on your hair and the way he flexes his nostrils because he can’t make a sound.

“When am I coming back to America?” Heeseung asks after reading a message. “I’m coming—”

He does, right into your mouth until his salty cum coats the surface of your tongue. You swallow him with his cock still lodged in you and suck him with an iron grip while he tries to answer the question but it’s so hard for him to focus when you’re sucking him like that.

“—in a while, I think.” Heeseung winces when you start to kitten lick his slit to catch the stray beads of cum that seeps from him. “Yeah. I’d love to come.”

#enhypen smut #heeseung smut #lee heeseung smut #enha smut #heeseung x reader #lee heeseung x reader #enhypen x reader #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen hard hours #enha hard thoughts #enha hard hours #heeseung #hard thought

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loreleywrites · 2 days ago

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In a moment like this, only one man can help Bruce Wayne through this difficult time: Michael Jon Carter, THE Booster Gold.

Bruce: I am a master of my craft. Dedicated myself to living two lives and sheparding many others. I have made gods themselves penitent. How the hell am I supposed to cope with this...this humiliation?

Mike: Settle down, my Bat-bestie! This is tabloid drivil. It'll blow over in a few days, tops. You have no idea how often I have to deal with the gossip mags calling me a huge slut.

Ted: (laughing from the other room) Lmao what no you don't.

Bruce: Get to the point, Booster.

Mike: OK so the number one tactic here is to remember that the public has the attention span of a macaque blitzed on Four Loko. Don't ask me how I know that. Just jingle some new keys and they'll forget all about the "Bruce Wayne is Batman is a huge slut" thing.

Bruce: First of all, I actually respect the public. Second, I know it can't be that easy.

Mike: Correctamundo! If you want to dislodge a smear campaign, you gotta taunt TMZ with something at least as juicy. It's like physics! I think. Skeets still refuses to explain science to me after the whole macaque incident.

Bruce: I'm not starting another rumor just to cover my own ass.

Mike: No need! I'll do it. Did you know Superman has a tattoo?

Bruce: He doesn't.

Mike: I'm shocked. Shocked! We share a locker room and you've never seen it? Right on the inner thigh, near his super-you-know-what. Looks like a cat.

Bruce: This is nonsense. Superman does not have a tattoo of Streaky on his thigh.

Mike: Who the heck is Streaky?

Bruce: Superman's cat.

Mike: We're allowed to have pets!? Skeets! Are you a pet?

Skeets: (from the other room) I always thought of myself more as a "friend."

Mike: Anyway, pretty weird of Superman to have a tattoo of his pet cat, Stinky, near his Kryptonian ding-dong.

Bruce: That's not...sigh. Look. I appreciate your intent, Booster. But you clearly don't know anything and cannot help me here. I'll figure out my own way out of this.

Mike: And yet, we're not talking about super-slut Bruce "The Batman" Wayne anymore, are we?

Bruce: ...

Mike: Or macaques.

Bruce: I...owe you an apology, Booster. In all my years as the greatest detective on the planet, I may have overlooked the possibility that such an inane solution to a problem would have real-world efficacy. Thank you, and I'm sorry.

Mike: No problem, Batso! I know you'd do the same for me.

Ted: (from the other room) Hey, babe, why's Cat Grant running an article about "Booster Gold's monkey drug parties?"

Mike: I'm gonna need the "do the same for me" part, pronto.

I'm sorry, we as a society do not talk about the fact that in order to maintain his playboy billionaire status Bruce Wayne had to sleep with a lot of people,, a lot, of people in order to maintain that.

And I'm not shaming him for that, get your hot girl summer brucie hell yea, but what I will say is can you imagine,,,

How hilarious it would be that when eventually Batman's identity gets revealed- it's not the reaction he was expecting.

‘‘Oh my god. Oh my god, Bruce Wayne Bruce Wayne the the bimbo Sexy billionaire boy. He is the stoic hard-ass Batman. There's no way-”that's not the reaction. The reaction is

“holy fucking shit I've slept with Batman”

Three quarters of that city and beyond is sat in front of their TVs, their radios, their phones,, I don't care. They're sitting there, agape going ‘I have slept with the Dark Knight. I have seen Gotham's Bat naked on his knees-‘

bruce wouldn’t be able to look the justice league nor his kids in the eyes for weeks after the reveal, solely due to the gossip channels or smth

#batman #bruce wayne #booster gold #michael carter #blue beetle #ted kord #skeets #dc comics

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solelifauna · 3 days ago

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GUYS THIS COMMENT FROM @silken-moons ON THE WEREWOLF AU HAS ME LOCKED IN.

silken-moons:

Wait....so what happened to Kon or Conner in this au ? Was he the one eaten since he was basically half human and kryptonian too assuming lex is human in this au too.

I am more than happy to elaborate.

Lex is a half-human half-werewolf hybrid like the reader. So Conner would be half-kryptonian and only a fourth werewolf. When Clark finds out about his existence he’s pissed (at first). Superman doesn’t hesitate before finding Luthor and melting his skull in with his laser vision. It’s quite the graphic scene, Conner unfortunately being there to witness it all.

Conner is pressed back into some crevice in Luthor's office, doing his best to calm his heart beat, stave off his on-coming panic attack, and pray that Superman won’t kill him. Clark of course finds him curled in on himself, hyperventilating, tears streaming down his teenage face.

Conner is blubbering, he thinks, trying to communicate some type of garbled “please” and “I’m sorry” and “don’t hurt me please”. Superman just critically eyes him before knocking the clone out. Now, in the beginning he was just planning on taking the clone to the Watch Tower to interrogate him and then kill him. Perhaps Jon would like the extra meat?

But after watching the clone wake up alone in one of the containment units, crying quietly to himself as he rocked back and forth, he started to feel a little bad. He thought back onto the way the clone had practically begged him for mercy through his own panic attack. He's read Lex Luthor's files on "Superboy", how this clone had no flight, was not invulnerable, and couldn't even throw out half of Clark's strength.

This clone was no threat, no, in fact he was a gift. Another Kryptonian (even if the clone was only half with human DNA in his mix). And even better, the clone boy had no ill intentions towards the JL, hell, the boy looked afraid that anyone even considered the idea. No, no, no, this boy, his boy, was so sweet.

From the way he leaned into Clarks palm when he caressed the sleeping boys face, to the way he clung to Clark and his approval like a touch starved puppy, Clark couldn't help himself. The only problem now was getting his Wife and Son on the same page. He knew werewolf customs, he knew what it meant for Conner (a name his new son had previously picked out).

It would probably be easier to convince Jon considering the poor kid's been wanting a sibling for a long time now (Jon is 8 right now, but still all the same crazy). Lois might take a bit more time, considering pack bonds and the human part of Conner. So with a heavy heart, he kisses his new baby goodnight, as he flies home for he night. Yes, its been a couple of weeks since Connors arrival and he still hasn't told his family. he plans to amend that today.

He expects growling and demands for flesh. he expects outrage from his wife, or even a calm cool collected "bring him to me". What he gets instead are demands from Lois to see Conner, her new son. Clark blinks in surprise before he's fumbling with his phone, opening up his camera role where has has a million new pictures of Conner. Lois only grabs his phone, cooing over the pictures with adoration in her eyes. Well, Clark is pleasantly surprised.

"You're not mad are you Lois?" Clark asks gently.

"Oh I'm not mad Smallville, I'm livid." She all but growls, a smile still etched on her face as she continues scrolling. "You knew about him for weeks, and didn't even bother letting me know. I had a son for weeks, and he's been by himself."

Clark winces. "I know Lois, I know. I just-I was just afraid that you wouldn't want him the way I do. That you'd rip him open, hell, even I considered it in the beginning!"

Lois looks up from his phone, a knowing smile, a soft one, on her face. "I know farm boy, I know. But its important that you remember we don't always kill and eat the weak. Sometimes, its nice to have something that you can love and take care of, something that relies on you and only you."

"is that what you have planned for Connor?"

"Of course. He's our son now, and after everything he's been through, its out job to keep him and Jon safe. Until he can prove himself capable, he's not leaving the den."

A content grin makes its way onto Clarks face. Oh how he loved his wife. "I wouldn't have it any other way Lois. I'll bring him here tomorrow. Now, lets go let our other little rascal know."

Lois smirks. "I agree. Lord knows he's been waiting to have a-"

"-I have a new brother!" Comes the familiar voice of Jon Kent, cutting his mother off in his excitement.

Clark raises his eyebrow fondly, feigning exasperation. "Did you listen in on our conversation Jonathan Samuel Lane-Kent?"

"Of course I did! Well-I didn't mean to, but I couldn't help it! You said I have a brother and I wanna see him!" Jon all but whines.

"Well honey, dad said he'd bring him home tomorrow okay."

"Really!?"

"You betcha. But Jon, you have to be gentle with him okay? He doesn't know werewolf or Kryptonian customs okay?" His dad says.

"Okay, I promise i'll be gentle." Jon swears, nodding up and down.

Lois sighs fondly. "And its important to know that he is part human, do you know what that means?"

"Mhm! It means that he's not allowed out the den or the house, and that its our job to protect him 'cause he's weak." Jon repeats from his memory.

"Good job Jon! You're going to be the best brother, I just know you are." His mom says.

