#as “we” love them & they remind “us”?

[the-grey-hunt]

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TL;DR Entangled Press (best known for their Red Tower imprint, which publishes the Fourth Wing books) is being sued on the allegation that an agent used a former client's manuscript to help Tracy Wolff write the "Crave" books (or at least the first one).

article copied in full below the cut for people who get paywalled:

In the autumn of 2010, Lynne Freeman, a family-law attorney and an unpublished author, put the final touches on her first novel, “Blue Moon Rising.” The story revolved around a teen-age girl named Anna who falls in love with a werewolf and learns that she has magical powers. It was a fantasy, but it drew on Freeman’s own experiences growing up in Alaska. For years, Freeman had been fiddling with the material, imagining and reimagining characters, revisiting childhood memories. She even dreamed about the idea, and kept notes on it in a shoebox in her bedroom. In 2002, after becoming pregnant with twins, Freeman lost one of the babies and gave birth prematurely. Long nights lay ahead. She spent them caring for her son and working on her book.

A few months after she’d finished, in December, 2010, Freeman signed with an agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, the founder of Prospect Agency, a small firm based out of Kim’s home, in New Jersey. Kim, a slight woman with a youthful aura and a bright, clenched smile, struck Freeman as a kindred spirit—she’d launched her own business, just as Freeman had, and she’d even briefly attended law school. For the next three years, Freeman and Kim worked together to expand and refine the manuscript.

Kim sent pitches of “Blue Moon Rising” to more than a dozen publishers. The results were discouraging. “I thought the writing, the storytelling, in this manuscript was simply wonderful,” one e-mail read, but “we are . . . looking for things that fall into a newer territory.” Another editor wrote,“While the writing is really great and Anna was a very likable heroine, I worry that there are not enough new and different elements to the story here that would set it apart from the rest of the novels in the competitive paranormal/romance/YA market.” By March, 2014, all but one of the publishers had rejected the book, and Kim and Freeman parted ways. Freeman withdrew her outstanding submission from the final publisher, a press called Entangled.

In 2021, Freeman and her son, now a senior in high school, stopped at a bookstore in Santa Barbara on the way to receive their COVID vaccinations. Freeman, lingering in the young-adult section, picked out a book called “Crave,” by the author Tracy Wolff. She liked the cover: black with a large, bloodstained white flower in the center. It reminded her of “Twilight.” By the time she got home, she was already noticing muscle pain and fever from the vaccine. She began reading the novel, which was published by Entangled, and experienced a panic attack, the first she’d had in five years.

Freeman immediately spotted similarities to her own unpublished book. The main character was named Grace, not Anna, and her love interest was a vampire, not a werewolf, but in both stories the heroine moves from San Diego to Alaska after members of her family are killed in an accident. She lives with the only two relatives she believes she has left, both of whom are witches. A female rival slips her drugs. There’s an intimate moment under the northern lights. In a climactic scene, an evil vampire kidnaps her, and she ends up accidentally freeing a different vampire, whose return is said to herald the end of the world. (In Freeman’s planned sequel and Wolff’s actual ones, this vampire replaces the previous hero as the main character’s primary love interest.)

In addition to what Freeman felt to be the books’ obvious similarities, “Crave,” to her mind, contained details that could only have come from her, from her life. The novel’s opening scene describes flying in a puddle jumper above the Alaskan landscape. Freeman’s grandfather had been a bush pilot: she recalls reminiscing to Kim about what it had been like to go up in his tiny plane. A fantastical chessboard figures early on in “Crave”; a wall-size painting of a fantastical chessboard hangs in Freeman’s office. Wolff’s heroine is revealed to be a gargoyle. Freeman collects gargoyles—they guarded the path to the front door of her former home.

A Google search revealed that Tracy Wolff was a nom de plume for Tracy Deebs, a star client of Freeman’s former agent, Emily Sylvan Kim. Kim had introduced Freeman and Deebs at a Romance Writers of America conference in 2012. (Wolff and Kim claim to have no recollection of this meeting.) The name Stacy Abrams, which appeared in the acknowledgments section of Wolff’s book, was another pinprick. Abrams was the editor who had fielded Freeman’s book submission at Entangled. Freeman grew convinced that Kim and Liz Pelletier, the publisher and C.E.O. of Entangled, had shared the manuscript of “Blue Moon Rising” with Wolff and used it as the basis for the “Crave” series.

On February 7, 2022, Freeman, who had hired a lawyer, sent a letter threatening legal action to Kim, Wolff, Entangled, the company’s distributor Macmillan, and Universal Studios, which had optioned a film project based on the “Crave” books. “I really assumed that they would just apologize and fix it,” Freeman said. But, two days later, the Entangled counsel issued an icy response stating that “neither Pelletier nor Wolff ever heard of Freeman, read her ten-year old manuscript nor were aware of any details concerning the Freeman work.” The attorney added, “The agent, Kim, recalls nothing of this manuscript.” Freeman’s allegations were “speculative, unfounded, and easily rebutted as fanciful.” A month later, Freeman filed a copyright-infringement lawsuit. The litigation, which is ongoing, has cost Freeman several hundred thousand dollars and the defendants more than a million dollars.

The “Crave” series belongs to a powerhouse genre known as “romantasy”—romance plus fantasy. Stories have mingled love and magic for centuries, but the portmanteau crystallized as a market category during the pandemic. Works such as Sarah J. Maas’s novel “A Court of Thorns and Roses,” about a nineteen-year-old girl who falls in love with a fae high lord, surged in popularity, offering escape to readers stuck at home, often with company that was harder to view as enchanting under the circumstances. “The genre really caters to this perspective of, ‘If your life were going to be different, if you were plucked out of this reality, what would your dream reality be?,’ ” Emily Forney, an agent who works with young-adult and fantasy authors, told me. Romantasy sells a lightly transgressive form of wish fulfillment that holds out the enthralling promise of sex with vampires, manticores, werewolves, and other types of monsters and shape-shifters. (There’s even a “cheese-shifter” paranormal romance, by the author Ellen Mint, in which characters can turn into different types of cheese.)

In the past several years, the genre has attained a remarkable fandom. Print sales of romance novels more than doubled between 2020 and 2023. Meanwhile, the number of romance-focussed bookstores in the United States, with whimsical names such as the Ripped Bodice and Beauty and the Book, has swelled from two to more than twenty. Romantasy is helping to drive that boom. Publishers Weekly reported in October that five of the ten top-selling adult books of 2024 were written either by Maas or by her fellow romantasy icon Rebecca Yarros: the authors, combined, had sold more than 3.65 million copies of their novels in the first nine months of the year. A National Endowment for the Arts survey found that the number of Americans who reported finishing a single book in a year declined about six per cent between 2012 and 2022, but romantasy’s mostly female readers seem exempt from that downturn. They gather at midnight release parties and ardently break down their favorite titles on BookTok, a literary alcove of TikTok, where the hashtag for Maas’s series, #ACOTAR, has earned more than a billion views.

Many of these readers are millennials who grew up on “Harry Potter” and “Twilight” and expected more of the same once adulthood struck. Maas was among the first to acknowledge the sexual maturation of her audience. Although “A Court of Thorns and Roses,” published in 2015, featured mild erotic content by romance standards, it was far steamier than most Y.A. (“We moved together, unending and wild and burning, and when I went over the edge the next time, he roared and went with me.”) Love scenes in the later books went further, often adding anatomical specificity. In 2020, Maas’s publishers changed up their marketing strategy, causing the series to be rehomed in the adult section. “It birthed this genre of romantasy,” Cassandra Clare, the author of the best-selling fantasy series “The Mortal Instruments,” told me, “which to me is books that contain a lot of the tropes that make Y.A. popular but also have explicit sex in them.”

In some respects, romantasy has the feel of young people’s literature. The themes are Pixar-coded—forgiveness, compassion, overcoming adversity, celebrating difference—with a swoosh of black eyeliner. Cat Clyne, an editor at the Harlequin imprint Canary Street Press, described the genre as more welcoming than twentieth-century fantasy, which many readers now see as sexist. Romantasy “is emotion-positive—it’s about communication and falling in love,” she told me. “There’s less emphasis on world-building” and more on representing “strong female characters.”

Despite the genre’s egalitarian spirit, the most prominent romantasy authors are white. A reductive but not entirely spurious industry archetype has emerged, of temperamentally if not politically conservative women, often mothers, who find in their writing a means to success outside a traditional career path. “Twilight,” the precursor to today’s paranormal-romance novels, transformed Stephenie Meyer, a Mormon stay-at-home mother of three, into a millionaire. Yarros is a mother of six and a military spouse who began writing when her husband was deployed to Afghanistan. Like Freeman, Wolff first attempted commercial fiction after her son was born prematurely. Between 2007 and 2018, she published more than sixty romance, urban-fantasy, and young-adult novels, but it was not until she wrote a vampire-gargoyle love story that she shot to the top of the New York Times best-seller list. In April of 2024, Publishers Weekly reported that the six-volume “Crave” series had sold more than three and a half million copies worldwide.

All genre fiction (and arguably all fiction) is patterned on tropes, or received bits of narrative. But tropes have assumed a new importance in the creation and marketing of romantasy. On BookTok, users sort and tag titles by trope (#morallygreymen, #reverseharem, #daggertothethroat), allowing authors to tune their creative process to the story elements that are getting the most attention online. Entangled, “Crave” ’s publisher, gives visitors to its Web site the option to browse its selection by tropes such as “enemies-to-lovers” and “marriage of convenience.” Entangled editors fill out a form for every work they acquire; on the version of the form I viewed, there were fields in which to specify “tropes,” “paranormal elements,” “authors similar to,” “Heat level” (on a five-point scale from “mild” to “scorcher”), and the ratio of romance to suspense (from a maximum of 100/0 to a minimum of 20/80).

Romantasy’s reliance on tropes poses a challenge for questions of copyright. Traditionally, the law protects the original expression of ideas, not the ideas themselves. A doctrine named for the French phrase scènes à faire, or “scenes that must be done,” holds that the standard elements of a genre (such as a showdown between the hero and the villain) are not legally protectable, although their selection and arrangement might be. The wild proliferation of intensely derivative romantasies has complicated this picture. The worlds of romance and fantasy have been so thoroughly balkanized, the production of content so accelerated, that what one might assume to be tropes—falling in love with a werewolf or vampire, say—are actually subgenres. Tropes operate at an even more granular level (bounty-hunter werewolves, space vampires). And the more specific the trope, the harder it is to argue that such a thing as an original detail exists. For example, the “dark paranormal romance” subgenre mandates physical injury and a brooding, inhuman male lead. In 2018, the author Addison Cain filed a takedown notice against the author Zoey Ellis, accusing her of ripping off Cain’s lupine society of aggressive Alphas and submissive Omegas. Ellis sued Cain and her then publisher Blushing Books, arguing that she and Cain were both practicing the subgenre of “wolf-kink erotica,” which is based on open-source fan fiction. (Blushing Books settled out of court; a second suit Ellis filed against Cain was dismissed.)

Freeman’s suit rests on hundreds of similarities, compiled by Freeman and her lawyers, between her own manuscripts and notes and the “Crave” series. Taken one by one, few examples seem to rise to the level of infringement. The Alaskan setting, which Freeman saw as her intellectual property, is surprisingly common: Pelletier estimates that about ninety-five per cent of vampire novels take place in Alaska, New Orleans, or Las Vegas. Gargoyles have joined the menagerie of trendy paranormals, owing to the “Dark Elements” series, by Jennifer L. Armentrout. Small-plane pilots are standard issue for romance, a genre that loves a man in uniform, and it goes without saying that trysts under the aurora borealis are de rigueur. (One novel memorably features a hunky physician’s assistant who pleasures the heroine as “a brigade of ghostly rainbows jostled in the northern sky.”)

Other similarities are harder to explain away. In both books, the heroine’s parents bind her powers with tea; the male lead is guilty and grief-stricken over his older brother’s murder. I scoffed when I saw that Freeman’s side had listed “shining white courts” as a similarity, referring to the fact that, in both works, the heroine is brought to a marble building with white columns. But the court scenes have more than architecture in common. In each, the main character is transported to a timeless place presided over by a green-eyed woman. The heroine feels a sense of belonging; she is told that this is the home of her ancestors. In Wolff’s version of the scene, there are “thick white candles burning in gold candelabras.” In Freeman’s, there are “candles flickering to life in all of the wall sconces.” You can’t copyright candles any more than you can copyright marble, or ancestors, or green-eyed women. But the composition of these details, the totality of how the obvious or ordinary beats are strung together in each, is startling.

