#like not even the financial part of it concerns me but just being ALLOWED to go 😭😭😭

[mellowwillowy]

𝐒𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

Yan! Sugar Daddy who fell in love with you at first sight in the cafe he often visited for his daily to-go coffee. He had seen lots of beauties but you were the first to catch his breath.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who tried to woo you, he tried his best to not scare you and subtly flirt with you. It took him a huge courage to approach you and ask for your number.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who found out you were still just a college student who was most likely to be struggling with financial issues, or so he assumed from how most of the students there were.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who took his time bonding with you before subtly offering an arrangement with you, a mutual arrangement of a sugar relationship. Instead of sex, fancy dates, or a plus one to those higher-ups events, he wanted your company all the time if he could.

You were wary and hesitant but his silver-tongued nature convinced you that this would change your life for the better.

While you were inexperienced in most of it, Yulian made sure to make you feel comfortable about it and him. The weekly allowance and PPM were enough to make you never lift a single finger to work anymore.

The more you spent time with him, the less it felt like an arrangement. It felt like a man treating you with utmost respect while spoiling you with luxuries you would never imagine to have.

But with such great benefits came a great price. You noticed that you had been seeing your friends less because of the attention you had on him.

You noticed the higher-ups never stopped sneering at you for being a commoner or his pet whenever you attended the fancy events with him as his plus one.

You noticed how you had almost less to none freedom, always heavily guarded by what seemed to be his bodyguards. Who was he and why did you even need this sort of protection?

One day you decided to trick his bodyguards with your flat-out white lies so that they'd leave you alone. They did not expect someone like you to ever lie and put them at risk so they left you alone.

All you did was wander around in awe, checking the grand balcony to go to the washroom as normal people would.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who was seething in rage when the bodyguards came to him, tricked by your childish lie. But there was no way something bad would happen with this slight mistake right? You were not his spouse by any means.

But oh did everyone know you were someone he fancied for the first time in his whole life. Part of his brain just tried to look at this mistake in a bright light and it backfired.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who had to be endlessly teased by his great-for-nothing cartel friend. He had to endure the stress of losing you and the risk of not being able to take you back.

It's not like the Drug Lord couldn't help him, it was simply humiliating for him to endanger you by not keeping a close eye on you.

Yan! Sugar Daddy who could track you down in less than a week and ordered a mass slaughter on the faction that imprisoned you. You were not wounded terribly but a wound was still a wound.

Yan! Sugar Daddy was just a confidant to the Drug Lord and an infamous lawyer. You only knew he was a lawyer but never the lurking threat of his other occupation. No wonder he was always wary of his surroundings.

How could someone from such a cold underground world have the heart to fall in love with you? That was what you thought when you woke up to his concerned face.

Weeks passed and it didn't take him so long to propose to you, for you to become his spouse.

"I truly love you, dear. I have never even once seen our arrangement as something strictly business instead." He showed you a velvety box with a diamond ring in it. "I admit, it was not the best approach but I thought I could work my way into your heart while profiting you with all the benefits and luxuries you could have from me."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, "I wanted you to see how capable I am."

Something told you that nothing good would come out of your refusal. And instead, logic swarm into your brain. You had been in an arrangement with him for almost a year already and had never even once felt any hardships.

He was nice to you, downright kind and loving even. He cared for you deeply and wouldn't hurt you in any way. It was your fault that you broke free from the barrier of protection he granted you.

With great fame and luxuries, came all sorts of threats. He wasn't disloyal like those higher-ups. He didn't belittle you like others would. He loved you.

Even if you didn't love him, you knew how great it felt to be loved by him. There was not a single loss from this arrangement which was a marriage, right?

[sinisterexaggerator]

Hancock x F!Reader [ A03 ]

Summary: You are important to John Hancock; there is a radstorm brewing. As a skilled and reformed scavver, you’re after a part for a decommissioned lounger—it belongs to Doc Amari’s famed Memory Den.