Jon preens under the praise.

He can't wait to meet his new brother!

~~~~~

The next day arrives slower than anyone would have liked.

The morning sunlight filters through the sky as Clark flies Conner to him penthouse in Metropolis, cradling the boy carefully as he slumbers. Conner stirs in his arms, eyes fluttering open, a brief panic flashing in them until he meets Clark’s calm gaze.

“Where-where are we?” Conner mumbles, clutching at Clark’s shirt with a grip that feels hesitant, almost reluctant.

“We’re going home,” Clark replies, a small smile on his face. “Your new home. Your family’s waiting for you, Conner.”

Conner’s eyes widen, his mouth opening as if to protest, but the words die on his lips. His gaze shifts away, and he nods mutely, not quite daring to believe that this “family” will truly accept him. He’s felt so disposable for so long; he almost can’t imagine what it’s like to be wanted.

The penthouse doors open, and Lois stands there, her sharp gaze softening the instant she sees Conner. She steps forward, reaching out a hand in a silent invitation. Conner hesitates, clinging to Clark a little tighter, and Clark gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s okay, Conner,” he murmurs. “I'm here for you.”

With a slow, tentative step, Conner reaches out, letting Lois pull him into a gentle hug. Her arms are firm around him, warm but unyielding, a silent promise of protection, though he senses the fierce strength just below the surface. She smooths his hair with surprising gentleness, her voice soft as she whispers, “Welcome home, Conner.”

Conner relaxes, allowing himself to take a deep, shuddering breath. This feels strange. He's never really had a home before. Luthor's compound was last place he felt safe, let alone a place he'd call home. And that word, that feeling-safe. He isn’t sure he's ever felt it outside Superman, sorry, his Dad's arms.

And isn't that a crazy thing, he has a Dad now. Superman, Clark Kent was his Dad.

Jon, standing just a few steps away, is practically vibrating with excitement. When Lois finally releases Conner, Jon bounds over, a wide grin on his face.

“Hi! I’m Jon, your brother!” He pauses, then adds, almost reverently, “I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

Conner blinks in surprise, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks as he mumbles, “I-thank you, Jon.”

Lois places a hand on Jon’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “Remember what we talked about, Jon. Conner’s still adjusting. Be patient with him.”

Jon nods enthusiastically, but there’s a possessive glint in his eyes as he looks at Conner, a silent vow to protect his new brother from anything—or anyone—that might threaten him. Conner notices this look, a strange chill running down his spine, but he says nothing.

As the day unfolds, Conner tries to settle into this new life, though it feels almost too good to be true. Lois and Clark are attentive, constantly ensuring he’s comfortable, while Jon barely leaves his side, eager to show him every corner of the penthouse, as if staking his claim. Meals are filled with warmth and laughter, and yet Conner can’t shake the feeling of being watched, almost obsessively.

That night, as Conner lies in the bed they’ve prepared for him, he hears the soft creak of footsteps outside his door. It opens quietly, and Clark steps inside, his face illuminated by the moonlight streaming in through the window. He walks over to the bed, looking down at Conner with an intense, unreadable expression.

“You’re part of this family now, Conner,” Clark says quietly, brushing a hand over Conner’s forehead in a strangely tender gesture. “Nothing will take you from us. Not anyone. You’re ours, do you understand?”

Conner nods, his throat tightening, unable to find words. Clark’s gaze softens, and he leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Conner’s forehead before turning and leaving the room, leaving Conner alone with a flurry of conflicted feelings. For the first time in his life, he feels wanted, cherished, trapped, as though he’s become a prized possession in a family he can never escape.

But, maybe, a small voice inside him whispers, he doesn’t want to escape at all.

Well folks, here's more lore on relationships outside of the Batfam. Let me know chat, am I cooking? New chap, out soon!

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liberalsarecool · 22 hours ago

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From Professor Christopher Robichaud, Senior Lecturer in Ethics and Public Policy, Harvard:

“I'll say this, and then I likely won't be saying much more on here for quite some time, to the relief of some, I'm sure. But my farewell warning is this.

Everyone in the days and weeks ahead will use this loss as an opportunity to seek validation for their own hobby horse complaint. Harris lost because she campaigned with Liz Cheney. Harris lost because she didn't embrace Gaza. Harris lost because she didn't choose Shapiro. Harris lost because she wasn't progressive enough (possibly my favorite one).

Take a good, hard look at the map, my friends. Trump has won the popular vote. Trump ran the table. Explaining that with your hobby horse issue isn't going to cut it, tempting and consoling as it may be. The problem isn't the electoral college. The problem isn't that we didn't have a full primary. The problem isn't Harris. The problem isn't that Dems didn't have the right message. The problem isn't even inflation or the border.

The problem is so much worse than any of those things. Those are all technical problems, with straightforward expertise fixes. If only it were so! No, our problem is not technical. It's very much adaptive. A party that embraced the Big Lie, supported an insurrection, and has been selling conspiracy-addled madness for years, [which] was widely and enthusiastically embraced. Voter turnout was profound! People didn't sit this out.

Simply put, the problem--as some of you have rightly posted--is cultural. America, culturally, has completely abandoned a politics of decency and respect and has embraced instead a politics of resentment, revenge, false nostalgia, and bullying. And if you look at the demographics, you also won't be able to comfort yourself that it's just a white thing, or a working class thing, or an education thing. It's multi-class, multi-gender, multi-educational, and multi-racial. That's what winning the popular vote means. That's what running the table amounts to.

A culture that has descended to this level of debasement is not easily fixed. In fact it may not ever be fixed. The timeline for changing something like this is decades--at best--not two-to-four year election cycles. You can extend that in this case, because with the GOP likely controlling all branches of federal government and the courts, they will ensure that mechanisms are in place to keep them in power long after their popularity has waned. You can count on that.

The GOP evolved into a party of rage, lies, and revenge--and it correctly diagnosed that there was and is a large appetite for that. That's what the country wants. At least enough of the country wants it to ensure broad appeal and widespread electoral success. The old GOP will never return, and the Dems have nothing to say to American culture at the moment. Nothing. They've been speaking to a country that's gone, like dust in the wind.

And that's my final thought, which my posts last night alluded to. The America I knew and loved is gone. This new America--nah, I won't even bother. I will say that cultural change is less likely to occur in politics or in the academy. You're not going to get people to see how vulgar they've become through a clever argument or a nice campaign speech, that's for sure.

This would be time for the arts, broadly understood, to step in. The arts can change hearts and minds. Too bad the arts have been systematically dismantled in education in this country, and on the other end, the tech industry's assault on the arts through AI is sure to hollow out any good-faith efforts that might emerge.

And for the rest of the world, America's rightward lurch is, I'm afraid, bad news for you too. I know you know this. Because it's not isolated, is it? It's just at the moment the most prominent example of a burgeoning trend. And this will embolden others in other countries, to be sure. We need not speculate what happens when countries become mired in lies, embrace resentment, and savor bullying. We know exactly what happens. Bloody conflict and global destabilization.

The first quarter of the 21st century will, therefore, in hindsight, be viewed as the seed-planting stage for the absolute shit show that's about to unfold globally over the next two and a half decades. Count on it.

Adopt whatever coping and endurance strategies you have available. You're going to need it.

I think that's all I've left to say.”

The least evolved. The most paternalistic.

The bully. The liar. The most resentful.

This is the reality we are in. FOX and Republicans have been repeating the script for decades.

The Dark Ages are conservative aspirations.

The abdication of values/principles is complete.

'Good faith' no longer exists on the Right. The more reprehensible the action/person, the bigger the addiction. Trump proves this.

Anti-paternalism, anti-fascism and anti-bullying are my paths forward. Join me.

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y3sterdaysproblem · 2 days ago

Text

smoke and mirrors - chris sturniolo

chapter one

summary: your best friend Matt backs out of plans you had made together, so you replace him with his brother. the only problem is the two of you can’t stand each other.

{enemies to lovers, fake dating}

includes : explicit language, fluff, smut(penetration, oral, fingering, etc.), angst if you squint, lots of bickering, slow burn

wc: 2.4k

a/n: first series! it won’t be super long, but I hope you enjoy. send requests for more fics!

“Matt, you can’t back out now!” You huff, crossing your arms over your chest as you stare at your best friend where he lays on his bed, setting his phone down to look up at you.

“I’m sorry, love, something came up and I can’t make it,” he apologizes, shrugging his shoulders. “I can’t get out of it.”

You groan, throwing your head back in frustration. You had a family wedding to attend and already RSVP’d with a plus one, which was supposed to be your best friend Matt, who had lovingly agreed to pretend to be your boyfriend for the night. Your family was super invasive about you getting a boyfriend, and you wanted to avoid all of the comments and questions by just pretending to have a boyfriend for one night at the wedding, but your plan was falling apart.

“What am I supposed to do? I already told everyone I was coming with somebody, they’re gonna know I was lying if I show up by myself,” you tell him, trying to rack your brain for any ideas.

“You could bring Nick,” Matt suggests, picking his phone back up and going back to scrolling.

You scoff. “Yeah right, like Nick could pretend to be straight for an entire night. He’d be caught in less than an hour.” You shake your head, moving to sit on the edge of the bed next to Matt. “I’m gonna have to go on, like, Bumble or something and find some random to go with me.”