To show copyright infringement, Freeman will have to demonstrate that “actual copying” occurred and that the two texts are “substantially similar.” Because plaintiffs can rarely provide direct evidence of copying, the law allows them to prove it circumstantially, by establishing that the defendant had “access” to the allegedly infringed-upon work, either firsthand or through an intermediary. A problem for Freeman is that none of the 41,569 documents that the defendants were compelled to hand over make any mention of “Blue Moon Rising.” And Pelletier and Wolff both assert that they never saw Freeman’s novel or discussed it with anyone. Without direct proof of access, Freeman will have to take the weaker position that Wolff had a “reasonable possibility” of viewing the manuscripts, given her relationship with Kim. Another problem for Freeman is “substantial similarity” itself, a notoriously slippery standard located somewhere between works that raise suspicions of copying (probative similarity) and works that are almost identical to other works (striking similarity). The defendants argue that the two books feel extraordinarily different in tone, pacing, voice, and style. And “if they feel different,” Pelletier told me, “then they are.”

In romance, the heroine’s H.E.A., or happily ever after, often depends on how smoothly she can adapt to a new situation. The same might be said for publishers of romantasy, who have had to adjust to an unruly landscape of self-publishing that is adjacent to, and increasingly competitive with, mainstream publishing. The reigning principles of this indie world are “more” and “faster.” Because Amazon’s search algorithm appears to favor writers with larger backlists, there’s an incentive to flood the platform with titles—and to pad those titles with as many pages as possible, as Kindle Unlimited distributes royalties to the creators with the highest number of pages read. (This has spawned an epidemic of “page-stuffing,” in which authors load their novels with bonus material; authors have also been accused of using bots to artificially inflate their reader tally.)

Although many of the romantasy agents, writers, and editors I spoke to were not concerned about the field’s frenetic pace, a few felt that it could be overwhelming. “I think it puts authors in an impossible position,” the award-winning fantasy novelist Holly Black told me. “No one wants to cut corners on quality, and so you have to do this kind of heroic thing to get your book to be how you want it in a time frame that’s pretty much impossible.” The same conditions that promote speed can also foster “a pressure toward clickbait,” she added. Authors identify the most irresistible tropes and reproduce them as efficiently as possible. The book blogger and author Jenny Trout told me that, “in romantasy, copycats are commonplace. Authors are giving the people what they want, but it’s also like you’re reading the same book over and over again.”

To stand out, Entangled combines a careful attention to the physical look and feel of its novels—its deluxe editions, with adornments such as foil and stencilled edges, pop on Bookstagram—with a strategic, at times unconventional production process. The house accepts manuscripts from authors with a clear concept of what they want to write, but it also works collaboratively on special projects, in which “we are invited into the author’s process from day zero and continue in that spirit throughout editing,” Pelletier told Publishers Weekly. Entangled’s biggest romantasy titles, including Yarros’s “Empyrean” series, now come from its Red Tower imprint, whose model falls somewhere between that of a book packager and that of a traditional publisher. Book packagers assign teams of writers and editors to create content for an outside client, who can request specific elements, such as “the fae” or “hockey-themed romance.” Often, the writers receive a flat fee for their work (“work for hire”), sign over their I.P. rights, and are not entitled to royalties. Packaged titles are relatively safe bets for publishers, offering agility and responsiveness to subtle changes in market demand. Still, many houses want to avoid the perception of either working with packagers or packaging themselves, so as to attract prestigious authors and dodge accusations of predatory contracts.

Pelletier denies engaging in book packaging, but acknowledged, through her attorney, that, “unlike some other traditional publishers, Entangled tends to work more with its authors at the ideation stage to try to organically bake in a high concept.” “Crave,” according to the defense counsel, was “a collaborative project with Pelletier providing to Wolff in writing the main plot, location, characters, and scenes, and actively participating in the editing and writing process.” On the phone, Pelletier, a former software engineer, insisted that her approach isn’t particularly different from those of “publishers in New York.” (Entangled has no physical office; Pelletier operates out of Austin.) “They do the same thing,” she told me. “I’ve just been very successful at it.”

Opinion on Pelletier in the industry is divided. Publishers Weekly named her its 2024 Person of the Year, citing her “out-of-the-box” thinking. The agent Beth Davey called her “a visionary, brilliant marketer.” Trout, the author and blogger, described Pelletier as “shady” and characterized Entangled as “a Mickey Mouse operation” pushing “nice, nonpolitical white ladies who are good at being pretty in photos and building parasocial relationships online.” One of the more than fifteen writers I spoke to for this piece told me that she’d met with Pelletier to discuss her finished book, but that Pelletier had urged her to develop an entirely different, as yet unwritten, story idea, complaining that “the problem with traditional publishing is that they just let writers write whatever they want, and they don’t even think about what the TikTok hashtag is going to be.” (Through her attorney, Pelletier said she didn’t recall any such conversation and that “Entangled doesn’t rely heavily on hashtags when marketing books on TikTok.”)

Buried within Pelletier’s deposition testimony is an origin story for “Crave.” Toward the end of the twenty-tens, she decided that the time had come for a vampire renaissance. A decade had passed since the “Twilight” movies, and she’d read that fads take about ten years to cycle back around. She’d also heard that teen-age readers weren’t finding the current wave of paranormal heroines relatable enough: the characters were too sure of themselves, too perfect. Pelletier, whose colleagues describe her as a gifted trendspotter, wanted a “fish out of water” story, one that thrust an ordinary girl into a rarefied world.

Early in 2019, an Entangled author was unable to deliver her book as planned, leaving a gap in the schedule. Wolff and Kim both recalled Pelletier needing a writer who could produce good work at a sprint. Wolff is “one of the fastest, but not the fastest writer I’ve ever worked with,” Pelletier said to me. Abrams reached out to Wolff, who responded with five pitches, the second of which featured a sexy, degenerate teen-age monster and a straitlaced scholarship student. With Abrams as an occasional intermediary, Pelletier and Wolff hammered out a basic story shape.

At the time, Wolff was regaining her footing after a difficult period. Her twenty-year marriage had fallen apart a few years earlier, and divorce was not ideal for an author trying to convert fantasies of romantic bliss into rent and groceries. Wolff had written paranormal fiction before, but love stories were her O.T.P., her one true pairing. She was nervous about jumping into the vampire tradition. “I didn’t think I had anything new to bring to the table,” she told the podcaster Hank Garner in 2020. But her doubts lifted when the series’ heroine, Grace, popped into her head and started talking. “She was funnier than I expected,” Wolff told Garner—witty, spirited, a bit sarcastic. In a Q. & A. with the Nerd Daily, Wolff said, “I actually identify a lot with the heroine, Grace. There’s a lot of me in her, including the snarky sense of humor—especially when things get bad.”

The process of putting out “Crave” was chaotic. Wolff wrote a rough draft in two months, from May to June of 2019, but Pelletier didn’t start editing in earnest until December, several weeks before the book was scheduled to go to press. “My editor had a couple of other projects that she was working on,” Wolff recalled on Garner’s podcast, “and then when she came back, she was, like, ‘This is good, but’ ”—Wolff’s voice sped up as if to simulate a torrent of feedback—“ ‘you need to change this, you need to change this . . . you need to add that.’ ” The pair of them revised the manuscript, adding about fifty thousand words in a week and a half. Wolff said, “We were so exhausted . . . the two of us by the end were blithering idiots.” The novel came out in April, 2020. A sequel, “Crush,” followed in September, 2020, and two more, “Covet” and “Court,” appeared in March, 2021, and February, 2022. (During her deposition, Wolff explained that she wanted each title to evoke love, a statement that confused the lawyer, who asked, “What does court have to do with love?”)

Entangled was motivated to push the sequels out swiftly because COVID was catalyzing book sales. Correspondence among Kim, Pelletier, Abrams, and Wolff suggests that, in the hectic days and hours before a book deadline, an already collaborative creative process could become an all-out emergency. It was sometimes hard to tell who added what. “Love ‘our tree of trust is just a twig’ did you write that?” Kim texted Pelletier, about a line in “Crush.” Referring to a different line, Pelletier said, “I wrote that sentence, but I was using Tracy’s voice.” And: “I came up with every header but the first chapter lol.” While closing “Court,” which was on a particularly tight schedule, author, editor, and agent supplied sentences and ideas, all of which swirled together in the various documents being updated in tandem on each of their laptops. Pelletier asked Kim, “Tracy wrote that moonstone description?” Kim texted Abrams, “Tracy and I are team speed writing new scenes,” and “I’ve stopped copy editing because I helped write all this.” (The defense said that Kim’s contribution “was extremely limited and was entirely technical.”)

Wolff seems to find value in a more coöperative workflow. She described herself to Garner as “one of those weird . . . very rare extrovert authors” who “loves to go on writers’ retreats and loves to meet up at, you know, Barnes & Noble and write with their friends.” Like Wolff, Grace is a team player, the center of a big ensemble cast. There are also nurturing Macy, the “cheerleader” of the crew, and tough-as-nails Eden. Wolff told me that she wanted to use her novel to “talk about feminine strength in all its forms.” Her female characters “build the life that they want, not on the shoulders of others, but with others.”

Wolff is an only child. Her father died unexpectedly when she was twenty-two; a few months later, she suffered her first panic attack. Grace, the “Crave” heroine, is also an only child who has panic attacks stemming from the loss of her parents. “I was absolutely channelling some of my own past,” Wolff told me. Her present was impinging, too. She was falling in love with her current partner while she was writing “Crave”; she suspects that some of her elation soaked into the story.

In the “Crave” series, Grace speaks in a knowing, casual, Avengers-inflected tone. Referring to her gargoyle nature, she says, “I sleep like a stone—pun totally intended.” Facing down an abominable beast: “Yep, we’re all going to die.” The series renders the potentially odd and inward aspects of fantasy salable—paranormals are just like contemporary humans, with familiar psychologies, politics, and value systems. They even like the same Top Forty pop songs. World-building details, such as the logistics of being a vampire, are left unexplained. Dénouements can feel duct-taped together, with jarring omissions and convoluted exposition. In the course of the series, characters learn never to underestimate themselves; they grasp the importance of empathy, forgiveness, and friendship; they manifest prolific and appealing forms of feminine power. Most vivid by far are the sex scenes. “Tracy is a romance writer at heart,” Pelletier told me.

Freeman’s manuscript is quieter, more internal. Unlike Wolff, she always knew that fantasy was her genre. She’d immersed herself in Tolkien growing up, and she used to imagine that the people walking around Anchorage were deer shifters or veela, long-haired maidens who called down storms from the sky. She wanted her novel to be as awash in mysterious possibility as her adolescence had been. Her book’s posture toward the natural world is one of respectful awe; reading it, you sense a deeply ingrained isolation.

In “Blue Moon Rising,” Anna is reeling from the sudden loss of her father and his parents. This struggle is drawn from Freeman’s life. When she was four and a half, she and her mother returned from a trip out of state to a completely bare apartment. Her father had left, forcing a split between Freeman and the paternal side of her family. “I wanted to write about a heroine who has tremendous courage because she has panic attacks from loss,” Freeman told me. “She thinks about loss all the time. It’s a thorn in her heart.” Shadowy father figures loom over the story. In one version of the manuscript, Anna’s father is a wise werewolf. In another, he is a cruel vampire prince.

The female characters are foils and antagonists to the heroine. Anna feels judged by her childhood friends: they’ve been “acting moody and unpredictable,” she narrates in one draft. “I felt constantly on edge with them.” At home, the most dramatic conflicts unfold between Anna and her mother, Marcheline, who can be warm and loving but also “controlling,” “obsessive,” “crazed,” and occasionally violent. “It’s like M is schizophrenic with her,” Freeman wrote in one e-mail to Kim, after they had already been going back and forth about the manuscript for six months. “Nice one moment and shredding her ego to bits in the next.”

