#i mean it is there just not exactly evident?

[syabm]

Radfems aren't exactly leftists. They're pretty roundly shunned by leftists because of their transphobia.

BZZT! Wrong!

TERFs are hated, because they hate trans ladies, who out-minority regular ladies. Non-TERF radfems have mostly been ignored as an embarrassment, like Rochester's wife in the attic.

Frankly, I think it's quite telling that the only type of feminists it's okay for mainstream progressives to openly hate are two degrees from regular feminism.

And even then, a lot of people ignore how the hatred of trans women is from hating men, and misuse "TERF" as a shorthand for "anyone considered transphobic".

Including me. And I'm a man.

Also, they don't stop being leftists just because other leftists hate them. By that logic, all the times communists and socialists have tussled means neither of those groups were leftist.

Please note that I have seen quite a few explicitly leftist radfems.

Most of my friends are leftist women. If they hate me for being a man, they hide it well. Even the lesbians.

Your experiences are not universal.

Such as, somehow, missing the Man vs Bear In The Woods meme. Or the M&Ms meme. Or Schrodinger's Rapist. Or Russian Roulette.

In fact, feminists have spent a lot of time and effort on ways to say it's perfectly fine for women to assume a man is a bad person by default.

To say any group dominated by men will be misogynist, but not being worried about the converse, ever.

I think that qualifies as "hate".

"funny how women dont turn to fascism and rightwing politics in masses because of the hatred and discrimination we are and have been faced with for centuries 🤨" Don't take things out of context.

See, I interpreted that part as the cause.

Saying women aren't becoming right wing "in masses", and it is because they have been discriminated against for centuries.

You could argue that the radfems I mentioned are an exception to the rule I pointed out of how right-wing women downplay misogyny to spite feminism, but radfems don't neatly fall on either side of the left/right divide. They're too feminist for the right and too transphobic for the left.

Here's a clue. The name.

Feminists are progressives. Radical feminists, as the name would indicate, are extremists, so they're just further along that line.

Which leaves them progressive-to-leftist, IME.

Also, Trans-Inclusionary radfems are a thing.

I'm not sure why you're devoting so much effort to addressing this one tangent, instead of my much more important and relevant points.

But I can guess.

I just want to remind you that I consider you someone who is always wrong and acts out of left-wing partisanship, so I have literally no reason to believe a word you say without very, very good evidence.

Also, my hands are cramping now, and this is already off topic, so I'm gonna stop. Night!

I couldn't have said it better myself.

[dev1lm4n]

favors

pairing: simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader

summary: ghost is curious on how far he could push around the pliant private; the kinds of things he could ask for and all the perverted favors he could earn, including stuffing you full of your silly little pen.

warnings: nsfw! sorta power imbalance (ghost is a l.t and you're a private), ghost is mean :(, uses of whore, unprotected piv, inappropriate use of a pen, semi-public, doing it in an evidence room lol, terrible accent, getting caught

notes: reblogs n comments appreciated! i also do commissions for $10 / 1k words on cod/tlou/aot/haikyuu n many more. msg me :)

“So yer telling me,” Johnny paused, vulgar gargles of cheap booze echoed around the buzzing pub. He had to take a minute or two to relinquish the revolting burn that’s paving a path right down his trachea and into his junk of a stomach. 

Ghost shouldn’t even be having booze, more so the kind they serve in the dirtiest street of London (the one that’s definitely infested with rat droppings and a random fella’s piss), but here he was, advocating for his friend’s ideas. 

The masked man shrunk back against the booth’s shiny red seat. His hips jutted forward, beer comfortably propped up on his thigh. 

“This lass will literally do anything you ask for?"

Ghost sighed.

It took him a beat too long to answer Johnny’s inquiry. 

He’s getting impatient, rightfully so. Unless it’s playful jeering or stern commanding procedure, Ghost hasn’t exactly spoken a word that he’d deem interesting after the last mission. 

He’s just been quiet underneath the skull-face attire. Tired, perhaps. But Johnny truly feared that he’d finally end up as a shell of a person. A suit of skin, muscle, and bones. The lights are on but no one’s home kind of thing. 

Ghost shifted in his seat. He leaned forward tentatively, deep in thought Johnny suspected. His hulking mass of muscles further emphasized by the tacky shine of multicolored lights.

“Yeah.”

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s amazing!”

“Yeah?”

His eyebrows knitted underneath his balaclava.

“‘course. You got yourself a fan, L.T.”

A fan. A fan. A fan?

Ghost could laugh at the premise. 

At the thought that someone had the audacity to think of him as someone worth that kind of attention. He had never thought of it in that manner, couldn’t bring himself to at least, but it’s still as far-fetched now than it was the first time he considered it. It’s absurd. 

Ghost propped his elbows up on the bar’s table. A sticky substance - most likely some sort of spilled milkshake or a very sweet Cosmopolitan - instantly pooled his sleeves, but he had more important things to dwell on. The idea that you, a simple girl-next-door private that he met by accident, adores and devotes yourself to him to the point of no return. What kind of fuckery is that?

“‘m not someone to fan over, Johnny. You know that fair and square.”

“You have a point there, L.T.”

Johnny huffed out a pained chuckle. His stomach must’ve been sending neon red blaring signs to quit drinking and hurry back to his woman back home, but he’s a persistent man, even stubborn some might say. 

Ghost was still deep in thought. He even managed to abandon the cold beer he'd ordered a couple minutes back, the condensation making a very clear point as it dribbled down his gloved palm.

He’s trying to acquire every last bit of information he has of you. Every detail, every moment that might help him deduce this extremely serious problem. 

What did your hair look like? When’s the first time he noticed the repeating tendencies? It might not result in his ultimate death, sure, but it’d surely wound him insane. Why would someone even be a fan of a socially-resigned man?

Johnny cleared his throat. Ghost’s taking too long and he’s made that clear.

“Where d’you even meet the lass?”

“’m not sure…” he trailed off.

Johnny offered him an odd look, before another laugh erupted from his booze-scented cavern. 

Ghost looked away, but was pulled back in by the comfortable arm (way too comfortable if he had a say in it) slung across his shoulder. His caramel eyes came around to his partner’s, as if waiting for him to spare him a piece of his mind. 

“You’re one cruel man, sir.”

“‘m not. Just never thought of it,” he tried. “Didn’t have the time to.”

“Come on. Bet you could get something outta that thick skull of yours,” Johnny jeered.

“I think, well, ..think she’s part of that task force. Y’know, the one that was an extension of ours, in case things go to shite?” 

Johnny hummed. There was that one time, too long ago that he couldn’t even picture the faces clearly. They're more similar to blobs of beige and brown now, but he’d remember a lady if he came across one. “Oh yeah, yer right, there was one.”

“Had trouble mapping out the terrains so I asked the Captain,” Ghost continued on lightly, hoping Johnny could somehow connect the statement to where and how he’d meet the mysterious lady. 

“And so she came in handy,” Johnny cleverly added.

Ghost took a deep breath, the shape of his lips made a brief appearance through the thin fabric, frustration knitted in every inch of his appearance. “She’s smart, Johnny. Well, even that drunk man coulda been smarter than you,” he argued teasingly, but was quickly met with a brute hand down the back of his neck. 

“That’s fuckin’ mean, man,” Johnny cocked his head to the side defeatedly. “’m here tryna solve your love problems, but yer making fun of me.”

“Not ‘love’,” Ghost corrected. “But she’s so pliant, John. So.. obedient.” 

“And smart people aren’t obedient. Moreover, smart lasses.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

Johnny took another swing of his foamy beer. A light trace of cheap booze made an appearance in the shape of a mustache right above his real bush. He looked like he’s truly using his head for a minute and it’s truly entertaining. Ghost would’ve chuckled, sneered, and made entertaining comments if it’s not for the fact that he’s equally as burdened. 

Come to think of it, you weren’t anything extraordinary. You weren’t a spectacular tank-shaped-human that’s won the recognition of every military general, neither were you superbly drop-dead gorgeous. You’re just this girl. 

This girl who didn’t have a blind adherence to his authority as a higher commanding officer; rather, you made it seem as if it was a conscious choice, a demonstration of your commitment to him. Your unassuming demeanor and lack of vanity blended right into the black-and-white nature of the military, but there was just something. 

Something particular that bothered him.

“What’d she do?”

“Asked her to gather intel from the last ten years,” he started. “Did it in two days.”

“That was well.. technically her job. Maybe she’s just terribly invested in it?” he offered.

“Asked her to get my boots washed-”

“Wait, what?”

“Boots. Washed. I had a sling on so I..”

“Don’t tell me she did it,” Johnny shrieked. “Your boots smell like horse shite.”

“She did.” Johnny looked at him in terror. His fucking jaw almost went unscrewed from the statement. “She’d switch schedules with me if things got out of hand. Oh, and she patched me up awhile back.”

“And you don’t know the lass�� name?”

“Fuckin’ hell, Johnny,” he grunted uneasily. “No.”

“Jesus Christ. What’dya even say when she finished patching you up?” he threw his hand up. “Thank you, random gal who I vaguely remember for cleaning up my boots and doing a shit load of things for me.”

“Well…”

“She’s in love with you. Christ’s sake. The wedding bells are ringing in my ears.”

“Too much, Johnny.”

“No, no, hear me out,” he tugged on the male’s collar, for dramatic purposes only of course, a classic of Johnny ‘Soap’ Mactavish. “I bet she’d do anything for you.”

“You’re fuckin drunk.”

“Maybe. But she fuckin adores you,” he continued on. “Bet she’d suck your lil willy if you asked.”

“Now you’re outta line, Johnny,” he scoffed, deciding his pal’s spitting all but the truth, maybe the piss-colored concoction finally fried his brain cells off. “And it’s definitely not little.”

Amidst all the naturally occurring hellish nature of the military (including and not limited to bitter black coffees, deafening morning roll-calls, and pungent blood), there existed an unconventional sanctuary for you. A safe haven-- special and reserved only for you. 

It’s not nearly as lovely as what home felt, but it was still something. 

The old evidence room, filled with bricks on bricks of aged papers along with neatly labeled boxes cluttered with God knows what. Classified artifacts, flickering lights; nobody wants anything to do with such a room and if they did, it’d probably be a direct order from their cigarette-smoking ripped captain. Or so you’d imagine. 

You’re not even close to being that level of importance. You’re closer to being a coffee-bearing, mess of an intern, instead of those in the laps of the General.

You didn’t mind. Not one bit.

The admin work is far more aligned with your goals than holding a hand grenade could ever be.

After quite some time, drowning in your own mind, earning paper cuts with every flip, and sipping that God awful black coffee, you’ve managed to turn every inch of the four by six room into your own twisted version of a highschool data wall. 

You’d argue that it’s a lot more effective than trying to do it in your team’s pristine glass wall, but truly it’s just a silly reason. A silly reason not to be humiliated and undermined by fellow colleagues who think that they’re above and beyond. 

You stood up. Observed. Crouched (in hopes that there’d simply be a miracle, but alas, futile). Then repeated the regime like clock work for what seems like forever.

That was until an interruption came along. 

