#dissonance festival

[ladiesinrock]

Dissonance Festival 2025: annunciati i Jinjer

L’evento milanese dedicato al metal moderno ritorna nella splendida cornice estiva del Circolo Magnolia dopo un anno di stop portando con sé l’unica data italiana degli ucraini JINJER. La band di Tatiana Shmayluk si esibirà nel suo unico live nel nostro paese per il 2025, portando i propri grandi successi e i brani del nuovo album “Duél“, in uscita a Febbraio e già anticipato da 4 fantastici…

[standingonabeachatsunset]

Johann Sebastian Bach - Christmas Oratorio BWV 248 

John Eliot Gardiner - conductor Monteverdi Choir English Baroque Soloists Claron McFadden - soprano Christoph Genz - tenor Bernarda Fink - alto Dietrich Henschel - bass

Performance at Herderkirche in Weimar, 1999.

Part 1-3:

Part 4-6:

[missarchive]

cognitive dissonance pt 1 - spencer reid

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ part two

who? tutor!spencer reid x student fem!reader

category: fluff, smut

content warnings: NSFW MDNI!! dry humping, fingering

word count: 5k

a/n: scheduled post as i am away at a new years music festival with my friends :] i will be back with you all in a few days <3

The first time you saw Spencer Reid was during a lecture hall mix-up in your second week at the university. You had rushed in, clutching your notebook and hoping to secure a spot before the professor started, only to find yourself in a room filled with students much older than you. At the center of it all, there he was—leaning casually against the podium, flipping through a worn-out book with an intensity that made the rest of the world blur around him.

He wasn’t the professor, but he might as well have been. His sharp, confident voice cut through the murmurs as he corrected an older man’s calculation on the whiteboard with such precision that the room seemed to collectively hold its breath. You’d learned his name that day from the whispers: Spencer Reid. The prodigy. The genius with more degrees than anyone knew what to do with.

From then on, he became a background character in your university life—a distant figure who seemed too brilliant, too out of reach, to exist in the same world as you. You heard the rumors, the awe-filled anecdotes: he’d started college as a child prodigy, aced every test like it was nothing, and was now juggling multiple Ph.D. programs.

Your own academic pursuits felt mundane in comparison. Sure, you worked hard, but you struggled. Like now, for instance, staring at the red marks slashing through your latest assignment—a problem set for your advanced statistics class.

“You’ve got potential, but you’re missing the fundamentals,” your professor said when you approached him after class, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I’m assigning you a tutor.”

“A tutor?” you echoed, your stomach dropping. Group study sessions were bad enough; working one-on-one with someone felt like an invitation for them to witness your shortcomings up close.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a knowing smile. “You’ll be in good hands. I’ve paired you with one of the best.”

You didn’t know what to expect as you walked into the library that afternoon, clutching your notes so tightly your knuckles turned white. The email from your professor had given you nothing but a time and a name: Spencer Reid.

Your heart raced as you reached the designated table tucked into a quiet corner of the library. There he was, surrounded by open books and a tower of index cards, his familiar mop of brown hair falling into his eyes as he scribbled something into a notebook. He looked up when you approached, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you freeze in place.

“You’re here for tutoring?” he asked, his voice softer than you expected, though no less confident.

You nodded quickly, struggling to find your words. “Y-yeah, I’m… I’m Y/N. My professor said you’d be helping me with stats?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he gestured for you to sit. “Let’s get started, then.”

As you settled into the chair across from him, you couldn’t help but feel like you were stepping into another universe—one where Spencer Reid wasn’t just the untouchable genius you’d admired from afar but someone real, someone tangible, someone who, for the first time, was looking directly at you.

You weren’t sure what you expected Spencer Reid’s tutoring style to be, but it certainly wasn’t this. You’d assumed he might be aloof, perhaps brisk, throwing around jargon you’d struggle to keep up with. Instead, he was patient—meticulously breaking down concepts into manageable pieces while his pen skated effortlessly across his notebook.

Not that you could focus on much of it.

His presence was… distracting. The way his long fingers tapped thoughtfully against the edge of the table, the faint crease between his brows when he explained something particularly tricky, the way his lips pursed as he considered your answer before gently redirecting you to the correct one. All of it sent your mind spiraling into a whirlwind of thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics.

“Does that make sense?” Spencer asked, tilting his head as his hazel eyes searched yours.

You blinked, realizing too late that you hadn’t heard a single word of his explanation. Heat rushed to your face as you fumbled for a response. “Um, yeah! Totally. Makes sense.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. “Really? Then can you explain why we divide by the square root of the sample size in this calculation?”

Panic flared in your chest. “Oh, uh… because it… balances the equation?” you ventured weakly.

Spencer set his pen down, leaning back slightly as he studied you. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you, like he could see straight through the flustered exterior you were so desperately trying to hold together. And, knowing Spencer Reid, he probably could.

“You’re nervous,” he said, not unkindly, but with the clinical precision of someone stating a fact.

Your breath hitched. “What? No, I’m fine!” you lied, your voice raising an octave.

He tilted his head, his gaze softening. “It’s okay,” he said gently. “A lot of people feel overwhelmed during one-on-one tutoring. It’s a different kind of pressure.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sincerity in his tone stopped you. He wasn’t mocking you or trying to make you feel small. If anything, he seemed… concerned.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” he continued, his voice almost soothing now. “Because if you’re too focused on feeling self-conscious, it’s going to be harder for you to process the material.”

You nodded, unable to find your voice. Spencer smiled—a small, reassuring curve of his lips—and slid his notebook closer to you.

“Let’s try this,” he said, switching tactics. “Instead of diving into the calculations right away, let’s talk about what you’re struggling with conceptually. No pressure, no judgment. Just a conversation.”

That did help, marginally. His calm demeanor and methodical approach were like a balm to your frazzled nerves. But every now and then, he’d catch you staring at him for a beat too long, your mind wandering to thoughts that had nothing to do with statistics. Each time, his gaze would flicker with amusement, like he knew exactly what was going through your head but was too polite to say anything.

By the time the session ended, your brain felt like it had been wrung out like a sponge—not just from the math but from the sheer effort of keeping yourself together in his presence. As you packed up your things, Spencer handed you a few pages of handwritten notes.

“These should help,” he said, his voice still as calm and steady as ever. “And if you have questions before our next session, feel free to email me.”

You nodded, clutching the notes like a lifeline. “Thanks. I’ll, um… I’ll do that.”

As you walked away, you could feel his eyes on you, warm and curious. And though you were mortified at how obvious your flustered state had been, a tiny part of you couldn’t help but hope he didn’t mind.

You were determined to be better this time. You’d spent hours poring over the notes Spencer had given you, even rewatching a few recorded lectures for good measure. If you couldn’t control the embarrassing way your brain short-circuited around him, the least you could do was come prepared.

But as you approached the table in the library’s corner and saw him already seated, legs crossed, pen twirling lazily between his fingers, you realized preparation could only take you so far. He looked up as you neared, his hazel eyes lighting up briefly in acknowledgment.

“Hi,” you managed, your voice sounding far too breathy for your liking.

“Hi,” he replied, a slight smile playing on his lips as he motioned for you to sit. “Ready to dive in?”

You nodded quickly, lowering yourself into the chair and flipping open your notebook. Spencer wasted no time launching into a review of last session’s material, but as he began sketching out a new problem, you felt your focus slipping again.

It wasn’t your fault, really. Who could concentrate with him looking like that? His hair was slightly messier than last time, a few stray curls brushing against his forehead. He chewed absentmindedly on the cap of his pen as he thought, the motion inexplicably captivating. And when he leaned forward to jot down a formula, the faint scent of his cologne hit you, warm and woodsy, leaving your thoughts spiraling once more.

“Did you catch that?” Spencer’s voice cut through your haze. You blinked, realizing you’d been staring—again.

“S-sorry. What?” you stammered, gripping your pen like it might anchor you to reality.

His lips quirked up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “I was asking if you understood why we’re using a t-distribution here instead of a z-distribution.”

“Oh! Uh… yes?” you said uncertainly.

Spencer chuckled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “You’re lying.”

Your stomach dropped, and you immediately ducked your head, cheeks flaming. “I’m not lying,” you mumbled.

“You are,” he said, and though his tone was light, there was an unmistakable confidence in his words. “Your body language gave it away. You looked down and shifted in your chair when you answered, which is a pretty common tell.”

You groaned softly, mortified. “Okay, fine. I don’t know why we’re using it.”

“See? That’s progress.” He grinned, and you could swear there was a hint of mischief in his expression. “But I can’t help noticing that your attention seems… elsewhere.”

Your head snapped up at that, your wide eyes meeting his. “What? No! I’m paying attention.”

Spencer tilted his head, his smile widening slightly. “Really? Then why do you keep staring at me?”

Your heart practically stopped. “I’m not—I wasn’t—I mean—” The words tumbled out of your mouth in a flustered mess, and his grin only grew more pronounced.

“It’s fine,” he said smoothly, cutting off your babbling. “I just couldn’t help but notice. You’ve been doing it since last session.”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I wasn’t staring,” you lied weakly.

His gaze held yours, unwavering and far too knowing. “You were,” he countered, his voice low and teasing now. “But I’m curious—why?”

“I wasn’t—” You stopped yourself, realizing you were only digging the hole deeper. “I’m just… thinking.”

“Thinking?” His eyebrows lifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “About the statistics, or something else?”

You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole. “The statistics,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered.

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, the sound warm and almost smug. “If you say so.”

He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on the table, and you felt the air shift between you. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his tone softer now, “it’s not a bad thing. People observe things they find interesting.”

The words hung in the air, and you swore your pulse echoed in your ears. You couldn’t tell if he was being matter-of-fact or if there was a deeper implication in his statement, but the knowing glint in his eyes kept you from relaxing.

“Let’s try again,” he said after a beat, tapping his pen against the notebook and effortlessly shifting the conversation back to math. But the playful smirk that lingered on his face for the rest of the session made it clear: he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily.

When you arrived at your usual table in the library, Spencer was already there, meticulously arranging his materials. His long fingers smoothed out the corner of a page in his notebook, and he glanced up as you approached, offering a small smile that made your stomach flutter despite your best efforts to stay composed.

“Hi,” you greeted softly, sliding into your seat.

“Hi,” he replied, his voice warm and low. “Ready to tackle some more statistics?”

You nodded, pulling out your notebook and pen. He scooted his chair slightly closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough that you could feel the faintest brush of his knee against yours under the table. You froze for a moment, unsure if it was intentional, but Spencer didn’t react.

“Okay,” he began, leaning toward you to sketch out a problem. As he wrote, his shoulder nudged yours lightly. The contact was brief, but it left your skin tingling.

“Let’s start with this,” he said, his pen gliding smoothly across the page. “We’re calculating confidence intervals today. Do you remember the formula from last time?”

You stared at the problem, willing yourself to focus, but the warmth of his proximity made it difficult. “Uh… I think so?”

“Let me jog your memory,” he said. His hand moved toward your notebook, his fingers brushing against yours as he adjusted it to face him. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you.

“Sorry,” he said casually, his eyes flicking to yours for a moment. “Didn’t mean to invade your space.”

