#do i remember all my writing tags? probably not

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

i trieddddd i tried i swear i tried </3 to stick to tags <///33 but i ran out …. so here i am …… sorry dilly T_T

(disclaimer: read the tags before reading this… ok…….)

’sorry’ said very softly and quietly bc i feel u would probably yell at me for it </3 i’m actually not sorry at all i was hoping i’d have no choice but to stumble my way here :3c HHHHHHH there is just too much to say and too much to mention …… too much i love about this fic :’< ofc i have to start with . the infamous …… ”the sky’s blue because daddy’s eyes are blue!” <- SOBBED!!!!!!!!!!!!! TAT this whole moment was somehow even cuter than i remember it being LMAO i feel so lucky . to be able to experience it again :’3

i love . the moments jumping in time ….. how this fic is about gojo washing his daughter’s hair . but also so much more than that ….. it is his love manifesto. it is the weight of everyday moments translated into writing in such a beautiful way i cannot describe it…. it is gojo grappling with time and love and the fact not even the most beautiful things stick around forever (cough cough cough. u know who i am thinking of) but that they’re worth cherishing all the more because of it …… gojo is such a sentimental person. and that is a faucet of who is that i feel is hardly explored even though it is part of his ’core’….. to me. he is a man who can’t help but reminisce. who is only allowed the luxury of chewing on memories over and over again …… so for you to give him such a picture perfect life . in this. makes me weepy :’3

aughhh TAT just. when i think of this fic i think of bubbles . and sunlight. and markers and colours and sweet scents …….. something so lovely that i feel envious i can’t reach out and touch it. that i can’t see the bathtub or feel the water trickle through the gaps between my fingers. i know you were a little nervous about reposting this dilly but truly it is one of my favorite gojo pieces ever ….. and i do not even subscribe to papa gojo most of the time but when you write him like this i can’t help but think he was born to be a father (<- proof of your immense power) ….. i can’t help but feel that . if canon gojo tried to picture a life without sorcery he would see just a sliver of this scenery ….. a sliver of the sun. sobsob

back to the Actual Fic … (one of the reasons i try to stick to tags is . if i make it Here (what do you call it anyway ….. the main…. something ?? i don’t know. the promised land (to Me)) i always end up rambling and then i get off track …. forgive me…….) i just had the genius idea to screenshot my favorite quotes and leave them here . i will do just that :3c i really want you to Feel how much i love this fic ….. if at all possible …………… can you feel my love ………….

^ TAT …. his very precious girl . SOBBED. she is his all his and yours all yours ……………

^ THIS WHOLE MOMENT WAS SOOOOO CUTE DILLY i know i said it already but u just . capture gojo so perfectly PDHKDJDJD …… he is so silly and cute here 😭😭😭 also !!! sunshine ….. she is the sun latching onto the big blue sky …………..

^ gnarls and whines . as i read this …… sniffles… this is one of the quotes that just made me go. i love how dilly writes …. i love how i can practically hear her voice. does that make sense at all …………… :’3

^ THROWS UP BLOOD !!!!!!!!! your satoru carries the big blue sky wherever he goes ……. T____T such . a beautiful quote wahhh . and just so Him. i love the little peeks we get into gojo and reader’s love for each other ….. this fic is about their love just as much as it is about their baby. tho i guess she quite literally is their love personified ……….. anyway. something something satoru is atlas, he has no choice but to carry the sky on his own, but fluffy clouds and the glow of the sun make it bearable …. you know.

^ already mentioned it but You Know. obviously

^ THIS WHOLE SEQUENCE . ACTUALLY 😭😭😭…. i soooooobbed dilly i love . him . HE WANTS TO BE A GOOD PAPA …… the dynamic between him and his baby is also just sooo funny and cute he is a true girldad ………… i love them ………….,,,,,,

^ firefly of a husband …… quote that made me explode into pieces . and bits

^ GRRRRRR GRGR this made me cry . T_T UR WRITING DILLY!!!!!! ILL BE SICK!!!!!!!!!!!!! it doesn’t feel like enough……… yes, you know this ……..

^ and finally . this :’) as i was reading it was so fun to read lines that i have a vague memory of and others that i don’t remember at all ….. but i do remember this final line. because i remember just how Much it made me feel the first time around ……. just the perfect little cherry on top. the Point of it all.

i love this fic …. i’ll love it forever . in the same way i will love you forever and gojo forever and your writing forever ….. thank you for posting this my angel 🥺 i will keep it so close to my hear . forever and ever <3

THAT FUNNY LITTLE GIRL ♡ GOJO SATORU

he hopes this lifetime will be enough to love.

papa! gojo washes his baby’s hair, what could go wrong! jumping thru the timeline, multiple times. sfw, fluff. approx. two thousand word count. he is filled to the brim with love.

“daddy?” his baby calls for him, satoru, who happens to be sitting right beside her bathtub— criss-crossed legs, paying less and less mind to the cold tile floor that’s making his skin shiver, and more on what she has to say.

“yeah baby?” he’s just down the hall, but you’ve begun to pick apart how his voice, with every syllable, sounds so fond when he speaks to her: his very precious girl.

you hear the gentle hum she hums for a quick second, the mumbling, jumbling of her words as she sorts out what she wants to say and then, “why’s the sky blue?”

★ ‎

there’s a bathtub marker in her hand when she asks, the very same ones satoru was so incredibly persistent on buying at your last shopping store run—

“bathtub markers?” he hears the quirk in your eyebrow before he has a chance to see it, holding the pack of eight in his hand like it’s the greatest invention yet.

“yup! we need them!” he stands side by side with his mini me— matching pairs of silly puppy dog eyes appear on their faces and a dramatic pout fixed to both their lips.

he whispers what he thinks you won’t hear, covering his lips behind the palm of his hand as he kneels to her side. “pst…” he hisses comically loud, “we need to say please, sunshine.”