A glitch in your picture-perfect routine, and it terrified you like hell. 

You stood in full attention. A forty-five degree angle between your toes, hips and shoulders level, chest puffed, and limbs stiff. Between the moment in which the heavy metal door swung open with ease and when it finally came to your attention who the intruder was, you thought of all the ways you could rationalize the mess you’ve corrected. You’d imagine having a thirty second period - or less - where you’d have the chance to save your ass from running toilet duty all week. 

But what came was far worse.

It’s that man. That Lieutenant, if we’re being prissy.

The one you had a crazy, borderline psychotic crush on. 

The one you did back flips and handstands for. And you didn’t know if it’s the thick helmet that's strapped to his head, the heavy eye black he rocked daily, or the skull-patterned balaclava, but he’s utterly indifferent to the treatment.

Enough of that, you decided.

“At ease.”

Your shoulder slouched back to its acquired form and like always, you’d allow him to stare you down like you’re some sort of farm animal.

“Apologies, Lieutenant,” you drew back a breath. “For the mess that is. I.. wasn’t expecting anyone to come by.”

You attempted to meet his gaze. Keyword, attempted.

His stern gaze, brown eyes framed by a fading ghost of eye black, made it hard to breathe. The air seemed to thicken - wine into blood - as if acknowledging the unspoken, blurry lines of tension. 

You, acutely aware of the rising tautness, attempted to challenge him ferociously, but the weight of his stare proved almost tangible. And despite it being heavily inappropriate, your clit pulsed in a foreign rhythm and your nipples pebbled with desire underneath the pure wrap of your uniform.

“Not my business,” his response fell flat. It’s like he’s trying to have you embarrass yourself.

“What’s your business then?”

It sounded a little rude, so you managed to add on a slurred line of ifyoudon’tmindmeaskingthatis to sweeten the deal.

He looked stunned for a bit, but then his gait laxed and you took the bait. You took a sharp intake of air through the gaps of your top and bottom row of teeth. Cold air seeped through, as hostile as the rumbling storm outside. 

The single bulb flickered ominously - was the Lieutenant powerful enough to control electricity with his terribly distant gaze?  

‘Ghost’ was his callname. That’s the only thing you know of him, aside from the fact that he’s a prominent member of TF 141 and that he has a god awful habit of tossing his duties to you. The kind of duties that won’t earn him a star or two.

“Do you need me to deep soak your boots again?”

His lithe lashes swept over his eyes, but once more, no response. It’s like you’re speaking to a wall. A damn persistent one.

“Or run names?”

Something. Anything would be better than nothing.

“Nothing like that.”

“No?”

He shook his head.

He stuffed his hand down the pocket of his tactical trousers, shoulder hunched forward, before he took a step forward. His boots, lathered in mud from a far away land, crushed the papers you’ve laid neatly. 

Your eyebrows - disobeying each and every one of your neurons - twisted in disdain. 

That was your work. Your hard work.

The Lieutenant inched closer, an estimate of a full foot ahead of you, towering with such an incredulous look. You challenged him with a similar gaze. Emotions naked, unveiling beneath a thin line of shameless and daring. A line of sweat began to form on top of your upper lip, a betrayal to the T. 

“You think you’d let me fuck you?”

“What?”

“You think you’d-”

“I.. I heard you the first time, L.T. Just a little bewildered I s’pose.”

Not even the wildest beast of Manchester’s pub would query such an upfront question. 

You swore that your physical state had forgotten that there’s an entire raging snowstorm outside base, because all you could feel was warmth. 

Warmth pumped through every inch of skin under the neat fold of your collar and the tight cuff around your forearm. Warmth made your palms pool with dubious desire. It enveloped you whole, suffocated you in a headlock. 

At his approach, you staggered back. It was as if your knees gave out thoroughly. You are clearly not an easy slag, but he’s making you look like one.

“Would you?”

He questioned with such.. reverence?

The Lieutenant’s large pointer finger, equal to the size of a French baguette, swept beneath your chin. A tease. Not a threat. Perhaps more of an invite.

“You could say no,” he offered. “Nothing’s gonna happen if you say no, ‘course.”

The question ‘why’ was on the tip of your tongue, before you retracted it entirely. It didn’t matter why, at least, not to him. You’ve heard about the practice. The military is cruel. Brutal. Stinky men, blood and puss, tasteless MREs; people need a getaway car, even for just a bit. 

The real question was if you’d let him.

Would you let him fuck you?

You nodded.

You’re not even sure if that’s your good conscience speaking. It’s just.. you gravitate towards him like a love-blind teenage groupie.

The ghost of a smile, barely there but obvious enough it protruded out the smooth surface of his balaclava,  momentarily diverted you. 

He looked so good. Even with every inch of his skin covered in some sort of cloth, he looked devilishly good. 

Before you could react, his strong arms were quick to wrap around your waist, swiftly turning you around. Surprised, you found yourself pushed gently against the edge of the table. It rattled side to side from the sudden impact, a rhythm that coddled you back into reality. 

His cold fingertips held your wrist together. A makeshift cuff of some sort. You glanced over your shoulder, met instantaneously by the Lieutenant’s icy expression, tinged with a hint of deviance.

“Would you truly let me?” he asked once more.

You nodded.

He looked displeased. Something’s missing, but you couldn’t pinpoint what exactly was bothering him. 

Ghost took another step forward. The faint presence of him crowded your backside. The tips of his fingers told a whole ‘nother story as it smoothed over your arm, mistakes and trauma from a faraway land. His warm breath flooded across the nape of your neck, controlled, yet imposing. You made an embarrassing noise when he tugged at your wrist, pulling you flush against his frontside. 

Way to go.

“Say it out loud, soldier,” he grunted. “Needa be sure.”

“Fuck me.”

Exasperation and determination, he consumed you whole like wildfire. 

You tried to weasel your way out of his grip, thinking it’d be smart to arch your back like a cat in heat to meet his crotch, but it’s no use. He’s as thick as concrete, not keen on meeting your demands. 

You whined. Desperate this time. 

He's tinkering on the edge of something big, something you know is going to be the best thing you agreed to. Ghost shushed you. A short click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth as his hands traveled along the circumference of your stomach. 

He made it an easy task to tick off those pesky, bothersome buttons. One by one. Every time making you wince in anticipation.

“Lieutenant!” you squealed aloud when he buried his head down the crook of your neck. The texture of his balaclava made your nerves jitter, rough yet the warmth his skin emitted set your own alight.

You gasped when he finally cupped your breasts. He kneaded the soft skin gently, the cold tips of his fingers twisting to pebble your nipples. From the back, you might've looked prim and proper. But from the front, your nipples stood out like the slanted tips of Everest. 

A stinging pleasure was quick to spread, especially down South, where your needy cunt gaped and squeezed tight around nothing. He's kind enough to leave the remnants of your uniform attached to your body. It's cold out and he was bright enough to know that this room was equipped with not even one heater. It's the higher-ups cutting costs like always.

“Why'd you let me fuck you, eh?” he whispered tauntingly. “You a whore?”

You shook your head no. Mind too frazzled to even get offended.

“Looks like a whore to me,” he chuckled slowly, only to bend you straight at the waist.

The side of your face came in contact with the cold surface in a loud thud. A protest tore out of your throat. 

He pawed at the belt buckle you're sporting, so impatient he might’ve torn the material in one go if it didn't unclasp right away. With a single pull, he had your tactical military-issued pants pooled pathetically around your ankle. 

It was quiet for a moment or two. You would've guessed that he was standing there, admiring your backside like some twisted connoisseur of some sort, or setting aside a list of what he would've liked to do. It's unbelievable that the five-minutes-ago-you agreed to something this bizarre. His large palms spread across the entirety of your ass, feeling up the smooth surface before a slap landed loud and clear.

“Ah!”

Something came into view on your right side, so you turned your head ever so slightly. And there it was. 

His thick fingers were wrapped around an item, the same one your mouth has been wrapped around so many times at frustrating moments. 

Your red pen, the same one that's ink has stained every inch of your fingers, was now offered in front of you. He wanted you to suck, you figured. You could've said no, sure, but there was a desire to fulfill his every wish, to be the good whore he's asking you to be. 

With much hesitation, you took the pen cautiously. It's not long before a good portion of it was lathered lewdly. And when he pulled the object away, a bead of saliva came attached with the warm end of your tongue.

“Look at you,” he cooed. “Couldn't even stand up for yourself, can you?”

“No.. puh- please.”

Ghost pulled you flush against his chest, so close that you felt the ridges of his uniform against your arched back. 

A possessive arm wrapped itself around your soft stomach. Your head was spinning-- his scent, musky and woody, had your mind twisting and bending in every manner possible. 

Finally, he spared you of all your suffering. The first nudge felt experimental. He rubbed the pen down your throbbing clit, running it up and down the sensitive bud. Then he slowly made his way further down in a voyage for your cunt. 

His calloused fingers paved the way down the slippery road. You found yourself bucking your hips against his warm hands, craving for just a touch. For more. Anything will do from that hulking figure of a man.

“God, just put it in already,” you grumbled, a notch above a whisper. Ghost didn’t like that one bit. He didn’t like your bratty tone and so, decided to punish you against it. 

The cold pen slipped into your wet cunt in one go. It might be thin, barely the size of a finger, but when you haven’t been fucked for ages, it felt incredibly intrusive. You’re almost sure your cunt had sealed itself back up after the long dry spell. 

Like a virgin, you let out a squeal. One that received a low, dry chuckle from the Lieutenant. 

He pulled it all out, pulling it up to your eye level, as if taunting you with how dripping wet the pen had become. It was lathered in your juices, thick and globby as it dripped down. You sucked on the end once more. This time unprompted, simply to show off how dirty you can also become.

This earned another one of his low grunts. Approval, you thought.

“You want it so bad, don’t you?” he whispered against your ear. Ghost guided the pen back to your entrance, letting it get sucked back by your needy cunt. He couldn’t watch, not with this position. But God did he want to. “Being all bratty won’t help, love.”

The squelching noise your cunt had made every time he thrust the pen back in was so.. dirty. Enough to also get him hot and bothered. 

You could feel him grow beneath you, feel it bulge against your lower half, though he didn’t seem to be making certain arrangements due to it. Ghost’s index finger and thumb moved rhythmically as it worked in tandem to touch all those sweet spots of yours. Undoubtedly, it’s working like a charm. 

Sweet nectars of his hard work started spilling out your cunt in thick translucent globs. It dribbled down your inner thigh, creating such a lewd display for Ghost to marvel. Teasingly, he thrusted upwards, hitting against those ridges deep in your cunt and making you lurch forward. Your nipples rippled in reaction, a twitching pleasure made you let out a needy moan.

“S-shit,” you cursed. Ghost continued to thrust the pen deeper, as deep as it could reach at least, and took it upon himself to twist and withdraw it every time you’ve gotten too loud with it. “Don’t-” you were interrupted once more. This time with the presence of his rough fingers, creating tight circles above your engorged clit. “Fuck!”

“You’ve got a dirty mouth on you, eh?” he whispered teasingly as he pressed clothed kisses against the nape of your neck. 