“No, it’s fine,” you replied quickly, your voice higher than usual. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t a big deal, that the contact had been accidental. But then he leaned even closer, his arm grazing yours as he explained the formula.

“See how the standard error fits into this part?” he asked, his voice calm and steady.

You nodded, though you weren’t sure what you were agreeing to. It was impossible to concentrate with the way his sleeve brushed against yours, the subtle movement sending a ripple of awareness through you.

“Let’s work through this part together,” Spencer continued, his tone patient. He slid his hand over the notebook, his fingers brushing against yours again as he pointed to a specific number. The touch lingered just a fraction longer than necessary, but his expression remained neutral, as though he hadn’t noticed.

You couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or if you were imagining things. Either way, the warmth radiating from him was making your thoughts hazy.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, his head tilting slightly as he looked at you.

“Yeah! Totally fine,” you said quickly, though your face felt like it was on fire.

He smiled, his expression soft but unreadable. “Good. Let me know if I’m going too fast.”

You nodded, gripping your pen tightly to ground yourself. But Spencer didn’t make it easy. Every time he reached for the notebook or gestured toward your notes, his hand would brush against yours. Once, he leaned forward to grab a pen, his shoulder pressing lightly into yours for a moment that felt both casual and deliberate.

By the time the session was over, your nerves were shot. Spencer handed you a fresh set of notes, his fingers grazing yours yet again as he passed them over.

“These should help,” he said, his voice soft and steady. “You’re doing better than you think, by the way.”

“Thanks,” you murmured, clutching the notes to your chest.

“Same time next week?” he asked, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than usual.

You nodded, too flustered to say much else. As you walked away, you replayed the session in your mind, questioning every subtle touch, every quiet moment of proximity. Was it intentional, or were you imagining things?

The worst part was that you couldn’t tell—and that you didn’t really mind either way.

You weren’t sure why you’d agreed to have Spencer tutor you at your place. The library felt safer somehow, more neutral. But when he’d suggested it—citing the possibility of fewer distractions—you’d found yourself nodding without a second thought.

Now, as you sat across from him at your small dining table, you were second-guessing every decision that had led to this moment.

“Nice place,” Spencer said as he set his bag down and took in the cozy, slightly cluttered room. His eyes lingered on a stack of books by the couch. “Suits you.”

“Thanks,” you replied, fidgeting with your pen. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting company, so it’s kind of messy.”

He gave you a small smile, his gaze warm and easy. “It’s fine. Ready to get started?”

You nodded, grateful for the excuse to focus on something—anything—other than the fact that Spencer Reid, in all his impossibly distracting glory, was sitting in your home.

For the first few minutes, you managed to keep things professional. Spencer explained a complex concept with his usual precision, and you actually managed to follow along. But then he leaned closer, pointing out a detail in your notes, and you felt that now-familiar flutter in your chest.

“You’ve got the right idea,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You just need to be more precise here.”

He tapped the edge of the page, his hand brushing yours in the process. The contact was brief but enough to make your breath hitch.

“You okay?” he asked, glancing up at you with those impossibly perceptive eyes.

“Yeah, fine,” you said quickly, though your voice betrayed you.

Spencer’s lips quirked, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he shifted slightly, his knee brushing against yours under the table. It felt so casual, so natural, that you couldn’t decide if it was intentional.

For a while, he kept his focus on the notes, but his proximity seemed to grow with each passing moment. The air between you felt charged, like static electricity, and you could feel your resolve slipping.

“So,” Spencer said suddenly, leaning back in his chair and studying you with an intensity that made your pulse race, “how are you finding these sessions so far?”

“They’re good,” you said quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Really helpful.”

“Helpful,” he repeated, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. “You sure about that?”

“Of course,” you replied, glancing up at him.

His eyes locked onto yours, and the weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear. “You seem… distracted sometimes.”

“I’m not distracted,” you said defensively, though the heat rising to your cheeks said otherwise.

Spencer leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice dropped slightly, the teasing edge unmistakable. “Are you sure? Because I get the feeling you’ve been paying more attention to me than the math.”

Your stomach flipped, and you looked down, trying to steady your breathing. “That’s not true,” you muttered.

“Isn’t it?” he asked, his tone soft but insistent.

Before you could respond, he reached out, his fingers grazing yours as he took the pen from your hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, and it left your skin buzzing.

“Relax,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just helping.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. He leaned closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

“Spencer…” you began, your voice shaky.

“Yes?” he murmured, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest of moments.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The tension between you was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

Spencer’s hand moved slightly, his fingers brushing against yours again. This time, the touch lingered, deliberate and unmistakable. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he said softly, his voice low and steady.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you found yourself leaning ever so slightly toward him, your body betraying you before your mind could catch up.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

With a slow, careful movement, Spencer closed the distance between you, his hand resting lightly on yours as he tilted his head. The kiss, when it came, was soft and tentative, like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned into him, your heart pounding as you let yourself get lost in the moment. When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours, his expression a mix of curiosity and something deeper.

“Still distracted?” he asked, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips.

Your heart thundered in your chest as his words hung in the air. You couldn’t decide if the heat coursing through you was from the kiss or the way he was looking at you—like you were the most fascinating puzzle he’d ever encountered.

“Very,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smile widened slightly, but it wasn’t the smug grin you expected. It was softer, almost tender, though his eyes still carried that flicker of mischief.

“Maybe we should take a break,” he murmured, his voice lower now, almost inviting.

You nodded, your breath catching as he stood and motioned toward the couch in the living room. You followed him, your nerves on edge but your body moving of its own accord.

The moment you sat down, the tension between you snapped like a rubber band. Spencer hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though giving you one last chance to stop him, before leaning in again.

This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His lips met yours with more certainty, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw as he deepened the kiss. You melted into him, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as the kiss grew more fervent.

Spencer shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours as his free hand settled on your waist. The pressure was light, grounding, but it sent a shiver down your spine all the same. His thumb traced a small, absent-minded circle against your side, and the simple motion made your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

You tilted your head slightly, allowing him to angle the kiss more deeply. He responded immediately, his fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer. The world outside your apartment ceased to exist, leaving only the heat of his body and the intoxicating pull of his lips against yours.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Spencer’s forehead rested lightly against yours, and you could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath.

“I think,” he said after a moment, his voice rougher than usual, “we’ve officially crossed into not studying territory.”

You laughed softly, your hands still clutching the front of his shirt. “You think?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before leaning back just enough to meet your gaze. His fingers lingered on your waist, and the way he looked at you made your heart skip a beat.

“You’re full of surprises, you know,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

“Me?” you replied, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who—”

Before you could finish, he kissed you again, effectively silencing any protest. This time, it was slower, more deliberate, like he was savoring every second. You sighed against his lips, your hands sliding up to his shoulders as you gave in to the moment.

Spencer’s hands, steady but careful, slid down from your waist to rest on your hips. He shifted closer, and you felt the subtle press of his body against yours, his touch firm but never overwhelming. When his knee nudged between your legs, your breath hitched, the pressure sparking a warmth that spread through you like wildfire.

You froze for half a second, unsure if the movement had been intentional, but Spencer didn’t pull back. Instead, his lips moved against yours with more intent, and his hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips, guiding you just enough for the tension between you to crackle and deepen.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you whispered, your hands gripping his shoulders more tightly as you let yourself lean into him.

Encouraged by your response, Spencer deepened the kiss, his knee pressing more firmly between your thighs. The sensation was maddeningly slow, his movements deliberate and measured as though he was testing every reaction. You gasped softly, and he swallowed the sound with a small, satisfied hum.

His hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing against your ribs just beneath the hem of your shirt. The touch was gentle, but the heat of his palms against your skin left you trembling.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “I’m going to ask you a question from one of our sessions. If you get it right, I’ll keep going. If you don’t…” His hands stilled against your skin, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his smirk growing. “Well, I’ll have to stop.”

Your mouth went dry. Was he serious? The challenge in his eyes told you he absolutely was.

“Spencer…” you started, your voice shaky with anticipation and a tinge of frustration.

“Hm?” he prompted, his hands sliding down slightly but remaining just beneath your shirt, a silent reminder of what was at stake. “What’s the formula for calculating a confidence interval?”

You stared at him, your mind scrambling to recall the formula you’d seen so many times in your notes. But all you could focus on was the way his fingers were still, waiting, as though they held the key to your ability to think.

“Um,” you began, your voice faltering. “It’s, uh, the mean… plus or minus… the critical value?”

Spencer’s smirk widened, his head tilting slightly as though he was considering your answer. “Close,” he said, his hands retreating slightly. “But not quite. Want to try again?”

“No, wait!” you exclaimed, your cheeks flushing as you tried to focus. “The mean plus or minus the critical value times the standard error?”

He hummed softly, his fingers resuming their slow circles. “There it is,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “See? You can focus when you want to.”

Your heart pounded as his hands slid higher, his thumbs brushing dangerously close to the underside of your bra. The sensation was enough to make your breath hitch, but you barely had time to react before he spoke again.

“Next question,” he said, his tone taking on a slightly firmer edge. “What’s the first step in solving a regression problem?”

Your brain felt like it had been set on fire. How were you supposed to remember academic concepts when his hands were touching you like this?

“I—I think…” you stammered, biting your lip as you tried to focus. “The first step is… identifying the variables?”

Spencer’s brow lifted, his expression a mix of amusement and approval. “Good,” he said, his hands sliding back down to your waist. “But don’t forget to check your assumptions first. Details matter.”

You let out a soft whine of frustration, but the sound turned into a gasp as his knee pressed gently between your legs again, reigniting the fire building in your core.

“You’re doing well,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your jaw as he spoke. “But I think you can do better.”

The challenge in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt your resolve crumbling under the weight of his attention.

“What’s the difference between Type I and Type II errors?” he asked, his tone almost clinical despite the heat radiating from him.

“Type I is… rejecting a true null hypothesis,” you managed, your voice shaky. “And Type II is failing to reject a false one.”

Spencer grinned, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth. “Excellent,” he said softly. “You’re such a quick learner when you try.”

The praise made your heart race, warmth blooming in your chest as his words sank in. You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slid lower, resting on the bare skin just above the waistband of your pants.

“You deserve a reward,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine.

“A reward?” you managed, your voice breathless and unsteady.

He chuckled softly, his lips moving to your neck, pressing a series of slow, deliberate kisses along the sensitive skin. “For all your hard work,” he murmured against your skin, his fingers toying with the elastic of your waistband. “Don’t you think you’ve earned it?”

Your only response was a soft, shaky nod, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt as though it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Good girl,” he said, the words barely above a whisper, but they sent a jolt through your entire body.

His hand slipped beneath the fabric of your pants, his touch deliberate and teasing as he traced the edge of your panties. He paused for a moment, his lips ghosting over your ear as he murmured, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling but filled with certainty.

That was all the permission he needed. His hand slipped lower, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric of your panties to find your most sensitive spot. The first touch was light, almost experimental, but it was enough to make you gasp softly, your body arching into him.

“That’s it,” Spencer murmured, his voice filled with quiet satisfaction. “You’re doing so well.”

His fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles, the pressure just enough to leave you trembling in his grasp. His other hand slid up to cup your jaw, tilting your head slightly so he could capture your lips in another searing kiss.

The contrast between his steady, controlled movements and the growing intensity of his kisses was intoxicating, leaving you completely at his mercy. He broke the kiss just long enough to study your face, his eyes dark with desire but filled with a surprising tenderness.

“Look at you,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

The praise made your cheeks flush, but before you could respond, his fingers pressed more firmly against you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips.

“That’s my good girl,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a featherlight kiss. “So responsive. So perfect.”

His words and touch combined left you completely undone, your thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. All you could do was cling to him, your hands gripping his shoulders as he continued his slow, deliberate exploration.

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

taglist: @opheliahotchner

[httpswritings]

if you were my little girl: the series part 5

alexia putellas x child!reader; this story contains mentions of traumatic experiences as drug addiction, child abuse and similar topics. don't read it if you find those topics triggering.

a/n: i was a little bit disgusted writing some parts of this, that's why it has taken more than usually to post it. if you feel the same way when you read it, i guess i've captured well the feeling with words. part 6 will be similar to this one.

Flour dusted your cheeks as you nervously kneaded dough with Alexia. Outside, the rumble of the vacuum cleaner announced your parents' frantic cleaning for the family reunion. Alexia, ever perceptive, noticed the tightness in your smile.

"Don't worry," she said, her voice a warm reassurance. "I'm not going anywhere."

Relief washed over you as Alexia squeezed your shoulder, a silent show of support. But then, a wave of shame crashed down. You loved having Alexia by your side, but you dreaded her witnessing the potential chaos of your family reunion. You squeezed the cookie dough in your hand a little too hard, wishing you could bake away the impending awkwardness.

An hour ticked by, the house humming with the final flourishes before the guests arrived. Relief battled with a gnawing anxiety in your gut. Family members began to trickle in, greeted warmly by your mother, who then ushered them towards Alexia. As introductions were made, Alexia couldn't help but marvel at the warmth radiating from this seemingly happy family. But a dissonant note jarred the picture. Her gaze fell on the clinking beer bottles your uncle brought, a familiar dread sparking in your eyes. Alexia's heart clenched. There you were, barely a shadow against the backdrop of the bustling room, yet the fear etched on your young face spoke volumes. A fierce protectiveness ignited within her, pushing aside the initial wonder. This loving facade, this was the "devil" you'd spoken of?

The spotlight naturally fell on Alexia during the family reunion. A constant stream of questions flowed her way, each inquiry a beat in the symphony of getting-to-know-you. Even your parents joined the chorus, their voices brimming with pride as they declared to anyone within earshot how lucky they were to have an small Alexia as their daughter.

But the facade cracked when one of your uncles, amidst the laughter, uttered a comment about women's football.

"She's good," he chuckled, "but be careful she doesn't turn..." his voice trailed off, replaced by a knowing wink, "...lesbian, you know?"

A ripple of laughter spread, leaving you and Alexia as islands of silence. The term "lesbian" was a nebulous thing, one you'd heard hurled as an insult at girls who excelled at sports, but you know ot meant a woman that loved women. You didn't understand why it was bad, just that the tone felt wrong.

Across from you, Alexia stiffened. Her jaw clenched, and a flicker of anger ignited in her eyes. Yet, she swallowed the retort, the fierce protectiveness she felt for you overriding her own indignation. This wasn't about her. In the stifling atmosphere, a silent vow solidified. She was there to shield you, even if it meant enduring veiled barbs and swallowing her own voice.

It was nearly 1PM and the barbecue started.

Alexia understood right away what you meant with the drawing.

She saw how everyone besides your grandmother was drunk, very drunk.

There was a heavy beer odor in the atmosphere, that made Alexia feel nauseous, and she remembered how upset you got when you had smelled that odor in her some weeks ago.

Everything made sense.

The clock ticked relentlessly towards 1 pm, the hands seeming to etch closer to the moment the festivities would truly begin. A plume of smoke rose from the barbecue pit, carrying with it the unmistakable, acrid scent of burning charcoal and sizzling meat. Alexia inhaled sharply, the pungent air triggering a memory. It was the same heavy beer stench that had twisted your face in disgust when you caught a whiff of it on her. A sudden understanding dawned on her. You hadn't been exaggerating in your frantic drawing. Glancing around at the scene before her, confirmation washed over her like a cold wave. Bodies swayed precariously, laughter devolved into slurred shouts, and empty beer bottles littered the once pristine picnic tables. It was clear – everyone, with the possible exception of your stoic grandmother perched primly on the edge of the scene, was demonstrably, uncomfortably drunk. The nausea that had been a mere flicker before now blossomed in her stomach, as thick and unwelcome as the oppressive atmosphere surrounding her. Everything about this picture, from the reeking air to the sloppy revelry, suddenly made even more sense, terrible sense.

Alexia watched you across the chaotic scene. Here you were, amidst the laughter and smoky haze, surprisingly relaxed. You even seemed genuinely amused, sharing jokes with your family. Could she blame you? This was your normal, the background noise you'd grown accustomed to, the beer-soaked gatherings, the boisterous laughter that teetered on the edge of aggression. Maybe you hadn't even noticed the way everyone seemed a little off-balance, their voices a touch too loud, their movements a hair too jerky. Perhaps you'd simply normalized it all, the way one gets used to the hum of a refrigerator after a while.

The thought made her stomach clench. Then, as if on cue, a beer bottle clattered to the ground, shattering with a jarring crack. You flinched, a flicker of alarm crossing your face before it was quickly masked by a strained smile. Alexia's observation sharpened. Your pupils were dilated, and your hand, reaching for a bread roll, trembled slightly.

A primal urge for safety surged through you. The boisterous laughter that had seemed amusing moments ago now felt like a cacophony, threatening to drown you out. Instinctively, you gravitated towards Alexia, seeking refuge by her side. You'd always admired her hands, strong and capable – the kind that left colorful imprints on both your canvases and your skin during your painting sessions. Back then, they'd been instruments of creativity, but now, they transformed into something more – a potential shield against the unsettling atmosphere. The unspoken promise of protection emanating from those hands offered a sliver of comfort amidst the chaos.

The moment of amusement with Alexia evaporated like spilled beer on the picnic table as you got near the men of your family to get some water. Your uncle, emboldened by a few too many drinks, lurched back into his usual pattern of inappropriate comments. His voice, thick with slurred words, boomed across the gathering. "If I were you, I'd keep an eye on your little girl. She seems very content with Alexia." A forced laugh escaped his lips, but it held a nasty edge. Shame burned in your cheeks.

Relief washed over you as you realized Alexia hadn't caught the undercurrent of the conversation happening a few feet away from her. Your father, flanked by your two uncles, was fielding questions cast in slurred tones.

"Why is she here, anyway?" your eldest uncle rumbled, his voice thick with suspicion.

"Alexia's been a great help with the girl's journey on football. She's a good woman."

The youngest uncle leaned in conspiratorially, his breath reeking of stale beer. "Yeah, well, good woman or not, is she one of them?" He punctuated his question with a jerk of his thumb, the implication hanging heavy in the air.

"One of them?"

"A dyke, do you know if she's one of them?

A knot of anger tightened in your stomach. You still loved your family, even after everything they had done to you, but suddenly, the thought of being related to them, felt painful. You longed for the escape of your room, a place where the world couldn't twist your innocent friendship into something ugly. You stole a glance at Alexia, catching the way she laughed with your grandmother, oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around her.

This was uncharted territory. Usually, Alexia stood as your shield, but now, a fierce protectiveness surged through you, a need to defend the one who'd always been your rock. The conversation went over your head. Dyke. A word associated with something you didn't quite grasp, yet somehow felt ugly. Why were they calling Alexia that? You'd never heard her mention a boyfriend, but girlfriends were a blank slate too. But, what if she liked girls? Why was that a problem?

As you kept listening to them talk, your innocence felt bruised.

"She's hot. It'd be a waste if she's really a lesbian.

"God only knows if I have the chance."

A tear escaped, then another, and you bolted for the safety of your room.

Alexia, her heart echoing your pain, sprung up and followed. "Hey, little one," she called out, her voice laced with concern. "What happened?" Before you could answer, the others arrived, their presence only amplifying your tears. What was once your haven now felt tainted, the air thick with their presence. Your drawings, your toys, even your bed seemed to echo the intrusion.

Your mom reached out, but you burrowed deeper into Alexia's embrace, her familiar scent of fruit offering a sliver of comfort. "Her stomach hurts," Alexia lied gently, a shield against the storm brewing around you.

A semblance of normalcy returned, but you were a shadow by Alexia's side. When Alexia asked what had made you cry, her worried eyes met yours. A truth dawned on you - the depth of your love for her. No longer an idol, she was your fierce protector, an angel in this sudden hell, a sister.

"Just... uncomfortable," you mumbled, unable to voice the unspoken hurt. Alexia saw through it, but held her tongue. This burden was hers, a consequence of leaving you unguarded. Maybe a brief escape was possible.

"Can I take her to the park?" she asked your parents, hoping for a distraction. Your father, still wary of Alexia under his uncles' scrutiny, hesitated.

"Let them go," your grandmother unexpectedly intervened. "The child looks bored of only being surrounded by adults."

To your surprise, the park became a reality. It was your first outing with Alexia, just the two of you. She challenged you to a race, a playful glint in her eyes. Despite her victory, it was her joyous laughter that soothed you, a melody of safety.

The park itself welcomed you with open arms. You made a beeline for the slide, a picture of carefree happiness. Watching you, tears welled in Alexia's eyes.

You were feeling very happy when a gaggle of children, trailed by their parents, swarmed Alexia. Requests for selfies and football games flew through the air.

Your stomach, previously a dull ache, lurched into a full-blown protest. It wasn't just a tummy ache anymore; it was a physical manifestation of your possessiveness. You didn't want to share Alexia with other children, let alone during this hell of a day.

You were her “little one”.

It was the same feeling other kids got when they wouldn't share their toys, their parents, or their siblings. Only, for you, Alexia wasn't just anyone. She was the closest thing you had to family, along with Alba.

The park's joy felt stolen as you stalked out, hand in hand with Alexia. Barcelona's streets stretched before you, but there was no peace to be found, not with Alexia surrounded by others. Alexia, ever perceptive, caught your downturned lips. A secret smile played on her lips. "Hey," she whispered, leaning down, "you know you're still my favorite little girl, right?"

You hugged her and she picked you up.

"I know you're not going to like this but we should return to your house."

You whined in her arms and she really wished she could've bring you home with her, invite Alba and had a peaceful night.

You fell asleep on her arms and she held you tightly.

"Wake up, little one. I need you to be awake until the reunion's over so I can stay."

The boisterous reunion noises held a sinister edge. A sudden crash shattered the fragile peace, sending a jolt through you as you entered the house. Before you could even whimper, Alexia materialized beside you, her eyes wide with worry.

The air crackled with tension, fueled by the adults' increasing intoxication. Subtle cues – the way your parents forgot about your daily bath, the strained silences – painted a picture of neglect that gnawed at Alexia. She retreated to your room, a sanctuary amidst the chaos, creating a world of happy dolls to distract you from the turmoil outside.