Matt looks up at you over his phone, waiting for you to lock eyes with him before he starts to speak. “I mean… I know one other guy you could ask.”

You tilt your head, excited to hear the suggestion, before you realize who he’s talking about and your eyes widen, head shaking rapidly. “Absolutely not,” you put your hands up, pointer fingers crossed over in an X. “I am not asking Chris, no way.”

Matt raises his eyebrows and purses his lips. “I told you I knew someone, I didn’t say you’d like what I said.”

You roll your eyes. “He would never say yes to me anyway, even if I did want to ask him.”

Matt shrugs. “Maybe. You could always bribe him, he loves a good bribe.”

You think about it for another moment, knowing it would be easier to get Chris to do it than it would to find some random guy to go to a wedding as a first date, but the thought of spending an entire night next to Chris made your skin crawl.

The two of you had never really gotten along, even with you being around as much as you were, you guys never clicked, in fact it was the complete opposite, always insulting each other any chance you got, ignoring each other, and always avoiding being in the same room by yourself, even if only for a few moments.

“I mean… I could try but I really can’t promise I won’t kill your brother, Matt,” you half joke, but not really. “Might turn you into a twin.”

“That’s fucked,” Matt laughs, using his foot to kick you lightly. “I‘ll still be a triplet, even if you kill him. I’ll just be a triplet with severe depression and no will no live.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you tell him through a laugh. “Your life would be so much quieter, wouldn’t that be nice? You’d secretly thank me for killing him.”

Matt shakes his head at you with a smile, though his eyes tell you he thinks you’re crazy, before looking back down at his phone.

“Killing who?” A voice sounds from the doorway and you look up to see the man of the hour staring back at you, a disinterested look on his face.

“You,” you smile sweetly up at Chris.

“That’s nice,” he says, flashing you a fake, tight lipped smile before turning to his brother. “Hey, can you take me to go get food?”

Matt groans and throws his head back, closing his eyes. “But I’m so comfortable,” he whines.

You take a deep breath and consider your options. Chris, who you hate but have known for years, or a random guy who might be a serial killer? You’d definitely be safer with Chris, but the thought of having to be near him without his brothers for an entire night seemed like hell. Especially having to act like you were pleased to be in his presence.

“I’ll take you,” you speak before you can stop yourself.

Both Matt and Chris look at you with shocked expressions, Chris having a bit of disgust in his eyes.

“I’d rather starve, thanks,” Chris replies. “Matt, c’mon seriously, can you take me?” He asks again.

“Chris,” you say in a stern voice, standing up from the bed and walking towards him. “Let me take you. I need to talk to you.”

Chris watches you walk past him through the doorway and then looks back at Matt, shooting him a confused look, to which his brother just shrugs, before he leaves to follow you, finding you by the front door slipping your crocs on.

“The fuck is this about?” He asks, trotting down the stairs to meet you by the front door. “You in love with me or some shit?”

You look up at him with an unamused expression. “You wish I was in love with you.” You huff. “I told you, I gotta talk to you.”

You open the front door and head outside towards your car, opening the drivers side door. You look behind you and see Chris standing in the doorway, staring after you. “I’ll buy your food,” you tell him, and he immediately shuts the door behind him and walks up to your car. “You should’ve led with that!” He says.

You both get in your car and you start driving. “Where do you want to go?” You ask him, turning your head to see him on his phone. “Chris,” you push, reaching out to smack his phone out of his hand, causing it to land on the floor.

“What the fuck, dude. Unnecessary.” Chris huffs, reaching down to grab his phone, but he tucked it between his legs instead of going back on it. “I don’t know, McDonald’s?”

You groan. “You always get McDonald’s. Can’t we get like Popeyes or something?”

Chris looks at you, raising an eyebrow. “Well I didn’t know you were gonna eat, too, jesus. Sure, Popeyes is fine.” He goes for his phone again, but you reach out and grab his hand, stopping him.

“Wait,” you start. “I actually do need to talk to you.”

Chris sighs and puts his phone away in his pocket completely, looking over at you. “Okay, spit it out then.”

You flash a glare at him quickly before returning your eyes to the road. “So… Matt was going to be my plus one for a wedding I’m going to, but he can’t go anymore because something came up, and I can’t ask Nick because he’s gay and that just won’t work, and so that just leaves you.” You tell him nervously.

“So what if he’s gay, your family homophobic or something?” Chris asks, annoyance lacing his voice.

You sigh and pull into the Popeyes parking lot, pulling into a spot and throwing the car into park before you turn your body to face Chris. “No, they’re not homophobic. It’s just… I kind of told them I was bringing a boyfriend.”

Chris stares at you for a moment before laughing, completely unserious. “You? A boyfriend? That’s hilarious. I can’t believe you’re lying to your family about having a boyfriend.”

You don’t laugh though, you just drop your eyes down to your lap, knowing that this was exactly how the conversation would go.

“Wait a minute, that means you want me to pretend I’m your boyfriend? Fuck no, I’d rather be single for the rest of my life. Forget it, dude, you’re shit outta luck with me.” Chris shakes his head, bringing a hand up to run through his hair.

You nod and start backing out of the spot, heading towards the drive-thru. “Yeah I figured that was how you’d respond,” you murmur.

You guys order your food, and you still pay for it, staying true to your word, before heading home. It was a quick but quiet ride back, both of you getting out of the car without a word, not even a ‘thank you’ shot your way. You take your shoes off and head back up to Matt’s room, seeing him in the same position you left him in, only now he was watching a movie, and you got in his bed to join him with your food.

“How’d it go?” He asked, reaching out to steal one of your fries.

“Exactly how I expected it to go. He laughed in my face and said he’d rather be single for the rest of his life than pretend to be my boyfriend,” you tell Matt, looking down at him from where you sat.

Matt smiles up at you, reaching out to pat your leg. “Sorry, kid. You tried.”

You nod and look up at the tv screen, starting to eat your dinner.

The next day, you’re sitting on your couch panting your toes and watching your favorite comfort show when you hear the doorbell ring, startling you as you weren’t expecting anybody over today. You look down at your toes and swear under your breath, seeing that you smeared polish along your skin.

You set down the polish on the table and stand up, walking to your door and pulling it open, jaw dropping in shock when you come face to face with Chris, the last person you expected to show up at your door unannounced. You almost wanted to rub your eyes in case you were mistaking him for another triplet, but you knew your eyes didn’t deceive you.

“Chris?” You question. “How did you get here?”

He rolls his eyes at you. “I ubered?” He says like it’s obvious. “You gonna let me in or what?”

You take a step back and let him into your house, shutting the door behind him. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” You say, sitting back down on your couch. He follows and sits at the opposite end, looking over at you.

He ignores your question, watching you as you continue to do your toes, cleaning up the mess you made. “Why not just get your toes done?” He asks.

You look at him with an annoyed expression. “Costs money? Why spend money when I can sit around and do it myself?” You go back to painting your toes. “Why are you here?”

Chris shrugs. “Been thinking about what you said yesterday, about the wedding.”

You stop what you’re doing and put the polish back down, turning your attention on Chris completely. “Did you change your mind?” You ask him.

He sighs and licks his lips before speaking. “Consider it my charity for the year,” he smiles, tilting his head at you. “But I need a small favor from you.”

“A favor in return isn’t charity, Chris, it’s like… eye for an eye or whatever.” You look at him deadpan. Of course he’d want something in return, he could never do something for you out of the goodness of his heart.

“Whatever, dude, you want my help or not?” Chris asks. “If not I’ll just leave, doesn’t make a difference to me.”

You huff and give in. “Fine. What’s the favor?” You ask him.

He pulls out his phone, scooting a bit closer to you on the couch. “There’s this girl that will not stop hitting me up and she’s driving me crazy. I told her I’m not interested, I’ve ignored her messages, I even blocked her on snap to see if she’d get the hint but she still texts me every day.” He shows you all of the unanswered messages and your jaw drops.

“Holy shit, what does this girl see in you?” You laugh, reading how desperate she was for Chris.

“Funny,” Chris replies, unamused.

“What does this have to do with me?” You ask him, looking back up at his face.

“I think it’s only fair if I pretend to be your boyfriend at the wedding, you pretend to be my girlfriend on social media. Only for a few weeks or until she stops messaging me. Plus, you’re way hotter than her. ” Chris tells you, and by the tone of his voice, he’s completely serious.

You feel heat rising up your neck and you try to get it under control before your cheeks turn red. “You think I’m hot?” You ask him, a teasing lilt in your voice.

“Not the point,” he replies.

“So you tell me that you would rather be single for the rest of your life than pretend to be my boyfriend, and now you want me to pretend I’m your girlfriend?” You clarify, and he just nods, like it’s no big deal. “Pretending to be together at an event is one thing, but you want to take photos to look like a couple? That’s a little… intimate don’t you think?”

Chris shrugs his shoulders. “I’m a big boy, you’re a big girl. Don’t think you can handle a little physical touch without falling for me?” He smirks, leaning in closer to you.

You grimace and reach up to push his shoulder away. “Gross, dude. I could have sex with you and still not fall in love with you and your terrible personality.”

Chris gasps, fake shocked, throwing a hand to his chest. “I am a very good lover, why do you think this girl won’t stop texting me?”

Your eyes widen. “You had sex with her?!” You shriek. “Chris, no wonder she keeps blowing your shit up!”

Chris groans and throws his head back, leaning it on the back of the couch. “It was supposed to be a one time thing, I don’t know why she’s so hung up on me!”