“pease!” no please, (she’s much cuter about this whole ordeal than he is—) she nods her head as she swings her feet back and forth, fluttering without a sound.

could you guess what’s harder than saying no to her? satoru would vote it’s probably saying: goodbye!

your heart aches lovingly, too impossible to resist— “‘toru, it sounds like you want them more than she does.” grabbing the bundle of markers, you flip them to the side, skimming through its directions and their warnings.

“me?!” he says in the least dramatic tone he could possibly mutter, “are you denying our baby of an artistic future?” and then there’s a hand over his face again. he covers the gasping motion he’s currently molded into, “that she’s not destined to be the next picasso?”

“she’s three! how would you know?” funny grins paint over both your faces because it’s a bittersweet thought: her future, who’ll she be and what’ll become of her.

“there’s an artist inside that little heart, i can feel it.” he’s determined to stick to the skit, crossing his arms over his chest and puffing with a promising certainty for it all.

it’s even funnier when he knows he’s won too: when you hand over the markers to your baby’s pudgy fingers, he has that face plastered on. same one as every other time he’s won you over on something hilariously trivial.

“so honey,” focusing, you decide to actively ignore the cutest dimples on the corner of his smile, “what will you draw when you get home today?”

“f’owers” she points at the red marker, “more for you!” an obvious reference to the dozen roses she’s seen on the dinner table.

“you’re so sweet! i know you’ll draw me the prettiest flowers, my love!” you kiss the tip of her nose as tiny pearly whites form a cheeky smile in return— “ahem.” satoru follows slowly behind you both as you begin to stroll down the aisle again.

“and for daddy,” the coast is clear so you take the chance to stop and spread your arms as wide as you can, “you draw him the biggest, blue sky that matches his eyes!”

she giggles at the dramatics, your stretched out arms and satoru’s loving gaze directed toward you— she mimics these two things. “big sky ‘nd daddy!” and it’s true, your satoru carries the big sky wherever he goes.

★ ‎

“uhmm..” he thinks hard about it, rubbing the nape of his neck, setting his glasses down to the side— how exactly do you explain the color of the sky to a toddler?

he scoots in a little closer now, splashing sounds echoing around while she fidgets with the other toys in the bath, “so, the light from mr. sun is made of all the colors of the rainbow. do you know which ones?”

satoru picks out the markers in the same exact pattern he’s memorized— red, orange, yellow, green in her hand, blue, and the purple that seems the closest to violet.

she doesn’t sound very interested, yet. but you doubt it as long as there’s paddling turtles wound up and clicking across the bubbly water; her attention’s obviously elsewhere.

satoru uncaps the yellow marker first: forming one big, rigid circle against the shower wall that represents the sun— followed by streaks of all the other colors in his hands stretching away from it, representing light.

“like this,” he says, ���all the colors of the rainbow.” he returns the green marker she had at first, happily holding onto the object again.

“but ms. earth,” a cake of blue forms as the felt tip rolls around in one spot, “likes blue the best. so, she makes her sky blue.” and with that, your baby blinks up at him like a doll— eyelashes pinched into the perfect curl, and he wonders if he’s only confused her even more.

“oh.” it’s funny how somber-toned she sounds— oh, the same tone you’d use after hearing the most unbelievable truth (or a lie!) the utter shock, the disbelief… that oh.

“just kidding!” he gleams brightly now as she watches. apparently, it had been enough to grab her attention even for the slimmest second.

satoru drops the markers back in the bathtub net where she had placed them, settling within her reach.

“the sky’s blue because daddy’s eyes are blue.”

and if he gleams, his baby does too, “i knew it!”

(he promises to explain himself to you a little later. surely, hopefully, you must forgive him and his little, white lie!)

“oh, you did?” satoru settles his knees as close as he can to the tub now, minimizing all the space he can as he reaches for the shampoo bottle on the edge of the tub, “isn’t my little girl so clever? yes, the smartest!”

she giggles, water splashing around as she moves closer towards her daddy’s arms— completely used to this routine by now, “mm, like papa.”

once he squeezes the bottle, he thinks his heart’s being squeezed too. watching chamomile-scented soap pour onto the palm of his hands, he smiles. “you think i’m clever, sunshine?”

“sometimes.” but she’s off in her own little world again, drawing on the wall with her favorite turtle beside her.

he supposes he will take what he can get.

with a gentle rinse to her hair, satoru begins to form a gentle lather along the crown of her head, “i want to be a clever daddy for you,” he says.

you know it comes with no thought, as if the words have simply fallen out and onto his tongue before they’ve finally reached his head, “a good papa.”

and it’s happened so frequently, he jokes with you about how she must have some sort of technique to pull out the honest truth from anyone— even without trying to.

“you just love her, satoru.”

★ ‎

amidst the grogginess of the morning and eyes closed shut, you tell him that much. it’s all you can grumble out when your firefly of a husband rises before the sun.

he claims it’s early morning clarity— when your mind is filled with everything and nothing. all you can do it spill your heart out. not much you can do to help it.

he loves this part of the day with you.

“i do. a lot.” he says in one lasting breath, just before shifting from being your big spoon to peek over at the baby monitor on his bedside table for the… nth time.

if she didn’t make him feel like his entire life was worth it, maybe he wouldn’t look at her so often. but she does, not even aware of it, with a leg dangling off the bed. plushies used for pillows rather than the pillows themselves.

it doesn’t scare him as much as it used to: the act of loving, and the acting of expressing it— the act of admitting just how much he does.

“she loves you too.”