He was persistent in rubbing your clit, not changing the speed one bit even without you asking for it. It felt so nice. The way his textured fingers felt against your sensitive nub, the way he dragged your juices up your clit-- oh he’s driving you insane. 

Ghost angled his thrusts once more and with such expertise, he found that one cushy spot that made you tremble. Your knees felt weak and all you want is for him to fill you up properly. The cold pen rummaged against your insides and before you knew it, your walls had already started to flutter against the smooth plastic. “Small little cunt so desperate for me.”

“I- I can’t-” you gasped in between soft moans. “A-ah, ooh, I-” 

Ghost barked out a laugh at the way you can’t seem to finish any of your sentences. He was a sadist it seemed as he had no intentions of hearing you out. 

He drove the pen in harder, faster, determined to have you react more. To have you, the pretty little thing who’d run stupid errands for him, slather his fingers with your wetness. “Gonna cum on a pen, huh?” he teased, his voice tipping you over the edge. 

You guided your thighs forward, eager to have your clit caressed more. To have it stimulated by a masked Lieutenant you barely even know. 

“Sweet little thing..” he cooed as he watched you reach your high. “Drippin’ over a pen..”

“Cumming, I’m cumming!” you announced and he found it rather.. heart-warming in a way. 

You sounded so pliant, so dumb, and it’s what made blood rush instantly to his throbbing cock. You could feel him watching. 

His gleeful eyes ran over your convulsing body, the way your cunt clenched rhythmically against the office tool that’s lodged up into you. Ghost didn’t even get to pull out the pen before your cunt began spewing out what it’s been holding back. He’d just reprimand it with a few encouraging slap to your clit. 

The thin substance dribbled down the pen and onto his fingers, leaving a mess behind. A much-needed mess that is.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he cursed, holding your body upright as it seemed you had zero control over it.

The room felt warmer, much warmer that you couldn’t even feel a tinge of the cold air anymore; that everything else sounded like a ringing buzz and the only thing you could focus on was his rugged breath. 

It felt cathartic-- the moment, that is. Though, Ghost wasn’t one with plenty of time. 

Everything is timed when it comes to him, so he allowed you just a minute to breathe before he manhandled you back onto the table. He perched you up on top of crumpled papers, admiring the way your cunt pushed out the pen messily. Your favorite red pen clunked against the cold floor, leaving your aching cunt gaping with need. 

How truly pathetic it looked.

You looked at him with a stupid smile, as if he’s truly fucked your brains out. As if all you can think of was how his cock would force its way in, of how much thicker it’d be compared to the shabby pen.

“Ghost?” a timber voice crawled from the door. Before you could make your case, the door swung open confrontationally.

Though it terrified you, that you weren't upset by the fact that you’re caught. More so that you didn’t get to have your favorite Lieutenant’s seed drip from within you. Maybe.. maybe you were a whore like he’d suggested.

[jxwl4k]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Glimpse of us .𖥔 ݁ ˖

☘︎ genre: fluff

☘︎ pairings: fiancé!bakugou x fem!reader

⤿ a glimpse of bakugou and yn before haruto and akira <𝟑

It was a sunny Saturday morning when YN and Bakugou found themselves lounging on their couch, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The peace of the moment was a welcome break from their busy lives as pro heroes. YN had been scrolling through social media, watching various couples document their lives together, and an idea struck her.

“Hey, Katsuki,” she said, looking up from her phone with a bright smile. “What if we did a vlog? Just a little glimpse of our life before we start our own family?”

Bakugou raised an eyebrow, intrigued but skeptical. “Vlog? You mean like those losers online?”

“Exactly! But it could be fun! We could capture these moments together, and when we have our little family—” YN paused for effect, a teasing glint in her eyes, “we can show them how awesome their parents were before they came along.”

He smirked, crossing his arms. “Fine, but I’m not doing any of that cheesy stuff.”

ᯓ★ vlog one: the proposal

With the camera rolling, YN kicked off their first vlog. “Welcome to our first vlog! I’m YN, and this is my fiancé, Katsuki!” Bakugou grunted a response, looking slightly annoyed at being on camera.

YN’s enthusiasm shone through as she shared the story of their engagement—how Bakugou had turned an ordinary night into a spectacular moment with an explosive proposal, complete with fireworks. “It was perfect, even if he made me jump a little!” she laughed, nudging him playfully.

ᯓ★ vlog two: a day in the life of a pro hero

In this vlog, Bakugou took the lead, showing off his morning routine as a pro hero. “This is what it’s like to be Dynamight,” he said, the camera capturing his gruff demeanor as he prepared for the day. YN followed him around, playfully commenting on his preparations and asking for tips, trying to keep him in a good mood.

“Don’t mess with my routine, YN,” he warned, but there was a fondness in his eyes. They ended up filming him rushing out the door, barely managing to grab a toast as he yelled, “I’ll be back later!”

ᯓ★ vlog three: grocery shopping

The next vlog featured a fun grocery shopping challenge. “Today, we’re going to buy everything on our list without blowing the budget!” YN announced, grinning at the camera. Bakugou rolled his eyes but eventually joined in, throwing items into the cart as they bantered back and forth.

“Do we really need five packs of instant ramen?” he asked, shaking his head.

“Absolutely! It’s quick and easy for busy nights!” YN shot back, her laughter filling the store as they captured their antics.

ᯓ★ vlog four: date night

“Tonight, we’re having a date night at home!” YN declared, and Bakugou begrudgingly set up the camera in their living room. They cooked dinner together, with Bakugou trying his best not to burn the food. “Why do you always choose the recipes with the most steps?” he complained.

“Because it’s fun! And I love cooking with you,” YN said, smiling brightly. As they prepared the meal, they reminisced about their early days, laughing over the mishaps they’d had in the kitchen.

ᯓ★ vlog five: planning the future

In a more serious tone, YN brought up the topic of their future. “So, we’ve talked about having kids. How many do you want, Katsuki?” she asked, her gaze softening.

“Two,” he replied without hesitation. “A boy and a girl.”

“What names do you like?” she prodded, a twinkle in her eye.

“Haruto for a boy and Akira for a girl,” he said, sounding more thoughtful than usual.

“Those are perfect!” YN exclaimed, her heart swelling at the thought of their future family.

ᯓ★ vlog six: a day in the park

One sunny weekend, they decided to visit the park. “We’re going to show you how we spend our weekends!” YN said, holding the camera while Bakugou pushed her on the swings, much to his own surprise. “See, Katsuki? You can have fun!”

“I’m not having fun,” he grumbled, but a smirk was evident on his face as he continued to push her. They recorded their antics, capturing candid moments of laughter and love.

ᯓ★ vlog seven: pet adoption day

“Today is a big day! We’re adopting a puppy!” YN announced excitedly. They visited a local shelter, and Bakugou was surprisingly gentle as he picked up a rambunctious puppy. “Welcome to the family, little guy,” he said, a soft expression on his face that melted YN’s heart.

ᯓ★ vlog eight: home renovation

Their next project was turning one of the rooms into a nursery. YN filmed their progress as they painted the walls. “This is happening! We’re really doing this!” she exclaimed, as Bakugou helped, albeit reluctantly. “You’re getting paint everywhere!” he complained, but he couldn’t hide his smile.

ᯓ★ vlog nine: a day with the kids

Fast forward a few years, and the couple had two kids: Haruto and Akira. “Welcome to our chaotic family day!” YN laughed, trying to wrangle the energetic children. Bakugou, surprisingly patient, helped them build a fort, showing off his softer side as he played with them.

“Alright, you little brats, let’s see who can build the best fort!” he challenged, a competitive glint in his eye.

ᯓ★ vlog ten: reflection on family

In their final vlog of the series, YN and Bakugou sat together, the kids playing in the background. “These past few years have been incredible,” YN said, her voice filled with emotion. “We’ve built a beautiful family, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Bakugou nodded, his demeanor softer as he gazed at their children. “Yeah, we did good. And we still have a lot more to do.”

They shared their hopes for the future, knowing that no matter what challenges came their way, they would face them together—one vlog at a time, filled with laughter, love, and memories to cherish forever.

[coichii]

SUNFLOWER - HAN

pairing - spiderman!bf!han ♥︎ fem!reader

genre: angst & comfort

word count: 1.8k

warnings: cursing, reader thinks Han died, shitty writing that I thought was good at first

summary : Han led a double life, being your loveable boyfriend to Spiderman in the blank of an eye, obviously always putting himself in harms way for the sake of Brooklyn. You knew this about him, doesn’t mean it doesn’t scare you to death whenever he gets hurt.

A tap on the window stops your thoughts.

It’s 10pm on a Tuesday, so a knock on the window of your 7 floor apartment building in the middle of a dangerous city isn’t very, well, welcoming.

Carefully, you stand up, not failing to grab the hard baseball bat laying in you closet for moments like these.

Slowly and quietly, you make your way to the window, opening it and putting your weapon into batting position before your eyes lock onto the man behind the glass.

“Woah woah, baby. It’s just me.” Han defends, holding his arms in the air as if he had just been wrongly convicted. “Why do you have the bat.”

“Damnit Hannie! How many times have I told you to stop doing that!” You huff out, dropping the baseball bat out your hands as he chuckles and climbs in.

“Hey, honey~.” He teases in a sing song voice, wrapping his arms around your torso after closing the window. You can feel the warmth of his body, but you’re still upset.

“I’m going to seriously hit you if you keep doing that.” You pout, turning your head from him in fake anger; it’s hard to be mad at him for long.

“Don’t worry, cutie. It won’t hurt anyways.” He winks, causing an even deeper pout to form on your lips.

“Hmm, you still upset? Lemme kiss that pout off your lips then.” He grins, then he’s kissing you.

It’s sweet and slow, saying words lips can’t. His hands move from around your torso to your waist, giving the flesh a tight squeeze. You love kisses like these with him so much that you can almost forget what you had seen on tv earlier in the day.

Keyword : almost

A highly wanted criminal had escaped the prison early in the morning, and Han— well, SpiderMan was tasked with stopping him, which he didn’t.

They had ran into eachother near the Brooklyn Museum, and things escalated from there. Spiderman was injured slightly, and while you know that he heals fast, knowing exactly who was under that costume made your heart ache every time he got so much as a scratch on his body.

You pull away slowly, and Han furrows his brows. “Baby, are you still hurt?”

He bites his lip, the look in his eyes turning almost somber. He doesn’t like when you worry about him, not because he doesn’t like the attention, but because it makes him feel guilty.

Sometimes he wishes he could take all the worry you have about him and bury it far away, but he knows that for as long as he wears that suit, you’ll be worried about him.

“I’m fine, y/n. Don’t worry about me, okay?” He consoles, giving you one last peck on the lips. “Why don’t you get some sleep while I finish some paperwork work, hmm, bubs? It’s late.”

You frown at this, studying the look on his face intensely before you move away and sigh.

“Okay. You’ll be in bed soon though right?” You look up at him, and he can’t help but put his smile back on his face.

“In no more than an hour, hun.” He assures, moving towards the bathroom to take a quick shower before starting. “I won’t be long”

You make your way to the one bedroom in your shared apartment, mind still caught up in the events of the day.