Hancock's tense; he should have gone with you, but it’s not too late to search you out. He would be glad to have you home safe in his arms, only things don’t always go as planned, nor do you go unpunished for your negligence.

Explicit: NSFW / 18+ for PWP, PiV sex, fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, whump / hurt and comfort, angst, gun violence, light bondage, praise, light sub/dom undertones, edging, use of chems, alcohol, foul language, and canon-typical violence and behavior. Other worthy mentions include fluff, romance, a worried and protective Hancock, and love confessions.

Notes: I am normally a Star Wars writer. This is my first time writing for Hancock, and my first fic for the Fallout fandom. I see Hancock as multifaceted, which I am having fun exploring. I have many ideas, but one fic can only contain so much! I used a few lines of dialogue from the game because they stuck with me T__T. I will also most likely try my hand at Nick Valentine at some point, (and maybe even Coop), but this ghoul stole my heart.

6.8k+

Feedback appreciated. Like? Reblog! <3 Requests accepted!

Eyes as black as tar pits searched the ground at his feet, though no answers would present themselves, the cold, grimy filth of the Commonwealth something he could relate to on an atomic level. Flecks of barren soil and bits of detritus vaulted upward in a stagnate aggregate of dust, cavalier leather boots—having seen better days—leaving a swirl of varied particulates in their wake.

Hancock paced, the Mayor of Goodneighbor impatient as a hungry mole rat, the man left to stalk before the door that led to the Financial District. A dreary, dark green pall signaled to anyone with brains that there was a storm looming on the horizon, and yet you had not returned.

“Where the hell is she?” a raspy voice asked its sparse audience, two ghouls dedicated to his cause doubling as bodyguards, though if he felt safe anywhere, it was here among his brethren.  Besides, it wasn’t his safety he was worried about, it was yours, and he wasn’t afraid to convey his feelings to the whole of town.

“Startin’ to get antsy. Gotta hand it to her, she’s got me sweatin’ like a whore in church over this. Hope she’s havin’ fun at my expense.”

Scavenging was lucrative, or it could be if you managed to score the right loot. You had to know where to look, or where not to look; danger was always in the cards. It was a game Hancock didn’t like to play, and especially not now, not when lightning streaked the sky, rain clouds pregnant with radiation threatening to burst open like a feral’s head looking down the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun.

He knew what it was like to be forced to scour the bare bones of buildings, filching anything that was ripe for the picking. A single find could feed a man for weeks, and places like Goodneighbor just didn’t just build themselves. People needed things. Lucky for them, Hancock was able to provide. It was his one claim to fame—his rep was solid—but he didn’t look down on you for being one to scout for buried treasure.

“She’ll turn up,” one of his companions offered. It was a piteous attempt to console him, Hancock all but ignoring his dismissive comment. He felt his concern was obvious, yet his bedfellows were none of their business. Either way, he brushed it off like a decent man instead of snapping like he wanted to—the guy’d done nothing wrong.

Thunderclaps echoed through town, the first of many droplets pelting his marred face, the ghoul’s faithful tricorn not doing much in the way of shielding him from the dirtied water that had begun to trickle down onto its weathered surface.

He rued allowing you to go out on this wild-mongrel chase to begin with, not to say that you weren’t capable. What he might say is that you’re too good for this world, too good for him, but that hadn’t stopped him from falling head over heels.

You weren’t anti-social like most of your kind; you had a good heart, gave paying customers fair deals, and somehow you had kept the ruins from tarnishing your cheerful outlook; you sported a chipper disposition even at the worst of times.

In other words, you were his little ray of sunshine; Hancock had no qualms with telling you that to your face. And things as precious as you were to him? They needed protecting. It was becoming more obvious by the minute that he should have done the job himself.

“If this is her definition of ‘fast,’ we’re going to need to have a little chat to clear a few things up. Should have fucking gone with her, don’t know what I was thinking,” fried vocal cords scratched out, words tinged with worry as he made his way to the reinforced slab of steel that was Goodneighbor’s single entry point, not counting the alley behind Rexford.

