#burton mere

[brotherconstant]

BLACK SAILS • XIX. THE EXPANSE • Delta-V

[vbused]

peace

[nopeferatu]

ITS ALMOAT CHRISTMAS I LOVE CHISTMAS I LOCE CHRISTMAS I LOVE IT I LOVE CHRISMAST I LOV

[spider-stark]

THE BRIDGE

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!Reader

Summary - Your wardship with House Blackwood was meant to bridge the chasm between your families. Years later, you return to Stone Hedge as the whispers of war spread—only for Lord Tully to call for a hunt.

Warnings - fem!reader, complicated sibling relationship, fighting, (probably excessive) mentions of blood, talks about hunting/killing wild animals, !angst!, adult language, reader def suffering from identity crisis, probably deviates from canon some, kieran burton fan cast for benji, all characters 18+

Word Count - 5.6k

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

When Grover Tully, the Lord Paramount of the Trident, sent word for each of his bannermen to send forth a handful of their finest House members to a most desolate area of the Whispering Woods, no one thought it wise to object. 

“Lord Grover is an ornery old crow,” your father, Humfrey Bracken huffed as you readied the horses. ��But you would do well to earn his respect.” He clamped a hand on your brother’s shoulder, pride gleaming in his eyes as he said, “Whatever he’s planning, I want you to show him that House Bracken stands strong. Understood?” 

Keeping his chin held high, Amos hesitantly mutters, “If you wish to impress Lord Tully, you might think twice about sending her.” 

Even with your back turned, you could feel the weight of your brother’s stare, his eyes boring a hole into the back of your head. 

Your father shrugged, a disinterested gesture. “Grover said to send our best,” he said, “and when it comes to a bow and arrow, no one's a better shot than her.” 

For the next day-and-a-half, you rode at a distance from the group your father selected—your brother, Amos, and two of your male cousins. And while they laughed and jeered and yapped, you remained stuck in your own thoughts, playing your father’s words on a loop. 

It’s the only compliment he’s ever paid you. The closest he’s ever come to acknowledging you as Bracken. 

You hate him sometimes, you think. For agreeing to peace all those years ago—for sending his only daughter to ward with his rival of all people. He must have known it was futile. Must have known that one girl could never bridge such an ancient chasm. 

He must have known—and yet he sent you anyway, only to call you back years later, tearing you away from the only home you had ever known and leaving you to feel like a stranger in your House. 

Grover said to send our best. 

Are you a Bracken, then? Is blood all that determines a House? 

No one’s a better shot than her. 

But your skill is that of a Blackwood, born under their tutelage. 

Deep within the Woods, a steady mist of rain falls from the sky, leaving your skin uncomfortably damp. In the distance, a low hum of chattering voices signal that the four of you are drawing close to Lord Grover’s camp—and that the other House’s have already arrived. 

Your thoughts shift, wondering who Lord Samwell sent to represent House Blackwood—fearing that you might already know the answer. 

A strange tightness floods your chest, coiling around your lungs. 

It’s been months since you last saw the heir to Raventree Hall. Many, many months—and you can’t help but think any reunion might end in bloodshed with Amos by your side. 

As if he heard his name ring through your mind, your brother slows his horse to gentle trot beside yours, cocking a neatly groomed brow at you. “Tell me, sister—were you always this dour?” He asks, feigning intrigue. “Or did half-a-decade with the Blackwoods simply drain the joy from you?” 

You don’t pry your eyes from the path ahead, refusing to look him in the eye as he continues without waiting for an answer. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised—a mere day with those insipid cravens would have me wishing to swallow my own blade.” Removing a hand from the reins, he pantomimed the act—gripping an invisible hilt and shoving it towards his lips, letting a dramatic choke rip from his throat. 

Riding a bit ahead, your cousins chortle at his jest, shooting amused glances over their shoulders. 

“No need,” you answer without thinking, your tone impassive. “Aly would have an arrow in your eye before the day was up.” 

Your cousins fall silent. 

Amos stiffens, jaw clenched tight. “She could try.” 

You know Black Aly would try if given half the chance—and you have no doubt that she would succeed, too. She was the one who taught you how to string a bow and sharpen arrows, how to aim and never miss. 

When you don’t respond, Amos pulls his horse in closer—as close as he can get without spookings yours. “Look,” he utters, low enough that your cousins can’t overhear, “I don’t know how things were done at Raventree—but you’re home now, and you would do well to remember where your true loyalties lie.” 

Again, you don’t speak. Don’t think, either. 

Amos sighs. “Your blood runs gold, sister. You’re a Bracken, through-and-through. Take pride in that—and don’t bring shame upon our name. Understood?” 

Strange. 

You had seen your own blood before—more times than you can count, actually. Scars mottle your skin like stars in the sky, a reminder of the years spent training and the memories of nights spent with friends who were supposed to be enemies. 

Never once had it looked gold to you.

Only red. 

“I understand–” a pause, a breath, a heartbeat– “brother.” 

Nausea twists your stomach. The familial title curdles on your tongue even as Amos grins at you. There’s nothing affectionate about the gesture—how could there be? He doesn’t know you. Not really. 

Blood or no, you’re little more than strangers to each other—and yet, even so, you can see he’s trying. Trying to know you. 

Ahead, the camp comes into view. Banners hang above tents: white for the Mootons, blue for the Pipers, purple for the Mallisters. 

And red—for House Blackwood. 

Amos gives you one last glance, a pall mimicry of what you believe is meant to be love in his eyes. “You’re home now,” he reminds you again, as if you need to hear it,“be glad for it.” 

With the Tully’s guards now in earshot, Amos doesn’t bother with waiting for a response. He snaps the reins, urging his gelding back to the head of your group, already bellowing his greetings. You watch him go, transfixed on the yellow-gold of his tunic—identical to yours. 

Approaching the guards, you tell yourself that your brother is what home is supposed to look like. That if you were to slice your veins, gold would pour from your wrists. 

Not red. 

After checking in with the guards and tying your mare up in the makeshift paddock, there was no time left to freshen up before you were expected to join Amos and your cousins. With all the Houses now gathered, Lord Grover wasted no time in calling you all to the heart of the camp. 

Still, you try to make yourself presentable—using your fingers to comb through tangled, windswept hair and smoothing the wrinkles from your gold tunic, careful not to disturb the ornate brooch pinned above your heart. 

According to the guards, everyone was given one upon arrival. “All Houses are required to wear them,” they explained when Amos pressed them on it, “Lord Tully’s orders.” 

They were all different, it seemed. Yours was a delicate thing, fashioned from silver and pearls in the image of a blooming dahlia, while Amos’s was clunky and shaped like the sun. He’s still fumbling with it when you finally push through the small crowd, taking your place at his side. 

To your left, separated only by a group of five Frey men, you feel the wary glances being cast your way. You almost turn your head—almost glance back at them, if only to see what they might do. What he would do. 

Would he even acknowledge you? Or simply look away? 

The answer, thankfully, is one you don’t have time to learn. A servant garners attention, dragging a simple, plush chair to the group’s center. Following suit, another two servants assist the aged Lord Paramount from his tent, guiding him into his seat. On his right stands his eldest grandson—and your favorite Tully. Tall and dark-haired, Elmo looks more fearsome than he actually is, sparing you a quick, discreet wink when he spots you. 

“You may all be wondering,” Lord Grover wheezes, his lungs fighting for breath, “why I have called upon you all today—the many great Houses of our land.” 

As he speaks, old, gnarled hands punctuate his words, gesturing out to the many men gathered ‘round. His fingers shake with effort, his shoulders bowed beneath the weight of his many, many years. But his chin remains high, and his tone commanding—if a touch quavery. 

“I hear rumblings,” he continues, “from the South-East.” 

Lord Grover’s eyes, milky with cataracts, shift in the direction, staring blindly into the towering trees of the Whispering Woods. Beyond them, even. 

“Whispers of a great danger brewing in the Crownlands—within the King’s own court, if rumors are to be trusted.” 

Your spine turns to steel. 

Those rumors, you know, are as true as they come. Over the past several months, they had moved through the realm like a venomous serpent. Slithering from mouth to ear, hissing tales of the two factions that now divide King Viserys’s council. 

The Blacks and the Greens. 

The rightful heir and the first-born son. 

And the very reason your father had called you home. 

“War is coming,” a deep, foreboding warning, “and should it reach the Riverlands, I wish to know that we might stand united in its wrath. That we will not allow petty rivalries–” a pointed glance at your brother, and then to your left where, without looking, you know the Blackwood heir stands–“to tear us apart from within.” 

A heartbeat passes. Then another. 

The forest holds its breath. Cradles the Lord Paramount’s words in the air, weaving them around the many great Houses of the Riverlands. 

You wonder if this is what strength looks like. What it sounds like. 

You fear you already know which side of the war Lord Grover’s strength might fall—and you pray that you’re wrong. 

Placing a firm hand upon his grandfather’s shoulder, Elmo takes a step forward. “In an effort to promote civility between our Houses,” he announces in a tone that demands respect, “we have arranged for a hunt.” 

Your brow furrows. A hunt? 

“You will be divided into two person teams, working with an individual outside of your own House.” His gaze shifts to you, dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “Teams have already been decided. Upon your arrival, each of you was given a pin—your partner will bear a matching one. And while there will be no winners or losers, you should know that once you leave camp, you will not be permitted to return without a trophy of some kind.” 

Discontent spreads. Low murmurs fill the air. 

Amos voices his frustration louder than the rest.  “And when is this hunt to take place?” 

Elmo grins. “Now.” 

Instantly, murmurs grow to shouts. 

“You cannot be serious, my Lord!” 

“It is already sunset!” 

“Is this a jest?” 

Elmo’s grin never wavers, unphased by the protests—and Lord Grover appears content to let his grandson contend with everyone's bickering, exhausted from what little talking he had already done. 

“Might I suggest you move quickly,” Elmo speaks over the crowd. Glancing upwards, he squints at the black clouds rolling overhead, an amused lilt to his voice as he adds, “Lest you wish to be caught in the coming storm.” 

With no more than a curt nod to the crowd, Elmo turns on his heel, already veering off in the direction of his own tent as servants begin to help Lord Grover rise. 

“This is absurd,” your brother grumbles. 

You ignore him. Storming right past him, you make a beeline for the fleeing Lord. 

“A hunt?!” 

Fond as Elmo is of you, you know better than to shout at the future Lord Paramount of the Trident. Your voice remains no more than a harsh whisper, even as you shoot daggers into the back of his head. 

“At night, no less! In the middle of a gods-damned storm! Have you lost your mind?” 

“What? You think it’s a bad idea?” He chuckles, keeping a steady pace. “Of all people, I thought that you might appreciate the challenge of it all.” 

You stay on his heels. “Who is he?” 

“Who is who?” 

Further from the crowd now, you grow bold. You reach out and snag his arm, forcing him to stop and face you. “Ignorance isn’t a good look on you, Elm.” You grind out, “Swear that you didn’t pick him to be my partner.” 

A wrinkle forms between thick brows, feigning innocence. “What makes you think that I chose your partner?” 

“Because I know you. You’re always scheming—jutting your big nose into places it very well does not belong!” 

Elmo opens his mouth—hesitates—and then frowns. “Am I truly that transparent?” 

“You may as well be made of glass, Elm.” 

His pout deepens, still dancing around your question. “Well, let's say that I did choose your partner—theoretically, of course!” Your eyes roll. “I think you would find my choice to be quite suitable. If anything, you might even thank me-” 

“This isn’t a game, Elmo!” Desperate now, you can’t stop your voice from rising. “If you paired me with him, then Amos will–” 

“Kill him?” Elmo ventures. 

“Yes!’ 

Pursing his lips, Elmo’s gaze falls somewhere over your head. “Well,” he sucks in a breath, “it seems we may be past the point of stopping that from happening.” 

Your mind goes blank, your thoughts scattering like shards of glass. 

You spin on your heel, head whirling around in search of Amos in the throng. Less than a second and you spot him—not because your gaze was drawn to the familiar gold color of your own House, but because of the wall of stark scarlet standing before him. 

Blackwoods. Two of them on either side of the Raventree heir. 

And Benji—his hands pressed to your brother's chest, roughly shoving him back into one of your cousins. 

“Do me a favor,” Elmo's sigh cuts through your panicked haze. “Keep the two of them from plunging a sword in the others’ belly, would you?” 

Any other time and you might have told Elmo off, cursed him for putting you in this position—future Lord Paramount be damned. 

But not now. Not when centuries of rivalry serve as proof that nothing is more dangerous, more unpredictable than this—

A Blackwood and a Bracken—your brother and Benji—standing toe-to-toe. 

Mindless adrenaline is all that thrusts you into motion. Mud splatters up the legs of your trousers as you practically run in their direction, demanding as soon as you’re in ear shot, “What is this?!” 

Amos doesn’t acknowledge you. Neither does Benji. 

Chests-puffed, they remain locked in their foolish staring match, neither of them willing to be the first to back down. 

Finally, one of your cousins sneers, “Seems that Benji-boy here thinks we’re gonna let him take you out into the woods.” 

A sharp, nasty laugh rips from Amos’s throat. “As if I’d let that happen!” 

“We’re partnered for the hunt, you imbecile.” Benji’s tone is that of lethal calm, even as he glares down his nose at your brother. You look to his chest—spotting the silver dahlia pinned at his breast. “If you have a problem with it, take it up with Tully.” 

“You think I’m stupid, Blackwood?!” 

Benji’s brow lifts a fraction of an inch, as if silently proclaiming—I just said so, did I not? 

Scowling, Amos juts his finger against Benji’s chest. “I refuse to give a Blackwood an opportunity to defile my sister!” 

Benji’s answering grin is something wicked as he purrs, “Oh, if I wanted to defile your sister, Bracken, I could’ve done so a long time ago.” 

Your pulse pounds—caught somewhere between offense and desire as Benji’s words echo in your head. 

Both feelings fade to fear when Amos reaches for the hilt of his sword, wrenching it from the sheath at his hip. In a blink, more weapons are drawn—your cousins holding swords, the Blackwoods holding daggers. 

Not Benji, though. 

Benji doesn’t flinch, even with your brother's sword poised at his throat, ready to kill. Something flickers in his eyes—a shift that you know all too well, sending ice skittering across your bones. 

“I won’t have this,” Amos seethes. “You will find another partner—or I swear on my House that blood will be shed!” 

Benji leans closer. Let the tip of the blade dig into his flesh, a rivulet of blood rolling down his throat. 

Red. 

“Is that a threat, Bracken?” 

You can hear your brother swallow—feel his panic as if it were your own, as if it was his fear coursing through your veins. Still, his voice remains steady. “Consider it a promise, Blackwood.” 

A blink and steel was glinting before your eyes. A single breath and Amos was out-maneuvered and out-matched—the clash erupting and subsiding in one seamless heartbeat, ending with your brother's sword in Benji’s hand. 

A shuddering breath slips from your brother's lips as Benji presses the steel to his throat, a perfect mirror of the position they were in just moments ago. 

“What’s the matter, Bracken?” Benji croons sarcastically, head hilting. “Do I frighten you?” 

There’s a lull to his voice—an eerie stillness that sends a chill scuttering down your spine. 

Amos was ignorant—to pick a fight with Benji, to think he might actually win it. But he’s your brother, too—and you know that if he were to be slain right now—right here—an even larger chasm will take the place of the one you were once meant to bridge. 

“Stop.” 

The demand is no more than a breath. A soft, terrified sound. 

Yet still, it makes Benji’s focus waver. 

“Leave him.” You force yourself to speak louder. Stronger. “Now.” 

You take a step closer—a hand outstretched, reaching towards Benji. His attention shifts, settling on you. He blinks—his stormy eyes, dark with rage, finally starting to clear. 

Benji’s movements languid as he steps away from your brother. Your cousins rush to Amos’s side as he stumbles back, frantically checking the heir of Stone Hedge for any sign of injury. 

They found none. Not even a scratch upon his throat, where his own sword had just hovered. 

Benji passes you the sword—a silent conversation passing between the two of you. 

You could have killed him, you glare. 

I could have—Benji agrees with a small, self-satisfied smile—but I didn’t. 

One of your cousins, bold and stupid, steps forward. “Is that all it takes to keep you at heel, Blackwood?” He glances between the two of you, his lip curling into a sneer. “A dog and his bitch,” he taunts, “how sweet–” 

A cry rips from his throat, cutting his insult short. You expect it to be Benji, having noticed the way his fists had clenched from the moment your cousin so much as looked at you. And perhaps it would’ve been—if your brother hadn’t grabbed the fool by the scruff of his neck, yanking him backwards and shoving him to the muddy ground. 

“Say what you want of him,” Amos tells your cousin, his voice gruff, “but you will mind how you speak of her.” 

You don’t know what to make of that. Of Amos defending you. Of knowing that if he hadn’t, Benji would have. Or that, even after that, Amos doesn’t quite know how to look you in the eyes, looking to the grass and the sky and anything that isn’t you. 

You’re a Bracken, through-and-through. Take pride in that. 

But did he take pride in you? 

If you wish to impress Lord Tully, you might think twice about sending her. 

“What’s done is done.” With a pointed look towards Lord Grover’s tent off in the distance, you say, “Now is not the time nor the place. If you wish so badly to fight, save it for when the war begins.” 

On one side of you, Benji remains silent, watching you with a curious glint in his eye. On the other, Amos hesitates. 

“I don’t trust him,” he says. 

You wonder if he doesn’t know how to say: I’m worried about you. 

“You heard our father,” you tell him, chin high, “when it comes to a bow and arrow, no one’s a better shot.” 

Perhaps there are things you don’t know how to say, too. Like: But I do. I trust him with my life. Maybe even with yours, too. 

Begrudgingly, Benji meets your brother's gaze, fighting the urge to scowl at him. “For years, no harm befell your sister under my watch—and you have my word that none shall befall her now,” he vows. “I swear it upon the Old Gods.” 

“And the New?” 

You consider stomping on Amos’s foot. 

Ignorant. To continue pushing— 

“Fine.” Benji’s brusque answer takes you by surprise. “Upon your false Gods as well, then.” 

Amos, to his credit, argues no further, only echoing the Raventree heir. “Fine.” 

For a fleeting moment longer, they stand there, eyes locked. Amos is the first to turn—the roaring tension dissipating into a hushed hiss as him and your cousins storm off. Benji stays, even as his own men begin to back off, as if listening to a silent command to go find their own partners. 

You look at him. And he smiles—a shy, awkward thing. 

“I’ll wait for you,” he says, a barely perceptible pause in his speech. “At the edge of camp—you can find me whenever you’ve gathered your things.” 

You open your mouth to speak, to say something—but the words take root in your chest, leaving vines to crawl up your throat. If you speak, you worry about what might come out. Worry it won’t be as delicate as the dahlia pinned above your heart—above his, too. 

So you close your mouth. Say nothing. Nod—and turn, trying to keep your legs from shaking as you walk back to the makeshift paddock to get what you would need for the hunt. 

True to his word, you find the heir of Raventree at the edge of camp, leaning against a towering oak and using the tip of his dagger to idly pick dirt from his nails. 

You brought only what was necessary—your bow, strapped between your shoulders, and a dark-leather quiver slung over your shoulder, stocked with already-sharpened arrows. 

Light rain mists over your face, the sky groaning with a low rumble of thunder. The forest floor squelches beneath your feet as you trudge towards him. Forever on-guard, Benji wastes no time in pushing himself off the tree, adjusting the dagger in his palm so that it can be easily plunged into another's belly if necessary. 

But then he sees you, dressed in Bracken gold with damp hair sticking to your cheeks, and looses a breath. Relaxing at the sight of you—his rival, according to centuries of precedent. Your rival, too, you suppose. 

Benji doesn’t look like your rival, though. 

Sheathing his dagger at his hip, you see no trace of the lethal Lord who, mere moments ago, was willing to go head-to-head with the heir to Stone Hedge. This boy—stuffing his hands in his pockets, a light flush crawling up his throat—is not Benjicot Blackwood, the heir of Raventree Hall. 

He’s just Benji. 

“Ready to go?” He asks when you’re closer, his voice a familiar caress so unlike the eerie lull it held earlier. 

It takes everything in you to erect an icy wall around your heart, colder even than Northern winds. You shove past him, your shoulder knocking into his as you go and earning a perplexed stare. “Let’s get this over with,” you snap, plunging into the depths of the Woods and leaving him to follow behind. 

Ten minutes pass. Twenty. 

Dusk crept swiftly through the Riverlands, casting a pall shadow over the Whispering Woods. Overhead, dark clouds seem to grow thicker, obscuring what little light the moon has to offer. 

A fool’s errand. An impossible task. 

That is what Elmo Tully had arranged—not a hunt. 

With the sun hidden beyond the horizon and a near-constant rumble of thunder, any animal in these Woods would either be asleep or hiding by now, trying to escape the incoming storm. To find a trophy to bring back to camp—even something as simple as a hare—was unlikely. 

Still, knowing the guards won’t let you back in without one, you keep walking. Keep plunging further into the Woods, praying to the Gods that you might find something to take back to camp. 

Twigs snap a few paces behind you, wet foliage squelching beneath purposefully heavy steps. A low, careless whistle tests your patience. 

With your bow hanging from your hand, you grumble, “You’re being too loud.” 

Benji feigns innocence. “Am I?” 

“Yes,” you hiss through gritted teeth, never slowing your pace. “Be quiet—unless you wish to scare off any game and spend the night sleeping on wet soil.” 

He chuckles—loudly. “Have you looked up lately?” Benji asks. “The sky looks as if it’ll crack open any minute now! Any animal with sense is hiding right now, anyway.” 

True. 

“Then we find one without sense, then.” 

Benji snorts. “The only thing without sense in this forest is Amos Bracken.” 

Without warning, you stop dead in your tracks—leaving Benji to nearly stumble into you. You cast a glare over your shoulder, cold enough that a chill seeps right into his bones. “You’d do well to keep quiet, Benjicot.” 

His lip curls, revealing a flash of slightly crooked teeth. “And since when do you call me Benjicot?” He asks, a ribbon of disbelief lacing his own name. 

Your jaw tenses, a muscle feathering there. 

I don’t know, you think, a pang of uncertainty cracking the ice wall around your heart. 

You reinforce ice with steel—turning fully now so that you’re face-to-face, dropping your bow to the ground by your feet. “I won’t let you speak of him that way,” you say, ignoring his question. “My brother is the heir to Stone Hedge–” 

A bemused laugh cuts through your words. “Oh, he’s your brother now, is he?” 