If she couldn't make the world a better place, she would create your own one.

As the clock ticked closer to 1 am, the party raged on. Your grandmother, her face etched with concern, offered Alexia a chance to stay the night. Your parents were too drunk to even care.

The familiar comfort of Alexia sleeping beside you, like a sleepover with a best friend, offered a flicker of normalcy. Yet, sleep remained a distant dream. The sounds of arguments vibrated through the walls, a constant reminder of the day's unsettling events.

You liked having Alexia in your room, like you were with your other friends in sleepovers.

She kissed your front as a goodnight and held your hand from her bed.

"Sleep well, my princess."

Sleep eluded you both. The boisterous voices from the living room seemed to vibrate through the walls, a constant reminder of the day's events. A sudden, jarring crash shattered the tense silence. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a panicked echo of the sound. Alexia, alert in an instant, was beside you before you could even cry out.

Her arms wrapped around you, a fierce embrace that spoke volumes more than any words could. You clung to her, your body trembling with a fear she'd never witnessed in anyone else. A single, fierce whisper escaped her lips, "I've got you. I've got you."

The chaos that had been simmering all day finally erupted. Even Alexia, who thrived on boisterous family gatherings, couldn't hide the fear creeping into her eyes. Her hand instinctively reached for her phone, searching for a lifeline - the police, her family, anyone.

But before she could dial, the door creaked open revealing your grandmother, her face etched with worry. "Take her with you, Alexia," she pleaded, voice trembling. "Please, take her."

Confusion clouded your mind, but a surge of bravery prompted you to peek out from behind Alexia. The sight that greeted you was a blur of motion - your uncles locked in a furious struggle, their playful banter replaced by guttural grunts. When they noticed you, they attempted a smile, the facade crumbling as quickly as it formed.

Alexia scooped you close, shielding you from the escalating chaos. Your grandmother, a pillar of strength amidst the storm, began packing a bag with your clothes. Alexia, fear momentarily forgotten, focused solely on getting you out of that hostile environment.

"You're coming with me," she whispered fiercely. "You're safe with me."

A flicker of doubt crossed your face as you looked at your grandmother. Alexia understood. She offered your grandmother a chance to escape with them, but the refusal was swift.

"My place is here," she said, voice heavy with resignation. "They're my sons. But she," she gestured towards you, "she doesn't deserve this. I want her to have a different life, a better life."

With trembling hands, Alexia scrawled her phone number on your grandmother's wrist. "This is mine," she instructed, voice urgent. "Please, don't let anyone else see it. I don't know what's coming next, but I can't bear the thought of her losing contact with you."

A silent understanding passed between them. Your grandmother squeezed Alexia's hand, then leaned down to kiss your forehead. Her voice held a lifetime of unspoken advice, "Remember what I always tell you. Education is your key. It's your power. Never depend on anyone, especially a man," just like she depended on her sons, she wanted something different for you.

[pinesource]

Chris Pine said this week the development and release of his directorial debut Poolman was “the best thing to ever happen to me” despite the movie’s nearly universal bad reviews.

“It’s forced me to double down on joy,” Pine told host Josh Horowitz on Thursday’s episode of the Happy Sad Confused podcast. “As an actor… fundamentally it’s about play, right? What we do is essentially become children for hours a day and make believe,” he said, adding: “There’s an impish quality to it that I don’t ever want to lose.”

Poolman, which debuted at Toronto film festival last fall, follows Pine as a down-on-his luck pool technician in Los Angeles who discovers a water heist in a spoof of 1974’s Chinatown. The film was panned by critics, with The Hollywood Reporter writing that the project “goes tonally off the rails from the start and proceeds to hit bottom with excruciating momentum.”

Pine said this week the bad reviews became “a real come to Jesus moment for me, in terms of seeing how resilient I am.”

He added that we wasn’t “totally surprised” by the critiques, saying he hadn’t set out to “make some sort of niche film,” but said it was hard to reconcile having made a project “with so much joy behind it, to then be met with this fuselage of not-so-joyous stuff.”

“The cognitive dissonance there was quite something,” he continued, going on to reference a favorite latin phrase that translates to, “Vigor grows from the wound.”

“I love that idea,” he said. “Yes, there’s the hurt of the cut, there’s the hurt of the moment, but as the scar tissue forms, as the healing process happens, you do benefit from the growth and resilience in sitting in your being of what you’re trying to say.”

Pine says this lesson helped remind him that his contentment with the project was ultimately up to only himself. “After the reviews in Toronto I was like, maybe I did just make a pile of shit,” he recalled. “So I went back and watched it, and I was like, I fucking love this film.”

[delawaredetroit]

What are your thoughts on Aizawa?

Personally I feel like his character as a whole was ruined in his first scene during the quirk assessment test by going back on his word to make it a “logical ruse”, targeting Midoriya over his quirk (something I always felt would be tied to class since self destructive quirks aren’t easily trained, especially if you don’t have the funds to own/regularly visit large tracts of private property with easy access to health care. Though UA’s high number of legacy hero’s and high entrance bar means they probably expect somewhat pre-trained kids), and above all keeping on Mineta (someone who constantly disrupts class and leads to an unsafe environment for the female students, limiting how much they’ll learn).

But I’m hella bias and most of that was tied to his first appearance, so I would love to hear your take on his character as a whole

I think almost everything interesting about him was written by Hideyuki Furuhashi, the author of the Vigilantes spinoff. Seriously. That's where Aizawa's backstory is and where Aizawa's characterization is the most consistent. Vigilantes Aizawa deserves the hype he gets.

Aizawa in the main BNHA manga is no favorite of mine. Many of my issues with Aizawa are problems with the narrative generally and the dissonance between how he is described versus his actions.

Aizawa at his core is a guy with a lot of trauma who projects that trauma onto his students. His favor is based on who he thinks is most likely to survive. In that context, on paper it makes sense why he would favor Bakugou and ignore Mineta's everything. Early Bakugou was skilled and didn't take risks that could cause him harm because he was a fundamentally selfish person. Mineta was a coward and not a fool so he was unlikely to die a hero's death.

Aizawa being heavily traumatized itself isn't necessarily a problem; that's some crunchy characterization right there. The problem is that the narrative tries to portray him as the concept of rationality itself in contrast to Izuku/All Might's idealism. That doesn't really work when the origin of Aizawa's attitude also comes from an inherently irrational place.

Also, the story often uses him as a mouthpiece to directly explain to the audience what they should take away from scenes. It particularly stands out when Aizawa is presenting information he has no reason to know or information that should not be new information worth commenting on. (His lines about Shouto during his fight with Bakugou in the Sports Festival is an example of the former and most of his lines during the Provisional Licensing Exam are examples of the latter).

The other issue is that after introducing these two contrasting characterizations of Aizawa as rationality itself and Aizawa as the hero who never got past the horrors he faced as a hero student, a third Aizawa who contradicted both of the prior ones was introduced: Aizawa the doting teacher, Dadzawa. And it just doesn't work with the rest of his character. It might have worked if it was something that developed over time after he was given the task of caring for Eri. But this doting teacher characterization was introduced before that without much explanation. It also feels jarring because this story is largely from Izuku's point of view where Aizawa is largely portrayed as a hostile obstacle to Izuku rather than a teacher concerned for his growth and wellbeing.

[taoriyu]

Harvest festival

================ Rating: M Pairing: Mizu x F!Reader Description: Your party decided to join the local harvest festival, and you seized the opportunity to spend some time alone with Mizu.

Actually this text is very short and only one bit of it is smut and I wanted it to be also ironic. But still I hope you will enjoy it. Let's goooo ================

Late in the cold and windy autumn evening, Taigen and Ringo made their way down the dimly lit corridor leading to the room they had secured at the inn earlier that day. Outside, the village buzzed with life as the locals celebrated the bountiful harvest. The air was thick with the sounds of merriment — laughter rang out, music played joyfully, and the aroma of rich, hearty food wafted through the streets. It had been Ringo's idea to join the festivities and spend the night at the inn, a rare luxury for your party. After so long on the road, the promise of a warm futon was irresistible.

The inn itself was alive with sounds of revelry. The walls seemed to hum with the echoes of dancing feet and the cheerful chatter of the guests, of loud laughs and also moans. 'What was a harvest festival without celebrating bodies, after all?', Taigen thought approaching the right door. But suddenly he stood right there, his ears perked up to the sounds coming from your shared room. He could hear your ragged breaths transforming into helpless moans that fell into sweet cries of ecstasy.

“No-no-no-no Mizu” his eyebrows twitched “don’t stop, don’t fucking stop” you shout desperately. “Yes-yes-yes like that oh gods oh ah” your words dissolve into a primal and explosive symphony of moans, each one bursting from your lips in a wild and erratic rhythm that builds to a crescendo of unadulterated pleasure. With a final, high pitched cry, you release yourself completely, consumed by the hot and sweet sensation coursing through your body.

If the boys opened the door they would see the two of you: you straddling Mizu with your kosode yanked open to reveal your heaving breasts, glittering with sweat, your mouth open. You breath heavily, slightly shifting from Mizu’s face, partially obscured by lube as she gazes up at you with flushed cheeks. Her skilled fingers gliding over your thighs, your hips, your stomach, thumbs gently stroking skin. A mischievous smirk playing on her lips.

Taigen, his face flushed a deep crimson, reached out and gently placed a hand on Ringo's shoulder, wordlessly suggesting they take a stroll back to the courtyard. "Let's drink more of this wine, shall we, Ringo?" he asked softly, his voice barely audible above the festive din.

Seated at the feasting table, Taigen nursed his wine, a complex and gloomy expression clouding his features. He took a sip, his thoughts turning inward. Akemi's never been like that with me, he mused, the bitterness of his reflection mingling with the taste of the wine.

Across from him, Ringo was equally lost in thought, perplexed by the dissonance between what he had heard and what he believed he understood. After all, master, how does it work? Ringo wondered, his mind spinning in confusion.

----------

Maybe I should try to write a full version of this smut fic. And I definitely want an art with reader's pov now

[yoursinisforgiven]

RESONANCE ──

pairing: fran x reader (non–listener) 

cw: reader is slightly intoxicated, reader is likely a hunter.

you are responsible for your own media consumption

New Orleans, the city of music, love, and festivals—never truly slept.

You didn’t live there, nor did you want to. It wasn’t that kind of city for you. It was captivating, but not in a way that invited ownership. It was the kind of beauty you respected from a distance, like a rare work of art in a museum: mesmerizing yet untouchable, demanding reverence rather than indulgence.

You’d come for a job. A short stint that had become an examination of your own moral compass. The humid air clung to you like a second skin, heavy with the scent of magnolias and history, as though the city itself whispered secrets to anyone willing to listen. Nights pulsed with life—brass bands echoing through narrow streets, laughter melting into the ether, and the mournful wail of a lone saxophone tracing paths through the dark.

Yet your stay had always been destined to be temporary. The job had seen to that. You hated the work; you’d made that clear. It wasn’t the kind of hate born of inconvenience or tedium but the deep, gnawing aversion to something that corroded your soul. You couldn’t justify taking life, not anymore. You didn’t like the job—you liked the money. And even that was losing its allure.