You knew that the one who had escaped was very dangerous and had hurt hundreds of people before he was finally locked up for good. The fact that he was now free formed an aura of uneasiness around you and the entirety of New York City, and it was evident.

The streets were quieter; a horrible sign in the city that never seems to sleep. You could feel it in the air that everyone was on high alert, including your boyfriend.

The paper work he was doing? All of it was connected to him. He was a serious threat, and it was scaring you. The last thing you wanted was for Han to get seriously injured.

It’s happened once before when you guys had already been dating for a while, right around the time he told you that he was Spiderman.

He got beat up pretty brutally, and it had struck a fear in you that you hadn’t even known existed.

The fear of losing him.

That night when he returned, you held on to him and cried for hours. He desperately tried to comfort you, running his hands across your back and telling you he was fine.

Even if he was though, you’d still worry about him.

How could you not.

◂—♥︎—▸

It’s 5pm now, and you had just got off of work.

As you walk through the city, the feelings of brisk, autumn air soothing you, you realize it’s been too quiet. Even quieter than it had been yesterday.

You hadn’t been on your phone since it’s muted during your work hours, and you like to keep it that way until you get to your apartment, but you’re starting to think you should check it.

Nevertheless, you keep your regular pattern, walking until you reach the familiar building and door, walking in.

The anxiety is still eating at you, so you’re not surprised when you find your self turning on your TV and going to your local news station.

What does surprise you though, is when you see a live video of Spiderman laying on the harsh concrete clutching his side.

The air leaves your lungs, being filled with something else. Something thin, something dreadful.

It’s fear.

Your fearful eyes are glued to the screen. You want to look away, but it’s as if there’s an invisible force forcing you to stare at the TV.

It’s your worst fear broadcasted on live television, and there’s nothing you can do about it. All you can do is let the tears roll pitifully down your cheeks as the reports ramble on and on about his health, but you don’t want to listen. All you can do is pray.

Pray that those days where he held you weren’t going to come to an end. Pray that the times where he would swoop you up and take you to the roof of various buildings wouldn’t come to a close. Pray that even while it pissed you off, he would still be crawling through that window in your bedroom at the dead of night. That’s all you needed.

Him.

◂—♥︎—▸

You don’t know how long you had been there, but you don’t flinch when you hear the apartment door crack open.

You do move when you see who walks through the door.

There, a very beat up Jisung makes his way through the door, bruises and scars littering his arms. Cuts are all over his pretty face, causing a red tint all over. That’s all you can see through his tank top and long pants, but you know it must be worse.

You don’t know how you process all that, because once you register that it’s him, your running towards him faster than you’ve ever ran.

“J-Ji.?” You manage to stutter out, touching his skin delicately as if he could shatter, and honestly, you were scared he would. “Ji! O-oh my god! I t-thought you d-died!”

He grabs onto your hips, pulling you into his chest and rubing your back to console you. It usually works, but today, it’s only making the tears flow harder.

“What? Sweetheart, I’m fi-“ but you weren’t hearing it.

“Fine..? FINE!? You were not fine! I watched you lay there on the ground almost dead and you want to tell me you were fine?! I don’t know how much longer I can sit there and watch you ALMOST DIE, just for you to come home and say you’re fine, Han! I can’t take it.”

Your rambling angrily, stopping when you read the look in hans eyes.

fear & despair

“W-what do you mean by how much longer. Please don’t m-mean what I think you mean.” You can see the tears forming in his eyes as he pieces together your words and your shacked with guilt, taking a deep breath before speaking again.

“No. I don’t mean that at all. I-I’m just emotional. Just g-give me a minute to think, and then we can talk.” You whisper that last sentence, turning around and walking out of the shared living room, leaving behind a very shattered Jisung standing there, hand out as if to reach for you, but missing.

Missing by a long, long, shot.

◂—♥︎—▸

It’s not too long until you find yourself walking out of the bedroom, finding Han laying on the couch, seemingly staring into nothing, and this only makes you feel more guilty.

“Hey.” You start, seeing as Hans head swiftly turns towards your direction, eyebags heavy.

Have these tears always been blocking your vision?

“Listen. I am so, so, so sorry for how I acted. It was so wrong of me to yell and scream at you when you were still injured, especially to the point you would think I would even ever consider breaking up with you. I don’t want you to think being Spiderman is a burden for me, I was just emotionally overwhelmed and I am sorry.” You start, watching as his eyes slowly start to twinkle with tears.

Have these tears always been rolling down your cheeks?

“I just…can’t stand watching you get hurt. The thought of you.. n-not coming home kills me. You mean the most to me that anything or anyone ever has in all of my lifetimes, and the thought of losing you? It fucking scares me. But I shouldn’t have yelled at you or pushed you away. I’m sorry, Ji.”

He’s sat up by now, grabbing your hands in his. His eyes are sunken, and he still has various scars on his face, but the bruises have faded by now. You wish you could kiss all his pain away, but it’s hard to when it’s the emotional kind now and you feel as if it’s your fault.

“It’s okay, I understand. But listen to me, that’s never going to happen. I’m never ever going to leave you here by yourself. You will always have me. Until we grow old and much farther, I will never leave you.”

His words fill you with the sort of comfort you hadn’t felt for a long time, settling the aching in your heart that you carried for longer than you care to remember.

You knew there was going to be countless times where he was going to get endangered in the future, and you were never going to stop worrying about him. But for now, you felt at peace with him, your Spiderman.

Your hero.

back to masterlist

A/N : oh my goodness… proofreading this day of post is hard. I write a story and think it’s hits, then I go back and read it and it’s horrible…

[lazyturtlehottub]

A breakdown of the Fangirlish interview: an exercise in media literacy

Given that the reaction to Buck and Tommy breaking up has been exacerbated by those interviews, I thought I would look into the one from Fangirlish in order to look at it with my media literacy hat on and see what was actually said. So, here’s a link to a version that doesn’t give the writer clicks because you should make up your own mind before providing revenue to the platform https://archive.ph/fqhlE

We start off with the headline: Lou Ferrigno Jr. on Saying Goodbye to 9-1-1, That Breakup and What’s Next

Right away, as the reader, we’re immediately told that LFJ is saying goodbye to 9-1-1, the implication being that this is the end of the road, no going back. This is, I will say, a choice that the writer made when they created the article: they decide on the headline, no one else. Going in, our mind has already been positioned to believe that this is an exit interview and to understand everything that comes next through that lens.

Supporting this path is this: “Lou Ferrigno Jr.’s time on 9-1-1 has come to an end[...]” but it’s important to note that no one has said this but the author of the article. At no point does she provide a statement from ABC, Tim Minnear, or LFJ to back this statement up.

Another unsubstantiated statement she makes is: “For Ferrigno Jr. it wasn’t exactly the way he envisioned the end of his time on the show [...]” Yet again, at no point in what she quotes from Lou does he say this at all. This is her take on the conversation and she has provided not a scintilla of evidence to support this statement. What she does provide is the following quote from LFJ:

“With the way things were going, and the connection that they had, I was under the impression that it was working, and they were connected,” he shared.

Putting this in the context of the interview, it does make it sound like Lou was blindsided by the break up, which is a very normal thing considering that we all know the actors barely know what’s happening even when they have the script. It’s not surprising that Lou didn’t know about the break-up since even Oliver Stark mentions that he didn’t know about it until they began filming, even though the possibility had been floated some episodes earlier.

So while this quote in the context the writer’s given does seem pretty final, if we remove the exit interview lens from it, it just reads as an actor expressing his surprise at the path his character is going.

Continuing on, the writer then writes the following: Ferrigno Jr. admits he had issues with this ending [...]

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, she doesn’t provide a quote to back this up. What she does right is frame the next quote as [...] but trying to get into the mindset of Tommy [...], which changes the context of the quote that Lou gives.

“If preserving his emotional health and saving himself is the only means to survive, then you can’t shame him for it.” He went on to add, “I honestly don’t believe that the relationship matured well enough that they should have made any type of long-term decision.”

So she makes a statement that says LFJ has issues with the ending and then immediately moves on to talk about the acting choices Lou had to go through in order to understand where Tommy was during the scene.

Perhaps the most direct quote from Lou about the relationship that sounds troubling with regards for the future of Buck and Tommy is this: “I just would have hoped that it would have lasted a little bit more,” he also told us, adding that in the hour we also have Buck “looking at those girls, and that sucks for Tommy, and it sucks for any person that’s looking at their partner looking at someone else.”

Taking this with the fact that this has been positioned as an exit interview, I agree that it does sound damning, but if you remove that filter from it then I believe it reads as an actor expressing mild regret that he didn’t get to play this stage of the character and this relationship more. However, I will admit, that this is open for interpretation given that we don’t know where this came in the interview since we don’t know what prompted this answer.

And for Ferrigno Jr., he admits he knew the two were done for good when he realized his character would call Buck “Buck.” I feel I’m a looping record but where in the interview does he say that? He doesn’t say that at all in the quote that she provides below.

She writes: Instead, Ferrigno Jr. told us that Tommy “only knows the man in front of him, Evan. And I knew it was going to come [the moment he called him Buck] because he’s always saying Evan all the time. I’m looking at a character that I’m playing, and he’s just like Evan, Evan, Evan, and in that line, I was just like… I knew this was going to happen.”

“And he doesn’t have to say that. He still can say Evan. But that is essentially signalling that this is all I know how to do, and it’s too much.”

Linked with what LFJ said earlier about Tommy protecting himself, this quote from him makes sense in the fact that Tommy called him Buck to protect himself from the hurt, to try and create some walls between them. But the writer has made this sweeping statement that he knew it was the end, implying that the relationship is at a permanent end when nothing LFJ has said supports that.

And then we move onto the bit that really highlights the bias that this article has been written around. The writer asks Lou: Could the show have been using Tommy as a roadblock to a possible Buck and Eddie relationship?

Getting into the professionalism of this question is for another time but I’ve added it here so you can see the fact that this is someone who is focused on the Buddie of it all. Evidence that supports this is in the author’s various tweets and the coverage of 9-1-1 on their website.

And I know we’re all worried about LFJ’s scheduling conflicts but I will posit that it was a standard answer from an actor who is just doing his job. In his words: “I would absolutely love to come back, but I do need to continue on my journey here. I have a number of things now that are going on that may or may not happen, and I hope that there’s no conflict if it were to be the case.”

Basically, this article is written from the point of view of it being an exit interview but at no point is evidence provided from official sources to support that statement. Throughout it all, Lou’s answers are framed within the narrative that the break-up is permanent and that he’s gone from the show for good.

I hope that this has been interesting and informative for those of you who have read it, and I hope it serves as a reminder that media literacy is for everyone, not just for an attack from those on social media against fans being publicly disappointed that a queer relationship has broken up, temporarily or otherwise.