Part of the reason Freeman was drawn to Kim as an agent, at least initially, was that she seemed to respect the uniqueness of Freeman’s vision. According to Freeman, Kim praised her unusual writing voice, which blended dreamlike imagery with wry humor. (“The moon is full overhead, pregnant with possibilities and none of them good.”) Kim loved the dramatic setting. They spoke on the phone for hours, Freeman says, with Freeman explaining her inspirations, her family and personal life, and her plans for a larger series based on “Blue Moon Rising.” In Freeman’s recollection, Kim would often say that she didn’t have such lengthy or intimate conversations with her other clients. (Kim denies saying this and does not recall any extensive conversations about Freeman’s personal life.)

Freeman was eager to respond to Kim’s suggestions. Kim wanted to see more strength and agency in Anna, the heroine, and Freeman revised the manuscript so that Anna went to greater and greater lengths to rescue her werewolf mate. She produced copious notes, chapter synopses, and character descriptions for Kim; she wrote pitches and taglines and letters for Kim to send to editors. Throughout, she says, Kim insisted that the manuscript was close to being ready. In one e-mail, from June, 2011, Kim wrote, “You’ve been a real pro throughout this revision process so I’d figure you’d want to really wade in those final slogging steps and be rewarded with true greatness!”

But, as the months dragged on, Freeman’s hopes began to wilt. No matter how many times she renovated the main arc, developed a subplot here, updated the lore there, she couldn’t bring the book to where Kim said it needed to be. She believes that she sent her agent at least forty meaningfully different versions of her manuscript. She started to refer to Kim’s edits as “the hydra,” an allusion to the many-headed monster that sprouted two new heads every time one was chopped off.

In September of 2013, Freeman sent Kim a fresh synopsis of her novel. The agent replied in a tone she hadn’t previously used. “My comments don’t always seem to lead your book to the next level,” she wrote. “I really think you owe it to yourself to be really certain you are putting the best book out there.” At the end of the message, she wrote, “I know this email is long and perhaps long overdue. You deserve honesty from me above all else. . . . But the bottom line is you need to move forward and I need to move forward too.”

In Kim’s recollection, Freeman took up less time than some of her other authors—she remembers that Freeman was juggling work and other commitments—but Kim did try to make Freeman feel valued. “Looking back, I feel very proud of the work that I did with her,” Kim told me. “So having that thrown back in my face is very sad,” she said. When we spoke, she stressed that she values “each and every one of my authors so much that it’s just so painful to think that anyone would think that I would do this to them.”

Wolff and Kim were close. Kim’s daughter, Eden, was one of “Crave” ’s first readers, and Wolff named a character Eden in gratitude. Kim’s contributions to the “Crave” series sometimes extended beyond the traditional work of even a very hands-on agent. She helped to create the project’s “bible,” a compilation of names, backstories, and details that Wolff used to keep tabs on Grace’s expansive universe. She proposed plot points: What if two witch characters “are just texting”? What if the magical portals malfunctioned? When Wolff was on deadline for “Court,” Kim sat in a Google Doc with her for nineteen hours, allegedly to provide moral support. “I want to help you rage finish the rest of this book,” she texted on October 24, 2021. Then she suggested that they get coffee “and crash it out.”

Kim didn’t always evince this level of enthusiasm for Freeman. On October 10, 2013, Kim pitched “Blue Moon Rising” to Liz Pelletier, addressing the Entangled publisher as “Lynne.” The language feels boilerplate and impersonal. “If you are looking for something unique in young adult paranormal romance,” Kim wrote, “this is something I think would be a perfect fit for you!” Pelletier forwarded the pitch—without reading it, she claims—to Stacy Abrams, who requested the full manuscript on October 18th. Kim replied on October 23rd. “Hi Stacy,” she wrote. “Sorry for the delay. Here you go! And aren’t you happy about Tracy? I am!” Abrams agreed that she was happy about Tracy, whose new Entangled book was doing well. She also gently noted that Kim had forgotten to attach Freeman’s novel to her e-mail.

An effective romantasy novel conveys the experience of falling in love, but it also touches on themes of talent and purpose, of becoming who you were meant to be. A girl is ordinary and then she is chosen. Her destiny is to wield power beyond imagination. A cold, hard man turns malleable in her hands. Those who dislike her are jealous, those who disagree with her are evil, and those who try to stop her are vanquished—righteously.

A decade or so ago, Y.A. readers telegraphed their fandom by affiliating with types. They picked a Hogwarts house or a Divergent faction to identify with; they declared for Team Edward (the vampire in “Twilight”) or Team Jacob (the werewolf). But romantasy novels are more character-driven, and readers approach them more individualistically. They come to the genre concerned about their own place in the world. “A really good writer makes you feel like a book is about you,” Kim told me. She suggested that maybe Wolff had performed her job too well: Freeman looked into the “Crave” series and encountered her own reflection.

A paradox of romantasy novels is that they express the longing to be unique, but they pour that desire into imitative forms. Many of the genre’s tropes are clichés about specialness. When the heroine is discovered to be secret royalty or the chosen one, readers feel singular, like they are the main character. Both Wolff and Freeman emphasized to me the deeply intimate experiences that fed into their books—falling in love, becoming a mother, struggling to accept the loss of a parent. They lived their tropes. Wolff, a contemporary romance writer who dove gamely into vamps-and-shifter lore, was the normal girl in an alien new world. Freeman was the lost child with an attunement to nature who comes into her power. Maybe these experiences were universal, but they were also personal. If it happened to you, how could it not be yours?

But life isn’t a romantasy novel. For every Sarah J. Maas, there are thousands of first-time or self-published writers toiling away in obscurity. The promise of the genre is transformation—reality into fiction, vulnerability into strength, humans into animals, ordinariness into distinction—but the labor of producing romantasy rarely changes your life. Some authors get picked, and many more do not. The outcomes can feel especially arbitrary when everyone is telling more or less the same story.

The defendants fear that the suit may embolden bad actors to weaponize copyright law against talented and successful authors. Pelletier cautioned that she could see why I might be drawn to a salacious tale of betrayal, but that the real story of the lawsuit was the threat posed by fencing off the creative commons, discouraging writers from crafting their own narratives of alluring monsters or forbidden love. She spoke about a “well” of shared ideas, imagery, and language that irrigates our cultural life and enables our traditions to morph and evolve. “You can’t claim ownership to the well,” she said. “It will stifle everyone’s creativity.” Referring to Freeman, Pelletier added, “She doesn’t own heroes in black jeans, as much as she would like to.”

Black told me, “It’s just true that there are enough things being written, when you’re working with tropes and tradition and folklore, that sometimes you hit some of the same things.” But she dismissed Pelletier’s anxieties about repercussions from the coming verdict, saying, “I don’t think it’s going to create some kind of new standard.” Trout likewise warned against extrapolating too much from a sui-generis situation. “The case with ‘Crave’ and ‘Blue Moon Rising’ is not simply about tropes,” she said. “The books are too similar.”

The defense is right that no one could mistake the experience of reading “Crave” for the experience of reading “Blue Moon Rising.” Wolff’s story is sassy, fun, commercial, and hot. Freeman’s is raw, ruminative, interior, and possibly unsalable, given the murky volatility of the family dynamics and the protagonist’s wariness, bordering on hostility, toward other women. What is strange and spiky in one is palatable and familiar in the other. Freeman strews esoteric asides about Egyptian mythology, Captain Cook, and the passage of Celtic artifacts from New Zealand to Alaska, which have no counterpart in the “Crave” series. (Instead, there are the singer-songwriter Niall Horan, Restoration Hardware catalogues, “Final Destination.”) The mysticism that pervades “Blue Moon Rising” is muted in Wolff’s novels. The sense of phantasmagoria and unreality is gone. Many of the details that overlap are tropes, or close enough. Many more are trivial: the color of a character’s eyes, the title—such as “Bloodletter”—by which she is known.

But the preponderance of commonalities and the sum of how they unfold is harder to discount. Wolff said that she’d been “completely blindsided” and “devastated” by Freeman’s accusations, and that she “hurt for everybody involved in this case.” “I didn’t do what I’m accused of,” she said. Freeman, who has sold her home in Alaska to pay her legal costs, told me that she was fighting in part because she no longer saw herself as unique. “If this can happen to me,” she said, “it could happen to somebody else.” ♦

I admit I always find it funny when people whose entire business is media give on-the-record quotes that sound this much like the villain of a movie about hosting a charity talent show to save the beloved local library.

[immaterial-vivi]

Words (a HDG microfic)

"I know you can do it, petal." Mistress teased, her petal glaring at her from the bounds of her vines. “You can say so many words, you used to be so proud of it.” 

Petal could speak, the block on part of her mind that had made her silent for so long falling away. She did her best not to blurt out the first thing that came to mind. It was a terrible, inane thing anyway. She wouldn’t thank Mistress for giving her her words back. She wouldn’t beg her to go easier on her, or to let her go, or whatever else she would be denied anyway.

“Remind me, what did you call me when we first met.” 

Petal wanted to say those words, but she couldn’t find them. 

‘Mistress is the most wonderful person,’ she thought. 

That wasn’t it. 

‘Mistress is a damn savior of humanity,’ she thought. 

That was even worse. 

‘Mistress is a damn xeno-fucker, and by the Everbloom she is the best,’ she thought. 

That was the worst one yet.

“Nasty words. The ones you knew you shouldn’t say. I’ll keep those, no reason to be careless. Words can hurt. Tell me the ones you really want to say.”

Petal pressed her lips together until they looked completely white, straining against her, and against herself. She was inside her now, not just her body, but her mind; Mistress thoughts becoming her thoughts, her thoughts becoming silly little intrusive flashes of a past half forgotten. Whatever she was going to say would be the truth.

“I…” She stopped herself.

“I want to hear you say what you need to say.” 

“I…” She stopped herself, again. 

“They are the hardest words to say. I’m so proud of my lovely petal for even trying.”

Something in her snapped, unable to hold on to the division between herself and Mistress.

“I love you, Mistress.” 

“I love you, too, my precious pet.” 

“I forgive you.” 

[aliceinborderlandsquidgame]

Wrong move | The Salesman x Fem!Reader

Summary: He thought you were in love with him....maybe he needs to show you how much you need him.

Warnings: SFW - Possessive!Salesman - Obsessive!Salesman - Controling!Salesman - Red flag basically - Unhealthy relationship - Power imbalance - DARK!Salesman - grammar mistakes -

Note: Not part of "Home Bliss", this is a different universe.

"No"

These were the words that have been in the Salesman's mind for a week now. His aparment, a place he used to love coming to since you were here waiting for him now felt like a empy box. Walls too grey to look at, too dull. The food did not have teaste and his bed felt too big.

When did things go wrong ? He did everything right.

Saw you one day at the local park, got enamoured by you. Followed you around, got to know your schendelure so he could see you from afar. Was able to hack your phone to know every last detail. Your social media were poorly secured. He got to know you like he knew his own skin, when he finally did approach you, you were already his.

And after two years, two years of beautiful moments together, perfectly crafted by him, each one calculated and made so you would fall more and more for him. He got you to move in with him, he was accepted by your friends, your family loved him, and saw him like part of it.

He was sure, centrain that this was the right moment. The perfect one. This was your favorite season, favorite month, perfect hour of the day and a well secured place so you would not feel pressure over it.

Some part of him wanted you to come to him willing.

But your words were marked liked fire. The exchange and after events lived rent free inside his head.

How he had managed to keep his facade he has no idea. The aparment (after you refused to get back) was the one that suffered his rage. All the expensive forniture was destroyed by him, some walls had blood by how much he had punched them.

He was a mess, a disaster. How could yo do it  ? After everything? Weren't you two the perfect match ?

A ding from his phone, the ding he had set just for you sounded.

"Sorry, I think its better if we stop seeing each other. I will pass to get my things soon"

The phone went flying. Were you breaking up with him by text ? When he had read all the exchange with your friends  ? Like how scared you were and how fast it felt. Why were you doing this?

And your doubts ? He never saw them, you seemed content by his side. And loved him like that.

But your personal diary on your phone said different. You felt trapped, like he knew too much, like he was not being honest.

Maybe he should have been more...severe? Showing you just how bad he could be, maybe he let your leash go too large and now he was paying the consequences.

But would he give up ? No. After all you were just confused, and scared, you just needed a reminder of how much you needed him. How he could be the only one for you.

He took the phone back, the screen broke but other functions working. He ignored your message and instead went to his contacts. He had many friends, friends that could ruin you completly.