 ──

Maybe that’s why you found yourself slumped at some forgotten bar, drinking whatever the bartender slid your way in an effort to silence the growing dissonance in your mind.

You weren’t a murderer—not in the legal sense. To murder was to kill a human being, right? And you hadn’t crossed that line. Not yet. But the line had blurred, the moral distinctions unraveling like loose threads in a tapestry. You groaned, letting your head fall onto the bar counter.

The small bell above the door rang, slicing through the haze of alcohol and self-recrimination. Someone new had entered.

You didn’t lift your head, but you felt their presence—a shift in the room, a faint ripple in the air. The bartender greeted them with the kind of casual familiarity that suggested they were a regular. Their boots echoed against the worn wood floor as they approached, taking the stool beside you.

“Rough night?” the voice was low and calm, carrying the weight of someone who understood more than they let on.

You turned your head slightly, enough to glance at the newcomer. Their face was shadowed by the dim lighting, but their eyes gleamed with a strange intensity, as though they could see the storm inside you.

“It’s not the night,” you muttered, staring back at your glass. “It’s what comes after.”

The stranger let out a dry chuckle, signaling the bartender for a drink. “Ah, the weight of consequence. Funny thing about New Orleans—it’s a city built on ghosts. You can run from the living, but the dead? They stay with you.”

The words struck a chord, something deep and unspoken. You sat up, the alcohol no longer dulling your senses but amplifying your unease. “Are you saying I can’t outrun it?”

“I’m saying maybe you shouldn’t try.” The stranger lifted their glass, staring into the amber liquid. 

The stranger lifted her glass, the dim light catching the amber liquid and casting fleeting reflections across her face. You sat up fully now, the haze of alcohol clearing just enough to allow a better look at her. She was beautiful—but not in a way that brought comfort. It was an unsettling kind of beauty, the kind that made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t consented to, as though she could peel back the layers of your carefully constructed facade with just a glance.

“You speak from experience, huh?” you said, your voice steady despite the flicker of tension in your chest.

She tilted her head slightly, offering a faint, enigmatic smile. “Don’t we all, in some way? You can’t walk through this city without carrying a ghost or two.” Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, an absentminded motion that somehow felt deliberate, like she was drawing invisible circles around unspoken truths.

“Some ghosts are louder than others,” you replied, your eyes narrowing slightly. You weren’t sure if you were talking about yourself or her—or maybe both.

She laughed softly, the sound low and melodic, like a song you couldn’t quite place. “True. But the loud ones, they’re the easiest to face. It’s the quiet ones that haunt you. The ones you almost forget, until they remind you they’re still there.”

Her words lingered in the space between you, heavy with meaning you weren’t ready to unpack. You took another sip of your drink, not because you wanted it, but because you needed something to fill the silence.

“So,” she said, her tone shifting slightly, becoming lighter but no less piercing, “what’s your ghost?”

You looked at her, searching for a hint of mockery, but found none. Her expression was curious, almost inviting, but there was a sharpness in her gaze that told you she wouldn’t accept half-truths.

“I’m not sure I’m drunk enough to answer that,” you said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“Or maybe you’re too drunk to lie about it,” she countered, her lips curving into a smile that was equal parts playful and challenging.

For a moment, you forgot the weight pressing down on you—the job, the blurred lines, the quiet ghosts. She had a way of pulling you out of yourself, making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could breathe for a second.

“You’re good at this,” you said, leaning slightly closer, your voice lowering. “Pulling people apart with words.”

“I don’t pull,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I just listen. People have a way of unraveling themselves if you give them the space.”

Her words hit harder than they should have, and you found yourself leaning back, trying to regain some semblance of control. “And what about you? What’s your ghost?”

She hesitated, her fingers stilling on the glass. For the first time, her confidence wavered, just for a moment. “Maybe I’ll tell you,” she said finally, her voice quieter now. “But not tonight. Tonight, I think it’s your turn to talk.”

“And what if I don’t want to talk?” you asked, though the challenge in your tone had softened.

“Then you can buy me another drink,” she said, her smile returning, this time softer, almost warm. “And we can sit here in silence, letting the city haunt us both.”

It was an offer you couldn’t quite refuse. The bartender slid another round your way, and as you clinked glasses with her, you realized you didn’t mind the company—or the ghosts—for the first time in what felt like forever.

The stranger lifted her glass, her eyes locked on yours with a gaze that felt like a challenge wrapped in silk. Her lips curved into a faint smirk, the kind that hinted she knew something you didn’t.

“You’re good at deflecting,” she said, her voice low and smooth, each word rolling off her tongue like a secret. “But I wonder how long you can keep it up.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning in just slightly, enough to close the space between you without fully committing. “I don’t deflect,” you countered, your tone laced with playful defiance. “I’m just selective with my truths.”

Her laughter was soft, a quiet melody that sent a ripple through the air between you. “Selective, huh? I’ll give you this—you’re intriguing. But you’ve got a tell.”

“A tell?” You couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “What makes you so sure?”

She leaned closer, her elbow resting on the bar as she tilted her head, her dark hair brushing her shoulder. “It’s the way you keep glancing at me, like you’re trying to decide if I’m trouble.”

“And are you?” you asked, your voice dropping just slightly, the words coming out more intimate than you intended.

Her lips parted in a slow grin, one that felt like it could swallow you whole. “Depends. Are you the kind of person who likes trouble?”

Your heart quickened, a mix of adrenaline and something far more dangerous coursing through your veins. The room around you seemed to blur—the faint laughter from a nearby table, the clinking of glasses, even the low hum of jazz from a corner speaker. All of it faded into the background, leaving just the two of you in the charged silence.

“You’re bold,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “Sitting next to strangers, prying into their lives.”

Her eyes glinted, playful but sharp. “I don’t pry. I observe. And you, sweetheart, are a puzzle.”

The word “sweetheart” hit you with surprising force, a warmth spreading through your chest even as your instincts screamed at you to stay on guard. This wasn’t part of the plan. You weren’t supposed to feel anything—not curiosity, not desire, and certainly not this disorienting pull toward her.

“You don’t even know me,” you said, the words coming out quieter than you intended.

“Maybe not,” she admitted, her smile softening into something almost tender. “But there’s a story in your eyes. Something heavy.” Her hand brushed yours as she reached for her glass, the brief contact sending a jolt through you. “And I like heavy stories. They’re more interesting.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself. She was too close now, her presence seeping under your skin. The way she looked at you—like you were the only person in the room—was intoxicating, and for a fleeting moment, you let yourself forget.

“What’s your name?” you asked, your voice almost a whisper.

She hesitated, her smile flickering just briefly before she answered. “Fran.”

The name hit you like a punch to the gut, all the air leaving your lungs in an instant.

Your target.

Everything around you came rushing back—the reason you were here, the weight of the job you’d tried so hard to push away. The alcohol no longer dulled your senses. Instead, it sharpened the bitter irony of the moment, the cruel twist of fate that had led you here, sitting inches away from her.

Fran tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly as she studied you. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You forced a laugh, but it came out shaky. “Maybe I have. This city’s full of them, isn’t it?”

She smiled again, though this time it was softer, more curious than teasing. “What’s your ghost?” she asked, her voice gentle.

The question pierced through you, but you couldn’t answer. Not truthfully, anyway. “Just the usual,” you said, lifting your glass to take a long, steadying sip. “Mistakes, regrets. You know how it is.”

Fran leaned back slightly, her eyes never leaving yours. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I do.”

Her words lingered, heavy with meaning you couldn’t yet decipher. You tried to hold onto the distance, the detachment you needed to finish this job, but the way she looked at you made it impossible. Her presence was disarming, her warmth dangerous.

And now, as she smiled at you again, you realized with a sinking clarity that this was going to be harder than you ever imagined.

──

author's note: i'm starting to work on requests again!!

[bunnyboo77]

Geta, Caracalla x original character.

The grand hall of the imperial palace was ablaze with candlelight, the flickering flames dancing in rhythm with the laughter and music that filled the air. Draped in ornate white linens embroidered with gold, the long tables were laden with the finest delicacies the empire could offer. The intoxicating aroma of spiced meats and roasted fruits wafted through the room, mingling with the sweet scent of flowers that adorned every corner.

Geta and Caracalla stood tall, regal in their attire—their armor gleaming under the soft glow, yet their attention was trained solely on one treasure: Rose. They had adorned her with a stunning golden collar that encircled her delicate neck, the metal shining like the sun against her dark skin. Each link of the collar was handcrafted, encrusted with colorful gemstones that sparkled brightly, drawing eyes towards her wherever she turned.

“Look at her,” Geta said with pride, an arm possessively draped around her shoulders. “Isn’t she breathtaking?”

Caracalla nodded, his gaze piercing, filled with a dark indulgence that made Rose’s heart race. “She is ours, and tonight, we will show the empire just how cherished she is.”

As they entered the hall, heads turned, whispers rippling through the crowd. Rose felt the weight of their gazes—some from admiration, others from envy—and it made her stomach churn. “Can we leave?” she murmured to her emperors, fear creeping into her voice. “I— I don’t feel well.”

“Nonsense,” Caracalla replied, his tone dismissive, but not unkind. He hugged her close, pressing her back against his chest as he whispered, “You are the jewel of this celebration. You must enjoy it.”

But as the night wore on, the festivities took a turn that left Rose feeling increasingly uneasy. Jugglers twirled flaming torches, and musicians played fervor-filled melodies, but her attention was drawn away from the spectacle by the darker entertainment that unfolded at the fringes of the hall—gladiators brawling, their bodies glistening with sweat and blood, the crowd roaring with a savage thirst for violence.

“Do they have to do that?” Rose whispered, her fingers tightening around the edge of her dress, a sense of dread pooling in her stomach.

“Such is the way of the empire,” Geta replied, his voice a mixture of pride and indifference. “Strength is revered in Rome, and we must not shy away from it.”

Rose's heart raced, her discomfort growing as she watched. “But it feels wrong…”

“You will learn,” Caracalla said, a hint of intensity underlying his words. “This is who we are. And soon, you will embrace this world as your own.”

With every cheer for the fighters, every victorious roar that echoed in the hall, Rose felt as if she were being pulled deeper into a whirlpool of chaos. She turned her body slightly, hoping to escape the scene, only to find herself enveloped by the warmth of the twins’ attentiveness. They pressed closer, cocooning her in their presence.

“Stay with us, beloved,” Geta murmured, brushing his fingers along her arms, grounding her amid the dissonance. “Forget the blood and the battle. Focus on the joy we share.”

“But I don’t know if I can,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “It’s all too overwhelming.”

“Look at me,” Caracalla commanded softly, tilting her chin up so that she met his fierce gaze. “You are our light in this darkness. We will shield you. Nothing can touch you here.”

Their words were meant to be comforting, yet they only deepened her trepidation. As they cuddled her tighter, a mix of warmth and claustrophobia wrapped around her like a heavy cloak. “You’re too close,” she said quietly, her breath hitching. “I can’t breathe.”

“Breathe within our embrace,” Geta whispered, nuzzling against her temple, lips brushing her skin. “We will protect you from everything. No one else exists in this moment—only us.”