You speak over him, voice rising. “To insult him is to insult the whole of House Bracken–” 

“Fuck House Bracken,” Benji growls. 

He takes a half-step closer, towering over you with no more than a foot between you. You don’t falter—don’t look away. 

“I am a Bracken."

His head tilts. “Are you? Last I checked, you were practically raised on Blackwood soil.” 

“Perhaps,” you admit. “But my wardship is over–” 

Benji cuts you off. “Tell me, where was your brother all these years, then? Your father?” He doesn’t let you answer. “No more than a brisk-fucking-walk separating you and yet neither one of them cared to visit with the forgotten daughter of Stone Hedge!” 

You’re a Bracken—

“You don’t know them,” you protest weakly, your resolve crumbling. 

—through-and-through. 

“And you do?” He challenges. Another step, his chest inches from yours. Warmth radiates from his body, seeping into yours and melting melting melting. “Why did your father call you home?” 

His words are no more than a breath fanning across your cheek. 

Vulnerability permeates your gaze, bearing an unspoken truth. Because war is coming, you convey with no more than a flicker of your lashes, and fate has already decided my role in it. 

Benji’s lips tighten to a thin line—and you would’ve thought him ashamed of you, if not for the pain glimmering in his stormy-eyes, lined with silver. “Your father,” he utters, “he will declare for Aegon Targaryen—won’t he?” 

You’re a Bracken—

You debate the merits of telling him the truth. Of betraying the plans of your house. 

—Take pride in that. 

“Aegon Targaryen is the King’s true-born son.” You speak, though you know the words are not your own. “To sit the Iron Throne is his birthright.” 

The birthright of a drunken craven. 

The betrayal of a beloved princess. 

Benji blinks. Shakes his head, his tongue darting along his lips. “He called you home to fight. Humfrey Bracken’s forgotten daughter—useful at long last.” 

Rage coils in his tone. Instinct makes your muscles tense. 

Nothing is more dangerous than this, your thoughts whisper, a Blackwood and a Bracken, toe-to-toe. 

There’s nothing dangerous about the way Benji’s looking at you, though. His gaze soft and tender, calloused hands clenched at his sides—holding himself back, you realize. Not from fighting, but from reaching out to touch something he’s not certain is his. 

“Will you do it?” Benji asks, hesitant. “Will you fight for the pretender?” 

I don’t want to, you think. 

It’s your brother's words that slip past your lips. “I have no choice. My blood runs gold, Benji—a Bracken, through-and-through.” 

His brow furrows. Then a hand shifts to the sheath at his hip, sliding his dagger free. “Give me your hand,” he orders, nodding to where they hang at your sides. 

You remember his vow to your brother—that he would let no harm befall you. Even without it, you would’ve trusted him. Wholly. Unconditionally. 

You lift your hand and, without hesitation, he grips it on his own, pinning the steel tip of his dagger against your palm. 

You hiss—hand stinging as the blade drags along your flesh, leaving a thin, shallow cut. 

“You’ve always had one foot on either side of the boundary,” Benji starts, his words rushed. Carelessly tossing the dagger to the ground, he grabs your wrist tightly, lifting your palm up towards your own face. “But your blood,” he tells you, his eyes desperate, “has always run red.” 

It drips down your wrist—a rivulet of crimson, spilling between his knuckles as he refuses to let go. Red as the color of his tunic—as the specks of blood dried on his own throat, drawn by your brother's sword. 

Gold on your back. Red in your veins. 

A Bracken by name, but… 

“It’s not too late,” Benji says, his words slow and cautious, still cradling your hand in his. “You can come back to Raventree.” Thunder rumbles. Storm-cloud eyes fall to your lips. “You can come home.” 

You think of Amos. Of your brother. You’re home now, he had said, a shadow of love in his eyes, Be glad for it. 

But home was ancient stone, crawling with moss. Home was the deep, muddy moat that you always threatened to push Benji into when he was getting on your nerves. Home was Black Aly’s voice, scolding you whenever your arms were still too weak to string a bow. 

Home was a dead weirwood tree and a boy with stormy eyes. 

But duty… 

That was something else entirely. 

Closing your hand around Benji’s, your chest fills with water as the last of the ice melts. Hard steel turns impossibly soft, your feet shuffling until your body is flush against his—still-entwined hands pinned between your chest, trapped between fabrics of gold and red. 

Benji leans down, his forehead pressing against yours. There’s nothing dangerous about him. Nothing unpredictable. 

You know him—from the crook in his nose to the scar above his lip. From the lull of his voice to the weight of his steps. His quick temper and his shy smiles. 

High above, the sky cries out. Thunder booms, lightning cracks. Misty rain turns to a violent downpour. 

And he leans in, oh-so carefully. A trembling breath against slick skin, chapped lips hovering over yours. 

“You can come home,” Benji whispers, repeating himself. You can’t think—can’t breathe, as he utters against your mouth, “Let me take you home.” 

And he kisses you. A tender, desperate kiss—the kind that drives your lips apart with the sheer force of it. He tugs his hand from yours, slips it out from between your bodies and brings it to rest on the back of your neck, tangling his fingers in damp, rain-soaked hair. 

Restraint is no more than a breath in the wind. Desire curls in your stomach. Your pulse pounds in your veins, rich with red red red. 

But then there’s your brother’s voice in your head: I don’t trust him. 

And you know what he meant was: You’re my sister—my blood, red or gold—and I’m worried about you. 

You pull away, breathless and broken, one half of your heart lying on either side of the boundary stones resting miles and miles from here. 

Lips still close enough to brush against yours, Benji pants. “Say yes.” The love in his eyes isn’t a shadow. It’s a bright, blinding light. A proud declaration and a howling plea. “Say you’ll come home.” 

You look down—to the sigil embroidered on your tunic, to the still-drying blood on your palm 

An estranged brother and a forbidden lover. 

And you. 

The bridge to a great chasm. 

The futile remedy to centuries of enmity. 

You take a step back—reaching inside of yourself, pulling shriveled vines up your throat, knowing that the words hammering in your chest will be anything but delicate. That they’ll taste of rot in your mouth. 

“I’m not sure I have a home, Benjicot.” Pain echoes across his face, each syllable a rusted dagger in his heart. Another step back, grabbing your bow from where it laid in the mud, abandoned what feels like a millennia ago. “Not anymore.” 

When you turn to leave, thunder crashing overhead and a sob caught in your throat, you go alone.

The heir to Raventree Hall doesn’t dare to follow. 

You walk in silence, your bow hanging at your side. Behind you, there are no snapping twigs and no low, careless whistling. There’s only rain and—

A branch creaks overhead, halting your steps. Your bow is drawn in a single breath, the cut on your palm stinging as you  slide an arrow from the quiver slung over your shoulder, readying to shoot. You look up, drops of rain splattering against your cheeks as you scan the trees. 

There. 

Perched on a wet, mossy limb was a pair of beady eyes staring down at you. A raven, letting out a low, curious croak. 

A single shot and you could go back to camp. 

A single shot, you tell yourself, and your blood might finally run gold. 

A breath—and then the bow string goes slack. 

You slip the arrow back into the quiver.

a/n - does any of this even make sense? idk, you tell me lmao. overall, just wanted to play around with capturing the confusion that might ensue for a reader who has no clue where their loyalties lie anymore, lost in who they are and who they think they're meant to be--anyways, hopefully the ending makes sense to you because it makes sense in my brain

anyways

benji tag list (so sorry if I missed you!) - @jacaerysgf @lenasvoid @valdezthg @xzydra11 @snixx2088 @lianna75 @kennafild @ghostinvenus @heystaystray @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @a-song-for-ages

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Reference: Topographical Elements

Ideas for Naming your Fictional Places

Buildings and stones brough, burton, caster, church, cross, kirk, mill, minster, stain, stone, wark ⚜ Examples: Crossthwaite, Felixkirk, Newminster, Staines, Whitchurch

Coastline features ey, holme, hulme, hythe, naze, ness, port, sea ⚜ Examples: Bardsey, Greenhithe, Sheerness, Southport, Southsea

Dwellings and farms barton, berwick, biggin, bold, by, cote, ham, hampstead, hamton, house, scale, sett, stall, thorpe, toft, ton, wick ⚜ Examples: Fishwick, Newham, Potterton, Westby, Woodthorpe

Fields and clearings combe, croft, den, ergh, field, ham, haugh, hay, ing, land, lease, lock, meadow, rick, ridding, rode, shot, side, thwaite, wardine, worth, worthy ⚜ Examples: Applethwaite, Cowden, Smallworthy, Southworth, Wethersfield

General locations and routes bridge, ford, gate, ing, mark, path, stead, stoke, stow, street, sty, way ⚜ Examples: Epping, Horsepath, Longford, Ridgeway, Stonebridge, Streetly

Hills and slopes bank, barrow, borough, breck, cam, cliff, crook, down, edge, head, hill, how, hurst, ley, ling, lith, mond, over, pen, ridge, side, tor ⚜ Examples: Barrow, Blackdown, Longridge, Redcliff, Thornborough, Windhill

Rivers and streams batch, beck, brook, burn, ey, fleet, font, ford, keld, lade, lake, latch, marsh, mere, mouth, ore, pool, rith, wade, water, well ⚜ Examples: Broadwater, Fishlake, Mersey, Rushbrooke, Saltburn

Woods and groves bear, carr, derry, fen, frith, greave, grove, heath, holt, lea, moor, oak, rise, scough, shaw, tree, well, with, wold, wood ⚜ Examples: Blackheath, Hazlewood, Oakley, Southwold, Staplegrove

Valleys and hollows bottom, clough, combe, dale, den, ditch, glen, grave, hole, hope, slade ⚜ Examples: Cowdale, Denton, Greenslade, Hoole, Longbottom, Thorncombe

NOTE

These elements are all found in many different spellings. Old English beorg ‘hill, mound’, for example, turns up as bar-, berg-, -ber, -berry, -borough, and -burgh. Only one form is given above (Thornborough).

Several items have the same form, but differ in meaning because they come from different words in Old English. For example, -ey has developed in different ways from the two words ea ‘river’ and eg ‘island’. It is not always easy deciding which is the relevant meaning in a given place name.

This resource does not distinguish between forms which appear in different parts of a place name. Old English leah ‘forest, glade’, for example, sometimes appears at the beginning of a name (Lee- or Leigh-), sometimes at the end (-leigh, -ley), and sometimes alone (Leigh) (K. Cameron, 1961).

Source ⚜ More: Notes ⚜ Worldbuilding ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[bearwithegg]

Fight Like a Girl || B. Blackwood ||

I can change it to Davos once we get further confirmation. Ig?? Lmaooo lord help me. I cbf putting this on my main writing account because of how inconsistent I am with writing kjhdfhg

Mulan Inspired scenario. Original House, i just made that shit up bro lesgoooo. I hope my mass effect enjoyers like this <3

Kieran Burton!Benjicot x f!reader.

Warnings: None? Swearing?

Word Count: 2.8k

PART 2

For @spider-stark ( they write the best damn benjicot oneshots go READ RN)

***

“Keep your voice down, Garrus.” You hiss, eyes darting around the makeshift battlements, rows upon rows of tents more dense than the woods surrounding the legion of men, banners separating them only in name. War was here. Yet men were merry, roaring with laughter, cheering and jeering each other on when sparring amongst themselves. You were well in over your head for this.

“Apologies my lad— lord,” Garrus, a tall, gangly gentleman who not only represented your noble house but also remained your closest confidant and sworn protector. From the moment you were plucked out of your mothers womb, he had encompassed your upbringing with a chassis of care and love like a father would a son or a mother would her babes. Though he might’ve been neither, he was the only person you could call home.

Stylguard. Might’ve been home once, when you and your brother ran a muck in the courtyards instead of tending to important studies with the Maester. When the summers meant that hours were wasted making chains of flowers and clovers. Only ghosts remain, painful visages of a different lifetime, warning those who dare contest the cruel threads of fate the war beget.

The false King must die.

You swore this oath, quietly in whispers of red hot anger, no witnesses to hear it except for the phantoms plaguing your mind and the gods of old. A lady alone could not put an end to a war — men however, could.

“There,” Garrus raises an arm, forefinger steady on a muddied pit in the distance. The epicenter of clashing swords and men shouting. “I might suggest watching them first, Little Clover.”

Little Clover. You were neither little nor the girl who picked clovers in the farmlands anymore. A mere remnant of the past, a pet name that forces unwanted memories of before the Dragons had begun their pointless infighting. Hurtful as it may be, it was the best way to keep unnoticed amongst the thousands of men without arousing suspicion of your true identity.

Some of the men barely meet such a description, boys no older than ten and one pick up swords and join in a brutal pastime against men thrice their size. These were no noblemen, not boys who wielded swords long before their voice stopped squeaking, no. These were commonfolk, some under sworn protection from minor houses, but most of these boys and men were farmers. Steele farmers. Blackwood farmers. Tully farmers. Fray farmers. All united for one cause — and not a single one of them were proficient enough with a sword.

“None of these men are fit for war,” you whisper, turning to Garrus, a sullen swept look on his face mirroring your own. It was hypocritical to comment, considering you could count on one hand how many times you had picked up a sword. Though it was not a slight on their ability to go to war, it was the tragic reality that loomed over the realm.

“They fight for what they believe in…” Garrus answers softly, a hand firmly wrapped around the pommel of his sword, as it had always been since the murmurings of war rippled through the Seven Kingdoms. His eyes look ahead at boys throwing their swords away and opting for fists, pools of blue express his kind and somber nature, reflecting his true age, yet the crows feet around them betray such a thing.

War is cruel to those who bear witness.

The dogpile is quickly dispersed, a lithe and commanding presence tears the boys off one another and reprimands them. “Benjicot Blackwood.” Garrus murmurs, eyes casting a weary look down at you, “you’d do well to learn from him. He’s spilt more blood in this war than the dragons.” A jest, you think, but hearing of the Blackwoods fearsome reputation it could quite possibly yield truth.

Benjicot is shouting orders, or perhaps insults, you couldn’t tell —he had mud pressed hard into his tunic no doubt from rigorous sparring in the sludge pit, a stark contrast to the green fields of untouched grasslands the contingent temporarily inhabited. His feet sunk into the ground with each step, the man made bog had been many of the boys’ downfall during sparring and a cause of frustration by the looks they all shared across their faces.

“You there, boy.” He points at you — sword tip singling you out and all.

Eyes wide and body rigid, you felt as though you’d forgotten how to speak or move. Had it not been for Garrus gripping the scruff of your ill-fitted tunic and shoving you forward, you might’ve found yourself at the ire of the boy before you.

Not boy. Man.

Barely so, not even the young were spared from the cruel and aging touch of war.

He regards you carefully, a stormy gaze looking at you from head to toe. Eyes stopping at the sigil adorned on your chest. Even bespeckled with sweat and mud you couldn’t help but think how handsome he looked, though it was far from an appropriate thought. It helped ease the nervousness that rippled through your being as you stood in the centre of a circlet of men.

”Lord Steele found himself sober enough to finally choose a side did he?” Benjicot’s words were severe, a low growl not too dissimilar to that of the black cats and Direwolves of the nearby forests. There was a primal, animalistic quality in his movements, sizing you up like a predator would when deciding if something was prey or not.

You resist the urge to look at Garrus, he could not help you, not now. Instead, with a chin held up you shake your head, nudging it back toward your confidant, “we came alone, Lord Blackwood.”

His eyes flicker behind you and tilts his head to the side, “hm. Idiotic yet admirable of you two. Going against the word of the House that protects you.” There was a glint of something in his eyes, wild, untamed and real compared to many of the other pairs of eyes you had come across in the camp. He swipes the sweat from his upper lip and nods over to the handmade rack of swords, “show us what House Steele defects are made of then.”

This was about to be nothing short of a complete humiliation, you were certain. Yet, with a steady breath and the ignition of hatred bubbling in the back of your mind to remind you of why this path was the one you chose — you pick a short sword, albeit the smallest of the array of the newly smithed weapons.

Despite its small size it was still made from heavy ores, your wrist willing itself to relent to the weight, wanting to bend and twist. Men and boys begin to laugh, your eyes look around and it was a horrifying reflection of your own uselessness, like a childish nightmare coming to fruition. It pissed you off.

The moment you came into this life born without a prick between your legs you had always been seen as inferior, a prize to be sold to the highest bidder. The lament of a woman born in Westeros. Now, you stand on the edge of a cliff looking over an abyss brought on by the war. By two dragons ill-fitted for the power they wield because at the end of all this, the only people who suffer are the people.

You resent being born into a hateful world and you resent that loss is what has driven you to action. Just like you resent being laughed at by a crowd of men who knew next to nothing about the sacrifices you’ve made.

Benjicot Blackwood, does not laugh. He does not jeer nor does he show faint amusement at your inability to hold a mere short sword. He has since stepped aside, beckoning a boy forward who is similar in your stature but definitely not in age — he could barely be ten and four.

He was snickering, and that added more oil on top of the fire that burned your hatred and loathing — you feel yourself recede into that raw emotion. While you may be absolutely abhorrent with any real fighting skills, you had an unbridled rage to let out in recompense for all the wrong done unto you in this world.

And so you charge at him, using momentum to help raise the sword over your head because by gods alone, your strength was practically non-existent. A ferocious yowl barrels from your throat when swords clashed, the sudden stop was disorienting and caused you to stumble back slightly. He swings his sword and you double back again, the mud encasing around your boots willing you to trip, to fall.

You try to swing back but don’t have enough momentum and you feel your wrist bend under the weight of the sword and have to over-correct, stepping to the side so as to not drop the sword. Laughter rumbles through the men once again, some beginning to cheer on the boy in front of you.

Heaving forward again, you go to swing but in a split second you let go of the sword, letting it careen through the air and hitting the boy on the chest. Was it smart to willfully disarm oneself? Perhaps not, but he certainly wasn’t expecting it so you pounce. An all too familiar scene that would have otherwise delighted you if it weren’t on the grounds of war; a hand curls into his muddied blonde locks while the other goes to claw at his face.

Many fights had broken out like this between you and other girls growing up, it seemed only natural to revert back to the ways you knew how to fight. Even if it wasn’t exactly appropriate.

The two of you tumble into the mud together but the element of surprise has long surpassed and he uses simple strength, punching you hard in the gut and knocking you off him. Unsure what to expect next, you lay in the mud, chest heaving hard and conceded defeat — truthfully you had conceded defeat the second you were called out to show off your ‘skill’.

Overcast and dreary weather as it may be, the sun's light still glared through such heavy obscurity, your eyes squinted while trying to figure out if it was easier to sink into the bog beneath you or get up and swallow down what little pride remained. Eclipsing the sun in more ways than one, Benjicot stands over you, expression hardened yet there was an amused glint deep within his dark eyes.

“You fight like a girl,” he outstretched his hand, part of you contemplating hitting it away but he was the only one - aside from Garrus - to not laugh at your ineptitude. A soft groan passes your lips and you begrudgingly take the gesture of kindness, it was more than anyone had given you anyway.

“I am no knight,” you grumble back, once upright, rolling your shoulders back and rubbing the wrist that began to ache from holding a sword. The crowd of men had begun dispersing, you wonder if in your post fight daze if Benjicot had shooed them away.

”Aye, any idiot with two eyes can see that,” he jests, picking up the sword from the mud, “any daft cunt can pick up a sword and swing it around — but you’ve something else… I see it in your eyes, boy.”

At first you think he’s undermining you, but after a moment, it was clear he was paying you a compliment.

He returns the sword amongst the rest, a hand resting on the pommel of his sheathed dagger. Something about his stature, the way he commanded the space he inhabited was so interesting. He was unlike any other Lord you met before, perhaps it could be that he was a warrior first, then Lord second. A sentiment only emboldened since the war began.

“It may be pertinent that we train at night Little Clover, you have much to learn,” Garrus whispers, coming up behind you and putting a hand on your shoulder proudly. He may have watched you get bested without question, and sure, behind the confines of the tent you two shared later he would no doubt say how proud he was, there was not a single thing you could do that he wouldn’t support.

He should have trained you up sooner — be it if the departure from Stylguard wasn’t swift and last moment.

Benjicot approaches the two of you, watching as you whisper conspiratorially. He was as intimidating when he was quiet as he was when wielding a sword. A perceptive gaze looking between Garrus, clad in armour of your house and you, unevenly cut hair and dressed in little more than a squires tunic. He gives a weary look around, many of the men had long left the sludge pit.

”I must thank you, for joining the efforts even if they go against Lord Steele’s,” He says formally.

“No matter, my Lord.” Garrus smiles, a thin and forced one out of mere politeness, “Lord Steele grows weary the longer the war persists, a conflict averse man such as himself cannot continue to lock himself away in the wine cellars while war is brought to his doorstep.”

There was a pause, a silent mediator among the three of you, as much as it would pain you to admit; Garrus holds truth in his words. You love your father you really did but he stopped being a present figure the moment the raven arrived with word of your brother's death.

“Aye, The Greens have done irreparable damage to his family yet he cowers in his fortress.” Benjicot says quietly, mulling over his thoughts. His tongue pokes the inside of the cheek, protruding it out before moistening his lips with a twitch of a smile, barely perceptible, “is that why his daughter fled? To find retribution for the unlawful death of her brother?”

You tense up, swallowing hard and don’t dare look to Garrus lest suspicion is raised. The lump in your throat is hard and stubborn, even as you clear it, part of it remains to jeopardize the weight of your words. “That is.. what many believe to have happened… A few of us stable boys overheard she had plans to flee to Essos.”

Benjicot hums, nodding in response and looks around at the tents, the men, all the heart and blood of war. You follow his gaze carefully, how deeply entrenched in the throes of war the realm had become. In the middle of a field at the edge of the Riverlands of all places.

“This doesn’t look like Essos to me, my Lady.”

Before you had a chance to stumble back, Garrus had put an arm in front of you, an instinct to protect, to guard. Though falters when he hears the young Blackwood laugh.

”Do not think yourself in danger. It is admirable, truly. To go against your fathers wishes, but you cannot simply cut your hair and wear the clothes of a boy and call yourself a warrior.” He chuckled, a deep and soothing sound that made your cheeks burn, though that was partly due to being caught. He was impressed in truth, unable to find what the wild spark in your eyes was initially, though it made sense the moment he saw your delicate unmarred hands. Nails well kept and not a single grain of dirt underneath them.

“I wish to learn, I want to fight.” You step forward, voice pleading because if you didn’t have this then what remained? A hallowed home with vestiges of pain luring anyone stupid enough to hear their call? An empty father, nothing but a shell of what once was a person who mirrored life and happiness? It was fight or die and even death wasn’t as cruel of a fate as returning to nothing, to be nothing.