★ ‎

with the soapy suds spilling over his knuckles, between his fingers and the strands of her hair, satoru notices something new.

he twirls a finger around the ends of her hair, strands strong and smooth— as he realizes they’re starting to curve around the shell of her ear on its own, when he doesn’t remember it doing that before.

and as he lowers his gaze, the soapy lather following along, he sees the longest strands of his baby’s hair are bound to meet the back of her neck. nape, ears and shoulders all meeting someone new.

satoru forgets that time goes by fast, especially when you’re filled with love to spare. “when did you start growing up so fast, sunshine?”

she shrugs.

the strength in his knees give out, landing him right back down onto the tile floor; feet tucked underneath his body. “it’s too fast.” he murmurs so lowly, you can barely catch on to what’s been said.

too fast to watch her go— but don’t say it out loud, satoru doesn’t have the heart to finish or hear the rest.

she’ll be able to say please, even without him asking her to. she’ll be able to pronounce her l’s until she loses her two front teeth. she’ll hold onto his hand, and he’ll hold onto her.

then, it’ll be time for school. and she’ll be leaving his side as a big girl now, with a lunch bag he’s packed and a slipping backpack over her shoulder— yes, inevitably, that’s going to happen too, just as he has before.

and if that’s right around the corner, then so is every other phase, inevitably— and the rest of her life from then on. it’s going to happen one day: where satoru’s baby is no longer a baby and he will have to let her go.

“‘toru.” he turns to you, towel in hand, pressing weight against the wall’s edge. “what’re you weepin’ about now, baby?”

your daughter turns to face him in a heartbeat, curious.

“crying?” voice trembling, he nudges his cheek into his sleeve in attempts to hide any evidence, big hands still in need of rinsing along with her hair. “who’s crying?”

stepping closer, you hang the towel over the hook before sitting right next to his side, “because you never cry, especially at random times.” you poke once at his ribs.

“you’re starting to get me, sweetness.” then, he dips his fingers into the water, bubbly foam parting ways from his skin. it falls down her shoulders when he rinses her off, all done with the bath, and having a little time to play.

you watch him for a while, trying to identify the cause and while trying to make small talk— you mention something without much thought, “her hair has gotten a lot longer now.”

his voice, it’s tinier than you’ve ever expected it to be, “i know…” a sniffle divides his sentence, a proper pause, “she’s growing up so fast.”

“ah… so, that’s what this is about.”

you rest your head over his shoulder, still feeling as in love as ever, “you’re cute, you know that?” he rests his in return. “we still have hundreds of days together.” you watch the way she draws on the wall, enjoying her happiness as if it were your own.

“it doesn’t feel like enough.” he says.

“i don’t think it’ll ever be enough.” no, it never will. “maybe we’re greedy like that, honey.” yes, you know this.

he knows he is. because there’s a bright sun in the blue sky with red roses to bring it all together, just like she promised.

“finished!” she looks back at you two, hands in the air in celebration of her brand new masterpiece being born.

“oh! they’re so pretty!” sweet enthusiasm in your voice, you give her all the attention in the world. “just perfect!”

you begin to ask her the little things, every detail you could think of and she could find an answer to, all while wrapping her in the warm towel you hung up earlier.

satoru’s gotten up from the floor too, taking it all in until she calls for him again, “that’s you, daddy.” she points at the blue on the wall as you carry her back to her room.

his heart screams though he’s no longer crying and he hopes this lifetime will be enough to love.

satoru hears your footsteps trickling further down the hall when your voice resounds again, “come on daddy, we need help picking out today’s pijamas!”

“pease, papa hurry!”

his heart screams though he’s no longer crying as he listens to the water flow down the drain, capturing her first piece of art on his phone, he has very little to say.

but if he had to say it and if his baby asked him to, satoru would confess: “i’m so happy. i’m so happy to love you.”

hello friends! this is a repost from my previous blog, mysugu. in the case you recognize this piece, that is (hopefully) why! thank you for reading this bit, (a second time?) he is so loved.

[iamquiantrelle]

JUSTICE ────── iamquaintrelle

# author's note: sexual extortion and exploitation whether you are famous or not is not something to be taken lightly. i urge every person who has been a victim to this to seek out justice and find ways to heal. one of mine during this time is writing. thank u to everyone who sent me love & support. hadi is me, and I am her.

The notification hit Hadi’s phone like a gut punch.

At first, it was just a ping—one of many she got throughout the day. But then another came. And another. Group chats buzzing. Mentions climbing. Her work Slack going eerily silent, except for a single “Hey…are you okay?” from a coworker.

She should’ve ignored it. She should’ve put her phone face down and finished the report she was working on.

Instead, she clicked Twitter.

And there she was.

Mouth parted, lips glossy with saliva, eyes hazy—completely wrecked as she knelt between Jules’ legs. The lighting was dim, but there was no mistaking her face, no mistaking the way her thighs trembled, the telltale sign of her own orgasm still lingering in her body. Jules’ hand was in her hair, his voice a deep, raspy murmur barely caught on the audio:

"Open up for me, bébé."

And then came the slap. Not rough, just teasing, his dick tapping against her cheek, her lips. A breathless little laugh escaped her in the video, tongue darting out as if to taste him.

Hadi’s stomach plummeted.

The clip was short—maybe ten seconds—but it was enough. Enough for Twitter to erupt. Enough for her name to start trending beneath Jules’.

— JULES KOUNDÉ’S ICLOUD JUST GOT HACKED HOLY SHIT

— That’s his girl right? I need to start dating a freak like her

— French NT’s hoes getting exposed left and right, y’all be safe out there lmaoo

— She too pretty to be doing that wtf

— Nah, she’s doing exactly what she should be doing, respect.

Hadi sucked in a sharp breath, hands shaking as she locked her phone. The office suddenly felt too bright, too loud, her heartbeat hammering in her ears.