“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ at all, John…” that little voice inside his head nagged at him, reminding himself at every turn of the ways he’d failed, this on the verge of being one of them.

“Want us to look?” the other rejoined, aware you had been sent out on a job to find a replacement circuit board for Doctor Amari, as one of the memory lounger’s had been marked out of service. The doc would pay you well; everyone’s gotta eke a living somehow. Hers was made by sellin’ a man’s own memories back to him, and yours was made by sellin’ spare parts.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t have skipped out on his Mayoral duties for one evening, Hancock mentally scolding himself, his sentiments leading him toward the need to kick his own ass.

Quick, adept and clever, he had no doubt you could pull it off, but you were used to traveling in a group, used to back up and a lookout. You had willingly ditched your crew and settled here for him, making Goodneighbor more or less your permanent home. He couldn’t help but feel like he was ultimately responsible for you and your well-being—so far, so good. He’d be damned if anything happened to you on his watch.

The coming radstorm was starting to sound like a stampede of angry Brahmin. Not even those of his ilk should be out in this mess. Technically immortal, sure, but not immune to accumulating all that bad stuff brewing in the atmosphere; he was comfy right where he was, but not without his lady by his side.

Their self-elected leader ignored the question, reaching into the confines of his red frock coat to unveil the firepower hidden just out of sight. His break-action, double-barreled 12-gauge had most of its stock removed for easy concealment; he knew better than to step foot outside Goodneighbor without packing heat.

“No, you might say this is a personal problem. Not to say she wouldn’t make a damn fine Ghoul,” he stated with deadly calm, kicking the door open with reckless abandon despite his unflappable demeanor, not caring what awaited him on the other side.

“I’m going with you, ain’t safe,” words spoken over harsh winds, a breeze not in the least bit refreshing having descended upon the Commonwealth as Hancock slipped out into the mounting tumult, both men following close behind. Truthfully, he was grateful for their loyalty.  

“Suit yourself, but don’t go gettin’ yourself killed. Would defeat the purpose of a search and rescue, ya feel me?”

A question not needing a response, he ventured forward, running headfirst into the growing tempest, chaos reigning overhead in the form of a blinding light show.

Hancock called out for you, yelling your name over the deafening commotion that was going to get worse before it got better, not about to go home empty-handed, even if it took the whole damn rest of the night. He hoped you were smart enough to know when to quit, or that you’d taken those Mentats he’d stuffed in your pocket on the way out.

“Get back here, scavver!”

Footfalls echoed in the dark, brisk in pace, inky, depthless eyes narrowing as the ghoul searched out the source. He had taken no more than half a dozen steps before he was forced to witness you at a full-fledged run, two burly raiders belting out insults and expletives hot on your trail.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, but he was stone-cold sober, time standing still as you dove into Hancock’s open arms.

“There’s my girl,” the scoundrel purred into your ear, sinewy limbs enshrouding you as the sound of gunfire and discarded ammo casings nearly went unnoticed. Hancock let his own weapon fall to the ground to accommodate you, your pursuers dispatched like the trash they were. The members of the Neighborhood Watch who had accompanied him outside the walls made short work of both men; they deserved a drink and some chems on his dime.

“John,” you breathed out, smiling up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as you held up that piece of scrap you were so proud of. His name off your tongue was musical, a warm sensation spreading through him like wildfire, better than drugs—it was a high he would never come down from.

“I—I got the part,” you spoke softly, your tepid breath tickling the remnants of a disfigured ear.

Hancock almost shivered.