"I need a favor"

Leaving him was the start of your nightmare.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

At first the relationship was fine. How does peopel put it ? Honeymoon? Well you two had it for very long.

He was the man any woman could ask for, gentle, caring, doting, never forgot a special date. And would get your favorite things.

But something was off. His eyes, the same dark eyes that sparked when he saw you, these eyes would change to sharp and cold around others. You felt like he was always on you, even when being away for work, he would just know when to send you a message or call you.

Would meet you randomly on the streets, knew when you wanted to do something even when you never mentioned it.

Something was wrong. Your gut told you to run from him but you did not know how. After all on the eyes of everyone he was perfect.

Then he asked to marry you, and you saw your chance. You could say you got scared and that things just did not work out after it.

But it did not go that way.

Once you had got your things from his aparment your Boss called, he had said how sorry he was but the company was cutting off some employees and you were one of them.

Your work, your dream work. The one you had passed years preparing yourself, tears and blood for it. The one that made your parents proud.

Ripped out from you with one call.

Then it came your social circle. Slowly your Friends stopped meeting with you, some removed you from their social media, and some blocked your number. You never got to know what was wrong, or what you did.

And later your parents, it was a shame losing your job, it was worse not being able to get another one.

"Sorry we are looking for something different"

"Your solicitude was read but right now we need another thing"

"We will call you"

Rent became impossible, and so you had to move back with them. Your mother was not happy, telling you how much of a failure you were, how your brother was making money overseas and how your sister had made a family.

Your father did not even look at you. Like he felt guilty, not even the company he used to work for would take you in.

Your days became a circle of sending out curriculums and doing your best to keep your parents happy even when you knew they did not want you there.

And some days you would go to the park and cry. Not caring if others saw you, your life was ruined, you had nothing. Maybe....maybe if you had said yes....

Checking your phone you saw the contacts, mom, dad, brother, sister and him. You were sure you had removed his number but it kept coming back. Maybe you were getting sick because of the stress.  Your finger went over the call buttom till you finally hitted it.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

He never wanted to see you like this, so broken, so out of life. Maybe he had insolated you too much. Let some lies to your Friends and mother that grew and now they hated you. Your father was a rough one, he had used some...other methods for him. But did coperate at the end.

"You dont seem so good" Were his first words and you looked down at your lap.

"Im sorry for have called you.., after everything"

"Dont say anything. I was glad I got your call. I wanted to know how you were doing" He lied, he knew you were miserable.

Only him could fix it.

"I have...well things have been bad" You addmited "I dont want to burden you with it, maybe this was a mistake"

You went to get up and leave but a firm grip on your hand stopped you. His eyes, cold and sharp like he was seeing his prey.

You, you were his prey.

"Sit" It was an order not a request "Lets talk for a bit more, maybe I can help you, for the old times"

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○

"Are you sure? (Y/N) you can still go back and say no" Your fathers voice cut off.

You were wearing a beautiful weeding dress, outside from a ceremenoy to take place.

"Dad...you have been saying that since I told mom and you that I was getting married. This is good, we actually made up and I even got my work back, with double pay. Was not what you wanted for me?"

Your father did not respond. He still remembers that night. The night your "perfect" boyfriend appear. When he told him how your life would be so bad you would be wishing you were gone.

"And if thats not enoguh, maybe leaving her limp like you will do the trick"

He had tried for many months to hide his injury, the injury that man had caused him and promised to do the same to you.

"Dad? Its your leg hurting? You are crying"

"No dear, im fine. A little emotional to see you go"

When the doors opened and he walked you in and saw the monster you were going to marry he felt like dying there. When he gave you to him he could see it, he was liking his pain.

"I will take good care of her" Were his only words, and by the time his eyes were on you it had changed.

Love? Obsession ? A twisted sense of care ? No one could tell, no one dared to ask.

Him ? He was just happy you finally accepted what was best for you.

Him, he was the best for you.

"Till death do us apart"

Not even death would be able to separate you from him.

[champ-the-mudkip]

I think this is one of those slightly tragic things that modern separation from agriculture has done. People used to be so incredibly closely tied to the plants and animals that they used for survival. Veganism wasn't really a thing back in the day as an ideology the way it is now, and I think that's because there was no merciless, wasteful, capitalist machine to recoil against.

I'm my opinion, at its root (pun intended), veganism is actually misdirected anti-capitalism that capitalists have managed to profit off of.

If you're a vegan disgusted by the practices of factory farms, imo the way to actually move toward the ethical treatment of animals is to support small local farms or co-ops that raise animals in a humane way. Buying into the marketing for vegan alternatives is just giving the same ruthless capitalists that are factory farming animals your money from a different avenue.

Hunting and farming will always be there, and imo the important thing is to advocate for the animals involved to be treated with the respect and gratitude they deserve.

Worried that the chickens your eggs came from are spending their lives trapped in tiny cages? Raise your own! Get together with some friends and raise chickens, and you can be sure they they're well treated. Many cities allow backyard chickens.

There's so many options outside of spending way more money on vegan alternatives. Give your time and money to caring for real pigs, not toward enriching capitalist pigs.

no but i saw a video of a woman spinning angora fiber into yarn directly from the bunny in her lap and it changed my brain like

the clothes on our body used to come from the animals we cared for. that's crazy! imagine loving and caring such a sweet lil creature, making soft warm clothes for yourself using fiber from your favorite sheep. clothes that will likely outlive the creature who provided the fiber. we loved and cared for these creatures and then carried a part of them with us. and some people still do! i'm so emotional about this i need a minute

[aventurineswife]

Between Logic and Passion

Summary: You navigate the delicate balance between Kaveh's emotional idealism and Ratio's sharp intellect. Though they often clash, you help them realize how their shared passions make them stronger together. As the three of you reflect on your relationship, a quiet harmony settles over your lives, promising a future built on love, creativity, and understanding.

Tags: Kaveh x Reader x Ratio, Emotional Bonding, Found Family Dynamics, Mutual Pining to Domestic Fluff, Reader as the Emotional Anchor, Banter and Gentle Humor, Hurt/Comfort (Subtle).

Warnings: Light mentions of financial and emotional stress, Subtle references to self-doubt and overworking, Alcohol briefly alluded to (Kaveh’s coping mechanism, not depicted).

[Req by/inspo]

Kaveh had always been a whirlwind of emotion, while Ratio was a storm of intellect, a calculated force that could dismantle an argument with precision. You, however, had always seen how the two mirrored each other more than they would ever admit. Perhaps that was why you had found yourself at the center of their unusual, sometimes chaotic, yet undeniably tender relationship.

Tonight, you sat in the alcove of Kaveh's latest project—a breathtaking garden terrace filled with fragrant blossoms and intricate stonework. Ratio stood nearby, analyzing the structural integrity of a carved archway. Kaveh, by contrast, lounged on the soft cushions next to you, gesturing animatedly about his vision for the space.

“Can you believe he questioned my choice of materials?” Kaveh huffed, shooting Ratio a pointed look.

Ratio didn’t even glance up. “Marble is inefficient for the load-bearing pillars, given the humidity here. My calculations are sound.”

You smiled at their familiar banter, interrupting before it spiraled into another heated debate. “Both of you bring something unique to the table. Ratio, your precision ensures the structure lasts for centuries. And Kaveh, your artistry ensures people will remember it for just as long.”

Kaveh leaned closer to you, his eyes softening. “You always know how to make everything sound so balanced.” He paused, a teasing smirk creeping onto his face. “But let’s be honest, you’re on my side, right?”

Ratio finally turned his attention from the archway, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. “Don’t put them in the middle of this.”

You laughed, leaning back against the cushions. “I’m on our side. I’m just saying that both of your strengths work best when you complement each other.”

Kaveh tilted his head, his expression shifting to something more thoughtful. “You know, they’re right. As much as it pains me to admit it, your critiques do push me to do better, Ratio.”

Ratio’s lips curved into a faint smile. “And your emotional investment reminds me why these creations matter in the first place.”

It wasn’t often that the two of them shared such open affection, and it made your chest warm to see them acknowledge their similarities. Kaveh’s idealism and Ratio’s determination were two sides of the same coin—both driven by a deep passion for bettering the world in their own way.

As the night wore on, the three of you found yourselves huddled together, sharing quiet laughter and whispered musings about dreams and ambitions. Kaveh’s head rested on your shoulder, his golden hair soft against your cheek. Ratio sat on your other side, his arm draped over the back of the cushions, fingers brushing yours in a rare display of vulnerability.

You spoke softly, your words cutting through the gentle hum of the night. “The two of you are more alike than you realize. You both care deeply about leaving the world better than you found it—Kaveh with beauty, Ratio with knowledge.”

Kaveh chuckled, his voice low and warm. “And you, dearest, hold us together when we’d otherwise tear ourselves apart.”

Ratio’s hand briefly tightened over yours. “It’s true. Without you, I doubt either of us would have found the balance we needed.”

In that moment, the harmony between the three of you felt unshakable. As Kaveh drifted into a soft slumber against you, Ratio leaned closer, his steady gaze meeting yours.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For understanding us.”

You smiled, squeezing his hand gently. “Always.”

The moonlit terrace seemed to shimmer with the quiet promise of a future where the three of you—so different, yet so deeply connected—would continue to build something extraordinary together.

[another-lost-mc]

SHATTERED MIRRORS

PAIRING: Solomon x gn!Reader

SUMMARY: Trapped in the Devildom's murky past, Solomon is there to remind you that even if all else seems lost, you still have each other.

CONTENT/WARNINGS: Nightbringer angst. Vague worldbuilding that hints at a darker version of the Devildom. Bittersweet with a hopeful ending. 1k words.

A/N: There's so much in Nightbringer I wish we got to see, both in the past and future timelines, and this is my small contribution to exploring that untapped potential.

Sometimes it’s the little things Solomon does for you that makes you feel loved. No one wants to be ripped from their life and thrown into the past by some mysterious entity for mysterious purposes. The demon disguise you wear, weightless thanks to the complex spells Solomon casts on you before you leave the safety of Cocytus Hall every morning, still sits heavy on your shoulders like a burden. His magic envelopes you and fills you with warmth, a reminder that he’s always there to protect you even when he can’t be.

Because you can’t be yourself when you’re in this strange version of the Devildom, with its cobblestone streets not yet paved, or the line of unfamiliar shops and market stalls that sell food that’s much too spicy (or dangerous) for you to consume. You rush past countless shops and apothecaries, ignoring the tendrils of fear that shoot down your spine when you realize they still sell rare artifacts and reagents collected from celestial beings and human specimens that will be outlawed by royal decree long before the exchange program begins.

You can’t be yourself in this version of the Devildom, not with Diavolo and his faithful butler that are so familiar yet so foreign, younger than when you first met them. Their eyes are sharp and wary as tensions within the realm fluctuate thanks to its newest residents. There’s something guarded yet knowing in their expressions when they see you, and you have to remind yourself that despite the social and political drama surrounding Diavolo’s controversial plans, he is determined to succeed. It’s only now that you realize the lengths he’s willing to go to, and that relentless ambition is laced with the menacing power his title holds. Like every obstacle he’s faced, he weathers this storm with dignity. It’s almost instinct to want to offer your support for him, heartfelt reassurances that he can do this and you are proud of him. Every time you see him now, those thoughts wither like dying flowers on the vine because the Devildom’s prince has never felt more dangerous to you than he does now. You have to suppress the uneasy shudder that threatens to ripple through you each time his cheeks dimple with a lopsided, insincere smile that shows the tip of his fangs.

You can’t be yourself in this version of the Devildom, not in the House of Lamentation that is simultaneously familiar and unrecognizable at the same time. The rooms and hallways are easy to navigate, but you can’t help but notice the walls are covered in different photographs and paintings than the ones you’re used to seeing. The décor is fashionable but strange, reflecting trends of the current time, but it doesn’t feel like the home you’re used to. The brothers haven’t been here long enough so it lacks that lived-in charm: rooms remain intact, not yet destroyed then rebuilt, and familiar scuff marks on the floors and walls have yet to develop. The house still has that lingering musty smell like it was neglected and empty until recently. The bedroom you used to call your own feels foreign, neglected and cold because they’re unused to hosting guests (and you get the feeling guests are very much unwanted). It nearly breaks your heart when you instinctively walk in that direction and one of the demon brothers chides you with undisguised annoyance that there’s nothing over there, the room that needs cleanin’ is this way.