You find yourself giggling a bit before you stop and clear your throat, not wanting to give Chris the satisfaction of making you laugh. You compose yourself and shake your head, clearly disappointed in the boy across from you. “Fine, I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend, but no kissing! I draw the line at kissing.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry, I don’t want to kiss you,” Chris cringes. “So… I guess we should start planning this?”

You nod and smile towards him, placing your hands in your lap as you guys start to figure out how to execute both individual plans.

a/n: this chapter is SUPER short but it’s kinda just to get a feel of the fic and how it’s gonna play out. I really hope you guys like this series im so nervous about it!!

taglist

@liiixsturniolos @madelinesturn @st6niolo @mattslolita @ifwdominicfike @sophand4n4 @chris-hallelujah @sophsturns @ariana2saucyy @045696

#chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo smut #matt x reader #matt x you #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris x you #christopher sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #chris x reader #chris #my fics

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booksinmythorax · 2 days ago

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This post has gotten big fast. Thank you to everyone who's been supportive so far!

I want to talk a little bit about why I said piracy isn't the solution to the problem I've put forth here.

Basically, like libraries, this post isn't just about the books. Yes, the information in the books that have been, are being, and will be targeted by the Trump administration and his cronies in state and local governments is vital and needs to be available to everyone. However, what I proposed in the original post (borrowing the books, not pirating them) was for two purposes: protecting access to the books for everyone, and defending the institution of the library in the USA.

In his book On Tyranny, historian Timothy Snyder lists 20 ways to resist authoritarian regimes in everyday life. His second directive (after "#1: Do not obey in advance") is "Defend institutions":

It is institutions that help us to preserve decency. They need our help as well. Do not speak of "our institutions" unless you make them yours by acting on their behalf. They fall one after the other unless each is defended from the beginning. So choose an institution you care about - a court, a newspaper, a law, a labor union - and take its side.

Many of America's institutions are broken. Either they were from the beginning (police, the military industrial complex) or they have become so through intentional neglect or sabotage, almost entirely by the political right (social safety nets, public education, healthcare, infrastructure).

That said, if you're in America and you're reading this, you almost certainly depend on dozens of institutions just to get through the day. Do you drive on roads or use public transportation? Do you eat commercially-produced and inspected food? Do you attend or send your children to public school or publicly-funded universities? I could ask a hundred more of these insipid hypothetical questions, but you get the idea. If you live in the US, especially if you're looking at this post on the internet, you are not outside the purview of US institutions.

Lots of people will need to "take the side" of lots of institutions to keep them from getting worse - or much worse - in Trump's second term. However, I work in libraries because they are the rare US institution that I can get behind with my full support.

The public library building is the last free place. Anyone, regardless of income, citizenship, or social status, can walk into a public library and spend hours in heat or air conditioning without being expected to pay a dime. They can read books, magazines, and newspapers, in many cases in multiple languages. In my experience, many US public libraries will let you use internet on their computers and/or with WiFi without needing to have a card. Some libraries, including the system where I work, leave the free, open Wi-Fi on all night so that people who need it can use it in the parking lot after hours. Many libraries don't require a card to attend in-person educational or entertainment programs for adults, teens, or kids.

If you have proof of your identity and your residency in a library's service area, you can take books home! For free! You can probably also take DVDs and Blu-Rays home! For free! You might also be able to take home digital media, music CDs, video games, laptop computers, tablets, wireless hotspots, sewing machines, telescopes, sports equipment, neckties, or other items! For free! They have been paid for by public funds, which might include your taxes (if you have an income that requires you to pay a tax bill to the government) or not (if you don't). Either way, those items are yours to borrow and use as long as you promise to bring them back for other people to enjoy.

And as long as local, state, and federal governments don't decide they don't want you to have those things anymore.

The US public library system isn't perfect. In the past, American public libraries have actively participated in segregation, and I wish the field acknowledged this lasting harm more. I wish more systems could go fine-free. I wish the field paid better (no one should have to have a Master's degree to make a living wage). I think there are too many restrictions on who can get a library card in a particular system. Some library systems' policies are actively hostile to people experiencing homelessness, addiction, or poverty. That said, these things are improving and they are solvable - unless we can't prove that people are using our services enough to justify our expenses to political entities.

It is so, so easy to take public libraries' side in the US. Literally just use us.

It's not just about the books.

I'm already seeing advice from people in the US to purchase queer books and other banned or "controversial" books on paper as a way to combat the wave of government censorship that is coming. While this is a good idea (it is! absolutely!), it's not accessible to everyone, and truly, we're not going to be able to consumerism our way out of this one.

If you can buy the books, do. Whether you can buy the books or not, borrow them from your library.

Borrow the paper versions. Borrow the ebook or audiobook versions. Request the titles you want that your library doesn't have. The more a title circulates or is requested, the better librarians are going to be able to defend keeping it if and when it's ever challenged.

Use libraries like @queerliblib too. The more members they have, the better they'll be able to fundraise.

Your community resources depend on you using them. Borrow the books before they go away.

InB4: Piracy is not the solution here. We're trying to keep community resources available, not make sure individual people can read individual books. Different problems.

The books are still available. Borrowing them from your library and returning them on time and in good condition will help keep them that way.

#booklr #bookblr #librarians of tumblr #books & libraries #librarians #public libraries #usamerican #self reblog with commentary

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boofeine · 2 days ago

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complicated freak – lsk

pairing: dk x fem reader

genre: smut one shot

synopsis: you feel horrible for pretending to pay attention at anything he might be rambling in front of you right now; your thoughts wherelse, at the image of his thick cock.

warnings: mdni, fingering, dirty talk, roleplay (kinda), one single spank, cum, riding, mention of face riding, fighting dominance, descriptive, protected penetrative sex

song: baby said by maneskin / complicated freak by harry styles / ironically shhh! by viviz also came out :)

tags: @huen1ngk4i @aaniag @svteensworld @unlikelysublimekryptonite

Seokmin is a lot of things, but what he's most known for is his sweetness and kindness. That's what draws you in on first place. He's so welcoming, makes your heart flutter just from receiving his attention. You were done for, when you got yourself just a little bit way too into it, into him, the way butterflies come to your stomach when he gets shy on your presence.

It came as a surprise for you too, when he turned a completely different person between sheets. You have no idea in which point you got yourself in here, but it's definitely not your last. You got your body against his more times than you could admit, and crave it more than you think you should. The problem is that he's so soft, it makes you feel dirty for having this thoughts when he's not burried on your pussy.

You feel horrible for pretending to pay attention at anything he might be rambling in front of you right now. Your thoughts wherelse, at the image of his thick dick. He rests his back on the sofa, his spread legs on the floor not doing any good either as you stare at his side profile while he talks.

The outline of his nose making you remember how deliciously it pokes at your clit while he tongue fucks you, a rush of heat spreading on your body up to your cheeks as your core suddenly feel needy for his attention. Every time he looks up to the ceiling like he's thinking what he will say next, gathering his thoughts, your mind is wilding in how you want to climb up that couch and sit on his pretty face.

"What do you think?" Seokmin's voices echoes, making you blink at him, having not a clue what he's talking about as he stares back at you, waiting for some type of response.

"Hm? Sorry?" You tilt your head, not going unnoticed that you weren't paying attention, your heart dropping to a whole, feeling guilty.

"The movies on saturday? That is this one new movie I was talking about..." He starts again but the ache on your pussy is getting unbearable.

"Hum... Hum... Sounds good" You let out. Your hand shamelessly caressing his biceps, going down his arms as you slightly pull it to you. It's not innocently that the motion makes his soft fingers grease against your exposed thighs. You suppress a gasp, your mouth agape, his hands close enough to where you need him the most.

"Oh, sorry" He says, resting his hand on the side of your body instead, as you tug to his arm. Fuck! Why is he so sweet?

He starts talking about something else again. The same guilty creeping through you as you don't pay a single attention, your body going further as if he will be able to read the signs.

"Seokmin, baby..." You interrupt him mid word, his face moving to look at you, the pet name coming out as a surprise to him "I know you want to talk but my pussy is so fucking wet right now" You shamelessly confess as his eyes bulge.

"Oh-" It's all he's able to reply. Your hands that haven't left his arms, pulling it to your legs. His eyes following your motions and back to your face "You know I'm a little sad you weren't listening to me" He says, not true to his words.

"Seokmin... I-" You try.

"No, No" He cuts off immediately "I was saying something that I really wanted you to know but all you can think of it's my cock on your pussy" He mocks, his big hands gripping a hand full of your thighs this time.