“Hey, Hadi?”

She jolted. Lisa, her manager, stood hesitantly by her desk, gaze flicking over her face with something too much like pity. “You, uh…you should probably go home for the day.”

Hadi was already grabbing her bag.

The tram ride home felt like moving through molasses—too slow, too suffocating, like the whole city of Amsterdam suddenly had eyes on her.

Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

Another notification. Another tagged post.

She told herself not to look. Told herself to just sit there, breathe, focus on the blur of the canals outside. But her hands had a mind of their own, and before she knew it, her screen was unlocked, and there it was.

A second clip.

This one was longer.

The grainy, warm filter of Jules’ vintage camera gave everything a raw, almost cinematic feel. Hadi was on top, her body rolling in fluid, practiced motions, back arching with each downward push. The lens stayed trained on her for a while, catching the way her breasts bounced, the way her lips parted, eyes fluttering in pleasure. And then—

The angle shifted.

It turned upward, capturing the mirrored ceiling above them. The reflection was obscene, the full view of her riding him—hips working in that rhythm Jules loved, hands planted against his chest for leverage.

And Jules.

His voice, low and guttural, filled the speakers.

"That’s it, bébé…fuck, look at you. My pretty girl, taking me so good. You see how perfect you look?"

The camera wobbled, as if his hand had trembled. His groan, deep and shuddering, sent a fresh wave of nausea through Hadi’s stomach.

— JULES IS NASTY AS FUCK HELPPPP

— This man got a mirrored ceiling like a damn porn set 💀

— Nahhh the French NT is finished

— They do this all the time??

— Forget Jules, she’s the real star. Girl, drop the routine.

Hadi locked her phone, fingers tightening around it like she could crush the entire situation in her palm.

The tram lurched to a stop, and she forced herself to move, stepping onto the platform in a daze. She barely remembered the walk to her apartment, barely registered her own breathing until she was inside, door locked, bag slipping from her shoulder with a dull thud.

No one was ever supposed to see that.

They filmed sometimes, sure. Just little keepsakes, special moments when the mood was right. Jules had never been much into watching traditional porn—too impersonal, too manufactured. But them? That was different. That was real. That was for him, for those nights when they were apart, when he was in Barcelona and she was here, and he needed something to get him through the distance.

And his iCloud was supposed to be unhackable.

Supposed to be.

Hadi braced her hands on the kitchen counter, her breath coming in shallow gasps. The walls of her apartment felt like they were closing in, the air thick with the weight of exposure. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the images were still there—her own face, blissed out and ruined, her body moving in perfect rhythm, the way Jules had gripped her hips like she belonged to him.

Her phone vibrated against the counter.

She didn’t have to look to know what it was.

More notifications. More people dissecting her intimacy like it was some new form of entertainment.

When she finally worked up the nerve to glance, Twitter was still on fire.

— They been filming like this??? My man got a whole highlight reel

— Jules Koundé is officially a menace. That dirty talk???

— Y’all worried about him but imagine how she feels?? Shit is humiliating.

— I’m tryna see the full tape, who got the link?

That one made her stomach turn.

There was no full tape. Just moments, snapshots of them at their most vulnerable, never meant for anyone else’s eyes.

The thought of strangers—men, especially—watching her, analyzing her, getting off to her, made her throat tighten. She rushed to the sink and barely managed to hold back the urge to be sick.

Another call.

Jules.

She let it ring.

Not because she didn’t want to hear his voice—God, she needed to—but because she didn’t trust herself to speak without breaking.

Instead, she forced herself toward the bathroom, hands shaking as she turned the faucet on. Cold water splashed against her face, grounding her for only a second before another thought slammed into her.

Her job.

Hadi fumbled for a towel, drying her face as she grabbed her phone again, switching from Twitter to her email.

Nothing yet. No HR emails. No subject lines with the words inappropriate content or company policy violation.

But it was only a matter of time.

She worked in digital marketing, for fuck’s sake. A firm that specialized in online reputation. What were the chances that no one in her office had seen the videos? That no one had whispered about her, eyes flickering with recognition?

The anxiety pressed against her ribs like a vice.

Another vibration. This time, a text.

Jules: Bébé, pick up. Please.

She stared at the screen.

Jules had to be spiraling, too. His reputation. His career. The French National Team had already been in shambles this week, and now this.

She closed her eyes. Inhaled deeply.

Then, finally, she called him back.

The phone barely had a chance to ring before Jules picked up.

“Hadi.” His voice was strained, barely controlled.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “Jules.”

“Are you okay?”

A stupid question. She knew it. He knew it. But still, something in her chest cracked at the worry in his tone.

“No,” she admitted, voice small. “I—Jules, I don’t know what to do.”

There was a pause, like he was steadying himself. When he spoke again, his voice had that quiet, measured intensity she knew so well.

“I’m already handling it. Lawyers, cybersecurity—whatever we need, it’s done.”

She wanted to believe that. She really did.

But this wasn’t something that could just be handled. This was everywhere.

Another notification popped up on her screen. Another tweet.

— Jules Koundé directing amateur porn with a vintage camera is NOT what I had on my 2025 bingo card.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“People are talking about me like I’m some—some exhibit,” she whispered. “Like I don’t have a life, a job, a family that’s going to see this.”

Jules exhaled sharply. “Merde,” he muttered. “I should have been more careful. I—”

“No.” She shook her head, even though he couldn’t see. “This isn’t your fault. It’s not mine, either. They—whoever did this—they’re the ones who should be ashamed.”

But that didn’t change the fact that she was the one being seen like this.

She turned away from the mirror, unable to look at herself any longer.

“I need to get out of here,” she murmured.

“Then come home,” Jules said immediately.

Her fingers clenched around the phone. Home.