[doctorho]

thinking about viktor with a chronically ill reader. you know? we see the vision, right?

it just works.

the thing with chronic pain, illnesses, disabilities, all of that - is that you can't always see them. sometimes you can, sure, you can see the mobility aids and the not-standing-up-for-too-long and the bruising from blood draws and sometimes you can see the compression garments, the pills and inhalers and the i'm fine, i just need a moment-

but most people just don't pay attention to that. or if they do, they don't put the pieces together fast enough to figure out what's really going on under the surface. viktor does, though; he's been there, and most of the time he's way beyond hiding it. or, well, he's way beyond hiding some of it.

walking with a cane was like carrying a neon sign that said yes there is something different here. yes i can't walk the way you can. no it's not going to get better. that last part wasn't directly evident just from him using a cane, sure, but with the way his cane looked, it should've been pretty clear. He had used one practically forever and it had evolved with him, he'd made it as comfortable to use as it could be, had even made it match his uniform.

so yeah. viktor knew what it was like. he'd been the disabled kid forever, even if some of the others were never going to say it out loud. that was just a thing about him, and he knew how hard it could be to navigate something like that in an academic environment. it was hard to admit you couldn't do something, that you had to sit down, that you needed a moment. that sometimes your body was just falling apart for no particular reason and it was just another tuesday.

sometimes it was easier to sit with the pain than take medication in the middle of a meeting, knowing that someone would make a bigger deal out of it than it had to be, even if it was just raising their eyebrows meaningfully. they'd think about you differently afterwards.

he could see you push through it, and he didn't blame you, really, he did that himself, too, but - he didn't want you to hurt yourself. you hadn't been in the lab as long as he had, so he could understand you being a little cautious with how you acted and what you told people, but he didn't want you to feel like you had to put on a show for him. he was, after all, walking around with the equivalent of a light-up sign of i'm disabled, too, and he liked to think of himself as someone who wouldn't come off as judgemental about stuff like that. other stuff, sure, stupid stuff, but not that.

so when he sees you dealing with the telltale signs of being in pain, he conveniently sends jayce and the others to pick up some parts that would take a while to collect and that they wouldn't actually need until the next day. but better prepared, right? what's the harm.

and then he comes to sit next to you and sighs deeply. leans back. relaxes to the best of his abilities. asks if you're alright, and sounds like he already knows the answer.

you sigh too, shift your position, and answer with it's fine. and viktor recognizes the strain in your voice, in your posture, and he knows there's a key difference between this and i'm fine, but he'll take it. it's not what he'd like, but he'll take it.

he leans over to dig around his belongings, and then offers you a bag of candied almonds.

"if you're going to take pain killers, it's better if you eat something first," he says, and you just stare at him. "i assume you haven't taken anything yet. nothing strong enough, at least," he continues, casually, and you take a deep breath and accept the almonds.

he smiles. continues like this is totally normal. "jayce made me start carrying around some food so i could do that. for myself, i mean. but it doesn't hurt to have some snacks around either way, i suppose."

he knows he's skirting around the real topic of the conversation, but he also knows that sometimes people get uncomfortable around his bluntness, and you hadn't exactly told him you were in pain, so he'd understand it if you were a little weirded out. after all, most people didn't notice this stuff. but you haven't run away from him, and you're eating, and then you're digging around your own bag to take your medication, so he'll count this as a win.

thanks, you exhale, handing back the almonds, and he takes a handful of them himself.

"i'm fine, really," you continue, not really looking at him, "it's just hard sometimes."

he nods. it was - even if he didn't know the specifics, he knew that it was true. especially since you had been hiding it from the others. and with something like that, something the others couldn't see, the invisible step to let them see it would grow bigger and bigger with time, when they expected you to be able to do everything they did without a second thought.

he also knows you didn't mean fine in the dictionary definition sense of the word, but more in the this is normal and you don't need to worry -sense. and that's fine. he was used to functioning on different parameters than most people, so this version of fine was good enough.

my body just isn't always very reliable, you explain with a sigh, and that he knows better than well.

he hmms in answer and nods. he knows.

you exhale a small laugh at that.

and he's glad you're relaxing, wants you to be as comfortable here as possible.

"these people are alright," he says casually, "as far as healthy people go."

viktor smiles a little.

another win for him.

and then he sits with you, talking and not talking and enjoying the quiet comfort if it all. and then he makes up some excuse so you don't have to keep working yet. he was well aware what it was like trying to work through the pain, waiting for the medication to kick in, and he wouldn't exactly recommend it. besides, as a rule, you were more likely to make mistakes if you were thinking through a layer of pain, and that was just plain bad planning. it made much more sense to just take a break and continue when you felt better. in fact, he was in dire need of a caramel latte and a pastry right now, do you want anything?

and after that it just... sort of falls into place. you're more relaxed around him. and the others, too, but he's the only one that really gets it. doesn’t make a whole thing out of it when you need to sit down for a moment or take a break while your pain killers kick in. he's just there.

he knows what it's like, and that feels like an invisble curtain lifted from between you and him, and it's just easy. you don't have to pretend you're doing better than you actually are and he doesn’t hide it when he's in pain, either.

most people don't see it, but there's a mutual understanding there; yeah, sometimes life sucks and sometimes you're in pain and no it's not fair that sometimes your body is falling apart and life just keeps going. you can't do all the things you want to do but you still have to show up for the other life-stuff and if you took a day off every time you felt bad you would never get anything done and it just never stops.

but sometimes there's someone who'll sit through it with you without judgement. offer a warm drink and a snack and some understanding.

[skepticalfrogcat]

(Arcane S2 spoilers under the cut sort of, mostly just doing this to be safe)

I keep seeing people on tiktok saying the specific phrase "viktor loved jayce too early, jayce loved viktor too late" and as much as I get the sentiment behind that, I just... don't really think it's true?

Like, jayce and viktor LOVE each other. No matter how you slice it. Whether you think it's romantic (like I do), platonic, familial, whatever, they love each other and have always loved each other. Just because it's more evident on jayce's part now, after he's essentially watched viktor die and then risked quite a bit to bring him back, doesn't mean that the love was never there before. The love was there. That's very important.

Jayce wouldn't have done that if he only just now started loving viktor. I think it's more that he has more of an AWARENESS of it now than he did before. Which is basically exactly what he tells viktor, about realizing that his place was always with him in the lab. Even if it's not outright said — he doesn't just walk up to viktor and tell him straight-up "hey I really really love you and don't want to be apart from you anymore" — that doesn't mean that isn't what he means.

Anyway. I'm passionate about this. Glad jayvik is finally having its day in the sun.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 7

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or; A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

We're back baby 🥰

Read on AO3・QoT Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

-

It was a bold tactic.

Feyre knew that. Long before she'd been subjected to Nesta's listless criticisms at the breakfast table, where the eldest Archeron sister stabbed hole after hole into the fabric of Feyre's ill-conceived plan, leaving her with tatters that she had neither the time nor resources to mend, Feyre had known it was ambitious.

You can't outsmart a High Lord, Feyre.

Of course she couldn't. Rhysand wasn't like the men she normally conned—the rough, uneducated tavern-goers who were usually sloshing the ale in their tankards by the time they found themselves seated across her card table.

Feyre was a cautious huntress, who had only ever scouted easy prey.

Now, she was standing at the yawning den of an apex predator. His door was wide open. Inviting, daring her to come inside, knowing there wasn't a single weapon in her arsenal equipped to bring him down.

None except the interest in Rhysand's eyes as he swept them over her body. Once. Twice.

Feyre was expecting triumph, but his expression was surprisingly measured as he called over his shoulder, "Everybody out."

He was answered by grumbled protests and screeching chairs from somewhere inside the townhouse. Feyre stiffened at the sound of feminine laughter—light and peeling. It hadn't occurred to her, for some reason, that the High Lord would have company.

Female company.

Who were they? And what did it mean that he was kicking them out before he would let her inside?

She arched her brow. "You don't want me to meet your friends? Afraid it will sully their thoughts of you?"

"Their thoughts of me were sullied long before I met you, Feyre." He offered her a roguish grin, like it was something he took pride in. "And I'm a selfish male. I have no interest in sharing what limited time I have with you."

All she could think to say was, "The bargain hasn't started yet."

"No," he agreed, cocking his head to listen for any lingering sign of his guests.

When he was satisfied the house was vacated, he placed a hand at the small of her back, guiding her through the antechamber. The front door snicked shut behind them on a midnight wind, and the moment it was shut, she became acutely aware of the High Lord's presence.

It was like being trapped inside his mental walls again, the way he circled her, his gaze like warm fingers dragging over skin. She held herself still beneath his assessment, coaxing her expression into neutrality, even as his eyes lingered on her collarbone, her stomach, her hips—all of the places she'd deliberately left on display for him.

Rhysand arched an eyebrow. Her clothes weren't immodest, exactly, not for the styles that were popular in Velaris. But they were different from what she usually wore. Enough to be a statement.

Her top was a beautiful, soft blue fabric that wrapped across one shoulder and caped down her back. It bound her breasts tightly and stopped just below, secured by a golden band threaded with strings of beads that tickled the bare skin of her stomach each time she took a deep breath. Her skirt was made of similar fabric, long and layered and pooling all the way down to her ankles—save for the slit up her thigh where she'd tied the layered ends together. It slung low at her hips, revealing the delicate golden chain she wore across her abdomen. A perfect match to the bands circling her biceps.

She thought Rhys must have liked what he saw, the way he couldn't quite drag his focus away from the glinting jewelry. He ought to like it, considering they were bought with his money.

Feyre almost told him as much, but thought better of it when she felt a talon scraping over the adamant shield protecting her mind. He hummed to himself, as if pleased to discover that he couldn't penetrate it.

Evidently finished with his assessment, he gestured towards the open archway into the dining room, where she noticed three chairs had been hastily abandoned. Her mind paged over the possibilities of who had occupied them, sifting through all the information she'd spent the last two days gathering about the High Lord and his Inner Circle. Gambling for it, if necessary.

From the tales peddled on the street, she knew the High Lord had a cousin, the Morrigan. She was often seen flitting around the city after dark, dancing the night away in pleasure halls that catered to a much higher clientele than the taverns near the docks. But anyone with half a copper could get information on the Morrigan. She was the only pure-blooded High Fae in the High Lord's retinue, maintained an active presence in the city, and was a war hero. Those things ensured she was well perceived and, more importantly, very well featured in the city's papers.

The two Illyrians often seen in Rhysand's company, on the other hand… information on them was scarce. She knew they were Carynthian, she knew they fought in the War, and she knew they were not to be fucked with, unless she had a death wish.

But is that who had just been here? Three of deadliest people in Prythian, dismissed like it was nothing?

Feyre eyed Rhysand's clothes. He wore a black jacket, casually unbuttoned so that the white shirt beneath—which was also unbuttoned—showed off a V of bronze skin and hard muscle. Rather informal by his standards, but was that because he was among friends? Or visitors of the more… intimate variety?

She allowed herself the space of a heartbeat to admire the sight, noting the strips of black ink peeking through his neckline. Then she pried her eyes away, trying to swallow back the heat threatening to rise to her face.

"Would you like some tea?" He asked mildly, as if this were an ordinary house visit.

"I want you to agree to the bargain first. I don't intend to spend time with you without being compensated for it."