“And you fight like a girl,” he smiles, not to insult or belittle you, nothing more nefarious than a simple observation. He inches forward, shifting his weight. It shouldn’t have made you as nervous as it did, but he was close enough to crowd your senses with his natural musk. “Many men believe women to be bad luck in times of war, these men are no different.”

Those men were stupid, you think.

“And what say you, Lord Blackwood?” You swallow.

“I say that not many of them have had the pleasure of meeting my Aunt.” He whispered, eyes swirling similarly to the darkened storm stricken skies above. “Women aren’t welcome by some around here, do well to keep discreet. And if you cannot manage that, then be ruthless.”

On his retreat, you feel yourself turn to look at Garrus, who looked caught between a look of utter bemusement yet partially pleased all things considered. He looks down at you and clears his throat, “let us retire for the afternoon, my lad— Little Clover. Trust that the Lordling does not speak to many about your arrival.”

Your eyes remain in the direction Benjicot disappeared in, sighing heavily. Perhaps in a different lifetime he would have been a delightful consort, though for now it is barely a thought, passing through your idle mind as you slowly turn to rest for the day.

[interstellarflare]

A Cinderella Story || Anthony Bridgerton

-PART FIVE-

Summary: Have courage, and be kind. Words that you tried to live by ever since the passing of your parents. Though your step-mother and step-sisters did everything in their power to hide you and your status away from the rest of the Ton, you never expected to catch the eye of Viscount Anthony Bridgerton himself.

Authors Note: This is my first Bridgerton series! I had an absolute ball writing this, and I hope you enjoy it! There is a tag list open if anyone wishes to be kept updated for future parts. Gif by @venusianbabie

|PART ONE| |PART TWO| |PART THREE| |PART FOUR|

With the house descending into silence, you allowed yourself a moment to collapse onto the lounge in the living room with a loud sigh. With tired eyes your gaze focused on the ceiling, staring at the crystal chandelier as it glittered brightly.

A small smile crossed your lips, grateful for the peace and quiet. Lady Worthington, Mary and Elizabeth had left for the ball mere minutes ago, all of them excited and nervous about their prospects for the night. You hoped that Elizabeth and Lord Burton would get a chance to speak tonight, she had been so beside herself before she entered the carriage to depart. They had travelled with the Cowper family, who had sneered at your person when you had helped the Worthington’s to the carriage.

The train attached to Lady Worthington’s dress was a nightmare to manage, all bundled up in your arms so as to not drop it in the mud at your feet. You were covered in it now, thanks to a harsh push from Cressida who sent you sprawling onto the ground. Luckily however, you managed to save the train though.

You felt the sting of tears prick your eyes, a sense of sadness overwhelming you. How had you become so unfortunate? To be stuck with a wicked witch for a stepmother, and two stepsisters that laughed at you upon your little trip in the dirt. Elizabeth hadn’t said anything, nor looked your way when Mary and Elizabeth started to cackle loudly. She merely turned away; her eyes downcast as she carried herself into the awaiting carriage.

You missed your father, you missed your mother. Their love and kindness was completely gone from this home, the home you had grown up in as a child. You cried into the cushions, sobbing loudly and desperately. You had never felt so alone, so vulnerable…so lost. You knew that they would want you to be brave, to stay strong, and to have hope that everything will work out in the end. Your mind flickered back to the book you were reading earlier that morning, of the fabled prince charming sweeping the princess off her feet, and living happily ever after.

Perhaps your prince charming was around the corner, perhaps he was waiting for you somewhere to take you away from this now horrid home, filled with heartache and distant memories-

There was a loud knock at the door, so loud that it echoed throughout the foyer and into the living room. You jumped with a small squeak, bolting upright in your position on the lounge. You wiped your eyes, drying your hands on your muddy dress and wiping your nose with your apron. It was unladylike surely, but you were not a Lady anymore. After trying and failing to make yourself look presentable, you hurried towards the door as the knocking sounded again. It sounded desperate, frantic even, your face contorting into a confused expression as you tried to think of who it could be.

It couldn’t be a visitor for Lady Worthington or her daughters, the rest of high society was at Lady Danbury’s ball, and it was way too late in the night for anyone to be here in the first place. So, who could it be? As you opened the door your breath caught in your throat, your heart skipping a beat as you recognised the man that stood before you.

Viscount Anthony Bridgerton smiled, staring down at you with kind and soft expression. His eyes never left yours as he spoke, seemingly examining every inch of your face as he bowed politely.

“Miss Y/n, I apologise for calling so late, would I perhaps be able to come in-“

“Why are you here!?” You found yourself exclaiming, your eyes wide in shock as you felt your heart began to beat wildly. Anthony Bridgerton, one of the most distinguished men on all of the ton was standing on your doorstep. Why?

Anthony chuckled, his charming smile widening as he shrugged his shoulders. “Why not?” he replied lightly, finding amusement in your expression as it changed from shock to pure bewilderment.

“If you are here to see Lady Worthington or her daughters, they are gone” You replied shortly, your gaze falling nervously to the floor as you suddenly became very aware of your current state. You were completely covered in slowly drying mud, bloodshot eyes from crying, you no doubt looked like a complete wreck…wonderful.

Anthony hummed “I’m not here to see then, thank god. They arrived at the ball shortly after I left-“

“Why did you leave? Surely someone will notice your absence, and what will the ton think if you are found here, alone…with me-“

“My brother is good at coming up with excuses, I’m sure he’ll spin some wide tale about my whereabouts”.

“And is that something you wish to deal with?”

“Benedict can be a bit excentric at times, but I trust him wholeheartedly…” Anthony finished, clasping his hands behind his back and standing tall, “..now Miss Y/n, may I come inside? Or are you to leave your visitor out in the cold?”.

It hadn’t occurred to you until now, but as Anthony stood before you, you couldn’t help but notice how tall he truly was. You hadn’t noticed it this morning, but he towered over you, the top of your head just barely reaching his chin. You stared up into his eyes, searching for any sign of jest, that this was all some sort of joke, and a complete figment of your imagination conjured up by your saddened state.

But he was real, and he was here.

You released a short breath, a soft smile crossing your lips as you stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.

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[burtonandtaylor]

“Famed as we are, rich as we are, courted and insulted as we are, overpaid as we are, centre of a great deal of attention as we are, [we] are not bored or blasé. We are not envious. We are merely lucky. I have been inordinately lucky all my life but the greatest luck of all has been Elizabeth. She has turned me into a moral man but not a prig, she is a wildly exciting lover-mistress, she is shy and witty, she is nobody’s fool, she is a brilliant actress, she is beautiful beyond the dreams of pornography, she can be arrogant and wilful, she is clement and loving, Dulcis Imperatrix, she is Sunday’s child, she can tolerate my impossibilities and my drunkenness, she is an ache in the stomach when I am away from her, and she loves me!”

- Richard Burton

[theballadofharkness]

And the Award goes to… (Part 1/3)

Pairing: Agatha Harkness X fem!reader

Summary: Your relationship with famous and feared director Agatha Harkness has been largely Hollywood’s best kept secret until TMZ call for comment about some pictures the paparazzi took of the two of you. Forever one to control the narrative, Agatha decides to get ahead of the story and debut Hollywood’s new starlet on her arm at The Emmy’s red carpet. And suddenly, you’re not thinking about winning Best Actress anymore.

Word Count: 11.2K

Warnings: Eventual smut warning, depiction of an anxiety attack but nothing too graphic x

A/N: Happy Oscar’s day! Thought I’d start posting the director!Agatha series I started a while ago, so far it’s looking like a 3 parter with lots of smut to come… 😉💜🪻

The soft hum of the summer day was a distant murmur against the cool, almost clinical quiet of Agatha Harkness’s office. Towering windows framed the view of her sprawling Hidden Hills estate, where the greenery of her garden blurred into the horizon. The room itself was a symphony of polished wood and sharp lines, a reflection of the woman who commanded it. Agatha sat at the head of her sleek desk, poised in her throne-like chair, legs crossed, a picture of cold, unyielding power. The polished gleam of her Oscar trophies behind her only added to the intimidating aura she exuded.

Agatha Harkness wasn’t just any director- she was a titan of the industry, one whose mere presence in a room made everything else fade into insignificance. Agatha had built an empire, crafting award-winning films, shaping careers, and rewriting the rules of Hollywood. In her world, there was no room for mistakes.

Her fingers tapped steadily against the surface of her desk as her publicist and assistants spoke over Zoom, each trying to carve out space to make their suggestions known. Agatha didn’t need to be looking at the screen to know what was happening- she could tell by the shift in tone who was speaking, who was fighting to get her attention. But it didn’t matter. She was in control.

"Yes, I am aware of the new time for the upcoming pitch meeting," she said, cutting across one assistant with the calm, icy precision she was known for. "The studio heads will not dictate the terms of this contract. We finalize my terms first. Then we talk numbers."

She jotted something down in the margin of the script she was reviewing, her voice never faltering as the conversation swirled around her. But, despite the steady stream of chatter, her gaze had already wandered, pulled by something more distracting than any of the issues being discussed.

Out the window, beyond the manicured lawn and infinity pool, you lay on a sunbed by the pool. Your white bikini, a stark contrast against the deep blue water, caught the light in a way that made her chest tighten. It wasn’t the color that held her attention, though. It was the way you looked- effortlessly perfect, carefree, with your legs stretched out in the sun as you skimmed the pages of your book. You were completely immersed in it, your lips parted slightly as you read, lost to the world.

Agatha’s breath hitched as her eyes traced over you. There you were, her girl, so beautifully innocent and yet so completely hers. Her fingers tightened slightly around her pen as she continued to watch you for a moment longer than intended, eyes raking over your body as you flipped another page, the book likely some kind of twisted horror novel, something to match your sharp, dark beauty. You’d always had that aura: witchy, ethereal, haunting, the kind of woman that seemed to belong in a Tim Burton film. A perfect mix of innocence and darkness that made you impossible to forget.

Agatha let her gaze linger. She had thought that romance, at this stage in her life, was something she’d long left behind. She had no time for it, no room for anyone who wasn’t aligned with her work. But then you had come along, like a muse, your raw talent drawing her in the moment she saw you on set. You had that something, that spark that didn’t come along often. And despite herself, Agatha had fallen for it. Fallen for you. She watched you, day after day, growing closer, the lines between director and lover blurring until there was no going back. You were her forbidden, treasured secret.

But secrets seldom last forever.

"Agatha?" Her assistant’s voice broke through her reverie, sharp and insistent. Agatha blinked, snapping back to the conversation at hand. She’d almost forgotten she was in the middle of a meeting.

“Yes, I’m here,” she replied, voice clipped, as her eyes flickered to the screen. The moment was gone, and she quickly reasserted her authority. “Let’s stay focused, shall we? The award season tour starts in two days, and I want everything locked down before the cameras start rolling.”

But her attention drifted again. Just for a moment. Outside, you stretched languidly, arching your back as you shifted on the sunbed, completely unaware of the storm brewing just beyond the glass. There was something about the way the sun made your skin glow, the curve of your body just so, that made Agatha’s pulse quicken. How could someone so young, so beautiful, be so perfectly hers? The thought was interrupted when her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a name she had hoped she wouldn’t see so soon.

Her publicist. She stopped her assistant mid sentence, muting herself to answer immediately, eyes flicking to the message notification.

"Agatha, we need to talk. TMZ reached out for comment. They've got photos of you and Y/N. It’s not out yet, but they're about to drop them."

Her blood ran cold.

“What?” Agatha’s voice came out low, dangerous. “What do you mean, ‘photos of Y/N’? What kind of photos?”

There was a pause. Her publicist hesitated, but Agatha could hear the urgency in their voice when they responded. "They’ve got pictures of you and Y/N… kissing. In public. At a restaurant last week. They’re sitting on them for now, waiting for your comment before they release the photos."

Agatha’s grip tightened on her phone, her knuckles whitening. A flash of fury ignited inside her. How dare they, how dare they take what was hers and put it on display like this? She didn’t just control the narrative; she owned it. And no one, especially not a media outlet as tacky as TMZ, was going to take it from her.

"Give me an hour," Agatha barked at her team on the zoom call the second she unmuted herself, her voice regaining its familiar edge of command. “I have something to deal with.”

Her team fell silent. No one dared to protest.

Agatha cut the call abruptly with both her team and her publicist, her mind already whirring with plans. She had to take control of this, make it her story before it ever left her grasp.

The sharp click of Agatha’s heels echoed through the grand hallways of her Hidden Hills mansion as she moved with purpose, her mind a storm of emotions she refused to name. She needed to get to you. To hold you. Because of course, of course it had been that night. That moment. The one time she let herself slip, let her need for you override her carefully built control. The memory of it gripped her as she walked, threatening to pull her under.

~ One week ago. ~

The restaurant was tucked away in the hills, a place so exclusive that not even the most dedicated paparazzi could get past the ironclad security. Agatha had paid a small fortune to ensure their privacy tonight- not just because she could, but because she had to. No risks. No chance of exposure. Because tonight was your night.

You had been radiant from the moment she picked you up, your eyes bright with excitement, your silk black dress clinging to you in a way that made Agatha’s mouth run dry. The moment you slid into the car beside her, you were practically buzzing, all wide-eyed and glowing, because she was spoiling you tonight. And Agatha lived to spoil you.

The dinner had been exquisite, the kind of meal that melted on the tongue and lingered like a dream. She had watched you from across the candlelit table, the flickering light casting golden hues across your skin, the soft smile on your lips making something tighten in her chest. She didn’t know how she had lasted this long. How she had managed to keep her hands to herself all evening when all she wanted was to pull you into her lap and kiss the breath from your lungs. But she waited. Because there was something else first.

"Here," she murmured, sliding a small, unassuming box across the table.

Your eyes lit up as you picked it up, delicate fingers tracing the edges. "Agatha..."

"Open it," she instructed, leaning back in her chair, her lips curling into a knowing smirk.

You lifted the lid, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then, you inhaled sharply. Inside, gleaming against the soft velvet, was a set of silver keys.

Your head snapped up to look at her, eyes wide, not wanting to misread what you thought was happening. "What are these?"

Agatha's smirk softened, her voice low but firm. "Move in with me, Y/N."

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you simply stared at her, eyes shining with tears threatening to fall. "You- you want me to move in with you? Really?"

"More than anything," Agatha admitted, watching as emotion flickered across your face, raw and beautiful.

You blinked rapidly, laughter bubbling up through your surprise. "Oh my god, Agatha," you whispered, voice trembling with something dangerously close to tears. "I-I don’t know what to say…"

"You could say yes," she teased, reaching across the table to brush her fingers over yours.

You let out a shaky breath, clutching the keys to your chest, like they were the most precious thing in the world. "Yes. Yes, fuck, yes."

Agatha felt something shift inside her- something deep, something that settled with a rare kind of certainty. But she wasn’t done.

"One more thing," she murmured, reaching for another, slightly larger box.

Your lips parted in surprise as you took it from her, already overwhelmed, already so utterly beautiful in your happiness that it made her ache.

When you lifted the lid, the breath left your body entirely. Inside, nestled in silk, was a sapphire and diamond necklace- deep blue stones that caught the candlelight like liquid midnight.

You looked up at her, stunned. "Agatha oh my god you shouldn't have…"

"You deserve beautiful things," she murmured, watching you carefully. "You deserve everything."

Your fingers trembled as you touched the necklace, your breath shaky, eyes darting between the gift and the woman who had given it to you. But then your expression changed, shifting from surprise to something deeper, something needier.

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, your voice suddenly smaller, more desperate. "Agatha..."

She frowned slightly. "What is it, sweetheart?"

You hesitated, teeth sinking into your lip. "Kiss me? Please?"

The words hit her like a force. Agatha stilled, her heart pounding. "Baby…"

"I know," you whispered, eyes pleading. "I know you want to wait until after the movie, until after everything settles. But I need you."

Agatha’s jaw tightened. She had been so careful. So calculated. She had kept her hands to herself even when it nearly killed her, even when you looked at her with those eyes, even when she ached to claim you properly. But when you were looking at her with those pleading eyes and pouring lips, your fingers clutched round the keys to the home you would soon share together, her resolve cracked.

"Come here," she commanded softly.

You were in her lap in seconds, your hands cupping her face, your body pressing against hers like you had been waiting for this. And then she kissed you. Deep. Possessive. Slow. A kiss that claimed you as her own. You whimpered against her lips, melting into her, fingers tangling in her hair, the silver keys still clutched between your fingers as if it were the only thing tethering you to reality. She didn’t know how long she kissed you, only that it was everything. Too much, not enough.

When she finally pulled back, you were breathless, your lips swollen, your eyes dark with something that sent a bolt of pride through her.

"Happy birthday, baby," she murmured, thumb stroking your cheek.

You only smiled, burying your face in her neck.

Neither of you saw the camera flash from across the street.

~ Back to Present Day. ~

Agatha’s stomach twisted as she stepped outside, the California sun beating down on her, and there you were, still stretched out on the sunbed, still glowing, still so perfectly hers. And she would not let anything take you from her.

There you were. Her pretty girl.

The sunlight was soft on your skin, illuminating every curve, every line of your body, making you look like something out of a dream. The white bikini only heightened the delicate, innocent beauty you exuded, and she couldn't help but feel that familiar rush of longing, mixed with the ever-present urge to protect you. To hold onto you forever.

Before she could say a word, you looked up, catching her eyes, your lips curving into a bright smile. You stood quickly, your arms already open, and Agatha couldn’t help but be swept up in the force of your embrace. You collided with her, your soft body pressing against hers, and for a heartbeat, everything else fell away.

"Hey," you whispered into her chest, your arms wrapping tightly around her neck. "Are you done? Are you all mine now for the day?"

Agatha’s breath hitched at your words. She could feel the beat of your heart beneath her, could feel the warmth of your body, and it took everything in her not to pull you impossibly close, kiss you, and forget about everything else. But reality was pressing on her- the photos, the press, the delicate web of privacy and control she had woven for so long being torn away from her.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to pull back just enough to look you in the eyes. “Y/N, listen.” Her voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it- a fear she hated feeling. "We need to talk."

You tilted your head in confusion, your arms still wrapped around her neck, eyes searching hers. “What’s going on, Aggie? What happened?” You trailed off, sensing the shift in her mood.

Agatha stepped back, putting a slight distance between the two of you, but her hands remained on your shoulders, her touch grounding you both in the tense moment. “There’s been a… situation,” she started, voice clipped as she tried to find the right words. “On your birthday…”

“What about my birthday?” You asked, furrowing your brows in confusions

"Pictures of us on your birthday have been sent out to my team by TMZ," Agatha explained, her jaw tight, her eyes avoiding yours for a moment. "They’ve got pictures of me kissing you. On my lap. They e reached out for comment before the story drops. There’s nothing I can do to make this go away."

You didn’t say anything at first. You stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, the weight of the situation settling in. But then, you took a deep breath, lifting your chin, and when you spoke, your voice was firm, resolute.

“Aggie…” you whispered, your hand gently cupping her cheek. “I know you wanted to wait until after the press cycle for the movie, keep the focus on the film and not your personal life. And I know you wanted to control the narrative, but…” You pressed your body closer to her, your lips brushing her ear as you whispered, “I’m gonna belong to you forever. Why don’t we just tell people now?”

Agatha froze. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she let herself feel it- the weight of your love, the way your heart was in her hands, how you were willing to go public, even though the whole world would see you both differently forever. But then the reality of the situation creeped back in to sour the moment.

"Y/N," Agatha said, her voice rough as she tried to gather control of herself again. "This isn’t just about us. It’s about everything. Our careers. The movie. The fallout if this goes public now."

You stepped back, hurt flashing across your face. “So… you still want to wait? You’re not ready?”

“I’m not ready for the world to rip us apart.” Her eyes softened, her voice trembling for a moment before she steadied herself. "I’m not ready to let them take you away from me, sweetheart."

You swallowed hard, your heart aching with the words that hung between you. “I’m yours, Agatha. They can’t take me away. Not now. Not ever.”

The weight of your words hung in the air, and for a heartbeat, everything stood still. Agatha’s eyes locked onto yours, and the tension between you two was thick enough to cut with a knife. She wanted to give you everything. To take you publicly and never let anyone question what was hers. But there were consequences.

And the clock was ticking.

The was beginning to set, casting a warm golden hue over the backyard, but in the heavy silence between you and Agatha, time seemed to stand still.

Without another word, you stepped away from her, reaching for her hand and tugging her toward the house. “Come on,” you said, voice low but determined. “This isn’t the kind of conversation to have while in a bikini.”

Agatha let out a sharp breath, her lips curling in a half-smile despite herself as she allowed you to pull her inside. She didn’t want to admit it, but that small touch of yours felt like a balm to her own restless heart. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted. The world outside felt like it had disappeared, leaving just the two of you in your bubble, surrounded by the familiar scent of her expensive perfume and the warmth of her embrace.

Before she could say anything, you closed the distance between you in a flash, cupping her face gently, pulling her in to kiss her like you hadn’t seen her in years. Your lips crashed against hers with an urgency neither of you had expected, your hands roaming to the back of her neck as you tangled yourself in her presence. Agatha responded instantly, her arms encircling you, pulling you impossibly closer, as if she could merge into your body and become part of you. Every inch of her skin burned with a desperate need, and her hands roamed over your exposed skin as if they were trying to memorize you, to feel every curve of your body pressed against hers. The kiss was deep, messy, raw- a collision of desire and frustration, the pent-up tension of months of secrecy finally being brought into the light. When you pulled back, breathless, she stayed just inches away, her forehead resting against yours as you both gasped for air.

"I’ll never stop loving you," you whispered, voice trembling with emotion. "You’re stuck with me forever, Agatha."

The words sent a jolt through her heart, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to feel the weight of them. The pure, unguarded honesty in your voice made her stomach flip. You weren’t just saying the words, you meant them. Her breath came out in a heavy sigh as she gazed into your eyes, feeling that familiar possessive pull- like a force of nature, she couldn’t escape it.

“Fuck it,” Agatha growled under her breath, her hands tightening on your waist as she pulled you closer again, her lips brushing over your jaw. “You’re so fucking perfect baby.”

Her fingers gripped your chin gently, tilting your face up so she could look you in the eye, the power dynamic between the two of you clear. You could see it in her eyes- the decision had been made. Agatha leaned in, claiming your mouth once more with an intensity that left you breathless. When she finally pulled back, she was certain.