As if that word didn’t have a whole different meaning now.

But where else was she supposed to go?

She exhaled shakily. “I’m coming.”

The flight to Barcelona was booked before she could fully process it.

Hadi didn’t even hesitate—she just had to get out of Amsterdam. Every time she refreshed Twitter, another wave of notifications hit her like a truck, each one worse than the last.

She was still in the backseat of her taxi when another clip dropped.

The screen lit up with a blurred-out thumbnail, but the caption alone made her stomach plummet.

— Jules Koundé’s camera work is insane. You can see EVERYTHING.

Her fingers trembled as she clicked the video.

And there it was.

Jules had propped his vintage camera at the perfect angle, capturing the two of them in missionary, his body moving over hers in deep, rolling strokes. The frame was sharp—too sharp. Every detail was visible. The way his back muscles flexed, the stretch of her legs around his waist, the shine of sweat on their skin, the sheer intimacy of it.

She could even see the way his hand cradled the side of her face, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone, his mouth forming the words—

"Ma belle… Tu prends ça si bien."

Her breath caught.

And the worst part?

There was no condom in sight.

The realization hit her like ice water, and as if on cue, Twitter was already losing its mind.

— NAH WAIT, these two are raw dogging??? — This is the most aesthetic porn I’ve ever seen but I DID NOT need to know that Jules Koundé hits raw. — Y’all are focused on the condom when we need to talk about how he’s making LOVE to this girl. — “Tu prends ça si bien”?????? Yeah, that man is in love.

Hadi slammed her phone facedown on her lap, heart hammering against her ribs.

She could not keep reading this.

She needed to get to Barcelona. Now.

The rest of the ride to the airport was a blur. Hadi barely remembered checking in, going through security, or even boarding. Her entire body felt like it was running on autopilot, but her mind was still stuck in an endless loop of those clips, those tweets, those comments dissecting the most intimate moments of her life.

She kept her phone on Do Not Disturb, but that didn’t stop the notifications from piling up.

Somewhere between takeoff and landing, another tweet had gone viral.

— N**s talking about “Jules hitting raw” but do y’all see the way he’s looking at her? He was deep in love before the stroke even started.

A screenshot was attached.

A still frame of Jules—his face half in shadow, sweat-damp locs falling over his forehead—watching her with an intensity that made her stomach flip. His lips were parted, like he was whispering something just for her, something filthy and sweet all at once. His hand was gripping her thigh, possessive, the tension in his body so obvious it was like he was feeling every inch of her.

Hadi squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her forehead against the cool airplane window.

She had to breathe.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Their videos weren’t meant for anyone else. She used to tease him about it, calling him a romantic in the filthiest way, and he’d just smirk and tell her, “Why would I watch anyone else when I have you?”

And now, the entire internet had her.

She swallowed hard, fighting the sting of tears.

The plane landed in Barcelona, but it didn’t feel like relief.

No paparazzi were waiting outside Jules’ place—small mercies—but the silence didn’t feel any better.

Jules was already at the door when she arrived, jaw tight, brows drawn together in that way he got when he was pissed but trying to hold it in. His hands flexed at his sides, and the second she stepped through the doorway, he was on her.

Not saying anything. Just wrapping his arms around her, holding her like he could shield her from all of it.

And for a moment, she let him.

Let herself sink into the scent of him, the warmth of his skin through his hoodie, the steady beat of his heart.

But then he pulled back just enough to look at her, dark eyes scanning her face, and she could tell—he’d seen everything too.

He reached for her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye like he thought she’d been crying.

“Bébé,” he breathed.

That was all it took.

She buried her face against his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him—clean, warm, Jules.

For the first time all day, her shoulders sagged.

His lips brushed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured.

Her throat tightened.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she whispered.

“I know.” His grip on her waist tightened. “I swear to you, I will fix this.”

She knew he meant it.

But some things couldn’t be erased.

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him. “Jules…what if it never goes away?”

His jaw clenched. “Then we deal with it. Together.”

Her chest ached.

He meant it. Every word.

But she also knew the internet never forgot.

Inside, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension.

Jules had set his phone aside—probably tired of the endless notifications—but she knew his mind was still racing.

She sat on the couch, curling her legs underneath her.

Jules sat beside her, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, softly, Jules said, “Do you regret it?”

She blinked. “What?”

“The videos.” His gaze was serious. “Do you regret making them?”

Hadi exhaled, staring down at her hands.

Did she?

Those nights with Jules—filming little pieces of their intimacy, capturing the way he touched her, the way he looked at her like she was everything—had never felt wrong.

Jules wasn’t into mainstream porn. He liked them. Their moments. Their history.

And if she was honest…so did she.

She lifted her gaze.

“No,” she admitted. “I don’t regret us.”

Jules studied her for a long moment before exhaling, his shoulders losing a fraction of their tension.

“But I hate that people are seeing me like this,” she continued, voice softer. “I hate that it’s not ours anymore.”

Jules reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers.

“I’ll make sure whoever did this pays,” he promised.

She squeezed his hand. “I know.”

And she believed him.

But even as she leaned against him, exhaustion settling deep in her bones, she knew this was only the beginning.

“Come shower,” he murmured after a beat, voice softer now. “You had a long day.”

Hadi hesitated for only a second before nodding. Right now, she didn’t want to think about Twitter or leaks or the fact that millions of people had seen her at her most vulnerable.

She just wanted him.

Jules laced his fingers with hers, leading her toward the bathroom. And for a moment, just a moment, the rest of the world didn’t exist.

The bathroom was filled with steam, the air thick with warmth as Hadi stood under the spray, letting the water cascade down her back. Jules had stepped in behind her, arms wrapping around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. For a while, neither of them spoke.