You can’t be yourself around the demon brothers either, not with their strange and unpredictable behaviour that leaves your patience frayed and fight-or-flight response on edge. Not long after you arrive at the House of Lamentation, you can hear Lucifer scolding Mammon from halfway across the house in an unfamiliar language that sounds too beautiful to be native to the Devildom. Even in his anger and frustration and despair, you realize Lucifer’s voice still carries the lyrical cadence of Celestial language, the place he and his brothers used to call home. It’s a harsh contrast to the dark wings and anger burning in Lucifer’s gaze when you see him in his demonic form. Their celestial garb and heavenly features are only memories of a not so distant past, and like Lucifer, his brothers are forced to wear the physical manifestation of their failure – the death of their sister, their shameful fall from grace. Part of you sympathizes with them even more now that you can see the raw aftermath of their demise, but part of you fears them too, the fractured versions of themselves held together with the growing power of their respective sins.

Every morning you wake up, homesick but determined to make the best of things, and Solomon helps you don your disguise and pushes a cup of tea into your hands. Every evening, you trudge back to Cocytus Hall, weary from spending all day pretending to be the attendant of seven unruly demons that look like the demon brothers you know but feel like poor substitutes at best. Solomon is usually waiting in your dorm, greeting you with a kiss while offering a hug and if needed, a shoulder to cry on. You make food together (while you handle most of the cooking and he helps set the table and wash the dishes). Later, you read together on the sofa or talk about the latest gossip or Devildom news, and Solomon updates you on his progress – or lack thereof – of finding a way home. Despite the hopelessness of it all, it feels bearable because Solomon is there to share those burdens and fill your heavy heart with hope. You can rest easy at night, laid down in your shared bed with Solomon’s arm draped over your waist, his gentle snores coaxing you to sleep after him, and no matter how bleak things seem, it feels like a promise that one day, everything will be alright again.

Read More: Obey Me Masterlist

[justanothermemestrider]

Jago Sevetarion x F! Reader - Assorted Headcanons

Because at the moment, I've got the Night Lord bug really, really bad.

Hope you guys enjoy these couple lil tid bits :)

If any of you have any requests for fics or headcanons, then please leave a comment or send through an ask!

- While most of his brothers would leap at the opportunity to taunt, tease or even hurt you, Jago's own squad, First Claw, are like big brothers to you. Sev has told them explicitly that they are to protect you and show you respect, and out of loyalty they do so from day one. Eventually, though, they don't need to be ordered to look after you: they come to actually quite like you. Talos and Cyrion are particular stand outs, here. Cyrion takes it upon himself to teach you Nostraman, both for your betterment and his own amusement. If Sev isn't around to keep the other, more problematic Night Lords off your back, Talos steps in as your bodyguard.

- All of that said, Jago is absolutely teaching you how to fight. He will show you how to use a bolter and sword, as well as how to kill with your hands. You will spar together often (Jago is shirtless, of course ;)) and more often than not, those sessions will devolve from fighting into... well, other things, shall we say.

- He tells you about Altani. He says her vulnerability and soft nature reminded him of you. Not being able to save her weighs heavily on him, more so than anyone else realises. And after his experience in loosing her, you notice a subtle, yet significant change in his behaviour. He's more physically affectionate, tells you that he loves you more often, and he's even more concerned with your safety than usual.

- You're the best dressed and groomed person in the entire Legion- be they spacemarine, serf or ship crew. Where most humans in the Legion wear little more than tattered robes, your attire is as layered, colourful and stylish as you want. Jago is an absolute sugar daddy; he couldn't bear the thought of the woman he loves having nothing but rags to her name. Also, your clothes are a status symbol. A mark of your importance both to Sevetar and First Claw. Simply put, no one is going to look at you and mistake you for anyone other than Jago Sevetarion's wife.

- Your and Jago's relationship is the one thing that he and Konrad Curze disagree about. Konrad says you're making Jago weak. That you're making him soft, giving him empathy. But that isn't the truth. Yes, when he is with you Jago is a soft and loving man. But in every other aspect of his, you have, if anything, made him even more deadly. Now, he's not just fighting for bloodlust or hatred; he's fighting to protect someone he loves. He'll kill anyone to keep you safe, and therein lies the real reason Konrad doesn't like you. Because between you and him, Jago is choosing you. And Konrad absolutely hates that.

Tags: @solspina @beckyninja @egrets-not-regrets @wolf-feathers12 @jaghatai-khock @lemon-russ @moodymisty @nereidof40k @yanagikou @hatsubara-8chan

[mssorceressupreme]

Under Your Control

———

Pairing: In ho x reader

Summary: you wake up almost bare one night, away from the other players, tried to someone’s bed in an all too luxurious bedroom.

only to discover that the person you loved, young-il was the frontman and he would stop at nothing to gain information out of you.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, dom!inho, sub!reader, non-con touch, age gap, oral f!receiving, fingering, hickeys, use of ropes/tied up, betrayal, stripping, toxic relationship, orgasm denial

———

The first thing you noticed was the softness beneath you—luxurious sheets that felt entirely foreign after the cold, hard floor of the hall. Blinking awake, your arms tugged instinctively, only to be met with resistance. Your wrists were tied to the bedposts, the smooth silk of the restraints deceptively gentle against your skin but firm enough to hold you in place. Panic bubbled in your chest as your eyes darted around the room.

It wasn’t like anywhere else you’d seen in this nightmare of a game. The room was extravagant, draped in rich fabrics and gilded accents, a far cry from the stark, utilitarian halls where the other players remained. The flickering light from a crystal chandelier above cast shifting shadows on the walls, adding to the eerie stillness.

“Where… where am I?” you murmured, your voice trembling. The silence pressed against you, broken only by the distant hum of machinery. You tugged harder against the restraints, your breath quickening. “Let me go!” you called out to no one in particular.

A creak at the far end of the room made your head snap toward the sound. A figure stepped into view, cloaked in black, their face hidden behind the sleek, metallic mask that sent chills through you. The mask’s emotionless design contrasted cruelly with the humanity you desperately searched for.

“Who are you?” you demanded, your voice rising despite the fear knotting in your throat. “Where am I? What’s going on?” You struggled against the restraints, the silk cutting slightly into your wrists.

The figure tilted their head, the movement slow, calculated. They took a step closer, then another, the weight of their presence suffocating. Finally, their gloved hand reached up, gripping the edge of the mask.

Time seemed to slow as they pulled it off, revealing a face you knew all too well.

“Young-il?” you breathed, disbelief flooding every syllable. Your heart twisted painfully, as though the air had been stolen from your lungs.

He smirked, the expression sharp, almost cruel, and yet it sent an unwelcome flutter through your chest. “Surprised, angel?” he said, his voice low and smooth, like honey laced with poison.

The nickname, one he’d used during the games, felt like a blade twisting in your heart. It was a cruel reminder of who you thought he was—the ally who had stood by your side, shared quiet moments of understanding, and made you feel safe.

And yet here he was, towering over you, not as a fellow player but as something far more sinister.

“You…” Your voice cracked as you stared at him, your emotions tangling into a knot of betrayal and heartbreak. “You lied to us. To me. You’re one of them.”

He chuckled softly, a sound that felt like a mockery of all the warmth you once thought he possessed. “Don’t be so dramatic,” he said, his tone playful but undercut with a dangerous edge. “I was doing what I had to. We all are.”

Your lip trembled, but you set your jaw, glaring at him even as your chest ached. “I trusted you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “...I loved you.”

His smirk faltered for a split second, a flicker of something softer passing through his eyes. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by that same icy exterior. He moved closer after taking off his coat to reveal a black tight fitted shirt underneath.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he hovered over your tied-up vulnerable body, both his legs on either side of your hips.

“I’m not here to talk about feelings, Y/N,” he said, leaning in just enough that his breath brushed against your cheek. “I need information.”

You turned your head away, refusing to meet his gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His hand cupped your jaw, gently but firmly turning your face back to him. The touch sent a jolt through you, confusing and unwelcome. “Don’t lie to me,” he said, his voice a quiet warning. “I know you’re close to Gi-hun. He trusts you. Now, tell me about that plan he told you.”

“No,” you said, the word shaking but resolute. “I won’t betray him. I won’t betray them.”

His lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Oh, angel,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”

Before you could protest, his lips captured yours in a kiss that stole your breath. It was unexpected, overwhelming, and despite everything, it ignited something in you that you couldn’t suppress. Your resolve wavered as his hand moved to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss.

When he pulled away, you were left reeling, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. “Now,” he said, his voice softer but no less commanding, “tell me.”

You shook your head, biting your lip to keep from speaking. He tilted his head, his eyes scanning your body up and down, beneath him. He then caressed the side of your upper body, his hand making his way to your jacket zipper.

Shit, you weren't wearing a bra underneath today, nor a shirt, because it was supposedly bedtime. Slowly, he undid your zipper, exposing your cloth-less skin. "No bra?"

You laid beneath him shaking your head slightly, now bare, even more vulnerable.

"Look at you, so fucking pretty..." He then leaned in, "I might have to be rough if you don't tell me what I want..." He cooed, almost mockingly. His lips ghosting over yours, teasing, before pressing another kiss to them, sucking lightly. This time, your body betrayed you entirely, melting into him despite the storm of emotions crashing within you. Straightening himself up, he pulled your pants down while still hovering over you, leaving you in your undies. He pressed his thumb to your throbbing clit, with pressure before slowly stroking your folds over the fabric of your undies.

“Stop,” you whispered, though the word lacked conviction. “Please...” Yet, he continued, slipping two fingers inside your undies before stroking your folds again. You tried to resist his touch, you hated this, you hated him for betraying you guys. But your body felt differently. Trying to resist the pleasure, you forced yourself to not react, however, your body kept twitching under his touch and from all the pleasure building up.

“Then talk,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a velvet threat.

The push and pull was too much. Your heart warred with your mind, your love for him tangling with the sharp sting of his betrayal. "I won't." You spat, and he responded by inserting two fingers harshly inside you. You moaned, tilting your head back, panting heavily as he began pumping in and out of you. "Stop..." You pleaded, whimpering as he picked up his pace. Your breathing was heavy, gosh, he managed to make you feel so good, you were like putty under his control. "You tell me to stop, yet your body tells me otherwise...." His voice was low, sensual, "...so fucking wet for me..."

You felt your climax near approaching, your heartbeat quickening, you were close. "Young-il..." You plead, once more. "I'm gonna....I'm getting close..." Barely a whisper came out, your eyes shut tightly, body melting under his touch. "I'm gonna cum..."

He continued, pumping deeper and faster, and your climax was getting close and closer until...

He pulled his fingers out.

"Don't stop please..." You begged, "please Young-il I need you..." You mentally slapped yourself for sounding so needy, begging for more. No matter how mad you were, a part of you still wanted him. He smirked, seeing how needy you were for him which also fuelled his own desire. His bulge was evident, pressing against your thigh.

Young-il stroked your cheeks softly, "Oh Y/N, you'll get what you want...once you tell me his plan."

"I already told you I won't." You retort. "Such a stubborn, pretty mouth, hm?" He gazed into your eyes, filled with lust. He wanted you so bad, he'd do anything to make his name fall from your pretty mouth again.

He bent down, planting sloppy kisses on your collarbone down to your stomach. Sucking harshly till he left a bruise, "You'll look even more gorgeous with my marks all over you." Shifting down, Young-il moved closer to your cunt, making eye contact while he licked your folds.

"Young-il..." You moaned, body involuntarily arching, bucking your hips up into his face. Placing his hands on the velvety part of your inner thighs, he parted your legs wider before leaning in again to place kitten licks on your cunt.

"You taste so good angel..." He murmured into you.

He made sure to suck on your clit, with extra pressure, licking between the folds, slowly but sensually. "Young-il please..." You whimpered.

He pulled away slightly, "You want me to let you cum?"

"Please..." You begged, breathing heavily.

"Please what?" He retorted, "Use your words beautiful."

"Please make me cum..." You whined, before he continued, licking your whole slit, your became wetter by the second, body begging for more.

"The plan." He demanded you to tell him, "Now." Before pulling away again.