“This is mine,” she whispered, her voice almost possessive, her hand resting on your chest. “Hollywood’s darling is all mine.”

Her fingers traced your collarbone, her touch possessive yet loving, the world outside completely irrelevant now. “And no one’s going to take you from me,” she added firmly, a promise in her voice.

You felt her claim you in a way that went beyond mere words. There was no hesitation, no more secrecy. At that moment, Agatha owned the narrative and she wasn’t going to let anyone distort it.

Her eyes locked onto yours once more, filled with a dark promise. “The press will have their story, but this-” her gaze softened, the fierceness lingering but now wrapped in tenderness. “This is ours.”

You shivered slightly in Agatha’s arms, the coolness of the evening air creeping under your skin. Agatha felt it almost immediately, her sharp eyes noticing the subtle tremble of your body. Her chest tightened with concern, though it quickly melted into that all-knowing, possessive need to take care of you.

“Cold, baby?” Agatha murmured, her voice soft, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled you closer, the warmth of her body instantly surrounding you.

You nodded, snuggling into her chest, too comfortable in her arms to care about the chill.

“Stay right there, sweetheart,” she said, already stepping back. Her strong hands went to her downstairs closet, quickly retrieving one of her oversized shirts. It was soft, the familiar scent of her perfume filling your senses as she slid it over your shoulders, the hem falling just below your thighs. She fastened the top button for you, the movement tender but purposeful, and when she stepped back, her eyes raked over you, making you feel like you were the only person in the world.

You tried to hide the heat rushing to your cheeks, your stomach fluttering under the intensity of her gaze. But Agatha didn’t let you shrink away. She smiled, that signature smirk of hers that made your heart race. “You look even better in my clothes than I do,” she murmured softly, her lips brushing your temple as she held you close. "All better?"

You smiled up at her, your heart swelling with that sweet rush of adoration. “Thank you, Aggie.”

Agatha’s gaze softened, her eyes darkening with something deeper, possessive, but still full of love. She gently cupped your face, her thumb tracing over your lips, before she whispered, “Come on, baby. We’ve got business to take care of.”

~

Agatha’s office was immaculate, a sanctuary of power, wealth, and subtle luxury. The only sign of life was you, sitting on her lap as she typed furiously on her laptop. A tension hung in the air, and Agatha could feel it in her bones, the fear of the press getting their claws into her life, but also, the raw desire to claim you fully. To make the world see what was hers.

Sharon’s face popped up on the screen, smiling softly at the sight of you curled into Agatha’s chest. But Agatha wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, and Sharon didn’t waste any time.

“Alright, Agatha. They’re not out yet, but TMZ is asking for a comment. They want to know where the two of you stand- if the rumors are true,” Sharon began, her tone crisp, the weight of the situation clear in her voice.

Agatha clenched her jaw and turned her gaze to you, holding you in her arms. Your heart raced at the thought of the public finding out, but there was something thrilling about it too- the idea of finally being with her openly, without having to sneak around. You still couldn’t shake the excitement, though. Everything about your life, your relationship with Agatha, had been secret. The thought of the press getting involved- it felt like your bubble would pop, but you weren’t scared.

“Options,” Agatha said simply, her voice steady.

Sharon began rattling off the choices one by one. “Well, we could deny everything outright—call it a misunderstanding, say the photos were staged, that you two are just friends. It would buy us some time, but it wouldn’t stop the press from digging further.”

Agatha gave a small grunt of frustration but didn’t interrupt. You could tell she hated the idea of lying, of pretending you weren’t what you were to each other.

“We could also sue the publications for invasion of privacy,” Sharon continued, “but that could lead to a public court battle. It might make you look guilty, or like you have something to hide. It could turn ugly.”

You shifted slightly, glancing up at Agatha. Her hand moved to your waist, rubbing soothing circles on your skin. You could feel her body tense, fighting to remain calm. But Agatha didn’t need to respond to Sharon’s words. You knew her well enough to know what she wanted: control.

“We could just say nothing,” Sharon added with a small shrug, “Go silent. Let them chase us for a while, refusing to confirm or deny anything. Keep it in limbo while you finish up with the movie press tour.”

Agatha’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “And completely derail the trajectory of the media coverage on our film?” she asked, her voice low but dangerous. “What’s next?”

Sharon looked a little unsure, biting her lip, before continuing. “We could also release a statement confirming that the two of you are in a relationship, but we’d also have to ask for privacy. A standard thing. No real details, just that you’re happy and want to keep things between the two of you.”

The weight of Sharon’s words settled into the room, and for the first time since she’d started speaking, Agatha looked directly at you. The tension in her face was gone for a second, replaced with something softer, vulnerable even.

You looked up at her, your voice barely a whisper. “What about the Emmys?”

The question made her pause, and for a moment, the room was filled only with the faint sound of Sharon’s voice in the background.

Agatha’s lips curved into that signature smile- the one she only reserved for you. “The Emmys?” she repeated, her voice now softer, but teasing. “You want me to show you off in your pretty little dress for the world to see?”

You nodded eagerly, a blush creeping up your neck. “Yes. I want to be with you, Agatha. In front of everyone. I don’t need to wait. I want to be yours… everywhere.”

Agatha’s heart pounded at the sight of you so open, so vulnerable in her arms. The excitement coursed through her as she looked down at you- her gorgeous, talented, strong girl. The weight of the decision was heavier than it had ever been, but one thing was clear: Agatha wasn’t going to hide anymore.

She turned her gaze back to Sharon, her voice steady and commanding. “Alright. We’ll do it at the Emmys. No more games, no more hiding. If they want a story, they’re going to get it. We’re going public. No more ‘privacy’ bullshit.”

Sharon didn’t waste a second to react. “Understood, Agatha. I’ll prep a statement. We’ll make it official on the carpet.”

Agatha sighed, her fingers running through your hair, ending the call with Sharon as she leaned her forehead against yours. “I’m taking control of this. You’re mine, baby. And the world is going to see that.”

You smiled softly up at her, your heart racing. For the first time, everything felt clear. No more hiding. Agatha was ready to take the world on, and she was going to do it with you by her side.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, sealing your promise.

~

After a long, tense day the weight of the world seemed to lift the moment you stepped into Agatha’s shower. The hot water washed away the stress, the lingering tension from the media circus, and most importantly, the uncertainty. In Agatha’s arms, everything felt safe again.

She helped you wash your hair, her fingers massaging your scalp in slow, deliberate circles, before wrapping you up in a plush towel and leading you into the bedroom. The air was heavy with comfort, the only sound between the two of you the steady rhythm of your breathing.

Once you were both dressed in soft pyjamas you both made your way to the cinema room. The room was warm, the flickering light from the fireplace casting shadows on the walls. Agatha sank onto the couch, pulling you into her arms, her chest against your back as she nestled you against her side, your head resting on her shoulder.

"How about something comforting?" Agatha murmured, already reaching for the remote.

You looked up at her, your eyes heavy with exhaustion, but something in her smile made your heart race. "Mm sounds amazing," you agreed, snuggling deeper into her warmth.

Agatha’s fingers moved deftly through the collection of movies on the screen. You could already feel the soft hum of her energy; this was her space. These were the films that made her who she was. And you, being the younger of the relationship, hadn't seen half of them. Finally, she settled on a black-and-white classic. The Philadelphia Story. You blinked, watching the opening credits with some confusion.

“Never seen it?” Agatha asked, her voice playful yet somehow stern, like a professor about to impart some vital knowledge.

You shook your head, “No, I haven’t.”

She smirked, her fingers lightly trailing down your arm, a little possessive, a little teasing. “Well, then. It’s about time you saw it. Cary Grant. Katharine Hepburn. Jimmy Stewart. It’s a masterpiece.”

You laughed softly, loving how much she cared about these films. "You really are a movie nerd," you teased, but your voice was warm, loving, a little drowsy.

Agatha pressed a soft kiss to your temple, her lips lingering there for a second longer than necessary. "I know my classic cinema, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice deep and soothing. “And I’m going to make you love it too.”

You giggled, already feeling the softness of the moment take over, the world outside no longer a worry. Agatha settled back into the cushions, her arm around your shoulders, and you sighed contentedly, melting into her warmth. As the movie played, Agatha whispered little comments here and there, pointing out all the clever details you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. You didn’t mind. You were too caught up in the feeling of being in her arms, safe and content.

"One day, you’ll appreciate all of this," Agatha whispered as you both relaxed into the couch, her fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm.

“I already do,” you replied softly, looking up at her with affection. “I appreciate you.”

The movie played on, but Agatha’s attention was fully on you now. Her fingers brushed against your cheek, and you melted into her touch, closing your eyes. You could feel the entire weight of the day slip away, replaced by the comfort and love Agatha so effortlessly gave. No matter what the world threw at you, this was where you belonged.

~

The bed was empty when you stirred awake, the warmth of Agatha’s body long gone, replaced by the cold crisp sheets and the longer scent of your lover. You stretched, blinking against the sunlight that streamed in through the windows, your body still heavy with sleep.

Of course, Agatha was already up.

You sighed, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from your eyes. It was hardly surprising, your girlfriend was Agatha Harkness after all, Hollywood’s most formidable director, the woman who never stopped working. If she was in bed past dawn, it was a miracle in your eyes.

Swinging your legs over the edge of the mattress, you tugged on a pair of socks and padded across the room. Agatha’s shirt, oversized on your frame, brushed against your thighs as you made your way down the hallway. You followed the distant murmur of voices, leading you straight to her home office. The door was cracked open just enough for you to peek inside.

Agatha sat behind her desk, looking as powerful and commanding as ever. She was leaning back in her chair, legs crossed, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while her other gestured toward the laptop screen. Across from her stood Billy Kaplan, her fiercely efficient personal assistant and just about the only person Agatha could tolerate most mornings, nodding along as she spoke, scribbling something down in his notebook.

“-going to be a circus,” Agatha was saying. “The moment we step on that carpet, the press is going to lose their damn minds. If we’re doing this, it has to be calculated. I need you to pull inspiration, Billy- an archival piece, something vintage, one of a kind. None of this ‘off the rack’ bullshit. My girl deserves something iconic.”

You smiled softly at her words, your heart fluttering. Pushing the door open just enough to step inside, you yawned, “Aggie?”

Both their heads snapped up.

Billy’s eyes went huge. “Oh my God,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “You’re Y/N L/N. In the flesh.” His notebook nearly slipped from his grasp. “Holy shit.”

You flushed instantly, gripping the hem of Agatha’s shirt as if it would somehow shield you from the intensity of his awestruck gaze.

Agatha groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Billy.”

“No, sorry, I just-” Billy practically vibrated in place. “You’re incredible. I mean, I saw The Witch at an early screening, and you- God, that performance? The way you- just- ” He gestured wildly, at a complete loss for words. “I have so many questions about your process.”

You laughed, cheeks still warm as you looked toward Agatha. She was watching you, her expression hovering somewhere between irritated and smug, like she was caught between rolling her eyes and basking in the praise being showered upon her girl.

“Billy,” Agatha drawled, sipping her coffee, “do you think you could keep from scaring my partner before breakfast?”

Billy paled. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, that was-” He exhaled, visibly trying to compose himself. “That was unprofessional. I just… wow.”

Agatha smirked, finally looking back at you, her gaze raking over your sleep-soft form, the way her shirt hung off your shoulders, your bare legs peeking out beneath the fabric.

“Come here, baby,” she murmured, beckoning you over with a finger.

You obeyed without hesitation, crossing the room to perch yourself on the edge of her desk. Agatha’s hand slid possessively up your thigh, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your skin. You could feel Billy forcing himself to look away, his ears turning pink.

“So,” you said softly, glancing between them, “what’s all this?”

Agatha squeezed your thigh, smirking. “Planning the Emmys, sweetheart. Your first official event as mine.”

Your stomach flipped at her words, warmth blooming in your chest.

Billy, still recovering from his starstruck moment, quickly cleared his throat. “Right- um, yes, we’re discussing wardrobe options. Ms. Harkness- uh, Agatha- wants to make sure you both look perfectly coordinated.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head toward Agatha. “Oh? You’re styling me now?”

“Of course,” Agatha murmured, giving your thigh another squeeze. “I can’t have my girl outshining me too much, can I?”

Billy snorted, seemingly regaining some of his composure. “I mean, let’s be real- you’re both going to own that carpet. But yeah, I’m pulling reference images for designers to create a look that complements each other. Like move aside, here comes Hollywood’s new power couple. Iconic.”

You grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

Agatha hummed, tipping her head slightly, her fingers still tracing circles against your skin. “Mm. I knew you would.”

Billy, who was very obviously trying not to stare at the blatant display of affection, clapped his hands together. “Alright! I should- uh- get those references together. And also maybe leave before I internally combust.”

Agatha chuckled. “Good idea.”

Billy gathered his things quickly, flashing you another reverent look before scurrying toward the door. “Seriously, Y/N. Huge fan.”

You laughed, waving him off as he disappeared down the hall.

The moment he was gone, Agatha turned her attention back to you fully, her smirk widening. “You have that effect on people, you know.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning in closer, voice teasing. “Says the woman who has every actor in Hollywood trembling when she walks into a room.”

Agatha chuckled, her hand slipping further up your thigh as she tugged you off her desk and onto her lap, lips brushing against yours. “Mm. True. But I only care about the effect I have on you.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling into the lapels of her robe. “You already know.”

Agatha smirked, her grip tightening as she pulls you flush against her. “Good girl.”

A shiver ran through you as her fingers dug into your hips, her grip possessive, demanding. The edge of her desk pressed into your back, but you barely noticed, not when Agatha was looking at you like that, her blue eyes darkening with hunger.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” she muttered, her voice thick with something dangerous. “Parading around my house in my shirt, batting those pretty eyes at me like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your breath hitched, a thrill shooting through you at the weight of her gaze. “I-I wasn’t…”

Agatha scoffed, her hands slipping beneath the fabric of the shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of your thighs up to snap the elastic of your panties. “Oh, you weren’t?” she mused, tilting her head. “You weren’t trying to get my attention, baby?”

You swallowed, heat flooding your cheeks.

Agatha smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you could even think of a response, her lips crashed against yours. A soft gasp escaped you as she kissed you deeply, her hands roaming over your body like she was starving for you. She kissed like she owned you, like she was staking her claim, pressing her body against yours until there was nothing between you but heat and breathless desperation. Your fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt, clinging to her as she devoured you, her tongue sweeping into your mouth, stealing every ounce of air from your lungs. She lifted you back onto the desk without breaking the kiss, settling between your parted legs as her hands roamed higher, her nails dragging up your spine, making you arch into her.

“Agatha,” you whimpered, barely able to catch your breath.

She hummed against your lips, her grip tightening. “Mm. Say it again.”

You shuddered, tilting your head back as her mouth moved to your neck, lips and teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Agatha…”

Agatha groaned, her fingers flexing against your waist. “That’s my good girl,” she murmured.

You melted into her touch, your head spinning, completely lost in her. Agatha was everywhere- her hands, her lips, the heat of her body pressing against yours. You didn’t care about the Emmys, about the press, about anything beyond this moment, beyond her.

She nipped at your pulse point, making you gasp, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Mine.”

You shivered, fingers threading through her dark waves, tugging her closer. “Yours,” you breathed, no hesitation.

Agatha groaned, pulling back just enough to look at you, her pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen. Beautiful. Her thumb brushed over your cheek, her expression softer now, full of something fierce and aching. “I’m going to show you off, baby,” she murmured, her voice reverent. “I’m going to put you on my arm at the Emmys and let the whole damn world know you belong to me.”

Your heart pounded, warmth blooming in your chest. “I already do,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the curve of her jaw. “I’ve always belonged to you.”

Agatha exhaled sharply, like your words had knocked the air from her lungs. “Fuck,” she muttered, before kissing you breathless all over again. She couldn’t help but smile against your lips, she never thought she’d be making out with a girl like she was a teenager again at her age.

Agatha hovered over you, her dark waves tumbling around her face as she looked down at you, her expression half-wild, half-worshipful. “Look at you,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over your kiss-swollen lips, her voice thick with possession. “So fucking beautiful.”

Your chest heaved, your body still thrumming from her touch.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Agatha continued, her fingers skimming down the open collar of her shirt that you wore, parting it to reveal more of your skin.

A small, breathless whimper escaped you, and Agatha smirked.

“Oh, baby,” she teased, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth, then lower, trailing her lips along your jaw, your throat. “You make the prettiest sounds for me.”

You arched into her, your hands clutching at her robe. “Aggie-”

“Mmm.” She hummed, her lips curving against your pulse point. “My needy girl.”

Your breath hitched as her hands traced down, her nails dragging lightly along your sides. “Aggie,” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

She exhaled sharply, her grip tightening. “Fuck, I’ll never get tired of hearing you say my name like that.”

Your hands found her face, guiding her back to your lips, kissing her deeply, desperately. Agatha groaned into the kiss, her body pressing flush against yours, her warmth, her weight, all-consuming.

Minutes stretched between heated kisses, whispered praises, stolen breaths, until finally, Agatha sighed against your lips, her touch softening, her forehead pressing gently to yours.

“As much as I’d love to keep you pinned beneath me all morning, baby,” she murmured, her fingers brushing down your sides, “we do have an important day ahead.”

You pouted, blinking up at her. “I don’t want to think about anything but you right now.”

Agatha chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re dangerous,” she teased, kissing the tip of your nose. “Tempting me like this.”

A soft giggle bubbled from your lips, and Agatha’s heart clenched at the joy in your eyes. She had never expected this- never expected you, this love that consumed her so entirely. But she had you. And she was never letting go. She kissed you one last time, slow, lingering, claiming before finally pulling away.

“Come on, baby. Let’s get you dressed. We’ve got the Emmy’s to prepare for.”

You huffed dramatically but let her pull you up into her arms. “Fine,” you relented, letting her tuck you against her side. “But only if you help me pick my dress.”

Agatha smirked, her hand possessively gripping your hip. “Oh, baby. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Then your phone buzzed.

You groaned, burying your face in Agatha’s shoulder. “Nooo, I don’t want to deal with real life yet.”

Agatha chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You better answer it, baby,” she murmured, her voice laced with amusement.

You sighed dramatically, reaching over to grab your phone. ‘Jen – Publicist Extraordinaire’ was flashing across the screen.

“Ugh,” you muttered before answering. “Hey, Jen.”

“Hey, Jen?!” her voice rang through the speaker, already at a full ten. “You were just planning to let me find out from the damn press, huh?”

You frowned. “Uh… what?”

“Oh, don’t ‘what’ me, Y/N.” You could practically hear her pacing. “I just got a confirmation for the Emmys for a seating change request. From Agatha Harkness’ team. Agatha Harkness’ team, Y/N. Do you see where I might have some questions?!”

You winced, shooting a glance at Agatha, who was smirking like the menace she was. “Okay, okay, chill- Agatha just wanted me to sit next to her after we make our red carpet debut as a couple…”

“CHILL?!” Jen screeched. “Y/N, are you about to debut your relationship with one of Hollywood’s most powerful directors on the Emmy’s red carpet, and you didn’t think to tell me?!”

You bit your lip, shrinking slightly under the intensity of her voice. “…Maybe?”

“OH MY-”

Agatha cackled.

You shot her a glare, but she just pulled you closer, whispering, “She sounds fun when she’s panicking.”

You smacked her arm lightly before turning back to your phone. “Okay, look, Jen, we literally just decided, like, last night-”

“Last night and you still didn’t think to call me?!”

“Jen…”

“I’m your publicist, Y/N! This is my job!”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. But, yes, the Emmys will be our couple debut, and we’re handling it on our terms.”

Jen was silent for a moment. Then, in a much calmer, scarier, voice, she said, “And when, exactly, were you planning to tell me?”

“…Now?”

Another long pause.

Then, a deep sigh. “I need a drink.”

Agatha grinned. “Tell her to come over. I’ll pour her one.”

You gave her an exasperated look before turning back to your phone. “Jen, breathe. It’s going to be fine.”

“Fine?!” Jen hissed. “Y/N, you’re dating Agatha Harkness. You’re making your relationship debut at the Emmys. You are officially about to be the most talked-about actress in Hollywood.” Another pause. “So, no. I will not be breathing until we have a plan.”

You sighed. “So… you’re coming over?”

“Oh, I’m already in the car.”

You blinked. “Wait—”

The call ended.

You stared at your phone in horror. “Oh my god, she’s already coming over.”

Agatha hummed, smirking as lifted her arms above her head, stretching. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

You groaned as Agatha pulled you back into her arms, pressing a teasing kiss to your jaw. “Mmm. You’re adorable when you’re stressed, baby.”

“You’re evil.”

She grinned. “You love it.”

~

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the soft white fabric of your white lace milkmaid dress. The delicate lace trim and cinched waist made you look softer, ethereal, but the high slit that exposed the smooth line of your leg? That was downright dangerous. Agatha was going to lose her mind. You barely had time to admire yourself before you felt her behind you- her presence, her heat, the way her hands slowly ghosted up your thighs, stopping just short of slipping beneath the fabric.

“Baby,” she murmured, her voice already thick with desire.

You smirked at her reflection. “Yes, my love?”

Agatha groaned, her grip tightening. “You planned this,” she accused, dragging her nails lightly over your hip. “You know what this dress does to me.”

You giggled, tilting your head back against her. “I just wanted to look pretty for you.”

Agatha growled. “Oh, you look pretty, alright.” Her fingers traced up the edge of your slit, stopping just shy of slipping between your legs. “Too pretty. I should cancel everything and spend the rest of the day ruining you.”

Your breath hitched. And then… a knock at the front door. Agatha froze. Her head snapped toward the bedroom doorway like she was seconds away from murder. You bit your lip, trying, and failing, to suppress a giggle.

“Fucking Jennifer,” Agatha muttered under her breath, her fingers twitching against your skin. “Always ruining my fun.”

Another knock, this time sharper, more annoyed.

You giggled, turning in Agatha’s arms. “You knew this was coming.”

Agatha huffed. “I hate that I did.”

Still, she allowed you to pull away to open the door for Jen, though not before she gripped your chin, kissing you hard, as if to make sure you felt her frustration. You definitely did.

Jen walked in like she owned the place, gold jewelry catching the light, pink suit sharp enough to kill. And yet, even she faltered for a second, eyes flicking up toward the insane vaulted ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the infinity pool, the sleek, modern decor that screamed excessive Hollywood wealth.

She pursed her lips. “I hate that this is nice.”

You grinned. “Good to see you too, Jen.”