The silence was heavy, but not uncomfortable. Just there. Like the weight of everything pressing against them.

When the water started to cool, Jules reached past her to turn it off, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her before doing the same for himself.

They moved in sync—muscle memory at this point—as they stepped out and padded back into the bedroom. Jules grabbed his phone from the nightstand, unlocking it with a swipe of his thumb. His face was unreadable, but Hadi could see the tension in the way he held it.

“Delete it,” she murmured, towel still clutched around her.

Jules met her gaze, understanding immediately. Without hesitation, he scrolled to his home screen, held down the Twitter icon, and pressed delete.

The app disappeared in an instant, but the damage was already done.

Hadi exhaled and picked up her own phone from the dresser. The notifications hadn’t stopped. Every few seconds, her screen lit up—mentions, texts, missed calls.

She pressed her lips together and did the same, dragging her finger over Instagram next before deleting that too.

A beat of silence. Then Jules spoke, voice low.

“PR team is coming by in an hour.”

Hadi nodded, swallowing hard. “And the lawyers?”

“Already on it.”

She let out a slow breath, fingers flexing at her sides. “They’re never going to be able to erase it completely.”

Jules sighed, rubbing his hands over his face before dropping onto the bed. “No. But they can make it harder to find.”

She sat down beside him, her thigh brushing against his. “Do you think it was someone we know?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know.”

Hadi glanced at him, noticing the way his fingers curled against the sheets. She reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together. “We’ll figure it out.”

Jules squeezed her hand in response, his grip firm. “Yeah.”

The weight of the situation was still there, lingering in the space between them. But at least they had each other. That was something.

For now, that had to be enough.

[seastarblue]

Seven Sentence Sunday / Writing Share Tag!

thank you to everyone who’s tagged me in these the past few weeks (the ones I remember being @keeping-writing-frosty , @willtheweaver , @theink-stainedfolk , and @the-golden-comet — possibly more but I Can Not Remember my bad 😔 )

I don’t know if I’ll finish this blurb (writers block… my greatest enemy…) but! have some Li Hua and Aleksi <3

———

She held a hairbrush and a small bottle of… something. Putting the latter aside, she gestured to the space in front of her. “Take a seat.”

When she saw his confusion she asked, “I wanted to… do you hair? It’s a little… messy, to put it nicely.”

Aleksi absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair, wincing a little at how it snagged at his fingers. She was right, he probably looked homeless. All of them were a little worse for wear these days, come to think of it.

He sat where Li Hua had asked him to, back facing her. She started on the hair closest to his neck, detangling it. Up and up she went, brushing out the tangles and knots with so much care it made Aleksi a little sleepy.

Yay them <3

no pressure tagging the …

Tag Game List! Lemme know if you’d like on/off via dm:

@sableglass @dioles-writes @viridis-icithus @allaboutmagic @paeliae-occasionally

@inky-anathemata @vsnotresponding @nightlylaments @ancientmyth

@thebookishkiwi @verdant-mainframe @threedaysgross @fifis-corner @bamber344

@seafloor509 @viwritesthings @abiteofhoney @rumeysawrites @pizzamanstan

@vesanal @an-indecisive-nerd @the-ellia-west

also open tag !

[transmascutena]

the poor little meow meow-ifictation of saionji in this fandom has got to stop i can't take it any more

[chamerionwrites]

First things first: yeah! That’s an entirely valid interpretation of the story - in fact it’s probably the most straightforward interpretation of the story - and one that I have zero problems with. I can see how this might not be immediately clear, but I do not in fact have any objection to that reading. When people break out the above quote to argue that - as you said in the tags - “grimdark hopeless isn’t any more realistic or true to life than all the other types of stories we tell to each other,” I agree with them!

And I do think it’s important, here, to acknowledge the context in which those discussions are often taking place. Namely: there exists a very tired argument wrt SFF in particular that speculative worlds aren’t believable without racism/homophobia/misogyny/etc, and that defends even the most slapdash and thoughtless writing about such issues as “realism”. Funny enough this concern for realistic worldbuilding rarely seems to get raised in the name of exploring sociopolitical injustices, and how they’re created and reproduced, and their effects on people’s lives. Instead it’s usually deployed as an argument for slapping those injustices unchanged and unexamined onto every imagined world - with zero thought about all the other ways a setting might be wildly different from our own! - and also for Why All Protagonists Should Be Straight White Men. Nobody else in the universe has ever done anything interesting or worth reading about obvs! (This is an ideological position that we’re going to describe as “realistic” and “historically accurate” without the slightest hint of irony!) We love the mental puzzle and challenge of creating and imagining other worlds and ways of being….but in this one specific respect, the way our world is and has been is the ONLY realistic way that a world can or could (…or should?) ever be!

This argument has been done to death enough and we’re on the same page enough that I don’t feel the need to say much more about it here except that yeah, on top of being nakedly reactionary it’s also mind-numbingly stupid and boring. Long story short, my frustration in the op is very much NOT about people insisting on the artistic validity - or the artistic value - of imagining other, better worlds.

What does frustrate me is a loud minority of folks who insist on making a super unfounded (imo) rhetorical move from “[not] only pain is intellectual, [not] only evil is interesting” to “pain and evil, failure and darkness, CAN NEVER be interesting.” They’re not just arguing for the value of imagining better worlds. They’re arguing that their own preference for happy, escapist fiction is a moral imperative, that dystopia and tragedy are a failure of artistic and political imagination. And it’s that, specifically- that smug disdain for sad or dark or confrontational stories, the insistence that they could only ever appeal to pretentious reactionary edgelords - which I was objecting to up top. First because I think that’s an equally simplistic and ungenerous and impoverished way to engage with any fiction. Second, because I think it’s a wildly unjustifiable reading of Omelas specifically.