You groaned, wanting more, needing more. Your body so close filled with arousal, yet so far from a climax.

He leaned down once more, sucking on your clit again.

"The guards!-" You cried aloud, overwhelmed with pleasure. "An attack at midnight..." You moaned softly.

"Anything else?" Young-il smirked, knowing the control he had over you. "That's Gi-hun's plan...attack management at midnight when they've assumed we're asleep." You blurt out, which you immediately regretted. You told him what he wanted to know—about Gi-hun’s plan, the uprising, the desperate hope for freedom. Satisfied, Young-il sucked harder, licking every inch of your cunt with fervour. You moaned loudly, panting heavily as you came closer to a climax.

"I'm so close...gonna cum..." You arched your back further, "I'm gonna..." Then it washed over you, your body jerking harshly as it filled with pleasure. Your walls throbbed, and you felt a rush to your core; you let out a moan, hands tangling in Young-il's hair as you came.

When you finished, he pulled back, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. He reached out, brushing a hair from your face with a gentleness that felt like a cruel mockery. “Good girl,” he said softly.

You turned your face away, tears slipping silently down your cheeks as guilt and shame consumed you. He placed a soft kiss on your cheek, "See that wasn't so hard was it." Young-il zipped up your jacket and helped you put on your track pants but still leaving you tied up.

He stood up, getting off the bed, “Not a word of this to anyone,” he said, his voice cold and unfeeling once more. “If you do, they’ll die. Every last one of them.”

You nodded, unable to speak. "Sleep here for tonight, the bed is more comfortable." He spoke while putting on his jacket, "When you wake up tomorrow, you'll be back in the hall with the others. I'll see you there angel." He winked, placing the mask back over his face before walking away.

Your body tremlbed as the door closed behind him.

Despite everything, your heart still ached for him. And that, more than anything, was the cruelest twist of all.

[venuslarkspur]

guys what if concerning dating history batsis did it with deathstroke.. or rose… WHAT IF HE’S HER SUGAR DADDY LMAO

OMG UR SO REAL FOR THIS THOUGH (Bruce is already getting grey hairs from this girl)

LIKE IMAGINE ME THIS ⬇️💗

Batsis and The Tale Of The Sugar Daddy (and gal pal Rose)

Warning: SLIGHT NSFW, canon dc violence, batfam shenanigans.

———————

Bruce: Listen I think it’s good that Batsis!Reader is financially independent now but where is she getting all this cash?

Tim mindlessly typing away: My theory is Roy got her pregnant and now Ollie has to bankroll them.

Damian: That’s ridiculous, they could have just came to father, Drake.

Dick who is sweating cause he knows why: Yeah..you’re probably right Tim..

Tim: What’s wrong?

Jason who is still agitated his sister is not only involved with his ex’s dad but also the ex: I’d tell you, but I was AND still am confused.

———————

- Batsis is definitely Rose’s awakening, she doesn’t care if she dated Jason that’s him fumbling not her.

- Batsis just started off as one of Rose’s friends when the masks were on, she didn’t know she was getting it on with her friends dad of all people.

- It’s difficult for anyone to really refute it when it comes to the age gap, yeah many think it’s gross but when they met she was the same age as Dick. (27-29) so if Bruce finds out not only can he not be argued with, Batsis will also bring up how his exes are just as bad.

- Not bc imagining Deathstroke who is just insanely soft on Batsis, say even if he gets her pregnant he isn’t going anywhere; Rose could use a little sister or brother ig. But y’all are careful, he knows better than to get a Wayne Family Heiress pregnant.

- I don’t write smut but Ik they are FREAKY, the one place they wouldn’t dare do it is Wayne Manor, he is cooked if they’re are caught there. He will have the Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, The Batgirls, Robin, Batwoman, Signal and probs more on him at that point. These mfs will let Batsis’s exes know that’s how petty there are about this.

- Imagine waking up with Deathstroke and ur both barely clothed and outside his window is the entirety of the Batfamily, Arsenal, Three Green Lanterns, Zatanna, Wonder Woman, John Constantine, Booster Gold, Harley Quinn and his own daughter are queuing up for first dibs.

- Slade knows about your problem with some of your exes (cough cough Hal Jordan) and aims to help you by drowning you in jewellery and clothes, like that new faux fur coat and boots? Yeah he bought you that, that new pearl and gold necklace with your initials? Yep he got it. That new skirt that’s shoes the perfect amount of thigh? Yep, his. Like all these past flames and flings (HAL JORDAN) know you’re seeing someone.

- Always reminds you how mischievous you are for getting nasty with him whilst being a “figure of honour and importance”, which quite frankly pisses you off, you’ve slept with most of your dad’s colleagues god damn it! He loves that it makes you feisty.

- Rose is super jealous, and you definitely share a heart wrenching goodbye kiss before she wishes you goodbye, you almost went after her before remembering your dinner date tonight and if went well you’d be confident to let your father know of your relationship.

- If your a vigilante, Rose knows your secret identity (wether you’re batgirl or not), Your Sugar Daddy doesn’t know and you quite frankly would rather he not, you make him swear off the Wayne Family all together, but you feel guilty at not being able to protect them when the masks go on.

- We know Batsis has a limit when it comes to his work, so she will break it off eventually, leaving all the dinner dates, passionate nights and shopping behind. You know you make him very happy (mostly aroused) but happy, so he’s always a phone call away, you’re always down for the occasional fling, and your time with him will always never be forgotten, even if you did the right thing, which isn’t your style at all.

- He’s up there with John Stewart and Wally West with top five men you miss but probably wouldn’t date again for different reasons.

—————————

IDK WHY THIS GOT ANGSTY THIS WAS MEANT TO BE FUNNY BUT WTH. Life goes on yall 😭🫶

[moody-alcoholic]

On a Wing and a Prayer

Part 11 - Epilogue

CW: nightmares.

AN: I have had so much fun writing this. It was such a breath of fresh air to take a break from my main series and write a quick 'mini fic'. I have other ideas for more 'mini fic's' in the future. For now I thought I should wrap this up. Thank you for everyone who liked commented and shared this around, even for people who just read it and enjoyed it, thank you so much and I hope you had as much fun reading it as I did writing it.

Previous parts - masterlist

As soon as Simon is discharged you all fly back to the UK.

You end up at the house with Simon on bed rest. Not that he listens, he’s worse than Johnny was. You stay in the house with them, sleeping in the bed with Simon so you can help him when he needs to pee in the middle of the night. 

John has been busy cleaning up the mess from the base as well as making sure Simon doesn’t get discharged. Him and Kyle usually spend their days out at a base somewhere leaving you Johnny and Simon at the house. You don’t mind, you’ll spend as much time as you can with them. 

Johnny cooks and cleans, Simon jokes he’s turning into a housewife. When you offer to help none of them will have it, doting on you almost as much as Simon. 

“You don’t have to feel guilty. I can do things for myself.” You remind them. 

“Don’t even think about it. What did you want? A sandwich?” Johnny asks and sticks his head out from round the kitchen. 

“Cheese and pickle.” You smile. Simon’s hands grip your waist pulling you back up against him.

“And a packet of quavers.” He whispers in your ear.

“And a packet of quavers.” You call. You lay back against him and he kisses your head. 

“You’re one tough cookie, you know that.” He says after a few minutes of silence. You turn to look up at him, frowning. 

“What Graves put you through. What I-” He chokes on the words. You break away from his embrace. 

“Stop. We don’t have to talk about this.” You say bringing your hand up to stroke his cheek. You sigh watching his eyes drop. 

“Simon.” You stop, you're not sure what you want to say. You pick up one of his hands. “It’s okay, I spent months in therapy, It’s part of the job. You were just doing your job.” 

He hangs his head and sighs. “It’s not fair, we shoulda waited, you deserve better.” You lean over and kiss him. Deep pressing your tongue in his mouth, you wrap one of your hands round the back of his neck. You pull away from the kiss put keep your forehead on his. 

“You don’t get to feel guilty Simon Riley. I forgive you. I love you.” You sit back on your knees looking at him, squeezing his hand, you smile. 

“I love you too.” He says. You rub his cheek again then turn to lay back in his arms. As soon as his arm has come round your chest, he plants a kiss on your head and Johnny comes in with a plate of food. Simon leans over picking up the packet of quavers. 

“Nothing else till later you’ll spoil yer tea, John’s bringing fish n' chips.” Johnny says walking out the room. You smile and reach over for your plate.

…

You must have fallen asleep in Simon’s arms because the slamming of the front door jumps you out of what was starting to feel like an overly realistic dream. The smell of fish and chip fat fills your nose as John and Kyle walk into the living room. 

“Have you two been sat their all day?” Kyle asks, kicking his shoes off. 

“Mother won’t let us leave.” You say, your voice grumbles with sleep. Simon starts to sit up and you do the same yawning and stretching your arms and legs. John has gone out into the kitchen while Kyle opens the bags of food on the coffee table. 

“Got cod, chips, peas and scraps. What do you want?” Kyle asks, John comes back with plates. Kyle serves Simon as John comes over to kiss the top of your head. You look up at him smiling.

“Busy day?” You ask as he strokes your chin with his thumb. 

“Always busy when we’re around.” John says going over to the other sofa. As Kyle piles a plate high with chips and fish for him, then passes it to him with a fork. 

“Heard back from the medical board yet?” Johnny asks as he comes into the room with a bottle of pop and glasses. 

“As a matter of fact-” John starts as he rests the plate on his lap reaching over to his bag next to the sofa. He rummages through muttering to himself until he pulls out a piece of paper. He hands it out to Simon. “Expect to see you back for duty in a month, Lieutenant.” John smiles. Johnny’s giddy snatching the paper out John's hand and reading it like he almost doesn’t believe it. 

“Fuck you got a whole 2 months off. I only got a month.” He says reaching over to hand it to Simon. “I even had one of those lung things.” He says, shaking his head, clicking his fingers at you. 

“A lung resection.” You say leaning over Simon's shoulder to look at the letter. 

“Took half me bloody lung out! I’ll never smoke again.” He says sitting down on the sofa next to John. You look at Kyle chuckling and scooting back on the floor to sit between John's legs. 

“You don’t smoke Johnny.” You say looking back over at him. John is fishing through his bag for something else. He reaches out to you. It’s folded up in an envelope. 

“Transfer papers. For you to sign. That is if you really do want to come back.” There’s silence in the room, the only noise coming from the low volume of the TV, everyone is looking at you as you reach out to take the papers. You smile nodding then sit back on the sofa opening them up. 

You hear Johnny and Kyle start up a conversation as you read over the standard legal jargon of the contract. You do want to join 141 again, you just hope nothing has changed.

…

You dream a lot about your torture, thats normal thats to be expected. When it’s a good day it’s Graves and his faceless shadows. When it’s a bad day its John and Simon, Simon never has his mask on unlike your actual torture. 

He didn’t do it, Ghost did. That's what you tell yourself when you wake in a pool of sweat panting, feeling like someone is sitting on your chest. Your legs and arms tingle. 

Yesterday was a good day, but you dreamt it was John. You look over in the bed trying to slow your breathing. Simon’s back is turned to you, you can hear him snoring softly. You turn over in bed sitting up. Your transfer papers sit on your bedside table, illuminated by the crack in the curtains. 

You get up and sneak out the room trying to be as quiet as you can so you don’t wake Simon. You step over the hall to John’s room. When you push the door open you see him and Kyle lying in bed. Suddenly you want to go back, leave them be. 

You can’t, you want to be with them. You slowly crawl on the bottom of the bed, Kyle has his back pressed up against John, as soon as he feels you start to wiggle between him he snaps awake. 

“Hey love, you okay?” Kyle asks making room so you can crawl in. 

“Yeah.” You whisper shuffling under the sheets. John turns around in the bed his arm coming over you to reach Kyle. A second later he seems to notice you in the bed, his hand comes up to brush your face.

“Something wrong, you’ve been crying love?” He says his voice deep from sleep. You didn’t even realise that. 

“I just missed you,” You say, turning to face him. His thumb brushes your cheeks, your eyes have adjusted to the light and you can see his eyes shining in the dark. 

“We’re all here.” Kyle says shifting up behind you pulling your shoulder slightly so you lay against him. You smile. 