"I'm sorry" You pouts and he giggles a little.

"You should be" He says, restraining his hands from your skin as he takes this to where you left it "So, as I was saying, there's this restaurant..."

You groan, your head going back as you get tired of waiting and being nice "Fuck, Seokmin! Shut up" You let out, your hands grabbing and guiding his hand to your pussy. He laughs, he fucking laughs at how desesparate you are. Pushing the skirt of your dress up to expose your clothed core, his fingers greasing over the material as you relax at his touch, your head going back, eyes shut at finally feeling something.

"They do have really good food" He says back about the damn restaurant to provoke you as you grunt, frustrated. He leans a little closer to your face, cupping your cunt through the thong "But don't worry, the only thing I can think of eating is you right now" He lowers his tone to whisper it to you.

"Good" You answer "Thought you'd never shut up" Your smart mouth takes over as he smirks.

His hand pulls your thong to the side, taking a long stroke at your folds as you mewl, a heavy breath getting out like it needed to. Your hips bulking to his hand and legs spreading almost instinctively.

"Shit, you really are wet" he responds. Seokmin gathers the slick up to your clit, massaging the muscle in small circles. the grip you have on his arm getting stronger each motion of his fingers. You're wet enough to hear the sounds of it as he goes down to enter you with his digits. Your nails dig to his skin, your head lowering as your forehead rests where his shoulders and arms meet. The gasps turning into moans as he fucks you. He moves slowly, watching you break.

"Seokmin, baby..." You say gripping his wrist this time. That fucking pet name again, he wont ever get used to it, his cock tightening on his pants. "Wait" you push him out, your cunt pulsating with the loss but just enough to get up and take your thong out and sit on his lap. He welcomes you like he always does, watching you undo his jeans to be met at the sight of his hardening length pressing on his boxers. But before you can even drink in the sight, he's back at pushing two fingers inside you. Your back arch when he curls them inside, getting on your sweet spot.

You moan out his name as he presses the spot continuously with the tip of his fingers. You can't help but roll your eyes, the knot forming on your stomach as an unimaginable amount of arousal slip out of your entrance. "Fuu- ah! Minnie... Not yet, please!" You beg as you feel your legs shake.

Like he's so obedient to you, he stops, restraining his hands as you squirm over him. "You made a show to have it, and now you're going back?" he spits out as you still try to calm down your breathing, eyes slowly opening.

"I want..." You try.

"What? Say it" he demands as his wet hands from your slick goes under his boxers, taking his cock out with a gasp of relieve. You stare at it, the way he spreads the wetness on his cockhead making you whine at the view.

"I want your cock... inside me" You plea as he starts to bump himself, letting out a groan.

"Of course you do" He says smartly with a smirk "Go get a condom on my wallet" He says. You reach for his pocket, knowing he came with anything else, his wallet soon found as you open it, the package on one of his spaces as you take it from it. You throw it somewhere beside you as you immediately start to open the condom. He hands his base, aligning it for you as his other hand digs to your hips, pulling you to him, watching you take over, pressing up on the plastic before sliding it down his length.

He holds you firmly as you take his base instead, guiding his head to your entrance when you get your body up to receive him. You press him inside, feeling the delicious stretch, your body threatening to give up while you slowly sit down on him. You can see his breathing pace fastening, his chest rising and falling, but you're no different, your head going down, your foreheads getting together as you can feel each others breath. You finally bottoms out, your body relaxing while he takes your mouth on his for the first time today. It's all too much, a whine coming out on his lips when his tongue asks for space. The kiss airy and needy as you make out.

When you feel the neediness again, already adjusted to his size, you start rolling your hips, low moans coming from him as he guides you with his hands on your waist. "Fuck!" he swears under his breath, feeling your walls pulsating around his cock. "Was this what you needed, hm? Was that all running on that head while I was talking?" He says, and you just moan, picking up your pace as if it was going to answer him. "The pretty heads, always the nastiest thoughts, isn't it?" But he isn't any different, he thinks. Those thoughts run just the same for him, too.

You are not answering in words but going faster on him. Until even this, It's not enough. Your hips going up just to sit back in. His head going back with a roll of his eyes as you start to bounce on his cock. His hands going back to your ass cheeks, spreading them apart. "Stopped me just to use my cock as your little fuck toy... so unpolite" He speaks again and you groans.

Your palms fastening to press against his lips as he yelps, but you can see the smirk from his eyes. "You don't ever shut up, do you?" You spit out, your thrusts going faster, the skin slapping sounds starting to fill the room "I guess next time I should take my first plan of sitting on your face. At least then you can talk between my legs if that's something you want so much. How does that sound?" You get closer to say those words, your hand prettily silencing him as you stare at his watery glistening eyes. You can feel the way he twitches inside you and the muffled moans coming out. You know he loves it.

You suddenly calm down your pace, turning it into firm deep, slow thrusts. The heat and pleasure building up as you push yourself to the edge. Your walls hugging him tightly as he starts to feel his balls tightening too. "Cum for me, baby. Come on... make it worth it" You talk him through it, his knuckles white from gripping your ass so hard, leaving red marks of his big hands on it.

It comes at a surprise when he bites the skin of your palm, your hands jumping out of him as you yelp "Fuck, Seokmin! Are you crazy!?" You scream, your cheeks turning red. He hands you in place, starting to fuck you instead, thrusts meeting up your hips. You moan, your hands driving its way to his hair so you can tug on something.

"You should learn to behave and talk nicely" He grunts out, the throaty voice and drool over his lips doesn't go unnoticed. Heat collecting around your bodies, both of you getting close to cumming. "Someone has to teach you a really good lesson" He says lastly, his palm arriving to your skin with one loud hard slap on your ass cheek. The skin tingles, your body going stiff and mouth agape, like you stopped breathing for a second, before you finally let it go. Your body shaking as you cum with a breathy moan. Your pussy clenching nonstop as he cums with a loud gasp right after you. His load emptying on the condom.

Both of you rolling your hips messily trying to ride off your highs, until you're tired and giving up. The wetness is thick enough to make him slide out unintentionally as you both whine from the loss.

You sit back on his thighs, staring while he takes off the condom from his flacid length, tying it up with a knot. His balls and inner thighs glistening with your own juices as you hince at the sight, "I'm sorry..." You say it smally, but he smiles.

"It's ok... I love it" He replies, pulling you to him. And for a moment, you two just stay there, tangled up on each other before gathering corage to get up and clean up the mess.

#was wannabelife #seventeen smut #fanfic #seventeen #dk #dk seventeen #svt headcanons #svt smut #svt scenarios #svt x reader #dk smut #dk scenarios #dk angst #dokyeom smut #seokmin x reader #dokyeom #seventeen x reader

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r0-boat · 19 hours ago

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Whb Kings Do NNN Challenge

With a magic cock ring the Kings are (totally not forced) to do a 30-day challenge where they are forbidden from orgasming for the entire month of November let's see how they're faring!

If they win the challenge they get to have you for a week straight doing whatever they want to you.

Satan

Satan was extremely confident that he could do this challenge no problem. Human struggle to do this challenge and he's a king so obviously he would have a better chance.

After the first week he was whining and growling threatening you that as soon as this thing comes off He's going to fuck you and pump all his seed inside you. And you're not going to cum not even once as payback with the suffering you put him through.

Everything irritation because all he could feel is the throbbing between his legs tearing and ripping apart every stress ball in his hand as he tries so hard to stop him from knocking out anyone that mildly inconveniences him.

Mammon

He kind of likes the feeling of being pent up and needy for you. Mammon becomes more and more touchy as time goes on. He'll kiss you and touch you and before you know it he'll be spreading your legs to have more.

Just because he can't cum doesn't mean he can't fuck you, Don't let him do this! Because then he'll go on for hours and hours seemingly without end. Fucking you harder and harder, The sensation in his full balls burns so good.

He cannot wait for when this ring is off him and he gets to give you all of his cum.

Leviathan

Levi's lasts longer than you think, He has a high tolerance for pain like this so it looks like it's hardly affecting him.

In reality, He is in shambles. He can't think and it's driving him crazy He's even resorted to pumping his cock underneath his desk or anywhere where no one can see him. Moaning and gasping your name as tears and drool fall from his face.

He wants to cum, He needs to cum, but he doesn't want to lose this silly little challenge His pride depends on it.

Beelzebub

It's like he's being starved. Please please he's begging you he'll do anything! Let him cum.

He's made the grave mistake of fucking you and hopes he could perhaps try to convince you. But the pain just keeps getting worse and all he wants to do is finish inside you over and over.

He doesn't care about the challenge anymore He just wants to cum. When he pins you down he growls and moans like a feral animal rutting and bucking his hips to no avail. Muttering that he's starving and he needs to cum. The only thing to quench his hunger is feeling your core on his tongue.

Belphegor

How annoying... How very annoying... He thought he could just do this challenge get it over with and have you all to himself for a week as part of the deal. But it turns out he bit off more than he could chew. He thought he could just sleep through it and be done but no.

Wet dreams constantly wake him up and He wakes up with in all too familiar ache and stiffness. He wants to touch himself but he knows from experience it will just get worse.