Her gaze snapped to you, and she threw her hands up. “Oh, don’t ‘good to see you’ me, you menace.” She gestured wildly between you and Agatha. “I should fire you as a client just for the stress you’ve caused me in the last four hours-”

“Hmm. Unfortunate,” Agatha cut in smoothly, swirling the whiskey she had definitely poured just to be a menace. “Though I could just let you use mine. Publicists are very replaceable.”

Jen turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Oh. Right. You.”

Agatha smirked, unbothered, as she leaned against the marble island, looking obnoxiously powerful and expensive in her black suit. “Me.”

You sighed. “Okay, let’s just play nice. Please?”

Jen crossed her arms. “I’ll tolerate her.”

Agatha grinned. “And I'll pretend she’s useful.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

Jen sighed dramatically, flopping onto a stool. “Whatever. Let’s just talk about this PR nightmare before the press eats you alive.”

Agatha raised a brow. “I wouldn’t call it a nightmare.”

Jen rolled her eyes. “Yes well, you wouldn’t. You’re Agatha Harkness: people think you drink the blood of failing directors to stay at the top.”

Agatha smirked. “Flattering.”

Jen pointed at you. “But you? You’re Hollywood’s new golden girl. You have a career to protect. We can’t just-” She gestured wildly at the two of you. “-throw this at the wolves without a plan.”

You hesitated, then quietly responded, “We do have a plan.”

Jen squinted. “Oh, do you?”

You shifted, suddenly nervous. “We’re… gonna go to the Emmys together.”

Silence. Jen blinked. Once. Twice. She stared at you, dumbfounded, hands planted firmly on the counter like she was physically restraining herself from committing violence.

You swallowed, fidgeting with the lace hem of your dress. “I-” you started.

Jen held up a finger. “No, no. I need a minute.” She turned dramatically, taking a slow sip of the iced coffee she had definitely just helped herself to from Agatha’s $2,000 espresso machine.

Agatha watched her with the patience of a goddess entertaining a mortal’s tantrum.

Finally, Jen turned back, exhaling sharply. “Okay. Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that in three days, you two plan to step onto the Emmys red carpet, holding hands, all loved up, and just drop the biggest Hollywood relationship bombshell in years without any real consideration of the press fallout or even a plan as to what you’re going to answer when interviewers inevitably try and get the story?”

You hesitated. “…Yes?”

Jen pointed at Agatha. “See, for her, that’s fine.” Then her eyes snapped to you, sharp and deadly. “You, on the other hand? You’re not untouchable.”

Your stomach tightened. “…What do you mean?”

Jen sighed, rubbing her temples. “I mean, baby, you’re a rising star. You’re the ingenue. The fresh new face of Hollywood. You’ve done, what? Five movies? You’ve got directors dying to cast you in their next big romantic drama, their next Oscar-bait performance.”

You nodded, unsure where she was going with this.

Jen leaned forward. “But now? Now you’re the actress that fucked her director.”

You visibly flinched.

Agatha’s eyes flashed. “Watch your tone.”

Jen didn’t even blink. “Oh, please, Agatha. I’m doing my job.” She turned back to you, expression softer but still serious. “Look, I love you, and you know I support you, but this isn’t just any relationship reveal. You’re young. You’re beautiful. You’re supposed to be the dream girl for millions of people. But now? You might lose that.”

You shifted uncomfortably. “…Because I’m gay?”

Jen sighed. “Partly. You know how this industry can be.”

You did.

She continued, “But also because of optics. The media loves a scandal, babe. And you? You’ve got one gift-wrapped for them.” She counted on her fingers. “You fell in love with your older, more powerful director. You were working under her-”

Agatha grinned. “In many ways.”

Jen pointedly ignored her. “- and now, boom, you’re in a relationship. You know what people are going to say.”

Your throat felt tight. “…What?”

Jen gave you a knowing look. “That you slept your way to the top.”

The words hit you like a slap in the face. You inhaled sharply, fingers gripping the counter.

“They’ll say your career isn’t real,” Jen continued, relentless. “That you only got The Witch because you were fucking her.”

Agatha’s energy shifted. Suddenly, she wasn’t just calmly observing. She was dangerous. She set her whiskey glass down slowly, fingers tapping once, twice, against the crystal. “Anyone who implies that she didn’t earn her place in this industry with her talent,” she said, voice low, “is going to find themselves blacklisted so fast their heads will spin.”

You swallowed, trying to fight the panic creeping up your spine. “But they will say it,” you whispered.

Jen softened, sighing. “Yeah, babe. They will.”

You felt Agatha’s hand on your back, warm and grounding, but for the first time, you wondered if you’d really thought this through. Your chest feels tight, your heart pounded, but not in the way it did when Agatha touched you. This was different. This was fear, cold and sharp, clawing up your throat. You stared at Jen, her words echoing in your skull. You’d worked so hard. You’d given everything to your career. Every audition, every night spent memorizing scripts, every sacrifice- all of it had led you here. And now… now people would say you hadn’t earned it at all. That you’d just… slept your way here. Your stomach turned.

Jen sighed. “Babe, look, I’m not saying this to scare you, but-”

“I know what you’re saying,” you choked out.

Agatha’s grip on your waist tightened. Her fingers pressed against your ribs, grounding, protective, but it didn’t stop the thoughts spiraling in your head.

Your voice wobbled. “What if people stop taking me seriously?”

Agatha stilled. You barely noticed. You were too busy spiraling.

“What if no one hires me again?” you whispered, voice trembling. “What if they think I’m just some dumb girl who got lucky because I- because I-”

Your throat closed up. You couldn’t even say it. Because I slept with her. Because I wasn’t good enough on my own. Jen opened her mouth, but Agatha beat her to it.

“If anyone, and I mean anyone, dares to say you don’t deserve every single success you have worked for, I will personally make sure they never work in this town again.”

Her voice was dangerous. Her fingers dug into your hip, her body coiled like a beast ready to strike. Agatha wasn’t just angry. She was furious. Her eyes, normally a deep, sharp blue, were nearly black.

Jen actually flinched. “Jesus,” she muttered, taking a step back. “Didn’t realize we were about to summon demons.”

You felt sick. Tears burned at the back of your eyes. You hated this. You hated that this was how your love was going to be twisted. You buried your face in your hands. “I just…I just wanted-”

Agatha moved. Before you could even process it, she was pulling you against her, hands firm but gentle as she wrapped you in her arms.

“Enough,” she said, voice lower now, calmer, but still burning with restrained rage.

You tensed, still shaking, but she wouldn’t let you go. She kissed the side of your head, voice softening just for you. “You know what you’re worth,” she murmured. “And I know it. That’s all that matters.”

You wanted to believe her. But right now, you just wanted to hide. Everything was too much. The walls felt like they were closing in, the air in your lungs too thin, your skin too tight. It wasn’t just Jen’s words anymore. It was your own mind, amplifying them, twisting them, turning every whispered fear into a fact.

Jen was right, Agatha would be fine. She was a titan of the industry, a force no scandal could topple. You’d seen how people spoke about her, how she could ruin careers with a flick of her wrist if she wanted to. But you?

You weren’t Agatha Harkness.

You were twenty-six. You were up for your first Oscar. You had worked your ass off to be here, and now… what if they thought you’d just fucked your way to the top?

What if they dismissed you as a talentless pretty thing Agatha had taken to bed? What if this ruined you?

Your vision blurred. Your breath came too fast. You felt like you were falling. And then-

“Baby. Look at me.” Agatha’s voice cut through the panic like a blade. Sharp. Commanding. Unshakable.

Your body reacted before your brain did. Your head snapped up, your teary eyes meeting hers. She was still holding you, her arms wrapped tight around you, keeping you from breaking apart. Her face was serious. Eyes dark. Steady. Certain.

“Breathe,” she ordered.

You tried.

You failed.

Your whole body was shaking. Your throat closed up. The panic rushed back in-

“I said, breathe.”

Her hands moved, sliding up to cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, grounding, claiming. You gulped in a ragged breath.

“That’s it,” she murmured, softer now. “Again.”

You did. The panic didn’t leave, but it slowed. Just a little. Just enough for Agatha to take over. She pulled you closer, tucking you against her, her hand resting firmly at the nape of your neck.

Then, she turned her gaze to Jen. And Jen, who up until now, had been watching with wide eyes, for the first time looking genuinely concerned, visibly straightened.

Agatha’s voice was low. Deadly. “We’re done with this conversation.”

Jen’s lips parted. “But-”

Agatha cut her off. “You’ve given us the information. We don’t need anything else right now.”

Her fingers threaded through your hair. You clung to her, face still buried in her chest, body exhausted from the emotional wreckage the day had brought.

Jen hesitated. Then, after a long beat, she exhaled. “Alright,” she said, more gently now. “We’ll talk later.”

You didn’t see her leave. You only felt Agatha shift, felt her strong arms lift you effortlessly, carrying you as if you were weightless. She murmured soft reassurances into your hair. You barely registered where she was taking you, only that she was there. Solid. Safe. Yours.

Agatha was terrified. And furious. Not at you. Never at you. At them. At Jen. At every single person who had put these thoughts in your head, made you believe, even for a second, that you were anything but extraordinary. She held you tight against her, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist. But you weren’t responding. You were here, but you weren’t. Your eyes were glassy, your breath shallow, your body limp. It was wrong.

“Baby,” she whispered. “I need you to hear me.”

You barely blinked. Agatha’s heart clenched. She was a fixer. A force of nature. She could bend Hollywood to her will. She could destroy anyone who spoke against her. But she couldn’t fix this if you wouldn’t let her in.

So she moved. She carried you to the bedroom, her grip unrelenting, as if letting you go would make you disappear. She laid you down gently, as if you might break. Then she climbed in beside you, pressing herself flush against you, one arm snaking around your waist, pulling you in, holding you down, keeping you safe. Her lips brushed your temple. Your cheek. Your jaw.

Nothing.

Her fingers traced slow, warm patterns over your hip, slipping beneath the fabric of the soft dress hugging your body, touching skin.

Nothing.

She kissed the corner of your mouth, her voice low, desperate. “Come back to me, sweetheart.”

A shudder ran through you. Just barely. But she felt it. And she pounced on it. “That’s it, my love,” she murmured, moving closer, tangling your legs together, her lips at your ear. “I’m right here. I have you.”

Another tremor.

Her hand tightened on your hip. “That’s my good girl,” she praised, voice like smoke and velvet. “Come back to me, my love.”

A whimper. Her name on your lips, small and broken. But it was something. And it was enough. She didn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop. She kissed you, deep and possessive, her hands sliding up your body, touching, claiming, grounding you back to her. And finally you kissed her back. A choked sob against her mouth, hands fisting in her shirt, pulling her closer. Your breath was still shaky, but your body was alive again, melting into her, letting her take all of you.

Your kiss was desperate. Messy. A little broken. And Agatha ate it up like she was starving. Because she was. She had momentarily lost you to your own thoughts, to their cruel words, to the ugly, rotting lies that tried to take what was hers. She wouldn’t let that happen. She kissed you harder, deeper, her hands claiming, possessing, grounding you back to her. Her grip on your hip tightened, her nails digging in just enough to make you gasp against her mouth.

“There she is,” she murmured, voice like gravel and silk.

Her mouth moved down, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, your throat, sinking her teeth in, marking you. A whine escaped you. Your body arched. And finally, finally, you were fully here again. Agatha could feel it. You were trembling, pressing into her, needing her, clinging to her as if she was the only thing keeping you from floating away. And maybe she was.

“You’re mine,” she growled against your skin, her thigh pressing firmly between yours.

A gasp. A moan. Her fingers trailed up your body, pushing your dress off your shoulders, baring more of what belonged to her.

“No one gets to say who you are,” she hissed, her lips brushing your pulse point. “No one gets to define you.”

Her hand wrapped around your throat, not tight, just enough to feel your pulse, to own it.

“You’re not some scandal,” she continued, her voice dark. “You’re not some tabloid headline.”

Her grip tightened.

“You’re mine.”

Your whimper was pathetic. Perfect. She groaned, pulling back just enough to look at you, to see you, eyes wild and hungry.

And fuck you were so beautiful like this. Flushed. Breathless. Hers. The fear was gone now. The doubt was replaced with need. And Agatha would give you exactly what you needed. She always did.

~

The next day Agatha noticed it immediately. The quiet. It wasn’t that you were silent, but there was something off about the way you moved. The way you held yourself. She could see the tension in your shoulders, the way your eyes flickered to the window but never truly focused. You hadn’t been like this before. Her brow furrowed as she watched you from the doorway of her office. She’d been trying to focus on her work, but her eyes were drawn to you every few minutes. She was used to you being her steady presence, her girl who smiled back at her no matter what. But today? You seemed distant, withdrawn.

“Baby?” Agatha’s voice was gentle but firm. She hated seeing you like this. Her usual dominance was still present, but there was something more in the way she called your name, something that softened just a little.

You didn’t look up at her immediately. The silence stretched on, and she stepped into the room, her heels clicking on the floor as she crossed the space between you. When she reached you, her hands gently cupped your face, guiding you to meet her gaze. You looked so small, so fragile.

“Talk to me,” she murmured, her voice steady but thick with concern. She wasn’t used to seeing you so vulnerable, and it made something twist uncomfortably in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the instinct to fix things or the deeper fear of losing you.

You tried to shake the thoughts from your head. Tried to pretend that Jen’s words hadn’t sunk their claws into you, whispering insidious doubts that refused to let go.You swallowed, lips trembling slightly. You knew she could read you, but you tried anyway to avoid meeting her eyes.

“I… I’m just… I’m just worried, Agatha,” you whispered. “What if I’m not worth it? What if they’re right, what if all of this- it’s just too much? I don’t want to drag you down…”

Agatha’s heart clenched in a way she hadn’t expected. She thought she’d done everything to assure you, but clearly, the doubts still lingered. Still, she remained composed, her thumb brushing over your cheek.

“No.” The word was sharp, cutting through your thoughts. “You will always be worth it. You’re worth everything.”

You tried to pull away from her touch, but she wouldn’t let you. Her grip on your face tightened, firm but tender. “I built this empire, baby. I own this town. But what scares me the most? Losing you. Letting anyone convince you that you're not worthy, that you're anything less than perfect. I won’t allow it. You got here because you’re brilliant. You got here because you are one of the most talented actresses I’ve ever seen. You got here because when you step in front of a camera, people can’t look away”

Her eyes bore into yours, fierce, full of a possessive fire. “I love you, and I will not let you doubt us or yourself. Ever.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Her words, the rawness of her emotion, struck you harder than you could have expected.

“But…” Your voice wavered. “Jen- she said-”

“Forget Jen.” Agatha’s voice was dark, and for a moment, the fire in her eyes matched the intensity of her words. “She doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know us. She doesn’t get to tell me what’s mine.” She pulled you closer, her chest pressing against yours, her lips brushing against your ear. “You think this world, this city, could ever take you from me?” Her laugh was low, dark. “I’m a fucking force, babygirl. And no one is taking you from me.”

You felt your heartbeat in your throat. You had to look away, because Agatha’s gaze was too much to bear, the weight of her emotions, her devotion, overwhelming in the best way.

“Baby,” Agatha whispered, her hands running down your back, warm and soothing now, as if to melt the anxiety she’d just heated up in you. “You’re mine. You’re the one I want. And nothing will change that. Not the press. Not anyone or anything. And I’ll remind you every damn day just how much I love you”

You nodded, your tears finally falling, but this time, they felt like relief. You buried yourself in her, feeling the strength of her embrace.

Agatha’s eyes softened, but only slightly. “If anyone dares to suggest anything different, they will never work in this town again. I will burn their pathetic little careers to the ground before they can even type out their first shitty tweet about you.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You can’t control everyone, Aggie.”

Her lips curled into a dark smile. “Oh, sweetheart.” She leaned in, her breath warm against your lips. “Watch me.”

[baekhyunsbestie]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 🎃 do you like scary movies? 🔪 .𖥔 ݁ ˖

a lil disclaimer before you dive in: this goes pretty dark. we’re talking obsession, stalking, breaking and entering, some seriously pervy vibes, and even murder. i just want to say that i absolutely do not condone any of this behavior in real life— this is all purely fictional and should stay that way, okay? if this typa story isn't your vibe, no worries!!!!! protect your peace and scroll on. take care of yourselves😚💞‼️

 ੈ✩‧₊ content: 18+/MDNI. 5.3k+ words. smut, language, baekhyun x f!reader--baekhyun is a psychologist and reader is a bakery owner, no ages specified, but i was thinking mid-late twenties!! they're also next-door neighbors 🙂‍↕️ hehe

baekhyun sits on the edge of his desk in his dimly lit home office, the dissertation on his computer screen long forgotten. his eyes drift to the sheer curtains, gently moving with the breeze from his open window. hours pass quietly, and his patience grows thin, stretched to its limit. hidden behind the ghostface mask, his deep brown eyes stay locked on you, his alluring neighbor next door.

outside, the world blurs into the background as he tunes out the laughter of the children in your care, his gaze completely captured by your captivating presence. earlier, he had seen the parents wave goodbye, their silly costumes hinting at a halloween party awaiting them. it was no surprise they chose you to babysit tonight; you were the life of the party, casting a spell on the kids in a way that even sabrina spellman would envy.

every movement of yours is etched into the chaotic corners of his mind. you embody perfection as you effortlessly play dress-up with the kids, sharing sweet treats and settling in for another tim burton film. that beautiful smile adorns your lips—a smile that, while it doesn’t quite reach your eyes, is enough. enough to delight the children, enough to maintain appearances. but baekhyun sees beyond the surface; he can read the subtle nuances that betray your true feelings. he knows that if these were your children—his and yours—you would shine with a warmth and devotion that’s unmistakable. the mere thought triggers a fire within him, sending a rush of desire coursing through his veins, and a low groan escapes his lips. but how could he ever convince you to have his kids when you don’t see him that way?

he knows he needs a plan—a way to draw you in and make you see the real him. in his mind, he's a catch, someone truly special. he tells himself he's a good guy, a smart one, too, with a promising career as a psychologist and a hefty retirement plan waiting for him. he believes he’s perfect for you, convinced that he could take care of you in ways no one else could. little does he realize, he’s always watching from the shadows, convinced that his intentions are pure, even as his obsession grows deeper.

and after all, he knows so much about you. he’s aware that you’ve recently moved here from a few towns over, stepping into a new life as a single woman with no kids. he would never forget seeing you for the first time. it was a sunny spring day, the weather was perfect, the moving truck parked in the drive way out front, while watching your family and friends help unload and organize the furniture in your new house. 

you’ve opened a small, cozy bakery, every pastry crafted with love and care. the warm, inviting space reflects your personality—painted in shades of your favorite color. scattered horror movie posters, especially scream, show your love for slasher films.

from his office window, he watches. he can see straight into your living room, where your tv bathes the room in a soft light. you’re always lounging on the couch in those tiny shorts that make his mind race. weekends are your time, dedicated to marathons of horror films, with scream playing over and over, clearly your favorite.

you’re all alone in that big house, and he can’t shake the feeling that you need him. he’d be the missing puzzle piece—fitting you perfectly. he imagines himself slipping into your life, the one who helps you at the bakery and shares your love for horror. he envisions nights where your screams of pleasure would align perfectly with the shrieks on the screen as he brings you to your climax, down on his knees before you, his head between your legs. 

baekhyun fondly recalls the day, just after your move-in, when the mailman mistakenly dropped your letters into his mailbox. a wicked grin spread on his face at the memory; finally, he could introduce himself. after thirty minutes of rehearsing his lines in front of the mirror, he stands at your door, donning his friendliest smile, excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. 

when the door swings open, he’s struck breathless by your presence—so devastatingly beautiful, you. he notices the broom in your hand, hinting that you’ve been tidying up. you wore denim overalls over a simple tank top. your hair is swept up in a claw clip, with a few loose strands gently framing your face. sweat glistens on your forehead, clinging to the sides of your cheeks, accentuating your expression of confusion.