“I know, I know you are.” You say, closing your eyes. Kyle kisses the top of your head and John moves closer to you pulling the duvet up to your neck. He kisses you, a soft peck on your lips, you feel the tickle of his beard. His arm rests on your waist, rubbing your side as he breaks away from the kiss. 

You close your eyes letting them hold you in their arms, the sound of their breathing lulls you back to sleep. 

…

You’re up early the next morning slipping out the bed before anyone else is up. You’re sat at the kitchen island with a cup of tea in your hands when John makes his way over to the coffee machine. 

“Mornin’” he says, turning it on. 

“You going to the base today?” You ask taking a sip as he takes a mug down from the cupboard.

“Yeah, still got a bunch of intel to go through on the Makarov leads.” he says, turning to look at you while the coffee machine warms up. You slide the envelope over to him. 

“Think I can help?” You ask, smiling. He comes round to you, throwing his arms around you before you have a chance to stop him. He buries his nose into your neck and you hug him back. 

“You know for a second I was worried you changed your mind.” He breaks from the hug cupping your cheeks. 

“I love you.” You say. He kisses you.

“I love you too.” You smile the biggest smile at him as you hear the coffee machine beep.  

“Mornin’ lass sleep well?” Johnny asks, his hand landing on your back. John gets up going back to the coffee machine. 

“Yeah. I did.” You smile going to take another sip of your tea. 

You sleep well that night too, squished between Johnny and Simon. There are no more bad day or good day dreams. Nightmares come sometimes but it’s always Graves and his faceless shadows, and when you do wake in a panic someone is always there. John or Simon, Kyle or Johnny. They’re always by your side.  

You stick by their side too, besides someone has to pull the bullets out of them.

Banners by firefly-graphics

[respectthepetty]

I'm immensely grateful for all the shows that give the softest endings wrapped in love. So many shows are simply saying "I love him, and he loves me, and we are better because of it."

See Your Love had one father say to another that he was there to love BOTH of their kids as they needed to be loved and not make demands of them. Then, the side couple was beautiful even in the after credits scene, and the main couple continuously said that they loved each other which neither ever doubted it. Jiang Shaopeng, facing death, said Yang Zixiang chose him, and he knew it was genuine.

Our Youth gave us a story of two boys whose lives didn't become magically better once they were in love, but they were happier with each other. Hirukawa made sure Minase knew he wasn't going anywhere, and that his love wasn't conditional like his friends and mother's, and Minase told Hirukawa he was missed, loved, and wanted.

And finally, my Per x Win heart was healed by the 2024 remake of Love Sick. Because of love, Win found the courage to tell his abusive father that the hits weren't going to make him less gay, and Per told Win that he would love him no matter the distance his father forced between them.

It's the constant reminder that they have a safe place waiting for their return.

It's someone seeing them for all their beauty rather than believing they are flawed.

It's good endings that are really the beginnings of love stories rooted in kindness and gentle care.

The kids are going to make it.

[blackgirlsloveburrow]

Can we get bf Joe where his obsessed with his black gf heavy on the PDA and we see his family and fans reaction and he love to creampie her💕😮‍💨

i got you! this kinda went a different way but i like it? i hope you do too!

NSFW 18+

joe doesn’t give the media a lot to work with. he shows them what he wants them to see. which is his skills as a quarterback or anything he needs to shoutout for his brand deals. he likes to keep everything private, but there’s just one thing he can’t.

you. he’s addicted to you.

no one really expected him to be with you, as you were quite different than his other exes, but that’s what he likes about you. you’re a lot like his teammates where you give him new experiences, different than the ones he had known growing up in rural ohio. you give him new sensations and feelings, so no wonder he can’t keep his hands off of you.

people first found out about you and joe when they saw a photo him kissing on your neck with his hand on your thigh on the same side of a booth at what you guys thought was a private dinner. paparazzi always found a way.

he didn’t seem to mind though.

it was a shock to his fans and family for sure, as they never really imagined the star quarterback to be caught so “scandalously”. this would be something they would have to get used to though as joe never planned to stop showing his affection in public to you.

joe would kiss and hug you anywhere, anytime. embracing you after amazing wins or hard losses in front of everyone. he loved to kiss you, hold your hand or your hip. it’s a side they never saw from him before. he found any chance to show you off, always trying to take you to his events. it was always hard for him having to leave you for more than a day when he had to travel or you had to work.

the way he fucks you when he misses you (which is all time time) is always so passionate. joe misses you even when you go the store for an hour. when he misses you, he always buries his face in your neck, holding your hands down, and fucks you deep and hard. he wants to be as close to you as possible.

he loves to cum in you too. he creampies you so much. he likes knowing that you’re his. you always remind him he needs to be careful when he cums in you, but he can’t help it.

“i just love you so much baby, i like feeling you around me when i finish” he always replies. you can’t help but feel loved, so he always gets away with it.

joe wouldn’t mind getting you pregnant though. if you did, he can show you off even more and you can be by his side all of the time. he would never admit that though.

[gayofthefae]

"I should have explained myself because maybe then Eleven would have taken me with her, but - I don't know. I didn't know what to say."

That isn't what he said the first time.

"I should have said something. And maybe if I had said that thing, Eleven would want me there with her."

The sentiment of him being with her and knowing/ensuring she's safe is consistent. But he isn't actually repeating himself. There's no need for him to as a person and as a screenwriter, repetition should DEFINITELY be cut.

He's changing. He's brainstorming. He's starting to consider other angles of the "could have"s. The "what if"s.

He starts with "what if I'd just forced an 'I love you'". But I think he likely settles on what we can logically deduce for ourselves in that situation - "I made the right choice prioritizing with what I knew of the consequences at the time".So he changes. He changes.

He changes to "I should have explained myself".

"Explained myself" is NOT the same as "said that thing" and that is VITAL.

I should have just sucked it up and told her I loved her if it meant keeping her safe.

No, I did the best I could with the information I had

I should have told her the truth. Maybe she would have taken it better if I had just told her that I don't love her but it's my fault, not hers. Now she thinks it's hers and that I'm hiding it.

And, perfect timing, Will comes in with (in Mike's pov) "It makes sense why you didn't, though, don't beat yourself up. She was gonna get hurt either way and everything would have been a risk as to how much."

And Mike nods. And the next time we see him, he's saying

"Will she still even want me in her life if I can't give her the love she wants? All I can do now is to make sure she knows it isn't her fault, that's the selfless act I can do for her, but if I confess I don't love her, what other use am I to her? Will doing what's best for her by telling her it's not her fault, it's mine, instead of continuing to lie make me lose her?"

He says "explain". He starts with "maybe I should have changed the 'what'". Then he shifts to "maybe I should changed what she thought of the 'why'". Ironically, his question in the van once he's come to that conclusion is "how?".

The first pitch he makes is "maybe I should have told her I loved her" and Will says "don't worry, you'll have another chance", and he turns away and introspectively reacts with

aversion.

But then he says "maybe I should have just explained the real reason behind my actions instead of denying them all together" and Will says "that's a scary thing to do. It's a hard decision. You're doing your best", and he turns away and introspectively reacts with

understanding.

Honestly, being understood. And sometimes that's what you need to find understanding. He's been confused this whole time, that's been his whole thing, but he looks like he's starting to piece something together now - finally. Will put his own feelings into words for him to hear out loud so could finally get them and get them in a validated way.

Instinctively, he knew the first one was easier but wrong. He didn't want to lie to her. Both times Will said "if that's what you want to do, I believe in you", but only once did he agree. He knew it felt like the wrong choice the first time and you can see it. The second time was a new choice he was considering.

And you know what? While we're here. Telling her he loves her: aversion. Telling her the truth: understanding and drive. What happens next?

He expresses "what if when I tell her the truth, as I've decided is the right choice, she appreciates it but doesn't need me for anything else beyond that?" And Will says "she'll stay. You got this.", and he reacts with

Comfort.

He didn't know what to do. Then he did, but he was scared to do it. Then he wasn't so scared anymore.

He's thrilled to see her and forgets for a second but - much like El with Will on roller rink day - is reminded by seeing Will that now that she's actually here, it's real. He's committed to his actions and they're impending.

But he's not so scared anymore. Bravery, though, doesn't mean no nerves. He's hesitant and not happy looking when he talks to her about it first. He tries to lighten the mood - "the whole world went to shit and everything" - and he's watching her reactions like a hawk. It feels like less of a risk now enough that he can do it, but not so little that he isn't scared. Either way though, it's worth the risk for her to know the problem isn't her.

He didn't know what to do. Now he does. He was scared, but he's not as much anymore. Not too much to do it. They're interrupted. Okay, oh well, he'll find another time.

And now to break your heart:

Mike had an idea, Will said it was good, but Mike met that with aversion.

Mike had an idea, Will said it was good, Mike met that with understanding and agreement.

Mike was scared, Will said he had no reason to be, Mike met that with comfort.

(I'm sorry) Mike was scared for El - unrelated - and looked to Will for comfort - as he had every other time - when he tapped him on the shoulder, Will said he should tell her he loves her, and he reacts with

anguish.

This was not Mike's plan.

This was not their plan, so he thought.

Mike's reaction tells us everything about what he knew and what he meant for what's to come. This was not what he meant. That was not what he was going to say. This was not his plan.

And there's that part of you too that always wishes to go back to semi-ignorant bliss. Even if just panicked confusion. Because wasn't it nice: when telling her you loved her evoked this

And not this

Wasn't it nice when you knew...just a little less?

Wasn't it nice, in a way, when you couldn't see the happy ending so clearly?

Don't you sort of miss - when you couldn't taste it?

also fuck it for just for that list bit and the bridge of this song here's my illicit affairs edit linked because "you showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else"

[crescenthistory]

Hello, may i request a prompt "are we friends?" between f!reader and the slytherin skittles? Where the reader used to attend Ilvermorny but had trauma from it (like bullying and fallout with friends). So she doesn’t want to intrude on the friendship that the skittles already have. Oh and they’re all in their sixth year. Thank you 🙏

hi lovely, thank you for this cute concept<33 i didn't explicitly emphasise what your past at ilvermorny was to leave it dubious and open to every reader

Prompt: F.3 "Are we friends?"

Words: 2.2k

Warnings/tags: gn!reader, use of y/n, ilvermorny!reader (no specified nationality), implied troubled background at ilvermorny, mental illness/insecurity shown through reader's pov, odd friendship dynamics, found family, intended as platonic!slytherin skittles x reader but can be read as romantic if you want<3

You weren't entirely sure what happened.

One day you were being thrown into what felt like a wild zoo filled with any and every kind of person you could possibly imagine, clad in dark robes and chattering around in hundreds of different accents, and you were decidedly determined to isolate yourself away from the masses and live a solitary life at Hogwarts.

The next, you were sitting in the library and the same group of Slytherins that sat with you yesterday – and strangely the day before that, and the day before that – plopped down around you and made themselves at home. As if this was simply the norm, as if it was a given that their seat was the one beside you.

You weren't offended or uncomfortable, necessarily, but you were certainly... confused. You didn't mind them being there, yet their presences were strange to you and you could not make sense of this disconnect in your mind.

When you arrived at Hogwarts a month ago, you had felt nothing short of publicly humiliated when you were brought up to the Sorting Hat after the ocean of 11 year-olds had been passed through it for the past hour. It was apparently not a common occurrence that students transferred in from other schools, especially not Ilvermorny, and there was no protocol for how to handle it. Instead of taking your Ilvermorny house into consideration and putting you in the Hogwarts house that most closely resembled it, Dumbledore himself had decided that this jittery 7th year student go through the same process as everyone else.

McGonnagall had pitied you enough to grab your shoulder before you went up to whisper to you, "The hat is your friend, not foe, Mx. L/N. Do not fear it."

With entirely too many eyes on you, you climbed the steps and gingerly sat down on the seat. Unlike with the kids, the Sorting Hat fit you rather snuggly, leaving you unfortunately without the much sought after shelter of the brim.

You solved the solution by looking down in your lap, trying not to visibly startle when a voice spoke in your mind.

Transfer student, huh? Haven't had one of you in a while. Most certainly interesting...

You reminded yourself friend not foe and closed your eyes, trying to will the hat to be merciful and grant you reprieve. To put you in a house where you can get what you need – solitude, privacy, quiet. It was just a year. You could go through a year if you were just left alone.

To your shock – though perhaps it shouldn't have been – the hat responded to your thoughts.