But Rose felt more trapped than ever, longing for freedom while caught in their adoration. “What if I want to go home?” she asked, the words rustling in the air like fallen leaves.

“Home?” Caracalla echoed, amusement lacing his voice. “You are home, dear Rose. Here with us. Isn’t that what you wanted?” His eyes sparkled with a manic intensity. “To be loved? To be adored?”

“Yes… but this isn’t love,” she protested, her heart racing against the pounding noise around them.

“Love? This is devotion,” Geta interjected, leaning closer, gaze unwavering. “In this world, we possess what we cherish, and you belong to us now.”

She heard the truth in his words, that their affection was overshadowed by their twisted need to keep her close. Rose turned her face away, unable to meet their expectant gazes, struggling with despair. “I just wish things were different…”

Suddenly, Caracalla’s expression darkened, his voice dropping to a low rumble. “Different? Why would you wish for something other than perfection? We gave you everything, Rose. Love, protection—”

“Obsession,” she mumbled, feeling the walls close in.

“Obsession is merely passion intensified,” Geta interjected, his tone turning almost tender, yet chilling in its insistence. “And we are passionate about you, little Rose.”

As the night loomed on, with laughter and cheers echoing around them, Rose felt the chains of their devotion wrap tighter. She knew she was caught in a web of their making, torn between the allure of their love and the shadows lurking beneath their golden exterior. In the heart of the empire, she stared into the abyss of their twisted affection, wondering if she would ever truly escape.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

They took things to court alright, first the court of public opinion and then the court of law. Depending on the audience people had a propensity to believe them especially in the early days and because they were the only one talking. Before that they always had PR and spilled stories but it was when they were in Tyler Perry’s spare mansion that they launched that court case against the press. They put out so many grievances that the court had to chop things down to what’s really necessary. I remember someone saying that, that’s a method that anyone uses but it was just so perfect for the Harkles. An opportunity for them to keep sharing how others did them wrong. I accidentally ran into a sugar who claimed that aside from Finding Freedom, Spare, the Netflix documentary and the Oprah interviews, the Sussex’s Harkles never speak out that “Toxic Family” and yet they can’t stop talking about the Sussex. The cognitive dissonance stunned me.

Minus the dog biscuit and raspberry jam, what do you predict their next move is? As a couple or just individuals?

*****

Old ask from June 14th

Well, they really only have two options: shit or get off the pot. Or for the polite society, move on or shut up.

“Move on” could be a bunch of different things, and not necessarily just divorce or separation. It could very well be moving back to the UK or moving to Africa. Launching ARO instead of ducking up the paperwork every other week. It’s fully immersing themselves in their philanthropy with Archewell. It’s committing to one specific project or effort instead of trying to be everything and everywhere. It’s launching their kids.

As for shutting up? Well, that’s easy. It’s living their own lives instead of keeping up with the Royals.

That’s what they *should* be doing: shutting or getting off the pot. But we know they’re not gonna do that.

But as for my predictions for what happens next? I think we’ll see some “happy family/loved up couple” PR to go with Harry’s birthday and to compete with the Waleses’ new video.

In October, they’ll go back to their separate narratives; Harry will probably capitalize on his NYC visit with some stuff for veterans or Invictus to support Remembrance Day/Veterans Day and promote Vancouver 2025 and Meghan will go back to her mama bear/best friend-to-ever-friend schtick or she’ll try to do something politics for the election. I suspect Harry will go back to the UK for something to conveniently be available to serve as a Counsellor of State while Charles is away. Maybe there’s a WellChild thing?

Separate narratives will continue into November with Harry probably being MIA because he can’t bear to not wear his uniform and perform his solemn empathy for sacrifice at the Cenotaph. Meghan will most likely be at the Baby2Baby gala red carpet again (it’s November 9th, which is also the Festival of Remembrance for the BRF). They’ll come together mid-month for “happy family/loved up couple” again to get some content to push out for the holidays. I’m not totally sold on them going to Africa for a third fauxyal visit yet, but if they did that, it’d be sometime in November to compete with William’s Earthshot trip.

(I forget when the Tyler Perry gala dinner thing is. Probably November or December? If it’s November, my guess is that’s when they’ll start a new “joyful happy family” PR but if it’s December, I think Meghan will try to re-re-re-relaunch her Hollywood career. I guess it’s nice that Tyler Perry has some standards and hasn’t put her in his movies yet...)

Maybe we’ll finally get some ARO product in October/November so Meghan can exploit Sussex Squad for the holidays and make some money. I can see wine launching or maybe a gift box.

I think we might see them do something with the kids for Christmas since it kinda feels like they’ve been talking a lot more about them than they usually do, especially if they’re going to bring them to Vancouver for IG like they keep promising. I can see them trying to copy the Waleses’ video for a Christmas or Vancouver 2025 thing (in River’s latest video, he has some tea that Harry cried when he saw the video and Meghan started scheming…taken with salt and YMMV).

Of course, that’s if they don’t divorce or separate in October…tarot readers and astrologists have been reporting a big karmic shake-up for the Sussexes in the October/November timeframe. YMMV (again).

[mollywog]

Chapter 1 is full of juxtaposition and dissonance

…From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley, which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight. The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze. The food’s wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths. Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Gale, hunting for tonight’s supper. But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o’clock waiting for the names to be called out.

~~~

“I never want to have kids,” I say.

“I might. If I didn’t live here,” says Gale.

“But you do,” I say, irritated.

“Forget it,” he snaps back.

The conversation feels all wrong.

~~~

… I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.

“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice.

“And nothing like myself,” I say.

~~~

It’s too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in District 12 that can be pleasant. The square’s surrounded by shops, and on public market days, especially if there’s good weather, it has a holiday feel to it. But today, despite the bright banners hanging on the buildings, there’s an air of grimness. The camera crews, perched like buzzards on rooftops, only add to the effect.

~~~

Taking the kids from our districts, forcing them to kill one another while we watch — this is the Capitol’s way of reminding us how totally we are at their mercy. How little chance we would stand of surviving another rebellion. Whatever words they use, the real message is clear. “Look how we take your children and sacrifice them and there’s nothing you can do. If you lift a finger, we will destroy every last one of you. Just as we did in District Thirteen.”

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Capitol requires us to treat the Hunger Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food. All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

[feralwritings]

dissonance

part one

masterpost

word count: 2.8k

“You’re joking. Tell me you’re fucking kidding.” There is no way. There is absolutely no way. “I’m not kidding. You’re going on this tour, you have to.” She narrows her eyes, “And it just has to be with them, doesn’t it?” “Yeah,” Robin supplies, leaning forward in her chair towards Stacy, “You could literally choose like any other band.”

reader is referred to as 'reader', because in fan fictions with multiple women present, it can be hard to determine who is being written about when using the pronoun 'she' for multiple people, so therefore, reader is being used in place of a name.

Laughter echoes around the studio, being pressed into the podcast mics so that it’s a little too loud and a little too tinny, harsh on the ears.

She clicks the volume down a couple ticks.

“So, I mean-” The host chuckles, “I mean, what’s your least favorite band? Come on, you’ve gotta have one.”

There’s a silence that follows this question, a contemplative hum.

“Pssshh, I dunno,” Eddie says, the characteristic rasp of his voice moving through her headphones, “There’s like, lots of shitty music out there. But, other artists could say the same thing about our band, ya know? It’s all subjective.”

“I know,” The host presses, and there’s a hunger in his voice, “But, just throw one out.”

“There’s that one chick band,” Gareth says, and she can hear the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of him spinning his drumstick, “God, what was their name again? They’re like, literally on our label.”

“Daisy Chain,” Eddie supplies, “Yeah.”

Cold rage spreads throughout her body, frostbiting every nerve she possesses. The string she’s winding on her guitar snaps due to the pressure, flying into the meat of her palm.

There’s a breakout of laughter again, and she hears the host wheezing into the mic, “Daisy Chain? God, who’d Reader have to blow at your label to get signed?”

She rips off her headphones after that, throwing them in no particular direction. There’s still noise coming from them, but she can’t understand what they’re saying.

She doesn’t need to understand what they’re saying. She’s heard it all before, from sweaty interviewers at music festivals, to label executives, to booth technicians who call them all sweetheart and honey before insulting them.

She doesn’t need to wonder how bad this is. Her phone is already buzzing with notifications, from Chrissy, Nancy and Robin, from their manager, from Instagram and Twitter and Tik Tok, and it’s all so much, it’s all too much.

Through the flurry of notifications that are rendering her phone unusable, one pops up that makes her fucking nauseous.

from @.BandCast: hey @.dc_reader, we had a little chat about you with the Corroded Coffin boys on this weeks #BandCast, be sure to tune in! #daisychain #corrodedcoffin 

She sinks onto the floor, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.

Great. Just fucking great. The most popular band at Upside Down Records, the label she and her bandmates had fought tooth and nail to get signed to just destroyed Daisy Chain’s reputation, all of their hard work with a few words said into some mics on an overlit, overproduced and overrated podcast that just about everyone she knows and hopes to know listens to.

Another text pops up on her phone.

Manager

Don’t say anything. 

She doesn’t.

***

18 months later

“You’re joking. Tell me you’re fucking kidding.”

There is no way. There is absolutely no way.

“I’m not kidding. You’re going on this tour, you have to.”

She narrows her eyes, “And it just has to be with them, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Robin supplies, leaning forward in her chair towards Stacy, “You could literally choose like any other band.”

“I don’t have any control over that,” Stacy, VP at UDR says, which is a bold-faced lie, everyone knows that she has influence at the tour agency, not only that but most people in and out of this the building are scared of her, “That’s up to the tour agency that we work with.”

“And you can’t tell them to, oh, I dunno, choose literally any other band?” Nancy is picking at her nails, barely contained rage etched into the pressed line of her lips.

Stacy’s expression changes, and she leans forward with her messy bun and her oversaturated tan and her stupid white crop top and her acid washed jeans and her fucking-

“Listen, girls,” She begins, and they all raise an eyebrow at the patronizing tone, “To be frank, Corroded Coffin is a much more lucrative band than Daisy Chain. They’re more popular, better liked and easy on the eyes-” she blushes, staring fondly at the 24x36 poster of Eddie that sits on the opposite wall, tongue out, one hand around the neck of his guitar and the other flipping off the camera, Reader wants to use it for dart practice, “and riding their coattails may be just the thing that keeps you from getting dropped from UDR. Simply put, this tour is your last chance to prove to us that signing you wasn’t a mistake. We’ve poured so many resources in getting you out of your mommy’s garage-”

“We practiced at my house that I own-” Chrissy interjects softly.

“getting your albums made and getting you on tour, and it’s high time that we see a return on our investment, don’t you think? So, you either go on this tour, or you’re done at Upside Down Records. For good. Capiche?”

“That’s like, seven discrimination lawsuits all rolled into one,” Robin muses, though she doesn’t sound shocked that Stacy is speaking to them this way. Stacy says that this is how she speaks to everyone, that there is no time for ‘flowery language’ in this industry, which is another load of bullshit, considering that she’s plenty flowery when she’s giggling and batting her eyelashes at the Corroded Coffin guys. She has favorites, that’s for sure, and another thing that’s for sure is that Daisy Chain is not one of them.