He doesn't want to lose the challenge now because then it will make him seem weak. But he can't let this go unpunish. He might just give you to Beleth he'll know what to do to punish you.

Lucifer

Child's Play. He's done this his whole life it'll be easy for a month. In fact he's so confident that instead of a cock ring he goes a step further. A chastity belt.

That is what he initially thought, turns out since becomtemptations, it's a lot harder to resist such temptations. Now that he's accepted his pride is on the line and he will not lose.

Lucifer looks like he's unaffected; but believe me he wants you so bad And he will absolutely tell you how he's feeling if you ask. Perhaps he'll even try to convince you with his silver tongue to take off the belt so he could fuck you.

He kind of regrets the chastity belt now because all he wants to do is make you sit on his lap and grinding against you.

The demon of lust was never one to hold back. So when you put up a challenge he was vaguely familiar with he laughed and automatically refused but then you put up an offer he simply too tempting for him not to at least try... Having you for an entire week... Even if it's just for a week The fact that you'll be doing whatever he desires was what sealed the deal.

Asmodeus

He never thought being so pent up would feel so good. He hates it but at the same time the burn of not getting something he usually has a luxury too is addicting.

Only you turn him into a feral beast. And it gets worse This is mind betrays him showing him delicious images of flooding your insides with all that cum his balls is making. He can't help but taunt you and see the uneasiness and fear in your eyes as he's lasting longer than you expected.

#smut #whb #what in hell is bad #whb satan #whb asmodeus #whb leviathan #whb beelzebub #whb belphegor #whb lucifer #whb mammon

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she-ra-ra-skirt · 1 day ago

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She's a deliberately provocative writer but she always has a good point to make.

Boys loneliness has been a problem in the UK for as long as I can remember, and suicide rates have always been high amongst boys.

But we have tried to include them and treat them as humans but it doesn't seem to have worked.

I think that they're being little shits because women no longer have to get married and emotionally carry the man, kids, house etc, so they aren't guaranteed a partner who will mother them.

There's real competition in the workplace, so they aren't guaranteed jobs just because they're men.

And women are excelling more and more in life and, as the article says, they are getting progressive with it, as they know they can make a real change through their actions, no matter how big or small. And all without supporting some draining, insufferable man, who doesn't help himself.

This has always been the case, but I think social media has highlighted that these boys are being left behind, that the world has moved on and they can't cope with that. So instead of changing, they take it out on women.

Fuck that attitude and fuck whoever lets them get away with it at home.

Why are British teenage girls so unhappy? Here’s the answer (Caitlin Moran, The Times, Sep 13 2024)

"The report, by the Children’s Society, found that British 15-year-old girls are the most unhappy in Europe.

British girls aged 10-15 are “significantly less happy” with their life, appearance, family and school than the average boy — and their happiness is still declining.

Boys’ life satisfaction, meanwhile, remains broadly stable. (…)

But I still didn’t have an “aha!” moment about why this so disproportionately affects girls until… I talked to some teenage girls.

It was at a party, and I went to vape with them on the patio. Because I take my nicotine like children do.

“Duh — it’s the boys,” one said when I brought it up, as all the others agreed.

“The boys?” I asked.

My last book, What About Men?, had been all about how much boys struggle these days: their loneliness; their suicide rates. I’d spent the past year feeling very sympathetic towards boys.

“Yeah, well, who do you think they’re taking out their unhappiness on? It’s us,” another girl said.

“One boy at school used to draw a picture every day of how ugly I was,” a third girl said. “Every day for two years.”

“They’ve all got ‘Rate The Girls’ polls on their WhatsApps,” the first said. “They mark you down for weight gain, haircuts, what you say.”

“But then, if you’re hot, it’s just as bad, in a different way, because they’ll be talking about how they want to f*** you.”

The girls discussed coping techniques. Bad news: none of them worked.

“The only way you can stop them is if you become ‘one of the boys’ and hang out with them. But then,” the second girl said with a sigh, “all the other girls call you a slut. Because you’ve gone over to the boys’ side.”

“Surely it’s not all the boys?” I said. “There must be some nice boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” one girl said. “But they keep their heads down. Because… well, look.”

She showed me the Instagram account of her friend. Under every picture she posted of herself — smiling in a new dress; with her dog — dozens of anonymous accounts had replied with the most rank abuse.

“Fat.” “Slut.” “You gonna try and kill yourself again, for attention?”

“They’re all boys from her school,” she said. “And look, this one boy tried to defend her.”

I saw a series of messages from a brave teenage boy, posting things like, “You’re all big men, leaving these replies under anonymous accounts.”

As I could see, this boy immediately became a target too. Mainly accusations that he was “white knighting” this girl: “You wanna f*** her, bro?”

“So,” I asked, “you don’t think it’s social media pressure to be beautiful, or the economy, that’s making girls so sad?”

“Well, yeah, them too,” the first girl said. “But, Monday-Friday, 9-3, I’m not on social media. I’m not… in the economy. I’m just with these boys. And no one talks about how horrible they are.”

I thought about another recent report, showing a 30 per cent ideological gap between Gen Z men, who are increasingly conservative, and Gen Z women, who are increasingly progressive.

I thought about Andrew Tate, who has nine million mostly young male followers — and faces human trafficking charges, which he denies.

And I thought: maybe these girls are on to something. Maybe more people need to vape with teenage girls and ask them for the school gossip."

#boys like this need to grow the fuck up #and realise the world won't be handed to them on a plate #just because they're (probably) white

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rafesbabygirlx · 3 days ago

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Time Loop

Masterlist

Rafe x Reader

Summary: Rafe finds himself caught in a time loop, reliving the same disastrous 2 days when everything goes wrong. He must figure out how to break the cycle by changing his choices, leading to new insights into his relationship, motives, and a self-realization.

A/N: might be a little delusional from school but I rewatched Happy Death Day on Halloween and had this idea written down. Read this over 100x and I’m pretty sure I follow through. Enjoy :)

Word count: 3k

Warnings: angst, smut at the end

Rafe’s relationship with you was a storm of highs and lows. When other couples argued over trivial things—what to eat, misplaced items, or being late—your conflicts with Rafe were on a different level. They revolved around coke, cheating, and his relentless need to please his father.

Rafe’s habit of disappearing for “errands” tied to his dad’s business, his unapologetic flirting at parties, and the lines of cocaine that constantly blurred his reality had worn you down. Three years together, and it had only gotten worse. His betrayals were countless, yet somehow, you both stayed. Amid the chaos, there was a twisted comfort that kept you to each other.

Loop 1. It was a Saturday, and Rafe was at Kelce’s party. He hadn’t responded to your texts or calls all day. Sitting in his usual spot, hunched over the coffee table with white powder all over it, he looked oblivious to everything except the high. You arrived reluctantly, dragged by your friends who insisted you shouldn’t stay home alone, overthinking. You told yourself you’d stay hidden, avoid Rafe, and just get through the night.

You led your friends to the kitchen and grabbed drinks, steering them out to the pool where Rafe rarely went. Hours passed, with each of you taking turns fetching refills. When your turn came, the kitchen was crowded, so you slipped into the living room instead. And that’s when it happened. Your eyes locked with Rafe’s across the room. A blonde was straddling his lap, pressing kisses down his neck while he smirked at you, a cold and taunting expression. Something in you snapped. Without thinking, you threw the remains of your drink at them and stormed out before he could react.

The next morning, Rafe woke up in one of Kelce’s guest rooms, head pounding and eyes squinting against the sunlight. He reached for his phone, seeing a flurry of messages from you.

You 1:46 AM – FUCK YOU, RAFE CAMERON. You never deserved me.

You 1:55 AM – I hope you snort yourself to death, you asshole. Enjoy your coke while you can.

You 2:04 AM – YOU WILL NEVER SEE ME AGAIN. I HATE YOU.

You 2:06 AM – WE’RE THROUGH. ROT IN HELL.

He groaned, a mix of regret and anger simmering beneath his hangover. He needed to talk to you. You always went to brunch at the club on Sundays, so he threw on some borrowed clothes and headed there.

There you were, sitting on the patio with your friends, your hair catching in the breeze, looking radiant and untouchable. It hit him how much he had messed up. He approached cautiously. “Hey, can we talk? Please?”

You didn’t acknowledge him, eyes focused ahead. “Please, Y/N. I need to talk to you.” You turned to him sharply. “We have NOTHING to talk about. You’re not my problem anymore, Rafe.” His jaw clenched, ego a bit strained, anger bubbling up. He rolled his eyes. “You think I wanted to be tied down with you? Always breathing down my neck? That’s probably why I cheated. I needed a break from you.” He didn’t mean it.

The lie hung between you like a knife. Your voice was icy. “You’re such a piece of shit,” you said, louder than you intended. “What was that, angel? Say it again,” he goaded. You stood up, refusing to back down despite his height. “You’re a piece of shit, Rafe Cameron. A slut, a drug addict, and a failure who will never be good enough for your father.”

The entire patio fell silent. The slap came without warning, sharp and loud, leaving him stunned. You threw down cash for the bill and walked out, your friends hurrying after you. Humiliated and seething, Rafe’s pride took over. As he left, he spotted your car. Without a second thought, he grabbed a rock and smashed the windshield, then slashed three of the tires. Adrenaline pumping, he sped off to Barry’s place and spent the rest of the day numbing himself with beer and more lines of coke. By nightfall, he was a mess, barely coherent, when he picked up his phone and typed:

Rafe 7:32 PM – baby pls I mis u dont do thiss to mee, ur al I want

Rafe 7:38 PM – bby

Rafe 7:39 PM – bbay

Rafe 7:40 PM – pls I ned you answr me

Finally, your response came, slicing through his fog.

You 7:50 PM – You should’ve thought of that before you were a complete shit boyfriend. Before you chose drugs over me, your dad over me, other girls over me.

You 7:53 PM – AND BEFORE YOU DESTROYED MY CAR, ASSHOLE.

Rafe’s rage erupted, and he hurled his phone, shattering it on the floor. “SHIT!” Barry jolted awake. “Damn, country club. What’s your problem?” He throws his crushed phone back at him. “Nothing,” Rafe muttered, tossing cash down before leaving. He considered going to your house but decided to sleep it off and try again tomorrow.

Loop 2. The next day, he woke up at noon, head heavy, stomach in knots. His phone, perfectly intact, rested on the nightstand. The date read Saturday. Confused, he checked his messages—none of what he remembered existed. Before he could think too hard, Ward barged in, ordering him to get dressed and join him on errands.

The day felt like a warped replay. He ignored your incoming texts, but told Kelce he’d be at the party, and numbly followed the script. That night, as he sat at Kelce’s, a girl climbed onto his lap, and he froze. Between the drugs, and the shock of realizing what’s happening he just sits there. She straddles his lap, grinding down onto him and kisses his neck. He looks up and sees you and gets instant deja vu. You appeared at the door, eyes wide with betrayal. Just like before, you stormed out after throwing your drink. He threw the girl off of him and tried to reach you but you slipped through the crowd before he could. He couldn’t believe what was happening. This is exactly what happened in his dream. At least he thinks it was a dream.

With the drugs and what just happened he feels like he’s loosing his mind. He heads upstairs and passes out on the guest bed. Not surprising when he wakes up to see you sent the same text messages again. He doesn’t know what to do. But he repeats the same process. Finding you at the club, trying to talk to you, you embarrassing and leaving him standing there. He walks out to the parking to see your car but he doesn’t touch it this time. Panic crept into his mind, a distressing realization that something was wrong. At Barry’s later, he tested his theory. “Hey, did I come here already?” he asked. Barry squinted. “Yesterday to pick up some for the party, you good man?” Rafe’s stomach dropped. The night had repeated itself. He left, pacing in his room later, mind racing. Glancing at his phone, he stomped it underfoot, shattering it again.

Loop 3. Rafe woke up with a migraine, instinctively grabbing his phone. The screen glowed brightly, not a single scratch, displaying the day: Saturday. His heart sank as a familiar wave of confusion washed over him. Everything was playing out exactly as it had before. The knock on the door was immediate, and soon enough, his father burst in, barking orders. His phone buzzed throughout the day incessantly with your texts, followed by Kelce’s message about the party and a request to score some coke. Rafe felt a nauseating sense of deja vu again, an unsettling lightheadedness clinging to him throughout the day.

At Barry’s place, Rafe pocketed a bag of coke, glancing nervously at the dealer, who was lounging with a cigarette. Barry was the only person who might not think he was entirely out of his mind. “I gotta ask you something,” Rafe blurted out. Barry raised an eyebrow, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “If it’s a favor, I’m not doing it.” Rafe sat down across from him, trying to still the tremor in his hands. “No, it’s not a favor. Do you ever feel like you’re stuck in a loop? Like, the same thing playing over and over again?”

Barry’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about, Country Club?” Rafe rubbed his face, feeling his pulse race. “I’m serious. It’s like I’ve lived the same two days over and over for nearly a week now. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s real. I can’t shake it.” Barry snorted, a half-laugh slipping through. “Man, lay off the coke for a while. It’s messing with your head.”

At Kelce’s party, Rafe felt the buzz of anticipation crackling around him. He sat in his usual spot, beer in hand, taking only a small line of coke, half-dreading and half-expecting what came next. Just as he suspected, the blonde girl approached, eyes glinting with interest. His heart raced; it was happening again. He let her sit beside him, testing the reality of the loop. Just then, he spotted you entering the room, and the recognition in your eyes shifted to anger. You threw your drink, and before you could walk away, Rafe caught your arm.

“Baby, please,” he said, voice trembling with urgency. “I need to talk to you. It’s important.” Your eyes flashed with hurt and rage. “Oh, now it’s important? Not when I called or texted you all day? Not when you’re so high you fuck anything that breaths and forget I exist? Now, suddenly, it’s important?”

Rafe pulled you into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him as the noise of the party dulled. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’m not high. I knew everything that was going to happen today. I had to make sure I wasn’t still dreaming. Please trust me. I love you.” Your expression hardened, eyes glistening. “You don’t love me, Rafe. You’re not making any sense. You sound insane. I’m leaving. We’re done. Officially, done.”

He reached for you, desperation turning his voice raw. But you pushed him away, tears streaming as you walked out. Rafe stood frozen, guilt and helplessness clawing at him. For the first time, he left the party nearly sober, trudging up to Kelce’s guest room. He threw himself face-first onto the bed,

The next morning, Rafe bolted upright and glanced at his phone. Sunday. Again. He quickly dressed and drove straight to the club, determination hardening his features. Before you could brush him off, he dropped to his knees by your table, ignoring the looks of your friends and the other members

“Please,” he begged. “I know I look crazy, but you have to hear me out.” You stood up and motioned for him to follow you out to the golf course, away from prying eyes.

“About what I said last night,” Rafe continued, breathless, “it wasn’t just rambling. The party—it’s happened three times. I’m living the same 2 days over and over. I get up, do stuff for my dad, get to the party, you find me, we break up, I come find you hear, there’s no resolve, I go to bed Sunday night and when I wake up it’s Saturday again. I don’t know why, but I’m losing you each time, and I can’t take it anymore.”

You crossed your arms, a wall of hurt and skepticism. “You expect me to believe that? After three years of lies and betrayal, you think I’ll buy into some theory about time loops all of the sudden? No, Rafe. I’ve had enough.”

He reached for your shoulders, his voice breaking while he smacks his cheek. “Look at me. I’m sober, I’m awake, and I’m telling you the truth. Something isn’t right, and I can’t let you walk away.”

Your eyes softened for a moment, but you shook your head, stepping back. “I can’t do this.” And with that, you turned and left him standing on the empty fairway, the early morning light casting long shadows. Rafe stood there, piecing together the pattern. The loop was about you. It was punishment, a reckoning for the way he’d taken you for granted. Each version of the day confirmed that losing you was the universe’s way of making him face the consequences. But if he had this chance, he’d use it. That night, he skipped Barry’s and stayed in his room, scribbling notes and plans, willing himself to break the cycle.

Loop 4. Rafe woke up early, it’s Saturday… again. His heart thumping as he texted you before you could reach out first. He asked if you’d meet him at the dock, the place where you’d had your first date. When you agreed, a rare glimmer of hope sparked inside him. When you arrived, he stood and hugged you tightly, pressing kisses to your forehead. You pulled back, a puzzled smile playing on your lips. “What’s all this for?”

“I just love you,” Rafe said, voice steadier than it had been in ‘days’. “Please, sit. I need to talk to you.” You settled on the blanket, accepting your favorite snack he handed you. “So, talk.” He took a breath, the weight of three years and three repeated days pressing down on him. “I know this will sound insane, but hear me out. I’ve been in this loop—like, I’ve woken up on the same Saturday, again and again. Every day, the same mistakes. Ignoring you, getting high, letting someone else come between us, and you leaving. When I go to bed Sunday night, k wake up and it’s Saturday again.It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt, and I can’t lose you again. I need you to believe me. I don’t want anything to be the same. I want to change for you. Maybe it’s just a dream. But it feels so real, I can’t shake it. I can’t lose you.”

You studied his face, eyes searching for any hint of deceit. Then, cautiously, you placed your palm on his forehead, half-joking. “You’re right. You do sound crazy. But you’ve never promised to change before. That’s… something.” A sad, hopeful smile tugged at Rafe’s lips. “I mean it. I’ll do anything. I’ll go to rehab, give up the coke, anything. I just want you.”

Your lips curved into a small smile, and you leaned in, kissing him gently. “Come on,” you said, pulling him up by the hand. “My parents aren’t home. Let’s go somewhere we can really talk.”

Back at your house, you sat on your bed, facing him. “You know how much I love you, Rafe. But how much do you really love me? These past three years have been exhausting. I’m tired of giving and getting nothing in return.” “I love you more than anything. I’m sorry it took something this insane to make me realize how much I need you. I want to make up for all the time I wasted. I promise.”

You brushed your thumb along his cheek, turning his face to yours. “Then prove it. Promise me again.” You leaned in, and he whispered between kisses, “I… promise.” He lays you down on the bed, resting in between your legs. You grip his shirt trying to get it off. He sits up pulling it off and you mimic him pulling off yours. He reaches your lips again and you both fumble with each other’s pants. When you finally get each other’s clothes off, he lifts you up into the center of the bed. Kissing his way back down to lean in front of you. Leaving kisses on your inner thighs making his way to your clit. Just the simple kiss has your back arching. Rafe is never this gentle with you. It’s usually quick fucks or rough. Never soft or intimate so you make sure to take in everything. He takes his time. Making sure he tastes every bit of you. He keeps going and your back lifts off the more and more until a wave of relief washes over you. Rafe doesn’t stop until you’re back on the bed and your grip of his hair loosens a bit. He cleans up what’s left and makes his way back to you, leaving behind a trail of kisses.