Because whatever sort of story you prefer and whatever you believe that Le Guin is saying, the truth is that the power and punch of that story derives from dystopia. The reason that people remember it, and argue about it, and write spin-off stories about it or in dialogue with it, is because that vividly horrific premise - the tortured child and the society that turns on the child’s suffering - gets into people’s heads and haunts them. I have enough respect for Le Guin to believe that if she had solely wanted to make a kind and just world real to the reader, and defend the artistic merit in doing so, she could have. But she didn’t. She sketched a society so upsetting that it practically spawned its own micro-genre of professional fix-it fics - and then she pointedly refused to elaborate on any alternative. (“The place they go towards is a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. I cannot describe it at all. It is possible that it does not exist.”)

THAT is the context in which that quote about “the treason of the artist” exists. Which means one of two things. Either “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” is astonishingly lacking in self awareness, an abject failure by its own artistic standards - or Le Guin was making a more complex and graceful point than just dystopias bad and boring. Those are the terms.

I happen to think she’s making a more complex and graceful point! I think those internal tensions in the story are productive, not self-contradictory. I don’t think that “a story about the world as it is” and “a story about the world as it should be” are in any way mutually exclusive. I think you can engage with an unjust reality without dismissing alternative possibilities. (eg “We live in capitalism; its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings.”) I think you can harness the metaphorical and emotional and provocational power of tragedy and darkness to insist that other, better worlds are possible. Isn’t that precisely what Omelas is doing? Isn’t that what a story like Black Sails is doing? The narrative works not despite but BECAUSE the audience is watching from a future in which we know there was no widespread successful 1715 slave revolt that overthrew colonialism in the Western Hemisphere. And yet the dramatic tension relies on some part of you believing in it. For the tragedy to work, you have to be able to imagine and mourn for that better future!

Does all of that make sense? I’m not saying your above reading of Omelas is wrong (to the contrary). Nor am I claiming that dark fiction is more intellectual & interesting, or that people aren’t entitled to their genre preferences. But ngl I have zero patience for anybody ripping that quote out of context to claim that a story about prevailing injustice can have no possible value. Injustice prevails every day, in real life. Many revolutions have failed in real life. We already live in Omelas - except that our version devours the lives of far more than one child. If the human mind and heart could comprehend the magnitude of corruption and colonialism, suffering and slavery, torture and rape and murder, ruined ecosystems and communities and dreams and lives and futures, that has been required and is STILL required so that you can buy bananas for sixty cents a pound at any time of year, then at almost any given moment you would be falling to your knees and weeping brokenly in the street.

Failure of imagination is one reason that kind of injustice is allowed to continue, for sure. A closely related reason is complacency. Because the proverbial Omelas kid is locked away in a basement where we don’t have to look. Because - as Black Sails spends a whole lot of narrative and thematic energy trying to illustrate - Civilization™️ is a machine that runs on mind-breaking amounts of devastating violence, and yet that violence is tolerated or celebrated when it isn’t entirely invisibilized.

So yeah, I agree that there’s a lot of value in imagining more just worlds. I’m simply not willing to concede that there’s no value in engaging with unjust worlds, because some people feel squeamish about injustice when a story asks them to truly look at it.

Guess I’m never going to stop seeing red about the unholy number of times I’ve seen people quote “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” out of context in order to condemn stories that focus on dark or troubling subject matter or that don’t end happily (“The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain”), when THE STORY ITSELF is about a society that closes its eyes to suffering and evil in order to live in comfort and has a hopeful but at best bittersweet ending

[hickeygender]

of all the star wars movies, which of them do y'all 1) enjoy the most 2) consider the best quality and 3) think you've rewatched the most. add your answers in the reblogs or replies, i'm genuinely curious how much of an overlap there is within everyone's three answers. mine don't overlap at all! they're revenge of the sith, empire strikes back, and the force awakens :^)

[front-facing-pokemon]

[applestorms]

much love to the (multiple) mutuals i’ve seen agony posting on this fine new year’s day my heart is with you all in spirit 🎉🎉 the pain is incredible but this too will change

[lukas-wrld]

This was another reminder to actually put myself together and get my story written, so thank you @mjparkerwriting for tagging me!

I shall be using my yet to be properly introduced, or planned, or actually started story idea, How to be the Perfect Daughter (working title)! The idea is that in the process of answering these questions, I'll figure out more of the story, so without much further ado-

What is the main lesson of your story? Why did you choose it?

I'm still not sure how to put it into precise words, but I'm playing around with the idea of "the ability to define yourself/choose your future/live your life gets increasingly difficult if the context you're in doesn't really let you do that" or something like that. Currently, anyway. Definitely liable to change at some point, lol

I didn't necessarily choose it, but rather, it's kind of the culmination of a couple of years of mulling over this story idea and changing as a person and the idea becoming more than just a way for me to vent out my frustrations and anger

What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding?

The real world. My own life experiences, as sparse as they are, lol. Childhood rage from lockdown

What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, or help the reader grow as a person?

Daughter wants to be seen as more than just that, more than just a second mother or a soon to be wife despite her entire culture kind of telling her otherwise.

With her, I'm trying to achieve some kind of catharsis. Maybe show people that the proverbial glass ceiling is sometimes there, and sometimes sucks, but it doesn't necessarily mean that you can't make the most of what is beneath that ceiling

How many chapters is your story going to have?

I'm not sure. If you couldn't already tell, I'm barely even on the planning stage XD

Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

Original content! I hope to publish it some day, though I think I wouldn't mind if I just posted it somewhere on the internet and called it a day

When did you start writing?

The earliest time I can remember that wasn't school assignments was probably around 2018/2019. I had recently discovered fanfiction and had stumbled across the wonderful realisation that I could write my own!