What you need, you say? Well, I do believe I can help in that regard. Keep your mind open, dear one.

The next word the hat spoke was out loud, not in your mind – it yelled out "SLYTHERIN". At the time, you didn't know whether to be relieved, confused or terrified. Unbeknownst to you, a certain group of 7th year Slytherins sitting at the end of the long table had shared curious looks and wide grins upon the announcement.

Those Slytherins were the very same strewn around you today, on various furniture all surrounding the same large oak table that was almost invisible beneath all your parchments and books.

You were sitting on one end of a settee, legs crossed and wrists resting on the table, somewhat jittery. On the other side sat Regulus Black in a similar position, his face as impassive as ever and turned down into a book that you were quite confident was not in the curriculum. Opposite you on a similar sofa, Barty Crouch Jr. laid upside down, with his legs thrown over the back of the sofa and his neck craning in a way that simply could not be comfortable where it rested on the seat. Pandora Rosier was sitting cross-legged on the ground beside Barty's head, braiding a dozen tiny braids into his hair, mixing black and acid green strands together absentmindedly. Her twin brother Evan Rosier was pretending to ignore whatever Barty was talking about as he did his homework, but you could see how his ears were perked up. Lastly, Dorcas Meadowes sat on an armchair beside the settees, twirling her wand and looking every bit like she was thinking of something she shouldn't.

You would be the first to admit that they were interesting people. In another life, perhaps you would even spend time together on purpose – but now, above all else one might want to know about them, you wanted to know why they were here.

It had started by them making space for you on the Slytherin table that first day, and afterwards they always left an open space there. Not asking, not demanding; it was as if they were just assuming you would sit there. And you didn't know where else to sit, so you did. Then the same thing happened in your classes – you sat down at an empty table, and before you knew it, one of them was taking the empty seat beside you.

There was never any proper introductory conversation, never any invitation into a friendship, yet they found you everywhere. It was not as if they didn't talk to you when they were there, though; from the very beginning, they were cracking jokes with and around you and roping you into their odd conversations. Learning more about you as you went instead of interrogating you on the spot.

It was sudden and unexpected and you didn't know what to do about it.

"Then I told him precisely where he could shove it and– are you even listening to me?" Barty cut himself off to look accusatory at Evan, whose eyebrow was now quirked up while his eyes remained trained on his parchment.

"Hm?" Evan asked absentmindedly, though you were almost entirely sure it was just to rile the other boy up.

Evan was usually successful in such endeavors, and this was no exception, judging by the shrieking gasp that escaped Barty. "You absolutely bloody wanker, how dare you– this is a good story!"

"Maybe," Evan drawled. "But it lost its charm around the third time I heard it."

Barty whipped his head sideways to stare daggers into Evan. "Salazar's soggy balls, this is a new story, I swear." He then rolled his head backwards to look at you upside down, pinning you to the seat with the same accusatory tone. "You were listening to me, right Treasure?"

You made a reluctant face. "Sorry, I didn't realise you were talking to me."

Barty let out a theatrical huff and threw his hands up in the air for effect, nearly hitting Pandora on the way, causing Evan to give his wrist a slap, still without looking. "Of course I was talking to you – I'm talking to you all. By Merlin, you're all awful friends."

Though Barty continued on with his grumbling, you felt frozen in place by his last word. Before you could think more of it, the words tumbled out of your mouth. "We're what now?"

Dorcas tilted her head to the side, looking between you and Barty. "Oh, he didn't mean it Y/N, he's just a loudmouthed arse. You're still getting used to it."

"I resent that." Barty pointed at Dorcas as he spoke before he grabbed one of Evan's parchments, curled it up into a ball and threw it at Dorcas. "I'll have you know, I'm a fucking delight."

You were unaffected by their banter, eyes still narrowed at the lot of them, trying to decipher and understand what the hell was going on.

"You're thinking hard." Regulus remarked from your right, finally looking up at his book. At his rare contribution to conversation, Evan and Pandora seemed to perk up as well, and you suddenly felt entirely too much like you were being stared down. It was worse than the Sorting Hat.

"I–" you began, but cut yourself off and pressed your lips together with furrowed brows. "You think we're friends?"

Whatever they expected your answer to be, that did not seem to be it, based on their empty gazes. Dorcas reared her head backwards just a little, while Barty did a full body spin to land him in a mostly-upright position on the sofa – this time Evan yanked Pandora out of reach of Barty's swinging legs.

"What do you mean, do I think we’re friends?" Barty questioned then, almost offended. "Don’t pull my leg, why else would we be here? Either way, what I was trying to say–"

Barty's rant was once again cut off, this time simply by Dorcas holding up one hand in his direction while her eyes remained dutifully trained on you. "Love, did you not think we're friends?" she asked. Her voice was so painfully gentle, so caring, that you wanted to shy away from it, to pack up your bag and run and hide.

You realised that that was not a possibility. Instead, you tried to shrug as casually as you could and not let your emotions show. "Well, why would we be? We don't know each other, do we?"

You dared a glance sideways to see Regulus looking at you with a seemingly unimpressed expression, but you saw the twitch in the corner of his mouth. Evan opposite you, though, was not hiding his wide grin whatsoever. "Don't we know each other, love?" he asked then, seemingly partially smug.

"Yeah, if you don't know me, that is because you lot of wankers never listen. But I most certainly know you, L/N." Barty gestured with his finger in your general direction, as if he was preaching, which Evan yet again slapped away – though in favour of pulling Barty closer into his side.

"You don't know me," you tried, voice shaky yet growing somewhat frustrated with the situation.

"Of course we do," Dorcas intercepted. "I know you loathe breakfast but adore dinner. I know you prefer tea over coffee, I know that you like the sweets from back home better than those from Honeydukes."

"And I know that you're ridiculously patient, both with randos you're paired up with in class and with us, your friends," Barty added with a deadpan. "I know your real laughter is a very cute snort. I know you dislike being pranked but enjoy watching them play out, which is why we never play them on you but always around you."

"You're kind and you're bloody bright," Evan said with a nod, as if this was a natural conclusion. “Your best subjects are all of my worst ones, which is a joy. Watching your passion for them is the most enjoyable, though.”

"And you're peculiar just like us." Pandora finally spoke up with a smile on her lips and a glint in her eye. "That's why we go so well together – we're the same."

At some point in their conversation with you, your mouth fell open as you listened to them recount everything they had picked up about you over the past few weeks. The moment didn't feel real, it felt fabricated by some awfully optimistic and naive six year old still living in your mind, one that was readily crushed long before your transfer. You didn't realise they had noticed you so much.

You're brought out of your stupor by Regulus' quill being poked into your side, demanding your attention. You turned your head to find the twitch of his lip had turned into a small, knowing smile. "Even if we don't know everything about where you've been, we know who you are. You don't need to tell us anything for us to understand that."

"Yeah, what he said!" Barty exclaimed with glee, kicking his feet up onto the sofa as he leaned his entire weight on Evan.

“Even before we knew anything about you, we were friends.” Pandora was looking out through a window, seemingly in thought and awfully happy at being so. “In a way, we’ve always been friends, I suppose. When it just works like this.” 

You weren’t always sure you understood what Pandora meant, but this time, you felt it in your heart.

"Sorry love, but you're kind of stuck with us now. Should have sat with someone else on your first day." Dorcas shot you a wink at that, and something in your chest seemed to snap into place.

Even when you were asking an awkward question, the atmosphere never changed – there was no pity here, no judgment, just... kinship.

Friendship.

At last, you let a smile begin to bloom from within you, one which you immediately saw reflected back at you in your five new friends.

"No, actually, I don't think I should have."

[mswyrr]

I don't think of the ending of Conclave as a separate, tacked on twist. I see it as the natural culmination of the themes and theological argument of the story. For me, it went along with the reminders of women's subordinated status throughout and the necessity of Sister Agnes for the Spirit to move - what are these hard lines used to limit and demean people? The work of men, not God. In God's eyes, "There is neither... slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one" (Gal 3:28).

What are these supposedly bright lines by which we decide who is worth more than another? Where are they located exactly? Chromosomes? Certain tissues of the body shaped in a particular way? In the mind? Where? Do they truly make sense when we look at the sheer diversity of "God's creation"? Is this a world of simple dichotomies or is that what we humans crave and impose?

Lawrence seeks after the divine, which doesn't actually fit neat human labels, and saw it in someone. In seeing it, he was challenged to expand his understanding. Benitez is, like all people according to Lawrence's beliefs, made in the image of God. Is he willing to perceive something of God he's not comfortable with?

For Lawrence, it's about having the grace to be able to love beyond those limits. He truly wants something beyond him to come down and touch him. He reminds me of this one poem: "I want heaven to descend and sit on My dinner plate / and so do you./ I want God to put His steaming arms around Me / and so do you" (Anne Sexton, "Jesus Dies"). But when heaven descends and sits on your dinner plate, it is not, cannot be, an easy experience. It challenges him.

Before him is an image of God in a shape and life history he has not been taught to recognize or understand. But he will try to love and move with this impossibility, beyond his fear and confusion. It's an act of humility over the sin of certainty - instead of telling another human being (the image of God!) you should take X shape, you should make Y kind of sense, and if you don't I'll hurt you -- he opens his heart. He loves this person and he loves God too, who came down and refused to be simple or easy. "Whoever does not love their brother and sister, whom they have seen, cannot love God, whom they have not seen" (1 John 4:20).

From a more universal pov: what is all the horror and domination and death we see around us but a violent and twisted refusal to see ourselves as one - part of the same biosphere, part of each other? What is the bigotry we see capturing so many minds but a refusal to see each other--in religious or humanist terms--as *sacred* parts of something beautiful - nature or the divine or both? Powerful men seek to dismember humanity and the planet to deny "you are all one". Ordinary bigots look at the sacred in another person and, if that person doesn't take the precise shape that they want, they try to hurt and destroy them instead of expanding their understanding.

The final "twist" is a deep, spiritual and philosophical repudiation of that. The whole story was something I needed, but particularly that. We can embrace the light in each other, without trying to control or dim it. We can have the courage to love beyond our understanding and find grace in that. To let our sense of the sacred, in whatever forms that takes, speak to us instead of trying to make it the instrument of our own ego.

[yermes]

For when you’re DOWN BAD

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Pick a meme

123

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Disclaimer: please take what I say with a grain of salt and not as the gospel. I just want to share some ideas of practicing and giving advice using the medium as often as I can with school, work, and my own personal studies and practice. But I am working on sharing my notes soon so that will be exciting! Liking and sharing does a lot 🥰

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Socials: My Socials **☾**

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The cards

Carbon C 6

Well, we all have a need to feel emotional connection of some kind, love in many ways a huge, a kiss, any kind of touch which your touch starved horny ass craves. Touching grass I must remind you is free. So get connections but do not pull them in too fast, get to know people slowly, let the emotional chemistry grow, let your natural pull attract people who would actually love and care for you. Do not chase after people who do not care for your personality or who avoid your being. Get connected with people who care, do the most for those who will match your frequency. Be creative, live and love lots but don’t give the gift of love upon someone who will not appreciate it. Its sacred

Technetium Tc 43

You just need to figure out what to do and who you are if you don’t know yourself how can you go for someone, do you even like them? Do you even like yourself? Do you even know who you are as a person you at this point in your life is constantly changing, constantly shifting, trying to reach a stable moment. But babes pookie, let go of the delusion that is stability you may never be stable, stability may look different for you than it does everyone else which doesn’t mean you can’t find yourself or find your person you just haven’t yet learned how to let go of the false concept of being alright embrace the chaos, yourself and someone who appreciates you shall follow.

Scandium Sc 21

So you want to hide and change in front of other people? Why? There is nothing wrong with being soft and unique, there is nothing wrong with feeling accepted for your being without swiftly being changed by outside influences. Its COOL to have unique thoughts ideas and hobbies, its okay to not quite fit the mold of everyone else. But unfortunately if you are hiding when will you ever find someone who likes you for you, who will ever give you as you are a chance when you are always wearing a facade, how can you give yourself a chance when you don’t accept or trust yourself in situations where you can appear as yourself but don’t. Babes, if you want a relationship a good crush even, be your weird ass self bc nothing is crush fuel like being accepted for the freak you are.

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Extras:

Story/vent:

The molecular bio lab is going to be LIT

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