“oh. um, hi? can i help you?” you ask politely, a hint of an awkward smile gracing your lips.

baekhyun snaps out of his daze, realizing he’s been standing there in silence. he clears his throat, shaking off the momentary haze before speaking, “hi, i’m your next-door neighbor, baekhyun. welcome to the neighborhood. um, i believe this is yours; it was in my mailbox.” he offers you the mail, his nervousness evident in his slightly trembling hands.

you invite him inside for a glass of lemonade, gratitude dancing in your eyes as you thank him for the mix-up. with a playful tone, you mention how you’re still getting used to the kindness of people in smaller towns. as you lead him to the kitchen, you apologize for the clutter of boxes and bubble wrap scattered around. he takes a seat at the table, casually glancing around while you fetch the drinks. his eyes wander to the living room bookshelf, where a few self-help books catch his attention. baekhyun, not missing a beat, shares that he’s a psychologist, mainly focusing on writing dissertations to bring fresh perspectives to cognitive psychology. you find his work captivating—so much so that you tell him, with genuine admiration, that people like him make the world a better place.

oh, if only you knew.

as you talk, you weave together the threads of your life—how you left everything behind after a painful breakup with the man you once believed would be you’d grow old and gray with. the memory stings, recalling how he would betray your trust with your best friend while you were away on business trips. you share how that heartbreak changed everything, ultimately guiding you to this charming old house that now feels like home. 

you explain how you quit your old job, a role that never truly fulfilled you. then, your eyes light up as you reveal your childhood dream of opening a bakery—a dream you’re finally chasing. you’ve even signed the lease for a cute little space right in the heart of downtown, a step closer to making that dream a reality. 

unbeknownst to you, as you sit beneath the soft glow of your kitchen light, baekhyun feels an overwhelming wave of desire wash over him. he’s rock hard beneath the kitchen table, ever since you opened the door and welcoming him in. he’s utterly entranced by the way your hands unconsciously glide over your bare thigh as you speak, igniting a fire within him. the light in your eyes sparkles with passion, your voice a melodic cadence as you share your visions for your bakery—the delicate pastries and savory sandwiches that will soon fill your charming shop. it’s all too much for him; you seem perfect—too perfect for this world.

then, as you lick the last drop of lemonade from the rim of your glass, the sinful thought of those same lips and tongue and how they’d feel on his aching dick pushes him to reach his climax. a shudder runs through him, and he bites back a groan, hiding it behind an exaggerated yawn. he blames it on the sleepless nights spent in research. thankful for the baggy black sweats he wears, he quickly excuses himself, a rush of embarrassment flooding his cheeks as he retreats, relieved that the fabric conceals the mess he’s made underneath.

after that, the interactions blend into casual small talk and fleeting waves of hellos and goodbyes, leaving him longing for more of those stolen moments with you.

he remembers spending hours diving into your social media after your first meeting, each scroll revealing new pieces of your story. in just a few hours, he learned so much about you. he knows your favorite foods, cocktails, and music, and he can name all the concerts and festivals you’ve attended, along with the places, dates, and people you went with. he’s familiar with all the vacations you’ve taken and the hobbies that make you smile. every like and dislike, every old post of you and your ex-boyfriend, painted a picture of who you are—one that captivated him completely.

thoughts of that past lover linger like shadows in his mind, the one you left behind in search of solace. the idea that someone could wound you so deeply, sending you fleeing to a new town, sets off a fierce rage within him. he clenches his fist around the knife resting against his thigh, its cold steel spinning slowly between his fingers, a dark reminder of the lengths he might go to. 

he could kill him. both of them—your douchebag ex and slut of a best friend. the thought excited him, a twisted thrill coursing through his veins. he imagined taking his time, savoring every moment as their lives faded away. a laugh might escape him as he’d watch the light leave their eyes, knowing he was doing it all for you—the love of his life. just the thought of your smile and the melody of your laughter quickened his heartbeat. he would go to any lengths to ensure your happiness, willing to pay any price to keep you safe. all you’d have to do is say the word.

just then, snapping out of his thoughts, the parents return, their footsteps echoing on the driveway before a knock sounds at the door. the children, who’ve been squealing with laughter all night, race to the entryway, eager to greet their parents, still decked out in their poorly chosen costumes. and finally—finally—they shuffle out one by one, leaving the house to fall into a peaceful, almost eerie silence, with only you left to occupy the night. 

this is it. the moment has arrived, the one he’s been anticipating all night.

baekhyun fished a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, the hastily scrawled digits smudged and jumbled—a chaotic reflection of his flustered thoughts. these were the personal details he had picked up while lounging on his porch, book in hand and coffee in the other, absorbed in the quiet of the morning. he could still hear the rhythm of your breath from your daily jog as you approached your house, your voice lilting with familiarity as you chatted on your phone, casually reciting your number to the person on the other end. with a decisive flick of his wrist, he pulled out his phone, his fingers dancing across the screen with a fluidity born from habit, dialing your number with a sense of anticipation thrumming in his chest.

his gaze remained locked on the window, watching intently as you casually tossed a bag of popcorn into the microwave, the scent of buttery goodness soon filling the air. you moved effortlessly, rifling through netflix’s horror category, your face illuminated by the screen's eerie glow. the flickering light danced across your features, highlighting your concentration as you searched for the perfect scare to accompany your night.

his anticipation tightens the air, but you don’t even glance at your phone when it buzzes. the silence on your end feels louder than it should, and baekhyun’s jaw clenches. a low, guttural frustration threatens to escape his throat, his grip on the knife at his side growing dangerously tense. he draws in a deep breath, the cool metal pressing against his palm. stay calm, he tells himself. his pulse thrums in his ears as he gives you one more chance.

the microwave chimes, a cheerful reminder that your popcorn is ready. you open the door, the warm, buttery aroma spilling out like a cozy embrace, wrapping around you as you pour the fluffy kernels into a bowl. your gaze shifts to the phone screen—an unknown number flashes, irritation simmering just beneath the surface. "oh, fuck me," you mutter under your breath, barely loud enough to be heard. one of the kids must have left a toy behind again, refusing to sleep without it. you sigh at the thought, exasperation bubbling up as you reach for the phone, its persistent ringing cutting through the quiet.

"hello?" you answer, forcing a brighter tone, only to be met with silence—except for the faint, unsettling sound of heavy breathing on the other end. you have no idea that the caller is watching you through his window, eyes locked on your every move, his breath ragged as his hand strokes himself, utterly fixated on the sight of you.

you don’t let them get a word in. “go bother someone else, you freak,” you snap, cutting them off as you toss your phone onto the kitchen island with a frustrated clatter. leaning over the counter, you absentmindedly crunch popcorn between your teeth, your thoughts drifting. after hours of looking after a group of loud, sugar-fueled brats—who were mostly well-behaved—the last thing you need is some creep making prank calls.

when the phone rings again, a surge of frustration rises. you snatch it up, already preparing to unload a string of curses. but the words die on your lips the moment you hear the low, menacing voice on the other end. it snakes through the receiver, making your stomach drop. 

"you’ll be fucking sorry if ya do that again, sweetheart."

a sharp thud strikes the side of your house, the sound unsettling in the stillness of the night. your breath hitches, pulse racing. just a cat, you tell yourself, forcing down the panic that claws at your chest. you pull the phone from your ear, fingers trembling as you hover over the screen, daring yourself to hang up. you could call 911 in seconds. so fast. 

"don't test me." the voice on the other end, deep and edged with malice, seeps into your veins, freezing you in place. "or i'll have to come in there... and make you regret it." 

your throat tightens. compliance feels like your only option.

your mind is spinning with confusion, thoughts crashing into each other. are you really thinking about provoking this mystery guy, just out of curiosity? you've seen enough horror movies to know the warning: get too close, and you could end up cut to pieces the second he walks through your door.

“what do you want?” you manage to ask, your voice quivering like a fragile leaf in the wind, much to baekhyun’s delight. a smirk dances on his lips as he leans closer, tempted to retract his earlier words. the urge to break in and claim you overwhelms him, a primal instinct igniting within. the way you nervously bite your bottom lip and toy with the hem of your shirt suggests a part of you wouldn’t entirely mind if he did. he can sense it—the shiver in your breath, the heat rising in your cheeks—as if his voice alone is enchanting, stirring an undeniable desire deep within you.

the quiver in your voice sends a thrill through him, a captivating note of fear he savors like fine wine. “no need to be frightened, princess. don’t let those tears spill just yet,” baekhyun teases, his gaze piercing and calculating as he studies your every reaction. “just follow my lead, and i promise, nothing terrible will happen to you.” 

before you can form the words to question his intentions, he leans closer, a predatory glint in his eyes. “now, i want you to put on a little show for me. undress.” 

the thought of performing a sultry striptease for a mysterious, menacing stranger sends a thrilling jolt through you, awakening a passionate fire deep within. yet, it’s the image of your nosy neighbors catching even the slightest glimpse of the entire spectacle that truly makes your heart race, heat pooling low in your core. especially your irresistibly handsome psychologist neighbor—the one who sent your heart into a flurry the day he delivered your mail. the one who makes you blush every time you exchange a casual wave while jogging through the neighborhood, your pulse quickening at the mere sight of him. the one who occupies your thoughts late at night, a persistent whisper in your mind as you find yourself lost in fantasies, touching yourself in the shower, on the bed, and even on the couch. 

baekhyun, oblivious to this electric twist of your fantasy, doesn’t realize he wouldn’t need to intimidate you to stir this desire. just the thought of it has you growing increasingly wet, a delicious tension building with every pulse of anticipation. with a breathless flutter in your chest, you pull the phone away from your face, switching it to speaker mode to free your hands, your mind swirling with the provocative images dancing just beneath the surface.

“if you hang up on me again, i’m coming in, baby,” baekhyun purred, a playful smirk dancing on his lips as his gaze roamed hungrily over you. your heart raced as you slowly grabbed the bottom of your shirt and puling it over your head, revealing the smooth skin beneath, the absence of a bra heightening the tension in the air. the soft fabric slipped from your fingers, pooling on the hardwood floor like a forgotten memory.

“that’s right, angel. show me how soft those beautiful tits are,” you eagerly comply with his instructions, surrendering to the bewitching demands of the distorted voice on the line. your fingers find the hardened buds, pinching and teasing them, drawing out a moan that escapes your lips like a whispered secret. every touch is a spark of pleasure, a sweet indulgence for the faceless stranger lurking at the other end of the call.

baekhyun hums, the sound low and approving, sending a shiver straight through you. your mind races, painting vivid scenes of him pleasuring himself, every motion playing out in your head. "are you getting wet?" he asks, his voice thick with confidence and desire, completely unashamed.

“mhm,” you moan, the sound spilling from your mouth before you even realize it, your fingers swirling around the sensitive buds, lost in a haze of pleasure and anticipation.

“show me.” his voice drips with urgency, each demand more fervent than the last. your breaths come in shallow gasps, the heat of the moment thickening the air around you. you can almost envision him behind the glass, furiously pleasuring himself, absorbed by your every movement. a pang of desire surges within you as you long for him to emerge from the shadows, to reveal the beautiful mess he’s making of himself—flesh against flesh, desire laid bare.

“what's on your mind, princess?” baekhyun’s voice pierces the intoxicating silence, and you realize you’ve been lost in your thoughts, eyes tightly shut against the overwhelming sensation coursing through you. you feel a tingle ripple across your body, heat blooming in various spots as you instinctively begin to explore the terrain of your own desire, your fingers tracing the curves and dips that make you ache for him even more.

"how i love being bossed around like this." the words slip from your lips, dripping with a shameless allure, and the thrill of your own audacity leaves you breathless, too intoxicated to feel regret. a lush moan escapes as your fingers wander, seeking the neglected warmth between your legs, the rough fabric of your denim teasingly obstructing your touch. 

baekhyun’s eyes widen, a quiet laugh almost slipping out at how bold you’ve become. aren’t you an easy little thing? how fast did he get this unfiltered side of you to show—five, maybe six minutes? you moan softly in his ear as you find the perfect angle to touch yourself, waves of pleasure rippling through you. “oh, god,” you gasp, your voice shaky and soft. his breathing picks up, more frantic now, as he watches your every move.

“show me,” he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing whisper that cuts through the stillness of the night. “spread your legs in front of the window, let me watch you.” 

to his surprise, your anticipation matches his own. you lean back, pressing your spine against the side of the couch, ensuring your silhouette is perfectly framed for his hungry gaze. 

he watches closely, his breath catching as you slip out of your shorts, the fabric gliding down your legs. you obey his command eagerly, spreading your legs the moment you're free, revealing yourself to him. the air feels electric, every move adding to the tension between you, pulling him in like a magnetic force of pure desire.

baekhyun’s tongue glides over his lips, drawn to the enticing glimmer that dances on your most intimate folds. “touch yourself,” he commands, urging you to imitate him. you find yourself in the cozy confines of your living room, curtains drawn wide open, exposing you to the well-lit street where the remnants of the halloween night linger. it's well past midnight; the trick-or-treaters have long retreated to their homes. the thought of being caught sends a thrill through both your bodies, a delicious shiver that only heightens the atmosphere.

your fingers glide over your throbbing nub, a sense of urgency building within you as you quicken your pace. baekhyun’s voice breaks through the haze, showering you with praise that excites your desire even further, pushing you to explore your body with passion under his lustful gaze.

“that’s right, baby,” baekhyun murmurs, his voice a sultry whisper that sparks a flame deep within you, sending shivers straight to your throbbing core. his pet names wrap around you like a velvet ribbon and you can’t get enough of it. “ya look so sexy, playing with your pretty pussy for me, princess. she’s drenched for me—so fucking soaked, just from the sound of my voice. you’re leaking onto those floors, all for me, aren’t you?”

he huffs into the phone, the breathless sound thick with need, feeling himself teetering on the edge of bliss. baekhyun fights the urge to shut his eyes, longing to immerse himself in the sensations you’re creating, but he can’t bear to miss a single moment of your tantalizing display. instead, he leans into his words, weaving a web of longing to stave off the impending climax, each syllable dripping with desire.

you’re caught in a fit of sobs and whimpers, completely unable to rein in your emotions. unconsciously, you part your legs as wide as they can go, igniting a delicious burn in your thighs that only heightens your desperation. “you don’t feel embarrassed? hah. playing with yourself like this for a stranger?” his words, juvenile and taunting, only fuel your growing need. you swallow back a sharp retort, wary of the consequences of your attitude. instead, your fingers continue their relentless assault on your clit, a forbidden pleasure that leaves you breathless and craving more.

“i-i wouldn’t usually—hnnnghh” your words falter, swallowed by a breathy moan that escapes your lips, the rest of your sentence fading into oblivion. desire surges through you as you feel yourself teetering on the precipice of pleasure, mirroring his own urgency. in that moment, the conversation drifts away, leaving only the sweet sound of your shared, exasperated moans hanging in the air, a testament to the intoxicating connection between you. “but how could i resist? i like you telling me what to do. mmm, and i bet your real voice sounds even sexier.”

baekhyun grunts, his breath hitching as he grips himself, thumb gliding over the sensitive slit and spreading precum across the flushed tip. “don’t worry. you’ll find out soon enough, i promise,” he rasps, his voice low and rough like gravel. you can feel the urgency in his movements, hear the slick sound of his hand moving faster, and even though you haven’t seen his face, the vivid image of his throbbing cock, his eyes fixed on your trembling, bare body, consumes you. your vision fades to white, a wave of ecstasy crashing over you as you give in to the pleasure, squirting onto the window and leaving shiny streaks behind.

baekhyuns groans in your ear, his voice dripping with reckless abandon, echoing through the stillness of the night. he’s completely devoid of class, his primal instincts overpowering any sense of decorum. as he reaches his peak, he releases himself with a fervor that sends a cascade of warmth spilling across the window of his office, just as you did. 

breathless, he watches you through a haze of lust, his eyes heavy-lidded yet filled with a playful intensity. you bite your lip, a gesture that betrays your yearning for more, your body aching for repeated waves of ecstasy. is it possible you don't want this night to slip away into oblivion? 

“huh. i didn’t think i could do that,” you think outloud watching your juices slowly drip down the window.

“i bet ya could do it again. how ‘bout we use my fingers this time? if you’re a good girl maybe i’ll use my mouth, too.” he teases, a mischievous smirk dancing on his lips. you can't help but shake your head and roll your eyes at the audacity of this mystery man on your phone.

“awwww, why not?” he whines, his tone dripping with mock disappointment. “don’t ya trust me?” his teasing banter lingers in the air, crackling with unspoken desires, making you feel breathless with anticipation.

you can’t quite wrap your mind around how he can ask you a question like that, as if the two of you aren’t complete strangers. it’s as if the memory of his earlier threats has been wiped clean, leaving only the enticing edge of his voice in its place. some twisted part of you takes the reins, shoving your common sense aside. “i’ll treat ya right,” he promises, his tone smooth like velvet. 

your eyes drop, embarrassment flooding through you as you notice the wetness he's drawn out of you with nothing more than his voice. a tightness forms in your chest, the fear of feeling foolish creeping in, but your arousal only grows, pushing aside any doubt. the tingling in your clit fades, shifting into a steady, throbbing rhythm—an unspoken invitation.

baekhyun watches with a teasing spark in his eyes as your shaky legs carry you toward the front door. in no time, he’s outside, making his way to you. he hears the soft clatter of you fumbling with the lock, and when it clicks open, it feels like an unspoken invitation for him to step inside. the tension between you hums, daring him to close the gap and take control, face to face. the air crackles with the thrill of giving in, charged with a magnetic pull that’s impossible to resist.

you fling the door open, and there he is—a tall figure standing silently in a ghostface costume. your eyes trail over him in confusion, pausing when they land on his shoes. you know those sneakers. the kind hypebeasts chase after, selling for a fortune after retail. only one person on this block would own them. only one.

and you’re sure you saw him earlier today through that very window your orgasm stains, wearing those exact shoes, hauling bags of groceries into his house.

“baekhyun?” you breathe, suddenly feeling small. a flutter of butterflies coursing through your stomach as your gaze lands on his right hand, gripping his phone. your number is glaringly lit on the screen.

“trick or treat?” his voice dances like a playful tune behind the mask, a teasing reminder of the pleasure he just gave you. he slowly lifts the mask from his face, letting it rest atop his head, revealing a smile so radiant it could light up the empire state building. the smile feels oddly out of place, totally clashing with the filthy phone call you just shared—a side you'd never expect from a psychologist.

and then it hits you—you don’t truly know him. you have no idea that, when you're not around, he slips the spare key hidden under the rock in your front yard and lets himself into your home. you’re oblivious to him wandering through your space, climbing the stairs to your bedroom, rifling through your drawers, trying to piece together the mystery of who you are. he’s desperate to learn you in ways your belongings might reveal.

you’d never guess that while you’re out early in the morning, heading to the bakery before dawn, he’s inside, using that same key. one hand is wrapped fisting himself while the other clutches your worn underwear, pressed against his nose, inhaling your scent like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

you remain completely unaware of it all. as his eyes lock onto yours, heat rushes to your cheeks, creeping up the back of your neck. 

you end the call, watching his screen fade to black, the sudden silence feeling heavier than it should.

wait, when did you give him your number? 

a shiver runs down your spine, an uneasy tension settling in. you try to push it away, but the feeling lingers like a whisper in your mind, urging you to stay on guard. you shake your head, convincing yourself you’re overreacting. it’s a small town; everyone knows each other. he must have gotten your number from someone else. or did you give it to him when you first met? maybe he found it on your bakery's instagram. yup, that has to be it.

feeling a surge of reassurance, you smile back at him. “i didn’t know psychologists enjoyed dressing up for halloween and playing pranks. i always thought doctors were above that,” you tease, your heart racing as he gazes down at you, a predatory glint in his eyes, as if he’s about to destroy you in the most tempting way imaginable.

“there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replies, stepping confidently into your home and locking the door behind him. his voice is low and inviting. “why don’t i show you?”

he slides the ghostface mask back on, the sinister smile of the mask contrasting with the anticipation in the air. he steps closer, backing you into the living room, his hands slide to your waist, his thumbs drawing soft circles on your sides, sending a rush through your body. you can feel your heart pounding, the air between you buzzing with tension. you bite your lower lip, trying to hide a smile, but the excitement overflows, slipping out as a playful grin.

"you can do whatever you want with me," your voice low and dripping with promise as you guide him toward the couch. the low hum of tension crackles in the air as you straddle him, sinking onto his lap. the air is thick with tension as you settle onto his lap, straddling him. the moment your thighs meet his, you feel his hardened length pressing against your skin, lighting a surge of heat that races straight to your core. his hands glide up the smooth skin of your thighs until they reach your ass, where he cups you firmly, squeezing gently. your breath hitches, the sensation flooding you with anticipation as your body responds to the undeniable pull between you two. the sensation stirs something deep within, wetness pooling between your legs.

"but please, don’t kill me, mr. ghostface..." you whisper softly, your warm breath brushing against his neck, your lips almost touching his skin. you glide them upward, the gentle, teasing contact sending shivers of excitement between you. when you reach the curve of his ear, you linger just long enough to spark an irresistible shiver through him. “i wanna be in the sequel.”

 ੈ✩‧₊ a/n: thank u to this anon for the idea!!! i didn't think i would ever write something like this, but here we are. #neversaynever i guess. oh, and a happy halloweenie to those who celebrate!!!!! <3 what are you dressing up as? stay safe my precious babies love u lotz mwah

ଘ(੭ˊ���ˋ)੭* masterlist ° ᡣ𐭩 . 

[poisonlove]

Misunderstanding

Prompt: Amidst the glitz and glamour of the entertainment world, Y/N finds herself entangled in a web of emotions. Navigating the captivating landscape of her newfound celebrity life, her heart becomes a battleground between two captivating co-stars, Emma and Jenna. The boundaries between fiction and reality blur, leading Y/N into a maze of confusion. With Emma's vibrant charm and Jenna's enigmatic aura, Y/N grapples with a choice that could redefine not only her on-screen performances but also the very fabric of her personal bonds. Blinding lights cast shadows on her feelings, leaving Y/N torn between two captivating forces in a world where fiction collides with reality.

Wordcount: 1.9 k

Pairing: Jenna ortega x reader

Author: sorry for this shit

It's amazing how a simple pastime can turn into an extraordinary opportunity.

My world, where I enjoyed imitating movie characters in online videos, was shaken by the surprising news from Tim Burton. The master of dark cinema personally chose me for a role in the second season of Wednesday Addams. The transition from a simple pastime to a set with a professional cast, a renowned director, and a real dressing room is something I could never have imagined.

I was nervous as I watched the cast of the first season, observing me with enthusiasm and joy, new faces to see and integrate into the plot. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights, taken aback by all this unexpected attention.

"Welcome!" Hunter, a guy with puffy brown hair and a perpetual smile, extends his hand to greet me. With a small smile on my lips, I accept the greeting and chuckle with embarrassment. "Thanks," I reply with flushed cheeks, not sure why I should thank him.

"Finally! I was tired of always working with the same faces," Joy intervenes with a smile on her lips. The girl had a drink in hand and raises it to her mouth, drinking its contents. "You're always friendly, Joy," George, a guy with curly hair and sweet coffee-colored eyes, smiles at his friend with amusement. "Welcome," he adds, smiling broadly.

"Hi!" My eyes turn to the sound of the voice, and I see a girl with short brown hair and piercing blue eyes. I smile nervously, recognizing Emma Mayers: the actress was notably more beautiful in person. "You must be my new love interest," she adds, widening her lips in a beautiful smile, blue eyes looking at me attentively. "Yes..." I chuckle weakly, nervous.

I can't deny that the fact that I'm her new love interest embarrasses me: I'm not entirely sure I can pretend to flirt or kiss someone for pretend. I shudder at the mere thought. "Well, because George was a terrible experience," she says, smiling mischievously, trying to downplay the situation.

"I love you too, Em," the guy called George intervenes, rolling his eyes at her comment. The blonde laughs, and the sound of her laughter makes me shiver slightly, increasing my nervousness and causing the blood flow to stop on my cheeks. "I know," Emma sticks her tongue out at George, and he imitates the gesture.

My attention is captured by a couple talking to each other, conspiring who knows what. The guy laughs softly and puts his arm around the shoulders of the shorter girl who looks at him with a small smile on her lips. I recognize the couple as Jenna Ortega and Percy White. I had heard rumors of a possible romance between them, but I thought it was nothing more than a rumor: I knew the media always wanted to meddle in the lives of the famous, spreading gossip and causing a stir on the web with sensational news. But the way they look at each other and touch makes me feel a lump in my throat.

Percy directs his gaze at me and smiles broadly.

"Hi!" The brunette takes his arm off Jenna's shoulders and walks towards me. "Welcome, we're glad to have a new addition to the cast," he says, smiling with genuine happiness and kindness.

Jenna's eyes are fixed on me, and my body is suddenly invaded by shivers and excitement, my heart beating wildly. The series' protagonist approaches with an enormous smile on her lips, and my knees wobble at the beauty she radiates: Brown eyes, dazzling smile, dimples on her cheeks, and freckles surrounding her face.