He stops for a second just to stare at you. Wondering how he got so lucky to have someone as beautiful as you and how he just managed to fuck it up and take advantage of all that beauty and love. You stare back at him wondering if he’s serious, but you’re so in love with him that if he is you’ll be there every step of the way. You grab the back of his head and pull him back in to continue kissing him. Your other hand reaches in between you to line him up and you nudge him to push in by wrapping your legs around his waist. He slowly enters you, savoring each second. He moves instantly but the thrusts are different. They’re strategic and careful. You let out moans and he moves to the crook of your neck kissing it softly. He keeps these movements the entire time. You both climax at the same time and he goes to move but you hold him against you.

“You swear promise?” You ask while rubbing his back. “I promise, every bit of it. The both of you lay in bed for the rest of the day and when nightfall comes you fall asleep in each other’s arms. When Rafe is woken up by the light peaking in from the morning sunrise. He checks his phone instantly it’s Sunday. He panics a little but then he notices the weight on him. It’s you, lying on his chest. He lets out a sigh of relief realizing the cycle was broken, he’s back in reality. He pulls you in close giving you a kiss on the top of the head.

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akutasoda · 3 days ago

Text

the fans are always right. right?

synopsis - mr reca seemed a bit more downbeat then your used too, maybe some rather interesting reviews would cheer him up

includes - reca

warnings - gn!reader, fluff, slight crack, wc - 1.6k

a/n: i uhh had an idea... lost it and tried to salvage what i remembered and this was the result- anyway all the reviews used were given to me by some lovely people ( @tragedy-of-commons, @singularity-sam, @vxnuslogy, @mikashisus, @/milksnake-tea, @/tetrachrxmacy and @theother-victoria) try and guess who's who :))

a huffed sigh escaped you, slouching down in your chair as the clock ticked rhythmically in the background. mr reca was supposed to meet you around fifteen minutes ago. he'd never been late before.

a reasonable explanation would be that he had something more important to tend to. and that would be understandable. but for now you were bored out of mind and leaving wasn't an option as reca could show up at any time - he probably wouldn't be as forgiving if you were to show up after him.

today you two were meant to develop a new script and start on the storyboard for his latest idea. in honesty, you're still not quite sure how you landed this job. you wanted to start getting into directing films of your own but couldn't quite place how to start and so you settled for finding a job as a co-director.

after helping co-direct a few pieces here and there, you got a message from the esteemed mr reca. you had to do a couple (maybe even hundreds…) of checks to make sure you weren't actually dreaming. mr reca didn't exactly strike you as the kind of person to need or even want a co-director.

and yet here you were. apparently he enjoyed the sense of style you breathed into the films you helped direct and thought it would pair nicely with a couple of his. even to this day you find it hard to believe that you still had this job.

but you put your all into it. a lot of trust and expectation was placed upon you and you would be sure to not let him down. even if that meant waiting for him to show up for your appointed meetings.

twenty minutes.

you looked around the room for anything to pass the time, all you could think of was your phone laid idly on the desk. then an idea crossed your mind. reca had recently released a film. perhaps you could read some reviews to pass the time.

you never really expected yourself to be mentioned in any of them. yes you got credits and the recognition for being reca's personally selected co-director but most people still only talked about him in their reviews, which wasn't exactly a problem.

it didn't take long to find a rather reputable review page and so you began scrolling.

you should've expected the first one being a five star review

@bebe_fanpage101 : ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

- "This film has changed my life. My whole outlook on everything that exists in this world, in fact even in the entire universe. I can never look at anything I know the same way ever again. This film represents emotions most humans could never comprehend. But I can. Thanks to this film I have been awakened to many things previously thought unimaginable. Thank you."

a rather extreme opinion in your eyes, reca did have some “over-the-top” fans. your became intrigued after stumbling across a one star review soon after

@frankenweeniehater4life : ⭐

- "what ?"

[review has been deleted]

maybe it wasn't an actual review, but you stifle a laugh at the next review being from the same person

⭐

- "wrong movie how do i delete a review" (Edited)

perhaps this could definitely entertain you until reca arrived. you idly scrolled through the reviews, only stopping when some peaked your interest or made you smile

@seas_ablaze : ⭐⭐⭐

- "A film that does a lot of monkey business and goes bananas with it."

or alternatively,

@frankenweeniehater4life : ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

- "i've seen about a million movies and dear god this has to be one of the worst. an absolute slog to get through. the pacing was awful, everything took years to happen. the soundtrack was grating. the actors either put no effort in or way too much- either put them back on the street or send them back to the musical theater. the cinematography was dull at best and straight up nauseating at worst- i had to pause multiple times so i didn't get physically ill. and don't get me STARTED on the stilted script and dull characterization. and the dog isn't even a weenie."

you reckon they might have gotten the wrong film again… but it definitely explained the username-

and at that moment reca finally showed up, he pushed open the doors grumbling something - obviously whatever kept him busy wasn't pleasant. he had walked in with a huff and his expression didn't exactly read that of happiness.

you brushed it off and greeted him like you usually would, something that was greeted with another grumble which you could only guess was a hello of sorts towards you.

watching, you noted how he slumped into the chair on the other side of the desk and it became clear that he wasn't in the mood to get any work done. the silence was starting to get uncomfortable and so you slid your phone over to him, reviews still open.

reca perked one eyebrow up and questioned you “what's this about? we have duties to complete not waste time”

you hummed in response before sliding your phone closer until he picked it up “it's reviews from your latest film, it's not like we'll be getting things done soon and maybe they could help guide our planning” a small pause “they're quite entertaining”

he scrolled for a bit before stopping on one and reading it out loud

@/blink!vxnus! : ⭐⭐⭐⭐

- "film was great and very informative. it made the story far more interesting compared to other documentaries tackling the same story. - 1 because mr reca wasn't in the actual film"

“it's not very helpful, just compliments” he sighed “and wishful fans being normal”

you smiled in response before reaching over as he turned the phone to you and scrolling back up again “this one's a personal favorite, especially the comments”

@/bebe_fanpage101 : ⭐⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

- "came for the reca shirtless scene, stayed for the storytelling. no regrets stan robin"

- @/ultimate_recakisser : "I mean I’d be the same as well I MEAN WHAT WHO SAID THAT Speakingofshirtlessrecaifoujdthisonefanartdoesanyonewantmetosendit?"

- @/bebe_fanpage101 : "me. dms. shhh."

- @/iwishsundaywasmywife : "id judge u both. but. im the same way abt bird man so i cant"

reca stared at the review, then the comments, before his face began morphing into something akin to the middle point of shock and disgust.

he sighed “there wasn't even a shirtless scene, these people are… enthusiastic, to be nice”

you hummed in response before suggesting that the lower rated reviews may help more and scrolled until you found some.

@/iwishsundaywasmywife : ⭐

- "Great movie. Plot flows well, characters are charismatic and overall a wonderful viewing experience. Just hate the director."

@/abardslyre : ⭐

- "my gf broke up with me for the director. mr reca count ur ******* days."

you had to hold back laughter at the sight of his face distorting into confusion and a slight grimace making the corner of his lips scowl

@/seas_ablaze : ⭐

- "This is awful, pretentious garbage. In all objective fact, he's an auteur wannabe who makes idiotic movies for the normie audiences who are too stupid to think for themselves. I didn't even watch more than five minutes of it, I just know it's bad from his name attached to it. I never made a movie before or have ever taken a film class, but even I could do better than this disgrace of an art form that only a few can ever hope to master. Hell, I would personally kill all subpar directors myself if I could, I'm just that smart. As Lord Scorsese says: Cinema is dead!"

mr reca sighed, deeply, “i can't decide if this helped or not, but im leaning no at the minute”

you definitely could say you enjoyed scrolling through the reviews more, but it wasn't hard to notice how his demeanor changed. how he wasn't so grumpy and you could've sworn that at one point you'd seen a smile on his face. your idea worked.

eventually you two managed to start discussing ideas - which was more him talking your ear off with his ideas and you listening and writing down anything he told you to. and then he paused.

before you even had the chance to question if anything was the matter, reca surprised you “maybe those reviews could help for the next film”

“what do you mean?” you couldn't believe what you were hearing, your spur of the moment idea to show him reviews to hopefully boost his mood so you could both actually talk about his next film properly worked. it actually gave him ideas.

reca prattled on about how some of the reviews gave him the idea for how to expand his latest idea that had hit a wall and now he could continue to elaborate the idea. it was sort of satisfying to see how passionate he had become despite his earlier attitude.

he then abruptly stopped before trailing off “maybe i should listen to some of those reviews and change genres”

you thought that was a rather drastic suggestion, arguing that his current genres worked perfectly fine and it was his speciality, his signature if you would. but then he started mumbling again

“maybe if we went that route… then you could…” he was trailing off, you could barely piece together his coherent sentence but you could pick up on “based on us”

“what? could you repeat that again mr reca?”

“what?”

mr reca was never easy to work with.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn, @https-sourlimes

#—stellaronhvnters.#x reader #x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x you #hsr reca #reca x reader #mr reca x reader

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