"You make it sound like such a chore." He tilted his head in a way that sent her every nerve on edge. Though his smile was easy—playful, even—it told her the game was afoot. "Is my company really that insufferable?"

When she leveled him a dry look, he held his hands up in defeat.

"Let's discuss it, then." He ducked under the tall entryway to the dining room, trusting her to follow without direction. "This bargain."

"What's there to discuss?" Feyre asked, treading carefully in his wake. "It's the same terms as before."

With a flick of his hand, one of the abandoned chairs shifted towards her. She slid into it, wary of that casual display of power. His friends weren't the only thing discussed in the streets of Velaris. The most powerful High Lord in History, she'd heard. At the time, she'd dismissed it as a lie he or his cohorts made up.

In Prythian, a leader wasn't selected from political prowess or the favor of the people; it wasn't even dictated by bloodlines, though noble families often coveted powerful matches to keep the scales weighted in their favor. But even the ancient High Fae scions would admit that power, true power, was crowned by the will of the Cauldron alone.

And to be the most powerful was to possess unquestionable authority.

Maybe she denied the truth because it scared her. It made her a fool for coming here, sitting at his dining table as if she had any right to join the playing field of a High Lord.

"I'm amenable to the same terms." Rhysand splayed himself across the seat in front of her and propped one of his polished boots onto an adjacent chair, the picture of arrogance. "But I'll admit, I'm surprised by your change of heart after you told me so firmly that you couldn't be bought."

"Maybe," Feyre said slowly, testing her courage. When her voice didn't tremble, she continued, "I didn't come here seeking coin."

His eyes flickered with interest. "You don't want money?"

"Let's not get hasty; I expect to be paid. But I've been thinking about what you said, about what I should be doing to earn my living."

Rhysand raised a dark brow, encouraging her to go on.

Feyre flicked her tongue along her lower lip. It was only partly deliberate, to court more of that razor-sharp interest. But her mouth was also becoming dry as her next words took shape in her mind.

She forced her voice to stay level. "I'm not educated and I don't like intensive labor. That excludes me from most honest work. But pleasuring males? That's something I think I could do well. And why would I settle for just any male in a pleasure hall when I know I could please a High Lord?"

Rhysand's pupils flared. He leaned forward, bracing his powerful arms on the table. His focus was lethal, flickering from her lips to the bob in her throat as she swallowed, trying to keep her breathing even.

He said, slow and soft, "I'm a notoriously very difficult male to please, Feyre."

She recognized the challenge for what it was, but it was difficult to feel any sense of victory when she was pinned beneath his stare. Now was the time for follow through and she realized that she was walking a very, very dangerous line.

"Then it's a good thing," she said, tilting her chin to stare up at him through her lashes, "that you'll be able to do whatever you want to me through our bargain. Whatever will bring you pleasure."

Rhysand stared at her, long and hard, before sitting up in his chair. One second, he was across from the table, and the next he was standing over her. Feyre blinked past her surprise. Did he really bother to winnow—

Survival instincts took over, seizing the trivial line of thought to direct her attention towards far more pressing concerns, like how the High Lord gripped the back of her chair, caging her between the table and his large, overpowering body.

Trapped, those instincts bleated, and she fought to keep her muscles from locking with panic.

The wood groaned beneath his grip as he leaned in closer, using his other hand to snare her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Silver rings pressed against her skin, their metal a cool contrast to his heated touch.

That's how she would paint him, she decided, if she was ever bold enough to try. With all his contrasts. The smooth and the rough, the light and the dark, the gentle and the vicious.

He wore both sides ever-present. She could see it now, in his blazing eyes and how they were tempered by the cool wisps of shadow creeping over his shoulders. Tendrils of them snaked forward, brushing over her bare arms—a lover's caress, sprouting pimpled skin in their wake.

"You want to know what will bring me pleasure?" He crooned, each breath a promise. "Taking you apart. Slowly. Piece by piece. Until I've known and tasted and fucked every inch. That's what you'll be agreeing to if you make this bargain, Feyre."

He was watching her reaction. Waiting, she realized. For the fear of his threat to set in, for her to start scrambling towards the door and decide she was better off at a pleasure house, afterall.

Feyre tilted her chin into his touch, bearing more of her neck to him. She thought she might have heard a growl rise in his chest. “I want half up front. Not in credit.”

At this, he straightened, rightfully suspicious.“Why not in credit?”

She shrugged. “Maybe I have debts to pay. The kind that shouldn’t be traced back to the High Lord’s name.”

“What kind of debt?” When she said nothing, he pressed, “Are you in danger?”

At that tone, and the rage she sensed simmering beneath his placid expression… An image of the captain’s slit throat flickered through her mind.

“No,” she said quickly. “It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what it’s like.” 

Feyre was a practiced liar. For so long, the survival of her sisters had depended on her ability to cheat and swindle and hustle. It should have been an easy thing to reach for a lie, but as she stretched her fingers into that overflowing well, she found it dry, uncertain what she could tell him without inciting his wrath.

Uncertain if she truly wanted to go through with this.

“Feyre,” he warned, the grip on her chin tightening.

“This was a mistake." She pushed at his arm, finding that he dropped it away with little resistance. "I can see that now. I’ll just—“

“You’ll stay."

It wasn't a command, not like the way he'd spoken to those sailors in the alleyway. There was no hidden edge, no promise of violence. He didn't so much as raise his voice, and yet her body still responded instinctively, the words pouring over her like silk bindings that ensnared every limb, every muscle.

Before she could take any of it back, Rhysand said, "I accept the terms of your bargain. Half to be paid now, half upon completion.”

A prickling sensation brushed over her forearm, like the invisible stroke of a paintbrush, leaving behind another twisting black whorl to her ever-growing collection.

Just like that, her fate was sealed. Even if she were to miraculously come to her seneses and admit this was a suicidal, hare-brained decision, it was too late. For the next twenty-fours hours, she belonged to him. And he'd already made it perfectly clear how he intended to spend that time.

Rhysand leaned back, rubbing a hand down his face as if to compose himself. Then he vanished without a word, reappearing moments later with two glinting objects in his hand. It was only once he held them up, allowing light to scitter and bounce off their surface in a hundred different directions, that she saw they were cuffs of pure diamond.

“Here,” he said, reaching for her arm. She was completely limp, allowing him to take her wrist into his hands and clasp the diamond cuffs around each of them. “These are worth more than the amount you’re owed. They should be sufficient payment for any of your debts.”

No kidding. Feyre stared at the diamonds, noting how out of place they looked against her plain clothes. The fabrics were new, and expensive by her means, but hardly extravagant. She must have looked like a child playing dress up in his eyes.

"People will think I stole these," she said, holding her arm closer to admire the myriad of colors catching at every angle.

Rhys huffed in amusement. "Will you claim otherwise?"

"It won't matter if I did." She dropped her arm, frowning. "Everyone's already made up their mind about who I am."

He tilted her chin, bringing her face inches from his. "And who are you, Feyre Archeron?"

"The witch of Velaris," she answered, hearing her own bitterness. "A con. A cheat."

"Is that all?"

"Well." Feyre looked up at him, cautiously taking a step closer, raising her hand to his chest. It was like touching a stone wall. A warm, rapidly rising and falling stone wall. "For the duration of our bargain, I'm also yours."

"Mine," he repeated, like it surprised him to hear it. Then he let out a long breath. "Oh, Feyre. You are so much more than that."

For some reason… it stung to hear him say that.

Like it wasn't enough. Like he believed she was degrading herself by being being here, selling her time to him, or anyone.

What does it matter? She thought. Tomorrow none of this will mean anything.

Feyre pressed in closer, feeling the draw of his body heat. This close, she could feel his exhale brush her cheeks, and she blamed its warmth on the heat rising there. She made of a show of pouting her lips, imitating the females who she often saw lurking around the docks, greeting sailors as they debarked.

When she knew she had his full attention, Feyre extended a mental talon towards him, stroking it over his adamant shield in a suggestion of the ways she might pet him elsewhere. A small, amused crack split open for her, the High Lord watching carefully all the while. Like he was uncertain if this was part of an elabrate trap.

Feyre purred into his mind, Where would you like me to start, High Lord?

Rhys only stared at her.

She began lowering herself towards the floor, maintaining contact with those bright, burning eyes.

On my knees?

Before she could touch the ground, that same thumb and forefinger squeezed the bottom of her chin, stilling her. Feyre paused, halfway down his body and feeling like she was on fire from how close she was to his—

Don't look, don't look, don't look.

Oh. She broke eye contact with him just long enough to assess the outline rapidly growing in his trousers. Part of Feyre had always quietly assumed that High Lords couldn't be carrying much. Nature had to have balance, surely?

Not in Rhysand's case. At least, not in what she could gauge through the stiffening fabric.

And the smell—fuck, the smell. She was used to the scent of arousal. It was so saturated in that old tavern, it could become a place of sanctity today and still reek of sex for the next handful of centuries. But in all those years living in the attic, with the sounds and scents of fucking constantly permeating through the walls, she had never come across a scent like this. One that made the back of her mouth water.

Feyre caught herself taking in a deep breath before she could restrain the temptation. Her eyes fluttered shut, yielding to something deep and primal that wanted more.

"Feyre," Rhysand called, his voice a little strained. Those fingers became less patient, yanking her attention back up, forcing her eyes to snap open and meet his. His, which were becoming wide and dilated. "What did I just tell you?"

Casting her mind back was difficult. Like trying to retrace her steps in a fog.

"That I'm yours?"

It was a sincere guess. She didn't mean to make his expression darken. But the growl that rumbled through his chest… it made her gaze drift back between his legs, suddenly intent on a taste.

He yanked her again, this time hard enough to bring her to her feet. Her balance swung out, not prepared for the shift in her weight. Rhysand caught her at the shoulders, maneuvering their bodies with the momentum so that she was trapped against the table as he leaned into her, further and further, until she was resting on her elbows, practically splayed atop it.

"I said I was going to take you apart slowly." Rhys looked delighted by this change in position, perusing her body as if mentally calculating where he'd like to start. "Putting you on your knees doesn't further that goal."

Oh, but it furthered hers.

"How about we flip a coin?"

He laughed. "I imagined it will be weighted."

"It's not weighted!"

It was enchanted, but she wasn't going to tell him that.

Rhys shook his head. "You've been avoiding me, Feyre, which means I've had a long while to think about how we'd be spending our time if you ever came to bargain with me again."

"And your plan involves your dining table?"

"This table, the walls, my desk. Pick anywhere in the house and I'll tell you how I've thought about fucking you against it."

"Romantic," she said dryly.

He arched a brow before leaning down to nip at the gold chain at her stomach. He withdrew at the sound of her yelp, grinning like a fiend.

"Is that what you want then, Feyre? Romance? I can be romantic." He placed his hand on her stomach, tracing his fingers along the golden chain, and then higher. Past her navel, to the string of beads lining the underside of her breasts. "I can fuck you nice and gentle. Would you like that?"

Feyre was trying not to have any reaction to his words. But that was very difficult when she could feel the rough pad of his thumb tease under her breasts.

"This is supposed to be about what you want, High Lord."