Do you have any words of encouragement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers do you follow?

As much as I'm pretty much just reiterating what's already been said;

your writing is a lot better than you think it is, so keep on at it!

write out your ideas and your hopes and all the vibes you want to incorporate into your story

write away your fears and insecurities and the stagnation that wants to settle

write whatever your head won't let you forget and the aches that linger in your heart

but just make sure that you write

I remember a really cool analogy that I saw somewhere here that went something like;

your words and works and WIPs that you write down are like seeds you plant in a garden;

sometimes they won't always come out looking the best;

they may not be vibrant or fruitful or even very pretty

but because you planted them, and when the time comes for them to die,

they'll make for excellent fertiliser for the next batch of seeds

and you best believe after all your hard work with the first batch

the next one will turn out much, much better

and the one after that, and forever

so make sure you plant your seeds!

Gently tagging: @the-ellia-west @the-stray-storyteller @aalinaaaaaa @hero-coded

@blackwood4stucky @bebewrites @hayatheauthor @agirlandherquill

@ashwithapen @friendlyshaped @dendotdrabbles @cupandquillcafe

and of course, any other writer who's interested!

author ask tag

Thank you @the-inkwell-variable for tagging me. I had to think hard on these answers.

I'll use my current WIP for this. It was once called TLBH. Now, its WotG. We will see if it changes again.

What is the main lesson of your story? Why did you choose it?

I think the main lesson would be that there's always something bigger than you, and sometimes you have to decide whether or not that something is great enough for you to change as a person. My characters go through and will continue to go through a lot. They are constantly tested and while some of them rise above it all--no question about it, others struggle with every step. Some are never able to stand up at all.

What did you use as inspiration for your worldbuilding?

I used the real world as inspiration. I really like history and religion, so I studied tons of cultures and languages and historical events. I have a lot of mythology, history, and religion/philosophy books and links saved because I'm just so fascinated with how everyone sees and understands things differently.

What is your MC trying to achieve, and what are you, the writer, trying to achieve with them? Do you want to inspire others, teach forgiveness, or help the reader grow as a person?

It is multiple POV, but without giving away too much, I’d say that every character is searching for purpose and acceptance in one way or another. I think I, as the writer, want to show how motivations change as we change as people, and that's okay. I want to tell a story that inspires people to love, change, fight, and live.

How many chapters is your story going to have?

I'm currently looking at a series with five books total. This first story will have 35-36 chapters.

Is it fanfiction or original content? Where do you plan to post it?

All OG. I want to publish traditionally, but we'll see what happens.

When did you start writing?

Since I could string together semi complex thoughts and also hold a pencil lol. I've always liked writing. I started writing fanfics some time in high school, maybe around age 15. If you want to get technical, though, my first fanfiction was in elementary school and it was about young Jack Sparrow before he became THEE Jack Sparrow.

Do you have any words of encouragement for fellow writers of writeblr? What other writers do you follow?

WRITE! Who cares if you think it's ass?

Write the story you always wanted to read but could never find.

Talk to other writers. Make friends. It can be very lonely, but having people that understand what you're doing and are also going through the same process is helpful.

I'm still working on the last one.

I follow a ton of writers on here, so I think I'll tag a bunch of people just for the hell of it.

@frantheram @mrbexwrites @stargazingdustbunny @marsh0mallows99th @cwritesfiction @writingamongther0ses @paintedbutton @inkednotebook @lukas-wrld @writinglittlebeasts @vicwriting @kae-luna @the-orangeauthor @kckramer @ghost-type-writer @phynewrites @wildswrites @jamieanovels @tabswrites

[ladyalicentshightower]

I think people overestimate how feminist team black is. If someone brings up how Baela should be the heir to Driftmark, it's always "she would've been Queen if not for the Greens!", ignoring that 1, she would be Queen consort, not a Queen in her own right, and 2 she has a legitimate claim in her own right to Driftmark. Team Black's goal is to crown Rhaenyra, but Rhaenyra becoming Queen isn't a win for feminism because it does nothing to dismantle the rest of the patriarchal system that exists in Westeros. From what we've gotten so far, it reads that Rhaenyra wants to be the exception and not the rule. Rhaenyra has made a lot of bad political decisions, which means she can't acknowledge Baela's claim because it would weaken her own claim (blatantly admitting her eldest sons are illegitimate would not end well for her to say the least). So she betrothes Jace and Luke to Baela and Rhaena to kind of atone for that, like as a consolation prize Baela will be Queen and Rhaena will be lady of Driftmark, neither of them would hold either title in their own right. It's good matches because the kids like each other and will treat each other well, but it's not a feminist win or a feministic liberation. It's usurpation, usurpation that takes place because Rhaenyra has to do damage control after having illegitimate children and after a serious of bad political decisions (both hers and her fathers, Viserys is the arbiter of this entire mess). To me, Rhaenyra is very reminiscent of Mary Queen of Scots, I can see a lot of elements drawn from Mary's history in Rhaenyra's story and character, down to their sons eventually taking the crown they failed to claim/keep.

[maddieandangel]

Had a weird Hollow Knight-related dream a couple days ago, so I decided to draw a major scene I remembered from it dgsgshf

More context will be in the tags, for those interested!

[discjude]

Yeah this is about right (as always my thoughts are in the tags so there's actually kei content there lmao)

[johnslittlespoon]

making a bucky edit to 'hot to go!' by chappell roan i feel sooo normal about how much modern au john would ADORE her he would be such a girlypop enjoyer lmfaooooo

[shikai-the-storyteller]

"I wish I could get my sleep schedule back on track" I say, making notes for yet another animatic I will literally Never Make

[medicinemane]

Should make a pain killer that actually kills (or even touches) pain