"Welcome," Jenna smiles genuinely and wraps her arms around my neck, hugging me tenderly. I reciprocate the hug with surprise, sighing audibly at the moment I feel her perfume invade my nostrils. The scent of what seemed like vanilla made me smile timidly.

Jenna breaks the hug and smiles genuinely at me.

"Want to take a tour of the place?" Emma intervenes quickly, approaching us. Jenna looks at her co-star with curiosity and simply takes a step back, getting close to Percy, always glued to this guy. I sigh audibly and smile at the blue-eyed girl with enthusiasm, nodding. Emma smiles triumphantly and takes my wrist. "Can I join?" Hunter says eagerly, and George looks at us attentively.

"Me too," George says pouting, and Emma nods enthusiastically.

(...)

Three weeks have passed since my arrival, and despite having a great relationship with the entire cast, Jenna, Emma, and I were practically inseparable. My feelings are a whirlwind of chaos and insecurity, not knowing exactly which girl to choose. Emma, a beautiful and friendly girl who is always ready to help me when needed, or Jenna, the stunning brunette, kind, and affectionate, but suspected to be linked with Percy.

I tried talking to George and Hunter, and both advised me to make a decision before ruining the friendship between Jenna and Emma. I didn't even know if they felt the same, and the idea of choosing one of them scared me. The most selfish part of me suggested keeping both, but my heart didn't want to suffer and, above all, feel guilty.

"Hey," I divert my attention from my thoughts and unconsciously smile when I see Jenna standing near me. "Can I sit?" She asks curiously, chewing her lip nervously.

My eyes carefully watch her gesture.

"Sure," I say, taking off my sweatshirt and placing it behind my chair. Jenna adjusts herself and crosses her legs, her thigh pressing against mine. "Are you going over the scene?" She asks curiously, her eyes watching the script in my hands. Shivers run down my spine feeling the contact of her leg with mine, the warmth emanating from her body.

"Yes..." I clear my throat, and Jenna nods, smiling shyly. I immediately notice Jenna shivering from the cold, and I worry about her. "Do you want my sweatshirt?" I ask with genuine concern, and Jenna denies, pushing a strand of hair away from her face. "Sure? Are you cold" I raise an eyebrow in confusion, and Jenna sighs loudly, shivering once again. The brunette nods slowly, and smiling, I take off my sweatshirt and hand it to her. Jenna puts it on, looking incredibly adorable as it hangs loosely on her.

"Thanks." Jenna smiles genuinely and comes closer, resting her head on my shoulder. Emotion grows inside me, and I nervously smile. I look down, and I see Jenna's hand brushing against mine. Gathering courage, I grab it, intertwining our fingers. I feel Jenna's pulse racing under my touch, her arm relaxing.

"So..." Jenna says in a low voice, breaking the silence around us. "Do you have a boyfriend? Girlfriend?" She asks with curiosity, looking at my script resting on my legs. Jenna's thumb absentmindedly caresses the back of my hand, making me shiver slightly. In reality, I'm confused because I don't know if I feel something for Emma, but in simple terms, I'm not in a relationship. "No... what about you? Are you with Percy, right?" I ask with my heart in my throat, nervousness running through my body. Jenna raises her chin and looks at me with confusion.

I was afraid to hear her answer. Jenna breaks the contact between our hands.

"Percy? No... we're just friends." She says, smiling broadly, and I suddenly feel stupid and relieved at the same time. "Oh... I thought so," I say with flushed cheeks from embarrassment, and Jenna smiles, shaking her head. "I know... the internet spreads rumors," Jenna murmurs, puffing irritably, "but... Percy and I have nothing," her eyes sparkle as she looks at me. I couldn't help but get lost in her gaze, two coffee-colored puddles analyzing me carefully.

"Mmmh..." Jenna clears her throat and looks away at her hands, "have you set your eyes on someone?" She innocently asks, playing with her fingers. Someone? Actually, two, but obviously, I couldn't say that. "Maybe..." I say hesitantly, and Jenna looks at me from the corner of her eye, an involuntary smile spreading across her lips.

"You?" I ask with embarrassment, and Jenna nods, making a face. The blood boils in my veins at the thought of Jenna being in love with someone else. "Oh... who?" I ask almost in a whisper.

Jenna looks up, observing something in the distance. George, Emma, and Joy walking side by side, laughing, and saying some nonsense. I follow her gaze, and disappointment fills my body seeing that she was looking at George. The curly-haired guy laughs softly while playfully pushing Joy. Emma, on the other hand, looks at me with interest, smiling broadly, her beautiful smile printed on her lips. Involuntarily, I smile too, and Emma keeps looking at me, bright and lively eyes.

"Do you and Emma go out together?" Jenna asks quickly, her gaze suddenly becoming serious "No," I say with confusion, and Jenna continues to look at me attentively. Occasionally, I could sense the brunette putting up a barrier with the outside world, but I really wished she would show herself as she was. I wanted to get to know her and make an impression. A part of me wanted to do the same with Emma but the latter was already quite extroverted, and it was easy to read her emotions. Jenna, on the other hand, was unreadable.

"Oh..." Jenna looks at me with embarrassment, and I smile at how adorable she is. "I know who you like," I intervene, and Jenna's eyes widen, her body stiffening at my words.

"You have to tell him... you know?" I say with a bitter smile. Jenna softens her gaze and continues to look at me, her thoughts and feelings unreadable.

Him? She says spontaneously.

"I'm sure George will feel the same," I say, smiling broadly, hiding my pain, and Jenna snorts with frustration. "It's not George," she says with irritation, making me blink in surprise at her reaction.

Emma walks towards us and stops in front of me. I look up, and Jenna looks away towards the floor. "Y/n, shall we walk a bit? We need to rehearse," Emma says, smiling broadly, her eyes curiously looking at Jenna. The brunette was silent, her hand gripping the chair arm tightly noting Emma's interest. "Um... sure," I say, smiling slightly, following Emma.

Let's start walking without a specific destination, simply enjoying each other's company.

"So... I noticed there's something between you and Jenna," Emma says, smiling weakly, walking alongside me. The girl with blue eyes puts her arms behind her back, walking absentmindedly.

"What? We're just friends," I say nervously, my heart pounding wildly against my chest. "But you like her, right?" She asks with a faded smile, her blue eyes looking at me attentively. "Yes," I say, not being able to lie to her. Emma lowers her gaze and looks at the tips of her shoes. "But I also like you... I'm really confused," I continue suddenly revealing a truth I wanted to keep hidden.

"I like you too... but Jenna is my friend," she says, smiling broadly, her eyes bright at the mention of her friendship with Jenna. "Jen is really introverted and hard to understand... I don't want to lose her friendship," she confesses, continuing to walk alongside me.

"Why should you lose her friendship?" I ask in confusion, and Emma rolls her eyes at my comment. "It doesn't matter," she says, laughing and elbowing me in the side. "So..." I say, and she quickly interrupts me, "I'm sure you like Jenna more, I think the on-set kisses confused you," she says with sadness, her blue eyes losing their liveliness.

"Emma..." I say sadly, feeling a void in my chest. "I told you she and Percy are not together, right?" She asks, and I nod, "but despite that, you still weren't sure," she says bitterly, looking at the floor. I feel a pang of pain in my chest and nod quickly, unconsciously knowing that Emma was right.

"Don't worry about me, I'll manage," Emma smiles genuinely and chuckles, but her eyes are dull.

"Okay," I say uncertainly, "so let's remain friends," I say almost bitterly, and Emma nods her head, "friends," she repeats weakly. "Sorry, but I have to go," Emma adds quickly, her steps increasing considerably.

I watch Emma walk away from me with sadness.

...

That same night, I found myself at a small party with the cast, Emma, and Georgie, dancing animatedly together. A part of me was sad, but at the same time, Emma had given me the green light with Jenna, and I had to move forward. I was slightly jealous of Georgie, I admit.

My eyes were on Jenna, who was leaving the party, and I unconsciously followed her.

As I open the door, the cold cuts my cheeks, and darkness surrounds us, a pleasant silence accompanying us.

"Do you need some fresh air too?" Jenna asks while lighting a cigarette; she was so damn sexy. "Yes, I love Hunter, but his trailer is too small," I laugh, and Jenna just stares at me.

"So... do you like Hunter? But I'm sorry because you know that he..." I start, but Jenna quickly interrupts me, smoke escaping from her lips. "Why do you assume it's a he?" she asks almost angrily, and a shiver runs down my spine at the intensity of her gaze. "Alright... so Joy?" I say, smiling slightly, sad but ready to support her. I had already lost Emma, and the chances of losing Jenna were skyrocketing.

"No!" Jenna throws the stub on the ground, looking at me with shining eyes. Her cold and exasperated response surprised me. Jenna sighs in frustration, crossing her arms to seek warmth. I hated not being able to read what she felt and thought; it was so damn difficult.

"Why do you care?" she asks defensively, and I sigh at her comment. "I want you to be happy," I confess, and Jenna stares at me without batting an eyelash. Her eyes soften, and she takes steps toward me. "It's you," she whispers.

I blink incredulously, and Jenna smiles genuinely. "Me?" I say with a smile on my lips, curious.

"Yes, damn it!" Jenna says, frustrated. "But I was afraid you liked Emma, and I care about her friendship," she confesses later.

"I like her... but I like you more," I admit, and she looks at me seriously, something incomprehensible swimming in her eyes.

"Am I not the second choice?" she timidly asks, the barriers she had finally broken ready to rise again to defend her emotions.

I shake my head; honestly, I liked Jenna from the moment I saw her.

Sensing the tension in the air, Jenna delicately bites her lips, then sticks out her tongue to moisten them. My eyes follow her with admiration, caught by the gesture exuding sensuality.

Red, full lips, so kissable.

Without warning, Jenna leans in, her presence intensifying the atmosphere charged with desire. With confidence, her lips meet mine in a long-awaited kiss. Jenna's strength and energy transmit through the contact, while the moment becomes charged with palpable passion. Jenna's hands firmly grip my shirt, and mine find her hips almost immediately, pulling her closer. During scenes, Emma used to kiss me tenderly, slowly, without invading my space too much, which was completely the opposite of what Jenna was doing.

Oxygen soon runs out, and we break the kiss, my nose brushing against hers, my eyes able to see the freckles around her face. "Wow," Jenna says, smiling widely, her breath slightly infused with alcohol. I smile too. Jenna wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me gently. "I'm glad you didn't do anything with Emma," Jenna says, smiling against my neck. I smile bitterly and let myself be carried away by the hug and her intoxicating scent. "Yeah," I say weakly, and Jenna tightens the embrace.

I had chosen Jenna, and there was no turning back.

[psychic-refugee]

Wenclair as a ship in itself I understand. It can be fun, and interpretation is up to the fan content creator. Wyler, Wenvier, Enjax, Wenclay and AroAce Wednesday I think are all equally valid interpretations. Just as any other combination.

Shipping non canon relationships is a choice made by personal preference.

I less understand the expectations of Wenclair being actually possible to become canon. I feel like it’s only possible in the sense that “anything is possible” because no one can ever truly predict the future.

However,

Tim Burton does not have a history of producing LGBTQ+ focused projects. There are barely any background characters that are prominently and explicitly queer in his long CV.

The Ottingers are outliers and background characters with a second of screentime. I have doubts we’ll ever see them again, and honestly, they are the farthest I think Burton is willing to go.

Millar also doesn’t have a history of writing main cast LGBTQ+. He and Gough only reference the relationship between Enid and Wednesday as “friendship” and “sisterhood” when confronted with the idea of Wenclair. (NME, 24 Dec 2023).

Netflix has a documented poor history of treatment of shows with prominent lesbian leads (First Kill, I Am Not OK With This, and Warrior Nun).

Given all of that, I’m also not in the writers’ room, so time will ultimately tell if my skepticism is warranted.

Nonetheless, there is overwhelming evidence that Wenclairs have detrimentally affected Jenna and Emma. I don’t see them wanting Wenclair to happen and they certainly aren’t entertaining the mere possibility of it any longer.

Jenna has not mentioned Wenclair in a positive light since that one interview in Teen Vogue, 9 Dec 2022. It’s been over a year since; a lot of stuff has happened. Plenty of reasons for Jenna to have changed her mind.  

Emma made a non-committal comment about “how anything is possible” when it comes to S2 and Wenclair. (Variety, 30 Jan 2023)  But, again, that was over a year ago and a lot of toxic behaviour has happened since then.

Just as with Jenna, Emma has a lot of motivation now to not support Wenclair becoming canon.

Emma also pushed off the possibility of Wenclair beyond S2, she gave the excuse of Wednesday needing a “season of singleness.” Id. Wednesday WAS single in S1, she never claimed anyone as an SO. It sounds more like Emma was a hostage trying to appease her kidnappers by telling them what they wanted to hear. She pushed off the idea of Wenclair to a season that’s not guaranteed to materialize. That’s called passing the buck. If S3 never happens, then she’s not responsible for adhering to an implied promise of Wenclair being possible at all.

Now, Emma has made it a point to stress that shipping is fine as long as it doesn’t cross over into real people. (NME, 27 June 2024).

Wenclairs failed to do that in a spectacular fashion.

Emma admits that Wenclair was a joke they told amongst themselves when it first became apparent it was a popular ship. Id. Wenclair is “funny” to them because they never intended for it to be a ship, but fans choose to interpret it that way.

People ran with Jenna’s comments, but I believe she was supporting it in jest in the way Emma reported in June. Jenna even framed Wenclair only happening in “a perfect world.” (9 Dec 2022) She said it would only happen in an impossible circumstance. I don’t get how people took that to mean she was trying behind the scenes to make it happen, or that it was a secret interpretation fans were meant to figure out on their own.

I think if she knew how much her “fans” would sexually harass her and Emma with the idea of Wenclair, she would not have said it at all. I think with how careful Jenna is with what she posts now, she knows better to say things off the cuff or in jest.

Wenclairs have taught her harsh lessons on how to interact with social media and interviews.

I think it says a lot that Jenna has only been photographed with her stylist in the past several years. She has had plenty of opportunities to do pictures with the cast since filming started, specifically Emma and yet…

Wenclairs have been so rabid and hostile to anyone challenging their fantasy that she only feels safe being seen with Enrique Melendez, her employee, or her family. That’s not normal.

I think there’s a reason why Wenclairs hyperfocus on Jenna making the ship happen and not Emma.

Jenna clearly doesn’t mind doing roles that involve sapphic elements (Miller’s Girl and The Fallout). The same cannot be said about Emma. Wenclairs are so quick to jump on Jenna’s CV of “kissing women” and pointing to that as proof of her queerness. By THEIR same logic, what does it mean if Emma has not done any role where she kisses women?

Jenna’s a great actress and I think could have chemistry and a rapport with a tree if the script called for it. I think she didn’t mind the idea of Wenclair at the time (regardless of how farfetched the possibility was or that it was never originally or seriously considered), but I don’t think she ever intended for people to interpret her characterization of Wednesday that way.

I think both Jenna and Emma regret implying or joking about the possibility of Wenclair as the fans started to sexually harass them on IG with comments on how they are for sure lesbians (neither have stated so) under their posts that have nothing to do with the other as well as everywhere else. Neither can celebrate their own separate accomplishments without Wenclairs mentioning the ship or obnoxiously asking “Where’s Jenna/Emma?”

Wenclairs also post explicit art of Jenna and Emma’s likeness in public forums such as Twitter/IG (and tag them or send it to them directly), and harass male coworkers Jenna has romantic scenes with (Finest Kind). Emma’s male co-star in AGGGTM has also experienced harassment.  

Jenna has outright said she quit Twitter because she was sent explicit AI art of herself right after Wednesday took off.

I 100% believe it was sent by a Wenclair account and it was sexual Wenclair art, given the timing and their appalling behaviour to date.

“I ended up deleting [Twitter] about two, three years ago because of the influx after [Wednesday] had come out, these absurd images and photos, and I already was in a confused state that I just deleted it…It was disgusting, and it made me feel bad. It made me feel uncomfortable” (Entertainment Weekly, 25 Aug 2024) (emphasis added).

I think Jenna coming out and specifically saying there would be no romance for Wednesday (Digital Spy, 8 June 2023) after the December 2022 article is another direct consequence of Wenclair harassment. She changed her tune very explicitly and Netflix has not contradicted her, nor have the showrunners, writers, or Burton ever shown committed support for Wenclair. At most it’s “we’re open to it,” and that was before the harassment got as bad as it is.

Jenna’s playfulness is completely absent in all these interviews since Wenclairs started to harass her. Whatever they were “open to,” the Wenclairs shut it violently.

I wasn’t aware until recently that the Wenclairs were so creepy, invasive, and lacking even the barest of social graces that they were also harassing Jenna’s family.

Here is Aliyah, Jenna’s sister, scoffing and clearly exasperated by the shipping. I highly doubt this frustration comes from being asked just once, she’s probably fielded this question way too many times. She no longer follows Emma on IG.

There are also reports of other IG Lives by Aliyah outright stating that the shipping was out of control and detrimental to their family. Of course Wenclairs are completely crickets about this.

It’s bad enough Wenclairs shove their personal fantasies in Jenna and Emma’s face, but they do it to their siblings? Likely when the siblings were minors or barely adults as Aliyah is only 20.

Emma in the Variety, 30 Jan 2023 article also says her sister would show her stuff, meaning her family was also getting exposed to it.

The latest Vanity Fair article states that Jenna won’t ever make any romantic relationship public. (6 August 2024). She states that her relationships are “hers” and that her fans can’t separate the real her and the celebrity they have built up in her head. Id.

She makes an effort to use gender neutral terms when it comes to a romantic partner. I respect that she doesn’t want to come out as either heterosexual, homosexual, or anywhere in between or outside of the binary. That is her choice, I think there’s a vast difference between keeping things private and being in the closet. Either way it’s also NONE OF ANYONE’S BUSINESS.

But I think it’s undeniable that even though she would get a lot of support if she were queer, Wenclairs have made it so unbearable that she won’t reveal a partner or come out at all.

Wenclairs have made it unsafe and hostile for her to acknowledge her own sexuality publicly, much less a partner.

I think it’s too late for Wenclairs to back off, it looks like they already ruined the friendship or at best drove it underground if the total lack of social media content of them together is indicative of anything.

If they are still friends, then they don’t trust Wenclairs with knowing about it and don’t want to share it with them. It looks like Jenna doesn’t want to share any friendship publicly anymore.

Unless it’s to promo movies or a brand deal, she rarely posts pictures on social media anymore. It’s very rare she posts personal pictures of herself doing non-work outings. She’s keeping her personal life extremely close to her chest.

How exactly do Wenclairs expect a friendship to survive constant, sexual harassment? How can they hang out together when everything they do together is sexualized? Why would anyone think the actresses would encourage a storyline that would invite more?

How do they expect Jenna to support Wenclair to become canon if it means her future male coworkers will be harassed? If it means any romantic partner who isn’t Emma in the future will be harassed? If it means that if she were indeed involved with Emma, that there would probably be a bigger explosion of porn that is shoved in their face?

How do they expect Jenna or Emma to support Wenclair if their families are being harassed about it?

Wenclair has been a curse upon them, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

[vbused]

what a day, what a beautiful day

[whencyclopedia]

Cleopatra & Antony

Regarded by the Romans as "fatale monstrum" – a fatal omen – Cleopatra is one of the ancient world's most popular, though elusive figures. The Egyptian queen has been immortalized by numerous writers and filmmakers, most popularly by William Shakespeare in Antony and Cleopatra, and by Hollywood in Cleopatra (1963), starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. The latter work features the memorable image of the enticing young Cleopatra emerging gracefully from an unfurled carpet in front of Roman general Julius Caesar. But is Cleopatra to be regarded merely as the lover of Julius Caesar and Mark Antony? Or did she play an important role not only in the history of Egypt but also in that of the mighty Roman Republic?

Cleopatra VII Philopator ('father-loving') was born in January 69 BCE in the city of Alexandria, Egypt, the daughter of Ptolemy XII Auletes (117-51 BCE) and possibly Cleopatra V Tryphaena (c. 95 to c. 57 BCE). Cleopatra was to become the last monarch of the Ptolemaic Dynasty (established in 323 BCE after the death of Alexander the Great), ruling Egypt from 51 BCE to 30 BCE. In 48 BCE, Cleopatra had become an ally and lover of Julius Caesar and remained so until his assassination in Rome in March 44 BCE. The assassination of Julius Caesar threw Rome into turmoil, with various factions competing for control, the most important of these being the armies of Mark Antony (83-30 BCE) and Octavian (63 BCE to 14 CE), the former a supporter and loyal friend Caesar, the latter his adopted son.

Cleopatra Meets Antony

In 41 BCE, Cleopatra was summoned to Tarsus (in modern southern Turkey) by Mark Antony. She is said to have entered the city by sailing up the Cydnus River in a decorated barge with purple sails, while dressed in the robes of the Greek goddess Aphrodite. Antony, who equated himself with Dionysus, the god of wine in Greek mythology, was instantly won over. Much like the meeting between Cleopatra and Caesar, both sides saw something in the other that they needed. For Cleopatra, it was another opportunity to achieve power both in Egypt and in Rome; for Antony, the support of Rome's largest and wealthiest client states in his campaign against the might of the Parthians (Parthia was a region in modern north-eastern Iran) was highly desirable. At the meeting, Cleopatra allegedly requested that her half-sister Arsinoë, living in protection at the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, be executed to prevent any future attempts on her throne. Antony and Cleopatra soon became allies and lovers, and he returned with her to Alexandria in 40 BCE.

In Alexandria, Cleopatra and Antony formed a society of "inimitable livers", which some historians have interpreted as an excuse to lead a life of debauchery, though it was more likely to have been a group dedicated to the cult of the mystical god Dionysus. In that year, Cleopatra bore Antony the twins Alexander Helios (the Sun) and Cleopatra Selene II (the Moon).

Continue reading...

[dehydrated-turtle]

Theres a First Time For Everything

//warnings// 16+, nsfw, mdni

//contents// Jason Todd x transmasc!reader, transmasc reader, robin!jason, underage?? (its not where i am), vaginal sex

//synopsis// First time invited over for dinner and a movie at Wayne Manor by your boyfriend, Jason Todd. - wc: 3.2k

//on ao3//

Being sophomores in highschool, you find it a wee bit odd that you’ve never seen the inside of your boyfriend, Jason’s house. You’d think by now he would’ve invited you over for a sleepover or maybe just dinner. You think maybe he’s just scared of what you’d think of him afterwards because he does live in Wayne Manor. But you know this and don’t look at him any different so what’s he hiding? 