“It’d never see the inside of a courtroom, honey,” Stacy says, searching through her desk for a stack of papers, “Sign here.”

She taps her bony finger on a tour contract, and Reader stares at it, feeling an insatiable urge to set it on fire.

“Opening for a band that hates us,” Nancy says, eyes flying over the contract, reading it carefully as she can, “Awesome. So cool.”

“Oh,” Stacy says, “I forgot to mention-” she snatches the stack of papers away from Nancy before producing a seemingly identical set, “You’re both openers.”

“Wait,” Reader says, “We’re both openers? Who’s the headliner?”

Stacy’s face breaks into a grin, and all four girls lean forward in their chairs, scared yet terrified of the answer.

“Steve Harrington.”

***

When they walk out into the Los Angeles sunshine, they all exchange a look.

“So,” Reader begins, leaning up against the wall of the building, “Pros and cons. Stacy said we had a week to sign.”

“Pro,” Robin holds up a finger, “Steve. Everyone loves him, he’s on a much bigger label, everyone says that he’s so nice and touring with him could be really good.”

“Con,” Chrissy says, “Corroded Coffin.”

“When I thought we were opening for them,” Reader adjusts her sunglasses, “I was way more apprehensive. There’s an inherent power imbalance there. but since we’re both opening, we’re on more equal footing, which might make it tolerable? I mean, at least it’s not just us and them.”

“Pro,” Nancy supplies, “It might get Stacy off of our backs. Plus, it’s not like they would pull any of that shit again, right?”

“True,” Chrissy concedes, “As far as anyone knows, we’re on good terms with CC, so it’s not like there would be any open animosity in the audience.”

Which, in a sense, was true. After the podcast had aired, UDR put out statements on both bands' socials, affirming that they were on good terms and Corroded Coffin doesn’t condone sexism and that all ties with UDR and BandCast had been dissolved. Daisy Chain and Corroded Coffin had never actually spoken, exchanged fighting words or even so much as a pleasantry, only really seeing each other across the room at company parties, on separate stages at festivals, walking past the other recording in various studios.

“Okay,” Robin said slowly, her gaze shifting to Reader, “But… the podcast. They went after you specifically, are you sure that you’re okay being on the road with them?”

Reader shrugs noncommittally, “I can deal. Plus, if any of them says anything like that again I know that you’ll stab them with your drumstick, so I’ll be fine.”

Robin flashes a small smile at that, “Yeah, especially that little short one.”

“I think as long as we have as little interaction with them as possible, things will be fine,” Chrissy reasons, running a hand through her hair, “They’ve already signed on, and like Stacy said, if we don’t go on this tour…”

“Then we get dropped.” Nancy, Robin and Reader say together.

“Let’s think about it a bit more,” Reader suggests, “We have a week. Let’s try to come to a decision in a few days.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Nancy says, pulling out her phone, “Lunch?”

They all murmured in agreement, setting off towards the parking lot, shoulders tight and heads full of what ifs.

***

The conference room is a touch too cold.

Robin is rocking her spinny chair back and forth, fingers drumming anxiously on the table. Nancy is stock still, staring at the opposite wall, muscles taut as piano wire. Chrissy is picking at her cuticles, glancing at the door every thirty seconds. 

Reader is tugging on her earring idly, staring at nothing in particular. They’ve only been waiting for about ten minutes, but it feels like ten years. 

God, she just wants to get this over with. Signing the contract, going home and beginning to prepare to leave. Packing, calling the electric company and the water company and having her mail put in a PO Box. All the things you do when you’re leaving for six months. 

They’re waiting for Corroded Coffin to show up so they can sign the new contract. Stacy sits at the head of the conference table, typing away on her laptop, eyes following Chrissy’s. Her anxious energy is something entirely different, excitable. She keeps preening her hair, twisting little hairs around her face to keep them curly. 

The door clicks open, and five pairs of eyes whip towards it. 

There they are. 

Eddie files in first, and Gareth, Jeff and Joey follow suit, all walking into the room with a certain swagger, a certain pompous sort of energy that makes Reader’s saliva turn sour. To her chagrin, her heartbeat kicks up a notch, and she takes a discreet, deep breath, willing the rage to stop spiking in her blood. 

They’d only seen each other a couple times since the podcast aired, always parallel and never fully interacting, burning sort of gazes across rooms and terse smiles through gritted teeth. 

Stacy got up to greet them, hugging them each individually, Eddie the longest, before inviting them to sit down. 

By sheer coincidence, or by a sense of order, or organization, the four chairs across from the girls are occupied by their counterparts.

Drummers, Robin and Gareth. 

Bassists, Nancy and Joey. 

Lead guitarists, Chrissy and Jeff. 

Vocals and rhythm guitarists, Reader and Eddie. 

“Alright!” Stacy claps her hands together, drawing a thick manilla folder out, letting it fall open. She slides eight contracts across the table, inviting everyone to grab one at their leisure, “Everyone take one and look it over while we wait for the lawyers to get here.”

They all peruse the contracts, the room filled with the sound of flipping paper as they all silently read.

Reader feels a pair of eyes on her, and she slides her own away from her contract and across the table, catching Eddie looking with a politely curious look on his face. 

She cocks an eyebrow at him, and he flashes a sarcastic smile at her before leaning back over his contract, wild hair falling around his face, all curls and frizz.

Once the lawyers arrive, it’s pretty cut and dry. Both bands ask their questions, get their answers, and by the time the hour is up, pens are out, poised to sign. 

“So, to summarize,” one of the lawyers says, pushing his horn rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, “Corroded Coffin and Daisy Chain will embark on a six month tour, serving as openers for solo act Steve Harrington. The tour will begin in August and conclude in January, going from the west coast to the east, playing one to two shows in each, resulting in about fifty-two shows in twenty-six cities across the United States. In January, additional cities and dates will be discussed.”

“Wait,” Eddie said, holding up a hand, “Why would we talk about more dates in January when we’re only signing a six month contract?”

The lawyers exchange a meaningful look.

“Extension of the tour depends on certain factors.”

“Like what?” 

“Factors that we are not at liberty to discuss without certain permissions from Mr. Harrington’s representation.”

That doesn’t sound good, and in spite of themselves, both bands exchange worried looks with each other. 

“What does that even mean?” Reader asks, leaning towards the lawyers, brow furrowed.

“We are not at liberty to discuss it at this time. If this causes an issue that impedes you from signing the contracts, we may have to revisit this at a later time, which is unadvisable considering that tentative promotion has begun, so his fans and yours know that something is coming in the future.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Reader began, running a hand through her hair, “I just think if there’s something we need to know that could affect this tour, we deserve to be fully informed.”

“It won’t impact your performances in any way, if that’s what you’re worried about.” The younger lawyer said tersely, pressing her lips into a fine line.

“Fine, fine,” Eddie says, pulling his contract towards him and scribbling a messy signature.

Everyone follows suit after that, handing their contracts to Stacy. As they prepare to take their leave, someone else rushes into the room. 

Alex, one of the guys who works in the promotional department. He’s got his camera slung around his neck, eager expression on his face. He catches Joey’s eye and blushes. 

“Wait! Before you all go home we need to get a couple pictures. We can post them when the tour is officially announced!”

“Wait,” Reader says, alarm bells instantly going off in her head, “Like, pictures of all of us? Together?”

Alex nods, “Just some candid sorta stuff, nothing too special or flashy, just like. You all together, at the table and maybe some with you guys standing next to each other.”

Everyone reluctantly takes their seats again, posing for the camera with their stupid little pens and their contracts, and once that’s done, they’re instructed to stand against the wall for a wide, group photo.

“Can you guys like, squish in more together? And Reader, can you switch places with Robin so you’re next to Eddie? It’ll be cool if the lineup is the same on both sides.”

Reader and Robin exchange a dark look before shimmying around each other. 

“I don’t bite,” Eddie says softly, so that only she can hear, leaning down the tiniest bit. 

“Mmm,” Reader hums through her teeth, keeping her eyes locked on the lens, sporting the most excited smile she can muster, hoping that her eyes don’t look too dead, “Just smile and look pretty so we can get through this, please.”

She can see Eddie in her periphery tilt his head with a little grin, before turning his attention back to the camera. 

“Okay, squish in a bit more,” Alex instructs, holding his camera to snap a picture, “Can you guys act like you like each other please? Can we put our arms around each other's shoulders or something?” 

Oh, sweet Jesus. 

She feels his arm slink around her shoulders, light pressure as his fingers dangle over her collarbone. She’s got one arm around Robin, and reluctantly, she winds her other around Eddie’s waist, hovering it over the leather of his jacket. 

There’s a thrum of energy that courses through her then, and after the third or so flash of Alex’s camera, a chill shoots through her shoulder where his hand rests, and she involuntary shivers, rolling his arm off of her shoulder.

He huffs then, snatching his arm away from her entirely, and they all move away from each other, the air in the room turning cold and oppressive.

They’re all staring each other down, sizing each other up, each band wondering how the next six months are going to play out. 

Daisy Chain is the first to leave, awkwardly sidling past the boys and heading down the hall, passing framed gold records, a few of which belong to Corroded Coffin, none of which belong to them.

As they burst through the doors and into the sizzling Los Angeles sun, there’s a definite stiffness in the way they bid farewell, taking their leaves individually.

Reader heads home, sitting with her car idling in the driveway for a few moments before walking in, feeling numb.

As she prepares to leave for the tour, packing, calling various people, she can’t help but feel like she’s getting herself, and her band, into something that they can’t come back from. Whatever is to happen on this tour, good or bad, there’s this inexplicable feeling coursing through her veins that the next six months might just change everything.

She packs her guitar into its case, running a hand down the strings pensively.

Whatever happens happens, she reasons. And all she can do is be a good girl, perform, and take it on the chin.

[sansimeonsims]

Chinatown rises.

One end of the Parian, an Arrabales that serves as the chief residence of San Simeon's Chinese community. Many have lived there for generations and had turned what was once a ghetto into a place with palatial houses... that they promptly turned into apartments for rent.

The temple-like structure with the Christian base game mausoleum is, in fact, a redo of the Chinese cemetery, made based on feedback from @thebleedingwoodland and inspired by aerial photos of the Manila Chinese cemetery. The change was inspired by what I feel were anachronisms in the way I built the family mausoleums, which would've not have been house-like until the late 19th and early 20th centuries. I also created a temple inspired by (but not visually similar to) a real one from the 19th Century that once stood in the Manila Chinese Cemetery but had since been demolished. The fact that the Christian mausoleum is so color-dissonant to the rest of the cemetery is making me think I should just build the chapel myself or use a recolorable rabbit hole.

A few details under the cut:

Like in some of my other projects, I added remains in some of the graves in the form of skeletons.

The graves were based in part on Chinese cemetery graves in Indonesia and Malaysia, which based on an aerial photo of the Manila cemetery was also the case in the Philippines at one point before (at least in Manila) the families started building mausoleums (bleedingwoodland was able to find me pics of some older examples, so retained exactly one for now.)