Rhysand paused, considering that answer. And then he said, "Let's play a game. I know how much you love them."

Feyre only really loved a game when she knew she could win. But she was quickly learning that no game with a High Lord was ever winnable.

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course," Rhysand said, feigning insult. "I can either fuck you right here, or we can go into the study to practice your mental shielding."

What kind of choice was that? Feyre wasn't a fool. She knew this was a trap, she just hadn't figured out how. And she contemplated just asking him to carry on with fucking her, because at the very least she knew she would enjoy it.

But she had been practicing her mental shields in the past weeks, and she wagered she was more proficient than he was estimating. Maybe that would give her an edge in whatever he was planning.

Maybe she wanted to say yes simply because she was curious and, somehow, she trusted he wasn't going to do anything to hurt her.

"Let's practice our shields, then, High Lord."

His grin said that was the option he hoped she would choose. She tried not to let that daunt her as he backed away from the table, allowing her to sit up, to breathe for what felt like the first time in hours.

Rhysand led her into the study. Feyre followed at a healthy distance away, swallowing air that no longer smelled like him and for some reason finding it… wrong.

He paused at the entrance to the study. Over his shoulder, she could see the spiral staircase where he'd tormented her in her dreams. She noticed dust particles hovering in the thick shafts of light that streamed in from the windows. There was a thin coating on the table, the shelves, Rhysand's desk, as if no one had come in here or bothered to clean since their last bargain.

"So," Feyre started, eyeing where he stood in the doorway, blocking her path. "Are we going in, or…?"

"No need," Rhysand said. He waved his hand to the top of the doorframe, where a thick black rope uncoiled, hanging high enough above her head that she'd need to stand on her toes to reach it.

"This is part of the game," she guessed.

"Grab hold of it."

Feyre wondered if it was a trait of High Lords, being unable to answer questions directly. Was it something they were taught in their lessons, a habit of the trade? Or was Rhysand uniquely insufferable? She knew which was the more likely answer.

Even so, she rolled her weight into the balls of her feet, stretching her arms above her head to grab hold of the rope.

Rhys made a sound of approval. His eyes, she noticed, were fixed on the bare stomach she was stretching wide in display.

Feeling strangely vulnerable, Feyre snapped, "I don't see how this has anything to do with shielding."

A black talon skimmed her mental wall, a mirror to the backs of Rhysand's fingers as they brushed over her stomach. Feyre gasped, instinctively tightening her grip on the rope to keep from letting go.

"I can tell you've been practicing," he said. "It's a strong passive shield. I could break through it, but it'd take me a while, and it wouldn't be subtle. You'd have plenty of time to react."

"That's a good thing… right?"

"Of course it is. You'll learn in time, Feyre, a good daemati is a stealthy one. You want your target unaware there's someone else pulling strings in their mind. That is," his magic slashed forward, whipping against her shield and pounding shockwaves through her skull, "unless you're aiming to kill them. But with a shield as strong as this, there's much faster ways of accomplishing that."

Feyre bared her teeth. "So, why the rope?"

"Like I said, it's a good passive shield. But I want to test how it holds up when you're distracted. If a daemati needs to break into your mind, they'll resort to other tactics before they try brute force."

"What kind of other tactics?"

Rhys grinned. "The game is very simple, Feyre." He let his fingers drag over her skin as he circled her, murmuring in a voice soft as velvet, "Let go of the rope, and I'll stop what I'm doing. But if you keep hold until the end, you win."

Feyre hated that she already sounded breathless. "What do I win?"

"Anything you want," he said.

The fae were taught to never define the spoils of a bargain so loosely. Anything could literally mean any thing—his life, his throne, his palaces. Feyre could seize control of the Night Court if she was so inclined. No one would propose something so reckless unless they had full confidence in their victory.

Or if they believed the risk was worth the reward.

"And what if I lose?" She demanded. "What do you get?"

"Six more hours added to our bargain."

Was that really all he wanted? Feyre couldn't fathom his reasoning, aside from perhaps an awareness that if he raised the stakes too high, she would never agree. Knowing she was getting the better end of the deal, she held her tongue from probing for answers.

"Fine," she said. "I agree to your terms."

A new bargain mark tingled her upper arm. Another black brush stroke, merging in the sea of other bargains, three of them now his doing. How many more would there be? Would they spread to her other arm, an entire sleeve to illustrate the ways in which the High Lord had ensnared her?

No, she reasoned. This is the last one.

Tomorrow, I'm never going to see him again.

I just need to hold on until tomorrow.

With her mental shields firmly sealed, Rhys had no way of reading her thoughts. It was coincidence, pure coincidence, that he chose that moment to flash his cruelest smile and croon,

"Hold tight, Feyre."

[famoussharkhairdoknight]

THE RULE OF BEST FRIENDS PART 1-JOBE BELLINGHAM

Part.2, Part.3, Part.4

It was a quiet evening in Birmingham, and as usual, you had convinced your sister Elena to drop by the party downtown, hoping she’d have some fun. Elena wasn’t exactly the type to socialize easily, unlike you, but you managed to drag her with you. It was always a challenge for you: to make the evenings more lively for her and to let her know that sometimes letting go of control could be fun. Despite Elena’s introverted nature, she had invited her best friend, Jobe, to join you that night.

As soon as you arrive, you notice that Jobe seems a little uncomfortable, as if the party atmosphere is making him feel uncomfortable. You are used to seeing him like this: silent and with the elusive look, especially when it comes to you. But you never felt sorry for it, in fact, finding someone who doesn’t immediately engage in exuberant conversations is almost intriguing.

You decide to approach. "Hey, Jobe, always in 'shadow' mode?" You provoke him with a sneer smile.

He blushes a little, the eyes wander towards you before lowering. "" I’m not... really used to... to such lively parties."

"Moving? Does this look like moving? You have no idea what a real party means, man," you mock him, giving a slight push to his arm. He smiles, but remains silent, as always.

Then, without even realizing it, he starts looking at you differently, with a lost and admired look. You realize that he has the same attitude every time you are together, as if every word you say had a special weight for him. And somehow this little show of yours makes him more and more embarrassed.

Elena comes in and sighs, giving you a funny look. " Stop tormenting him, Y/N, it’s hard enough to have him here," he says, hinting at Jobe with a complicit smile.

"Torment him? But what, I’m just teaching him to have some fun," you reply, winking at Jobe.

Elena shakes her head, resigned. "You always have this mania of wanting to be the center of attention, Y/N."

"Someone has to be, right?" Reply with an ironic grin, before returning to look at Jobe. "But tell me, Jobe... what do you really think about these parties?"

Jobe seems to be taken by surprise by your direct question and swallows, then finally looks up at you. " It’s... not really my scene, but... well, I’m here to... be with you," she confesses, with a slight hesitation in her voice.

"Hmm, and can you?" you ask with an ironic tone, approaching slightly, almost to challenge him. "To be with us, I say."

Jobe can’t answer right away, he seems almost caught in your gaze, and at the end he just lowers his eyes, his shyness evident. " I try to..."

You’re about to press again, amused by his clumsiness, when Elena interrupts you. "Y/N, enough. You can’t always provoke him like that."

"What? I’m just chatting," she replies in an innocent tone, raising her hands in surrender. But then you turn back to Jobe, lowering your voice. "So, Jobe, is it so terrible to talk to me?"

He shakes his head frantically. "N-no, actually... it’s just... you... are a little intimidating."

Laugh fun. "Intimidating? Oh, this is new. Why, what’s scary?"

Jobe hesitates, biting his lip slightly, while Elena seems busy with her phone and leaves you alone for a moment. Jobe clears his voice, visibly nervous. "It’s not fear... It’s just that... well, you’re... different."

"Ah yes?" you tilt your head, staring at him with a curious air. "And how different, Jobe?"

Jobe seems stuck, unable to formulate a response. Finally, after a few seconds, she murmurs: "I can’t explain... but you’re the kind of person who... who... leaves a mark, here."

Your smile widens, and without turning away, you say to him: "Who knows, maybe it’s not so terrible to leave a mark, right?"

Jobe nodded weakly, the redness on his cheeks now evident. He can’t hide the attraction to you, even though he probably thinks you haven’t noticed. But deep down, every time you see that lost look in his eyes, it’s like I have a little confirmation. And you like to play with this awareness, enjoying the fact that, despite the rule between him and Elena, Jobe can not stop looking at you with those eyes full of admiration.

"And anyway, if you want to take a walk later, we could get out of the 'busy' environment for a moment. I think some air would be good for you," you suggest.

Jobe nods, and this time his smile seems more confident. "I would like to, yes... really."

So, with a last little smile of complicity, you cast a glance that seems to say: *We’ll see how far your courage goes, Jobe.*

The party continued, and Elena and Jobe had a chat with two of their old school friends. Jobe smiled and nodded, trying to follow the conversation, but his mind was elsewhere.

As soon as he saw you in the crowd, his attention turned completely to you. You were dancing, as always in the center of attention, with that charisma that came naturally to you. You laughed and moved lightly, and your gaze for a moment crossed that of Jobe. He held his breath, hearing that familiar fast heartbeat he felt whenever you were around.

One of his rules with Elena - not to see relatives - came back to him, a rule born just to avoid situations like the one he was in. A year earlier, during a small school party, someone had flipped a bottle during a game and eventually fate decided that Jobe should kiss you. He still remembered the blush that had invaded his face when your lips had touched hers, and how his heart literally jumped in his throat.

Since then, you had started to look at him with a little smile accomplice, almost challenging him to be less shy. Since that kiss, the rule had been established to avoid his friendship with Elena becoming complicated, but your temptation to challenge the limits was always evident.

Unable to restrain himself, Jobe watched you dancing, mesmerized by your movements. Noticing his gaze, you didn’t let the opportunity slip away. With a mischievous smirk, you approached slowly, maintaining eye contact. You danced with a ease that you knew would make him whiten, the way you moved your hips and laughed at each joke made his blush visibly increase.

Finally, you pass by him with a sneer smile. "Are you having fun, Jobe?"

He flushed even more, swallowing visibly. "S-yes... sure," she replied, trying to keep her voice still.

"Really? Then why do you keep looking at me as if I’m some kind of... vision?" you joke, tilting your head and watching her reaction.

He looks down, uncertain of how to answer. "I wasn’t... I wasn’t looking."

Laugh, enjoy his clumsiness. "Oh, of course not. Besides, why would you? I’m just your best friend’s sister, right?"

Jobe scratched his neck, embarrassed. "Yeah... just... just this."

But he can’t help looking at you again, and this time his eyes are shone with something beyond mere shyness. You notice it and you come a little closer, lowering your voice so that only he can hear you.

"You know, Jobe, you could relax a little. This famous rule is not carved in stone..." murmurs, hint at an intriguing smile.

Jobe remained silent, staring at the floor to hide his embarrassed smile that he could not hold back. "I don’t think... well, Elena not... you know..."

"Still with Elena?" you shake your head. "You’re ruining all fun for that crazy rule."

You go forward a split second, but then it stops, perhaps for fear of taking too big a step. "It’s not just the rule... It’s... It’s complicated."