One fateful day however, he actually asks you over for dinner and a movie, he says he has a private theatre at the manor so no need to get dressed up all fancy. He offered to actually have you sleep over and the whole deal, he was super ecstatic about it, almost giddy. What changed? 

Now you’re packing an overnight bag with Jason waiting on your bed, on his phone. He says that Alfred is going to pick you both up and take you to the manor, whoever that is. He seems so chipper about all of this, practically jumping off your bed once you declare you’re done. He rushes you down to and out of your front door by pulling your arm, down the steps and into the ridiculous limousine–apparently–waiting for you and Jay. 

“Hey, Alfie! How ya been??” 

“Very well, sir. Not any different since I last saw you merely 3 hours ago.” The old british man said before putting the car into gear. 

“I am so happy Bruce gave me the OK to actually bring you over!! Also one more thing but I’d rather show you than tell you.” He remarks while smiling ear to ear. 

“What’s got you all excited?” 

“You’ll see.” 

It doesn't take long before you’re pulling into a long and winding driveway which you can only assume is for Wayne Manor. It gets very suddenly eerie like you just entered an actual Tim Burton film. The trees scattered along the property look quite old and twisted. Although it looks cold, somehow it seems welcoming. You see the warm lights coming from inside the manor as you pull up to the front steps and get ever so nervous as you realize that you’re ‘meeting the parents’ for the first time. But like he read your mind, Jason put his hand on your thigh and rubbed little circles with his thumb to calm you down. You looked up at him and his reassuring eyes met yours with a tender smile. 

“Trust me, he’ll love you.” 

You do trust him, with your whole heart, so you take a deep breath and just smile back and nod. 

The car comes to a smooth halt–Alfred’s a good driver c’mon–and you start to gather your things back up to get out. You were about to reach for the door handle when you saw Alfred at the window, pulling open for you. You step out of the vehicle with your overnight bag in hand, looking up at the enormous castle-like building that towers over any of the hundred year old trees around it. Jason came around to your side and grabbed your free hand and squeezed it three times before leading you up the steps and through the intimidating wooden doors. 

On the other side of the oak, stood a tall and handsome man that anyone in Gotham could recognize in an instant as Bruce Wayne. For a billionaire, he sure looked quite humble and sweet with a charmingly warm smile as he offered his hand out to shake. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you.” he remarks as he shakes your hand gently but with intention and a firm grip nonetheless. 

“Uh.. ditto.” You mutter out, starstruck and at a complete loss for words. 

“I’ll get Alfred to take your bag up for you.” he smiles, yet again. 

“Oh no, it’s fine I can take it, really it’s no problem.” 

“Ok well you and Jason go get ready for dinner, shouldn’t be long.” 

Jay took your hand again and dragged you through the long and seemingly unending hallways that were shining with gold detailing and picture frames of family. It was all so beautiful, you had no clue why you hadn’t been invited before. You come to a halt at a door which you assume is Jason’s room as he opens it revealing a very tidy bedroom. Everything was put away and clean but it was clear that it was his room due to the posters on the wall, stacked bookshelf with all of his favourite books, bedsheets that didn’t match the decor like the rest of the guest rooms they past, and of course Jason’s schoolwork spread out on his desk. You drop your bag on the floor next to his bed while he rushed by you to flop on top of it with a heaving sigh. You laugh at him before he pats the bed, beckoning you to join him. You jump up with him and snuggle into his chest while just resting above the covers. 

“So, why did it take so long to get me here?” 

“Oh, B was scared that you’d find out about his ‘demons in the basement’” 

“Isn’t it ‘skeletons in the closet’? And what changed?” 

“No, B quite literally has demons in the basement. Well, maybe more like bats. And, he finally gave me the ok to show you them.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” you remark with a chuckle, looking up at him now. 

“Maybe we should wait until after dinner, I hear Alfie coming.” 

Just on queue, “Good ear, sir. Dinner is being served in the main dining hall, gentlemen.” 

You both rush behind Alfred, almost stepping on his heels, eager for dinner made by the man, the myth, the legend himself. Jason has always bragged to you about Alfie’s cooking and baking skills, now you get to see them for yourself. He opens the doors to the dining room and you spot Bruce sitting, ready to eat already. 

“Sit across the table from me ok?” Jason said as he saw how you were scanning the room. 

“Ok.” the room itself was beautiful, the same gold trim as the rest of the house but the seats had a deep blue velvet finish to them that perfectly matched the tablecloth with more of the gold accents. The warm light coming from the chandelier and the candles set along the tremendously long table along with Bruce’s signature smile were all so welcoming. You pulled out the chair to the left of Bruce who sat at the head of the table while Jason took his seat to his right, across from you. Almost immediately after you were seated, a couple of people wearing uniforms came out of what had to be the kitchen with dishes with silver lids on top of them. They had placed one in front of each of you then proceeded to lift the lid. A puff of steam came out of each of them, followed by an intoxicating smell, a cocktail of spices and fantastical scents. What appeared from under the steam was a perfectly cooked steak with a side of green beans and butternut squash. 

“Anything else, Master Bruce?” 

“Uh, maybe some soda for the tykes?” 

“No problem, sir.” 

Dinner goes by quickly, with the amazingly cooked food and the smooth and easy chatter it was tremendously more enjoyable than it was nerve racking. Your nerves were also settled by the soft eyes of your boyfriend reassuring you from across the table and the touching of your shoes together underneath it. As soon as you took your last bites, Bruce threw his napkin onto the table. 

“Alright, I promised Jaylad that I’d show you something real special.” You just looked at him confused then over to Jason who was almost jumping for joy. “C’mon, follow me to the batcave.” 

“Batcave?” you asked but no one responded as you followed Bruce across the manor to an unsuspicious looking grandfather clock. Bruce opened the glass window and turned the hands to 10:48 which made a small click within it. He then pulled it out of the wall, it acted as a door which led to a dark and cold stone staircase. You held Jason’s hand as he practically dragged you down the narrow and steep steps. You quickly came to a very, very, very large cave with so much stuff it was hard to take in all at once. One of the first things that actually processed through your brain was the costumes on the wall, Batman and Robin. “What is this?” you say, utterly confused. 

“The batcave.” Bruce replies. “I’m Batman, Jason here is Robin. I thought it was finally time that you should know, Jason goes on about your forever, only thought it right. Plus he begged me for an hour.” 

You went straight back to your starstruck state as you looked around the cave, trying so hard not to touch anything. All this was very hard to take in but the excitement trumped the worry while you and Jason just blabbed on about things that started to make sense. Bruce had left to do god knows what but really just to leave you two alone. 

“Wanna go get ready to watch a movie?” he asked once the tour of the cave was over. 

“Sure!” 

Jason took your hand again and led you back out of the cave. He really loves to hold your hand, just to know you’re there, following him, making sure you’re safe. The two of you travel to the other side of the manor, swinging your hands between you as you walk. He squeezed your hand three times and looked into your eyes with just pure happiness, his secret is out. One that he didn’t want to keep. He’s ecstatic. 

You get back to Jason’s room, you both change into some comfies, you in one of Jason’s stolen hoodies and some pj shorts, and Jason in an ironic batman tee shirt given what just happened and pj pants. After a quick pit stop in the kitchen for snacks you head to the theatre which is near the back of the manor. 

You go straight to the front of the theatre, the best spots in the house with your arms full of snacks. You sit down beside Jason and lay out all the snacks on your laps. The two of you collected popcorn, swedish berries, fuzzy peaches, doritos (original and sweet chilli heat), root beer, coke, and some maltesers, a nice big box of them along with two blankets. 

“Alright, what movie do you wanna watch? We have literally everything, not kidding.” 

“Ooh, how about Back to the Future?” 

“YES!! Alright I’ll put it on.” 

He grabs the remote on the armrest next to him and turns on the projector at the back of the room. He turns on the movie and while the opening credits start to play, you pull your blanket over you and open your drink. 

The movie continues to play, you both laugh and yell at Marty for doing dumb shit. A while into the film, Jason reaches for your hand on the arm rest between you and takes it up to his face and kisses the back of your palm. You look over at him in wonder but he just gives you a radiating smile. He then leans in for a proper kiss which you reciprocate passionately. He places his hand on the back of your neck to pull you closer. After the kiss breaks, he places a soft but obviously needy kiss on your jawline and more along your neck, leaving a trail of slight hickies behind. A moan escapes your lips, small and wispy but he still heard it and felt it from the vibrations of your neck against his lips. His hand starts to wander down your body, resting on your thigh, rubbing small circles with his thumb which makes you unbearably wet very suddenly. 

“Jay…” You whisper against his hair, so low that only he could hear it even if there were people in the theatre. Just then Jason snaps his head up abruptly. 

“Is this going somewhere?” He asks, like he was genuinely curious.

“Um, I hope so?” 

“Perfect. Then we’d better get out of here, not so sure Bruce is keen on having our bodily fluids in the theatre, he does come here often. C’mon, let's clean up and take this to my room.” 

So you do just that, pack up all the snacks and blankets and quite literally run back to Jason’s room. Laughter filling the halls the whole way across the manor. What must Bruce think of these hooligans? 

You rush into his room and look around cluelessly for a place to put the ridiculous amount of shit you have carefully balanced in your arms. 

“Just drop it on my desk.” Jason pants out while shutting the door with his foot as his hands are also full. “There’s nothing important there anyway.” 

He comes up beside you and drops his armful down beside yours before looking up into your eyes with the kindest smile you’ve ever seen a human bear. He leans in hesitantly with his eyes half lidded, looking at your lips before connecting them to his in a soft kiss. He let a gentle moan leave his lips, almost a whimper and barely audible but just enough for your boxers to be soiled. You both make your way to the bed, shuffling and trying not to break the kiss as you do so. 

It all started to happen so fast, dropping pants, pulling off shirts, getting onto the bed, kissing, kissing, and more kissing. Jason offered to take your binder off if you were comfortable with it, you said yes as you aren’t uncomfortable with what you have and don’t really mind your boobs, they just get in the way. So, he pulls off your binder and throws it on the floor and just ogles at your naked figure for a short second, making you blush. He starts to trail kisses from your collar bone, down your sternum, all the way to your pelvic bone where he places a singular kiss while looking up at you with those puppy dog midnight blue eyes, shining against the silver light of the moon coming in from the window. He places another small peck on the crook of your thigh while his fingers wander gently along the skin of your other thigh, teasing you. 

“You know… I’ve never done this before.” He remarks, hesitantly. 

“This being…?” 

“Sex.” 

“So I’m your first?” 

“Yup.” 

“Honestly, that’s kinda hOT-” you yell out as Jason takes your clit into his mouth and starts to swirl his tongue, not at an insane pace but just enough to be surprising. He snakes his arms under your legs to get a hold of your waist, keeping you in place while he works your cunt. Your moans get louder as he starts to go faster. 

“You sure you’ve never done this before?” 

“I’ve watched a lot of porn.” he replies, out of breath but nevertheless goes straight back into it as soon as he finishes his sentence, before you could even laugh at him. He thrusts his tongue into your hole and curls it up repeatedly making your back arch and throw your head against the thousand pillows holding you up. You look down at him to see his eyes are on you, loving and gentle, a beautiful juxtaposition to his ravenous actions. You run your fingers through his raven hair which used to be perfectly placed, now dishevelled. Honestly, you think it looks better like this. 

You feel one of his hands remove itself from its place on your hip, you feel it prod at your folds, teasingly before being pushed in further. He makes sure to go very slowly, drawing it out as long as he can before pumping them ever so gently, curling them up into the sweet spot. He moans against your clit making you whimper at the sensation of the vibrations that are sent through your body, tingling down to your fingertips but resonate in the pit of your stomach, you can feel it bubbling and boiling over. 

“Jay… I-I’m gonna cu-um, fuck…” You mutter out and the hand in his hair starts to push him down further. 

Hearing your words, his tongue flicks on your clit harder and faster, same for the fingers buried deep in your cunt, almost reaching your cervix. His free hand massages your hip and upper thigh in an effort to sooth you while you start to shake and your muscles tense. He can feel you clenching around his fingers as you moan his name along with a river of profanities, cumming for him. 

“Such a good boy for me.” he says, kissing your inner thigh before resting his head on it and looks up at you lovingly with a soft smile while you pant, coming down from your high and sweat drips from your forehead making your hair stick to it. 

After a while of just sweet nothings, Jason slithered his way up to face you and whisper even more sweet nothings in your ear that just made you wetter. You could feel his tip leaving a trail of wet along your thigh as it drags against the skin. 

“Jay… I need you. Please?” 

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” He sits up between your legs, pumping his length a couple of times before lining up to your lips and pushing in slowly but surely. He makes sure that you are comfortable, making sure you can take it. His dick was very much on the large side for what you would think a teenage boy would have, and yet he stretches you out so good. His fingers trace along your skin so gently as he starts to pump, hitting your cervix with every thrust. You moan out his name, begging for more. Your legs wrap around his waist, forcing him to go deeper, if that’s even possible. 

The sounds of skin and heavy moans coat the walls of the room, making the air heavy and damp but electric. The smell of sex and sweat filled both of your noses and swirled in your head making you drunk on it. It was all so exciting and beautifully messy. Beautifully human. Jason buries his face into the crook of your neck, whimpering against the flesh making it hot with his breath. You could feel his dick twitch inside you as you run your fingers through his hair and play with it carelessly but gentle. He leaves bruising kisses where he rests his head. His hips stutter ever so slightly before he whispers into your flesh that he’s going to cum. 

“Please don’t pull out… I’m on birth control, it’ll be fine.” 

All he said in response was a whimper and a final thrust of his hips, pouring his white rivers into your canal. Pouring his heart out into you. He collapses on top of you with a huff and a gentle laugh. He squeezes your body so tightly that you fear you can’t breathe but nonetheless you laugh with him, kissing the top of his head. 

“Hm, I think I love you…” he whispers.

[gaykarstaagforever]

Heathers (1989)

"If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you?"

"...Probably."

[TRIGGER WARNING: The movie is about murder, suicide, depression, anxiety and bullying, and it's a Rated-R movie from 1989, so SA is going to keep coming up. I'm going to be referencing all of that in this review. Also I'm a gay man and will be teasing people who have made this movie their personality, so tap out now if you and your cool vinyl collection can't deal with that.]

The movie starts as a fun black comedic take-down of saccharine 80s John Hughes teen romance movies. New-kid-in-school badboy edgelord JD, and repentant former wannabe cool girl Veronica, hook up and decide to live out the ultimate bullied nerd fantasy by getting revenge on Heather, Veronica's frenemy and leader of the Heathers, the most popular clique in school.

But when things go darker than Veronica planned, the comedic satire becomes a Shakespearean melodrama, as Veronica is suddenly confronted by the surreal consequences of what she's done, including realizing that the simplest solution to a problem may in fact make everything a hell of a lot worse.

I'm not going to spoil it for the 5 of you who haven't seen this yet. Everyone else (including me now) has seen it, as it is probably one of the most universally-popular Internet-culture movies there is. You've seen at least one meme from it.

Probably this one.

While a flop in 1989, it quickly became a cult movie on home media, even by the late 90s being one of those movies your older brother and his friends introduced you to to let you know they didn't think you were a lame stupid baby anymore. And it seems now with streaming it is still kind of in that spot, the older brothers with tapes being replaced by Gen X / Millennials posting about how cool it is in front of teenaged lurkers.

So how did I miss it? I WAS the older brother growing up, and I was 7 when it came out. And when I did go back and get into all the 80s movies I missed out on by being a toddler when they were new, I stumbled into the Hughes stuff, notably Pretty in Pink, which is fundamentally the movie Heathers is mocking. As cynical and jaded as I am, I'm also a fruitcake, so I love me some sappy sunny crap (if it's to a greater artistic point, which the Hughes movies are). What I knew of Heathers had me thinking it was merely a demonstration of pretentious anti "popular media" whining from the sort of people who wear outdated hats and are insufferable about punk music.

...And it totally is. But also, it's more than that. It's actually really good and smart and occasionally insightful, when it restrains itself from all the emo "I can be your devil or your angle" posturing. Which, to be fair, it also makes fun of. Before that was even a thing.

Christian Slater and Wynonna Rider have fantastic chemistry, and there's never enough of the two of them just enjoying each other's company. Even when they're arguing, it feels like a real couple going through something they'll almost certainly get over in a few hours (until they very much can't, and then they'll literally try to kill each other). Passion, is the word for it. Sardonic and low-key most of the time, but still passion. And that's always delightful.

It's well-shot and well-directed, with good uses of lighting and dynamic camera angles. There is a lot of scenes that are just two people talking, and it's never boring. Impressive for filmmakers who were, at the time, fresh-faced and working with a small budget. The style ends up being like if John Waters (no relation to Dan Waters, who wrote it) had directed Corman's Rock and Roll High School: goofy and surreal and sarcastic, but also willing to get dark and push boundaries to make a point.

All the characters - even joke side ones - are thoughtfully drawn, given emotional depth and realistic motivations, even when they're doing something stagey and broad in this highly stylized, Tim Burton-esque dark fairytale world. Wynonna Rider fought for the role against all advice, and it is perfectly in-line with the characters she played and the movies she played them in of this era, Beetlejuice and Edward Scissorhands. Maybe even Bram Stoker's Dracula, if we're talking surreal melodramatic action-horror with disco lighting.

It is a movie with lots of big ideas (probably too many), but it manages to get those across effectively. What starts as a simple teenager revenge fantasy morphs into an armchair analysis of what America does to its children - instead of nurturing them and preparing them for the adult world, it points at them and gawks, and cashes in on their fear and self-loathing and predictable self-destruction. Everyone in the cruel high school world of Heathers is both a perpetrator and a victim, desperately fighting for survival by both submitting to abuse, and then immediately turning around and heaping it on someone "beneath" them. Death here isn't genuinely mourned or reflected upon; everyone simply starts plotting how they're going to exploit this new gap in the line. And whether the victims kill themselves or are murdered only matters as far as someone can spin that into self-promotion. Even the priest at the funeral (the late great Glenn Shadix, Beetlejuice again!) uses the supposed suicide of a child as an opportunity to make a ham-fisted youth-oriented alter call.

By the end of the movie, Veronica has triumphantly decided to rise up - not merely against the popular kids and exploitative / apathetic adults - but against the entire system of unending cruelty she didn't even know she was still playing a part in when she was actively attacking it. This finally sets her at odds with JD, who is too consumed by hatred to realize that the violence he thinks is a solution is fundamentally part of the problem.

And yet, as they come to blows, Veronica is also replaying the very same game that led her to become one of the Heathers in the first place, and then turn on them: use people to secure power, they use and hurt you, so you attack them. She knows the whole system is bad and broken and wants out, and seems to acknowledge the only way out is through earnest friendships and "growing out" of being shallow and petty. But by the end of the movie, despite her rebuke of JD...has she managed it? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe the system is inescapable, and all you can hope to do is find a way to force it to work for you. And choose then to make it less cruel. Maybe.

It's not a good or happy ending, it's just an ending. But a thought-provoking one, and the movie does it well.

...Mostly. The dialogue is trying very hard to be distinctively witty, but mostly comes across like a worse version of Clueless-ese, with more gratuitous vulgarities and no kitschy charm. A writer being very proud of how smart they are, without noticing that real people don't talk like this because it's awkward and obnoxious. Everyone's dialogue is basically interchangeable, including between the kids and adults (JD and his lunatic father have a fun distinctive thing they do, but that's about it). Now, lines being awkward and obnoxious doesn't mean they aren't eminently meme-able. In fact, that usually means they are. And they certainly are here. Nearly every scene has a memorable bon mot that can be endlessly parroted by people doing that so you won't notice their off-putting personality. ...I wouldn't call that a win for anyone, but it is certainly a thing.

Remember: just because someone said it in a movie, doesn't mean it's inherently funny or profound or relevant to the conversation you've currently having. And you're not suddenly smart because you found a movie quote that you think expresses your exceptional hot take. In fact, that might be a sign that your are NOT in fact smart or insightful. Just putting that out there.

Also the "mineral water is for fags" thing is only funny because it's stupid. It was stupid then. That's the point of that being in the movie, to show how stupid these podunk morons in Ohio are. Stop repeating that 'joke.' It isn't funny out of context.

Gen X. Looking at you on this one. It's just you trying to give yourselves permission to still call people "fags." Doesn't work that way.

Christian Slater claims he was "channeling Jack Nicholson for this film." Yeah, okay, dude. And for the rest of your life, all the time. He's still a good actor and very charming here, but if that "Christian Slater" thing he does annoys you, it's at 11 here.

The pacing and tone get pretty muddled after the initial black revenge comedy stuff stops, as the movie uneasily transitions to its second major focus. It stops being funny entirely for awhile, until near the end when it suddenly remembers that was supposed to be a part of this, then sitcomy stuff elbows its way in. And JD's plans post-breakup with Veronica are left vague until they suddenly aren't, and I feel like I missed something. I didn't, and there's a point to them doing it this way, but it is handled kind of confusingly.

The movie is a scaled-down version of whatever epic Greek tragicomedy the writer originally dreamed up, and the studio demanded the pitch-black orginal ending be changed. And you can kind of feel that throughout. As an R-rated movie it is a lot tamer than it feels like it should be, and I for one wish the kills were gorier and more over-the-top. That more fits the tone. Maybe that was never the original intention, but you don't do Titus Andronicus without getting gross with it, you know?

Any SA stuff is handled tactfully, and there isn't much of it, and it serves a narrative purpose. But that still feels like something that is only in here because it's 1989 and R-rated movies have to go there. And I don't feel like they really give those incidents the kind of emotional impact they should have on the victims. But again, this is a surreal world of unending cruelty, so maybe people shrug that off here. It's more my personal preference, if you're going to be gross to women in a movie (probably stop that, unless that's what the movie is about. Rape and molestation are not screenplay spices.)

The good far outweighs the bad, though. And Heathers is good, and is deservedly a timeless cult-classic for growing boys and girls, given what it deals with and how well it deals with it. It's entertaining and it makes you think, which is what good movies do. And it's endlessly meme-able, and that's okay, even if the people who meme it the most are silently warning you that they're pretentious and annoying about music. And that's only sort-of the movie's fault.

Also all the women in this movie have 9 lbs of dry fly-away hair that is just...painful. I realize this "unkempt Barbie hair" style was the best we could do at the time, but... I feel like I can hear it crunching every time they move.

Oh, and shoulder pads for days, shoulder pads FOREVER. I will never understand why the hell the 80s thought women weren't boxy enough. It was a thing.