The trend of mausoleums started in the early 20th century as a way of shielding the families visiting from the weather during sacred holidays like the Qingming festival or All Souls' Day. Right now, only one gravesite has such a roof and it isn't too elaborate; a much more modern version would have little space left for any flat graves and have a variety of styles, including European-styled graves.

[sgiandubh]

Fans subscribed to FMN gin's mailing list receive 'news coming soon' messages. It looks like T is excited to get into the drinks business too...

Dear Mailing List Anon,

I would be quite surprised, even having seen this:

There has consistently been 0 movement in both (UK and IE) companies (and even in the third, IE, company - IYKYK) for at least a year, now. But hey, if the ad says so, amen.

Hell, I even saw this, haven't I?

I have thoughts and questions. Let's unpack:

'We hope you didn't forget about us.' - oh, wait: Forget Me Not -> forget about us. Wow. Seriously? A bit underwhelming. On which planet is a cheap, mild pun classy?

'to find more about our long awaited batch'. Ok, folks. Zero corporate social media engagement since at least December 2020:

30k views and 6 comments in three years and a half is what I would call miserable social media traction. Zero client service: even those hopeful six comments were never answered. It would have taken ten minutes tops to do so!

So, long awaited by who? C's Stans? Orgasmically, if I dare say so. C's fans? Perhaps, but since few people got a chance to sample it, a friendly, but classy nudge was in order - not a 'Dear Jane Doe' email : she is not that famous (yet). Outside the OL bubble? I don't want to sound mean, but I'd be damned if I know why someone would use 'long awaited' for some vanity project by a lesser-known actress.

'In the meantime, why not get reacquainted with our founder (...)'. Cognitive dissonance alert: either the product was long awaited for, by a crowd that knows reasonably well enough about the founder, the projects, the socials (unused since December 2020 - reminds me of that forlorn 🎄). Or you'd have to get reacquainted to all this stuff - I mean, how more obviously can that copywriter sabotage the brand & its creator in two lines and 30 seconds?

How long is that 'meanwhile'? Pics were taken in the spring of 2023 (remember Dr. Eustace? LOL for days) and she looks completely disinterested. That picture could be literally anything: a magazine spread, a tell-all memoir cover, a pic taken at a party. How is this aligned with whatever the brand identity is - mystery. I know it wants to be classy and mysterious, but the color palette immediately made me think of...

[Aaron Shikler - JFK's official Presidential Portrait, 1971,The White House - poignant and soulful, but this is my beloved JFK, not a classy 40-something successful woman]

Why? Gin is fresh and festive and fun and oh, so easy. Why choose a melancholy, emotive color trope is just beyond me.

C is a woman of strength. I miss that woman. I want to see that woman blossom and confidently sell her shtick. Instead, I am shown a confusing, blurry Greta Garbo-esque silhouette.

Last, but not least: you take the time to send all those mails suggesting a 'pre-sale op', you should at least update your socials, because you expect clicks, isn't it? Why sending it at all, if you mean to come back in six hours or more, with an update? That information should have been simultaneously made available on FMN's website and on ALL the socials - all those people who clicked on your links are potential clients, after all.

Right now:

Nothing. Lord give me strength.

My take on it? A second limited batch, with lackadaisical availability, zero client relations and a much belated explanation for the use of profits to charity.

[thegildedbee]

Pride: May 31st Prompt from @calaisreno

Here I am in August -- uggggh -- August! -- finally, at last, able to re-wind back to May 31st, and finish up my contribution to the May Prompt Fest, today and tomorrow, with the last two prompts. Last two prompts, you say? Surely you know, bee, that there is no May 32nd? Ah, yes, but I have decreed it to be thus, because I want to add one last prompt of my own for myself, in honor of @calaisreno,😘 and the magnificent, awesome festival they brought into being with the May writerly shenanigans! So much creativity unleashed, all at the invitation of one very special person.🤗 My word for tomorrow -- my own personal May 32nd🙃, as it were -- is: appreciative.

.................................................. This latest chapter and the previous ones are here at ao3. .................................................

The extravagant greens of the Cotswolds begin to recede from view, and John stretches at an awkward angle to catch a last glimpse of the dense forest canopy shot through with shafts of sunlight. He drops back into his seat and centers himself, shutting his eyes as he readjusts the earbud he’d jostled, smoothing his hands across the tops of his thighs, fidgeting, his restless mind acting like a needle skipping across a damaged vinyl record. 

His mind skirts the edge of lucid dreaming, and he makes an effort to surface, knowing that they’ll soon encounter the Severn and cross over into Wales. He gazes out the window, focusing on the outspread wings of a kestrel as it glides high above purple and gold drifts of heather and gorse, likely in search of prey, John supposes, but he thinks idly that it might also be for the sheer sport of being in command of the air.

The sharp edges of London’s stone and concrete abrade as each mile of track recedes, streets and buildings recollected as if glimpsed through infinitesimal droplets of fog. The opaqueness somehow eases the way for the broken pieces of his past life with Sherlock to reassemble in his mind. John closes his eyes once more, letting the illusory cordon that encloses his memories of his last days at 221B to dematerialize.

What first comes to mind is the dissonant clanging of the media that was the intrusive accompaniment to his and Sherlock’s movements when, unbeknownst, Moriarty had been toying with them. He remembers a feeling of disquiet pushing him off-center, sweeping his legs out from under him. He had sensed danger, although he’d not been able to identify why, and that had left him irritable and uncertain. Sherlock had borne the brunt of his roiled state of mind in their last days together, his friend becoming quieter and more withdrawn in response.

John makes a try at looking from the outside in; at first he fancies the vantage point as being as if looking through the sitting room window, but then grimaces. A rather ham-handed conceit compared to the actuality of the surveillance devices that were watching and listening 24/7. His mouth twists and he feels acid flaring up from his stomach. All he has to do is to imagine what Moriarty saw and heard being recorded.

He thinks back on the morning they’d been knee deep in newsprint, Sherlock flouncing about like an agitated heron in his blue dressing gown, exasperated at the faux bonhomie of being hailed as “Boffin Sherlock Holmes” in 48-point type in the Daily Star.

Sherlock had already clocked a reference to John on the inside, and tipped him to it. John had immediately begun vocalizing his dismay at the innuendo about his intimacy with Sherlock being hung round his neck, while his friend paced back and forth, seemingly preoccupied with dramatizing his annoyance at the mean-spirited gift of the deerstalker the Yard had given him.

He’d rounded on Sherlock, his voice urgent and heated, verbally grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him, telling him that the press attention had become too much, and that they needed to be careful.

Sherlock had stopped short and had asked him two questions: what had he meant about them needing to be more careful? And why was John so bothered about what people said about Sherlock in the press?

John had deflected – and, in his non-responsiveness, had signaled to the-most-observant-man-he-knew, that no, his questions didn’t warrant a discussion. He’d left Sherlock with the impression that John thought that Sherlock’s image – and, therefore, because of their close association, John’s image – was the paramount issue. He had only himself to blame, if, in warning Sherlock that the press would turn on him as a figure of note, that the conclusion that Sherlock drew from the immediate context was of John being convinced of the necessity of thwarting any implications that the two of them were more than colleagues.

John acknowledges that, were he to have been more aware, that he  would not have been surprised if Sherlock had thought that John was regretting their partnership. After all, John had spent the previous week correcting Sherlock in public. And, going forward, he would instruct him multiple times not to be himself.

In fact, he’d underscored his dismay by demanding that Sherlock keep a low profile, stay out of the news, confine himself to a case of little consequence. 

And Sherlock had heard him, and had done as he had asked. The next morning John had found him cloistered indoors, occupying himself with a case that kept him completely out of sight, given that he was examining written materials relating the facts of a case that had been said to be a suicide . . . back in the 19th century. And John had been oblivious to Sherlock’s deference, and had mocked him for it. That was the last moment that there was anything that Sherlock could have done to remain cloistered. Moriarty had been, of course, merely biding time until the moment had arrived for his grand re-entrance, pirouetting through the defenses of the kingdom’s strongholds as if they were tissue paper, detonating Sherlock’s inner psyche like a ticking time bomb.

As he scans the past, John wonders: If he’d been sharper, and quicker off the mark, could he have managed to disarm Moriarty's threats at the start, as the bastard lured Sherlock further and further into harm’s way? No, he decides, it wouldn’t have been possible; Moriarty would simply have mounted other threats. But there's the rub: John is a soldier, in a campaign where his objective was to protect Sherlock. Winning one battle wouldn’t have made them the victors in Moriarty’s war. But it could have won them some respite, by degrading the enemy’s efforts, slowing the chain of events by throwing a spanner in the works, buying them time to take stock, to bring in reinforcements, to gather more intelligence: to give them a fighting chance, by having secured a better position from which to do battle. 

John mentally braces himself for what comes next, the worst of it. In the last hours, he’d accused Sherlock of not caring for Mrs. Hudson (that was a cavalier bit of non-sense for the ages). And he’d accused Sherlock of having personal agency and responsibility for attracting the assassins, and, as a consequence, putting those around him in positions to have their lives taken from them.

He’d lashed out at Sherlock, calling him a machine, and, losing his temper, had responded to Sherlock’s statement that being alone protected him, by self-righteously declaring that “friends protect friends” – as he walked away from his friend, leaving his friend alone at St. Bart’s . . . and unprotected. As had Lestrade. As had Mycroft.

(He becomes aware of a notion niggling at the edges of his reverie . . . “Alone” at “Bart’s.” Bart's. Molly. Molly. Bart's. . . . is he overlooking that there may have been one friend who had remained at Sherlock’s side? Had Molly been at Bart’s? Perhaps? . . . He wonders . . .)

John stays with what he remembers, asking himself: what if he had paused, had taken a beat, had really listened when Sherlock had said: “I need to think.” What if he’d asked Sherlock what he needed to think about? Might Sherlock have said something like: “Moriarty’s been screwing with us, John. Why don’t we double-check that this call about Mrs. Hudson isn’t a red herring? It will only take a few seconds.”

What would have been the result, if he had simply stopped at that moment, and opted to follow Sherlock’s lead? But he’d not done so, had he? And Sherlock had believed himself to be an object of scorn from John as the endpoint of the final problem barreled forward. 

John sighs, and rubs at his dry eyes, only making them hurt even further. He looks at his watch, if only to distract himself from the gloom evoked by his thoughts, and sees by the elapsed time that they must be near where they’ll make their descent into the tunnel that will carry them underneath the Severn. They are, and four minutes of darkness unspool, before they begin their ascent, and emerge into the light on the western shore.  

When they pull into the station, he knows now why he has come to Cardiff, why he had left London to arrive at this touchpoint from the past that had set in motion his and Sherlock's first case. There is no way, now, in the present, that he can undo how events had played out -- but he can bear witness to them, and try to sort through the confusion to find what truths he might discover. He will do what he can to protect Sherlock’s reputation, and to bring evidence to bear that will require the great and the good to see the stories spun by “Jim Moriarty” for the falsehoods that they are.

And he’ll also collect Sherlock’s cases into a more permanent form than as a set of blog entries. He makes a vow that he will write a book, and, in doing so, that he will take pride in setting down the adventures of Sherlock Holmes for posterity. 

And, perhaps, along the way, he will put into print the words that he should have said then: and to say them, now.

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