"Complicated?" raise an eyebrow, enjoy. "You don’t seem like the complication type, Jobe."

He sighs, shaking his head. "It’s just... you’re different, Y/N. Every time you’re around... you make me feel..."

"Hear what?" Pressure, not letting him escape.

But just as he is about to answer you, Elena reappears, interrupting the moment of tension. "Y/N, all right?" asks, looking at you with a curious glance, as if he has an intuition.

Smile innocent. "I was just chatting with your friend here. But rest assured, I’m not going to break any rules," he replies with an ironic smile, giving a last look at Jobe, who looks down again, embarrassed.

As you walk away, you cannot help but feel his eyes upon you, knowing that you have planted a seed of doubt in his mind.

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

https://x.com/theroyalgrift/status/1856837721270227342?s=46&t=lvH-EVmMs1idCksDLC3Akg

I saw this on X as a rumour, but I can’t imagine this pair being entrusted with military secrets…I also think that Hasno is on a diplomatic/RF type visa and can’t/ won’t be prosecuted for anything while Charles is on the throne. What do you make of it RTA?

It's a really wild and wacky theory and I wouldn't give it any credit.

A couple of reasons.

First, Harry doesn't have a US security clearance so what he knows about the US military operationally is very, very little. He has the same knowledge that the rest of us do who watch the news or who knows people that served, whether actual friends or military people on social media. Harry (and Meghan) don't know anything that could do any damage to military ops. What Harry does know is British Army operations and security circa 2008 - 2014 when he was enlisted, which makes his knowledge dangerous for the UK. Not the US.

Second, look at the language in the actual post. It's incredibly vague:

"a little secret I have been hinting at, leaving breadcrumbs for over a year." (you've been moving the goalposts for people to guess what your secret is?)

"it was criminal prosecution." (what is criminal prosecution? criminal prosecution for what?)

"Will Harry's crimes mean Meghan gets away with it." (what crimes has Harry committed? What is Meghan getting away with?)

"it restricts the type of activity and money that he and [Meghan] have been engaged in." (what activities and what monies are you alleging they're involved with?)

"notice the right wing arrests on the same crimes have been foreign nationals." (what crimes? what foreign nationals?)

"they have also been working with an enemy in breech of the current restrictions." (what enemy? what restrictions?)

"politically this is red meat to the red wave" (WHAT IS "THIS"?)

It tells you juuuuuuuuuuuust enough for the author to take credit no matter what happens. That's why they haven't named specific crimes, specific concerns, specific people. Because they don't actually know and they're just hedging their bets.

What the guy is hinting at is that the Sussexes are in league with the Russians, but he won't say that. He won't say that because he likes everyone hanging onto his word because he's convinced them that he's in the know and that he has insider info.

But here's what you may not know. The public list of people, companies, and countries that the U.S. has sanctions against (aka "enemies in breech of the current restrictions") has almost 800 names on it. (I specify public here because there's probably a classified version too.) And this guy is saying that out of 800 names the US has sanctions against, he knows exactly which one the Sussexes are working with? Then why hasn't he turned that evidence over to the FBI or to NATO? Why hasn't he given it to The Heritage Foundation? Or to a goverment watchdog? Or to the press? Or to Anonymous? If it's really as damaging and bad as he claims it to be, then why is he keeping it a little secret and dropping breadcrumbs for social media clout instead of blowing the freaking whistle and plugging a very big, very bad leak?

But that's just my opinion. Anyone else can feel differently if they like.

[glisten-inthedark]

I love how I said I was too tired and now here I’m back with another ask lol 

Ugh the Super Spy handhold scene is just PEAK insight into why Will fell in love with Mike. Why Will didn’t list Mike as one of the people he felt babied or treated like glass by. Like he’s not a mistake.

Mike listens to Will and then turns the now-memories into an ability Will now has, something that could help them defeat the Mind Flayer. He doesn’t baby him, he doesn’t treat him like he’s broken or infected or sickly, he encourages him and supports him, and he’s so soft and sweet and encouraging, but the second Will voices fear of the Mind Flayer figuring out that they’re spying, and spying back, Mike becomes so firm and determined and protective in a way that isn’t babying Will but rather throwing up his shield and standing by his side to go through this together.

The Duffers have clearly put so much thought and consideration into why Will loves Mike. They didn’t make it like Dustin and Max—Dustin had a surface level crush on Max, a girl he’d known for a week (and then a month, by the Snow Ball) that he moved on from by season 3. If you’d have asked season 2 Dustin why he liked Max, he’d probably sound a lot like Mike talking about El: she’s so cool, she’s badass, she’s talented at X Y Z. Nothing about how she makes him feel.

The reasons Will gives in the van scene for how Mike makes him feel are illustrated beautifully in season 2. And it sucks that season 3 rocked that—“It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” but one summer wasn’t enough to destroy was has been building since they were in kindergarten.

Which, on that note, I think is another major piece of evidence as to Byler being endgame in season 5: the fact that they’re filming a childhood Byler + Jonathan flashback scene. I think it can be all too easy to forget that these characters lives are not confined to just the seasons that we have watched them go through. It’s one thing for the characters to talk about meeting in kindergarten, it’s another thing for us to see a scene of them that young and realize, “oh my gosh they really do have so much history and emotional buildup.” Especially if the flashback buyer scene that we do get is one with a lot of emotional weight or baggage (maybe Lonnie and something he did or said will be mentioned) or they make a promise together or one of those classic, “when I grow up, I’m gonna marry you!” scenes (if so, make Mike say it pleeeaaasseee).

They’re giving us a flashback Byler scene because they want us to understand and feel just how long these two have loved each other, even before it was romantic, even before they understood it was romantic. Because they want us/ the GA to see how much it makes sense. How this has been a long time coming.

Okay sleep time lol

Hello, you probably already slept, woke up and slept again lmao

No but in all seriousness, that's exactly what I think too. I believe it can be easy for people to think why would Will fall for Mike? Like, I see people saying that Will deserves better and blablabla.

But! Even with that awful thing Mike has said, he has shown more care for Will than he has for pretty much anyone else.

Mike listens to Will, doesn't coddle him or make him feel like he is wrong, ensures that Will knows he's there for him, supports him and listens to him but not only that, he shows to Will that he can do things himself and that he's not broken or wrong.

It shows how much Mike means to Will that not even those words were enough to stop him from caring about Mike, because the thing is, like you said, we don't even know the extent of what Mike means to him and vice versa.

Using the flashbacks is a sure fire way of letting the audience know that their connection was blossoming for ages, is a way of allowing us to see how much Mike has always cared for Will, even when he couldn't show it properly.

And also I hope you managed to get some rest ❤️

[bisclavret]

#once saw someone call gwaine ‘the straight one’ as if he hasn’t been ‘the gay one’ for a thousand years #having a thought. hang on #ppl have spent so long calling non-canon ships ‘subtext’ that they’re completely rewritten the meaning of the word subtext #so that when something is actual present cohesive subtext that immediately comes across as Weak Evidence#instead of a message that is simply… indirectly expressed #huh…

i don't particularly care what people write in their fics but i deeply agree with what you're saying and i think everyone would benefit from learning to separate the idea of queerbaiting (writing a gay-coded dynamic that seems like it's gonna lead somewhere so gay people will watch your show only to never let it lead anywhere), homophobic jokes/tropes at the expense of gay-coded characters, subtext and heavy gay-coding that can be recontextualized/dismissed/applied to other motives such as duty and magic, and the sort of writing that is almost entirely text but is subtle enough to get past censorship.

bbc merlin is unique in that it contains all of this and more and it applies to almost every character, but when it comes to gwaine you can eliminate queerbaiting pretty quickly as i don't think anyone deluded themselves that it would happen while watching the show the way merthur fans did (and i don't blame them! queerbaiting used to be an artform or whatever that one post said), and you can also eliminate any other motives gwaine could've had for loving and sticking by merlin (duty or magic) since he never outright found out about 99% of the magic plot and openly told merlin he isn't doing anything out of a sense of duty, just for his company and affection.

that leaves us with the gay/homophobic jokes, which i do think have been done at both gwaine and merlin's expense, gay-coding, which applies to almost the entire cast (but is the least metaphorical and most explicit in gwaine's case since, again, with him there's no duty or magic to serve as a metaphor or excuse), and the sort of writing that is not quite subtext but rather the sort of subtle, layered text that people writing about homosexual attraction have been using to get past censors since censors have existed.

the way gwaine and his affection for merlin are written are less reminiscent of "baiting" or "excusable" subtext and more reminiscent of dynamics like will and hannibal or marceline and bubblegum (before the networks relented) or the guys from the untamed (from what i understand) in that there is no other viable explanation for how the characters behave around one another, but they can't quite act on it or the episode just won't be allowed to air. and so instead the writers give them actions and dialogue that function as declarations of desire and love that may be a bit more roundabout than an outright "i love you" or physical touch, but still symbolize exactly those things on every single other narrative level. and this is how gwaine has been written from the moment he met merlin 14 years ago.

tl;dr it's not that serious but let's all be so fr for five seconds. gwaine, as the character that exists on the show we all watched, is not straight or a brother or mentor figure to merlin. he canonically adores merlin for pretty well spelled-out reasons that boil down to him being in love and unable to act on it due to the nature of the show/tv network. you can change that in your fic if you'd like, but it would be like changing something crucial about another character, such as taking away arthur's daddy issues or not giving lancelot a martyr complex. being bisexual and in love with the protagonist is a core part of who gwaine is, and if you take that away you have changed his character pretty drastically and you better have a good reason for keeping him in the story.

Since we’re all in agreement now that Gwaine is (sub)textually in L word (lesbians) with Merlin, can we stop no-homo-ing them in every fic 😭 if I have to see “Gwaine did all that because Merlin is like a brother to him” one more time I’m gonna create a zombifying parasite that takes humans as hosts and then also they ship merwaine because of the parasite and there is peace on earth. worm

[arttsuka]

Chickens *insert funny text here*

[bitchthefuck1]

The thing that really kills me about Logan is that his kids are disappointing and ultimately unfit to be CEO, and it's not just that they're like that because he made them like that, but that they're like that because he wants them to be that way.

For all his talk about them being spoiled or coddled and his rant in the S3 finale that getting cut out of running Waystar is their chance to "be your own man" and build something themselves, he has spent the entire show actively undermining any attempt of theirs to do that. Shiv stays out and works in politics, but as soon as she joins a big campaign that could actually distinguish her from her family, he tells her he wants to make her CEO. He offers to buy Kendall out of his shares, but as soon as Kendall tries to take the offer and cut himself out, he refuses. He says he wants them out of the business and doing their own thing, and then as soon as they start actually doing that and buy Pierce, he tries to get Roman back.

The fact of the matter is that as much as he might claim to want a "real" heir, what he really wants is to never need one and for his children to stay children: incomplete, incapable, and under his thumb.

[yesterdayiwrote]

The number of people I've seen read those new Lewis quotes and immediately twist it into being George's fault is absolutely amazing...

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

sometimes..so.etimes they change something even after the premiere. sp you appear and watch an entirely new and prolonged monologue. and it's like. FUCK YEAH.