But oh, no. He wasn’t about to let you off that easy, not when he’d felt that pang of anxiety and the sickening feeling in his gut like someone had shanked him with his own knife. He held you back by the shoulders, breaking your embrace, his face taking on a displeased, stern shade.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? Makin' me all kinds of nervous. Scarin’ me half to death. And some might say I don’t look too far off.” He breathed in nice and slow, exhaling through exposed nasal cavities, Hancock emitting a sigh to emphasize his disappointment. “Can’t be doin’ things like that, or you’re liable to give this old ghoul a—”

“—Sunshine?” His heart sank, as if the universe was out to prove he had every right to worry, Hancock’s attention inexplicably drawn to the red staining your fingers—it neared the color of his coat. You only now seemed to notice, that radiant light swept from your beaming face as you acknowledged the presence of your own blood on your hands; no wonder it had been so hard to take those last few steps.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, eyes blown wide as you apologized for upsetting him. You would collapse into a heap, the adrenaline that had carried you home seeming to dissipate all at once—at least your fight-or-flight response had done its duty.

---

“Move over, out of the way. I ain’t askin’ twice,” Hancock seethed, the distraught man’s threat to bowl over anyone who stood in his way not to be taken lightly, though his tone was traitorously even and his despondency well-masked. He stormed the Old State House, ascending the spiral staircase to the second floor, carrying your limp body to a tattered red couch.

Refuse and empty Jet inhalers, along with half-drunk bottles of alcohol and boxes of Mentats, were all swept aside, Hancock throwing open cabinet doors and dislodging drawers in his haste.

“Oh, you’re really in it now, aren’t you, sister? Just had to make a few extra caps!” he chided, the ghoul’s husky voice rising in volume as he took to another part of the room.

Having not yet succumbed to blood loss, you were barely cognizant as you fought to stay awake, your beloved Mayor nothing more than a blur of motion and splotches of red as he systematically searched every nook and cranny for the syringe that would save your life.

“Hang on, dollface, you’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it—and you know how much I love to run my mouth.” Hancock spoke to reassure you and himself, filling the silence with something other than the curses he wanted to dish out every which way to the wind. You couldn’t help but to smile again despite your predicament, eyelids drooping as you thought about the idea of sleep.

“There you are,” he growled, your vision starting to glaze over, though you were aware Hancock had come back to your side. His scarred, yet deceptively handsome face hovered inches above your own; it was an acquired taste you had no trouble in accepting.

“This is gonna hurt, but it’s better than the alternative,” he provided in short warning, withered fingers fumbling to unbutton your top, exposing first your sternum, your ribs, and then your belly.

“Shit, they got you good,” Hancock grumbled, your hand rising to cradle his jaw as he had peeled back the flaps of fabric to inspect the wound in your side. You were surprisingly calm, thinking that if today was your last day on Earth, at least you had been blessed to experience his company. 

“I’m glad it’s you here with me,” your voice, meek and mild, declared. Hancock hesitated for one precious second, caught off guard, but pleasantly so.

“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me! Ain’t like these are your final moments or nothin’,” he assured, an audible tremble causing his words to waver, voice rising in pitch. He went on to stab you without ceremony, the needlepoint of a stimpak and its revitalizing medicine at once injecting itself into your damaged flesh and pulsing through your bloodstream.

You moaned in pain, hips arching as you lifted slightly up off the cushions before you settled once more, allowing yourself to finally relax as Hancock watched the regenerative process take hold, much to his relief.

---

You awoke, finding yourself supine atop a mattress, with Hancock crossed legged on the floor beside you. He had brought it down from upstairs, wanting you to have somewhere more comfortable to recover; the drifters weren’t using it, but he was sure he could scrounge another one up should the need arise.

The door was shut, the rest of the room empty, the man teetering off the edge of a high he wished he could prolong; he had pumped himself full of all those things that made him feel better. Riddled with guilt, he had imbibed both chems and alcohol, his body slightly swaying from left to right as he could not sit entirely still, yet he was too far off in his own head to notice you had come back to him.

You shifted, realizing he had draped his frock across your body to act as a temporary blanket. This simple gesture caused a flutter behind sore ribs, biceps activating so that you might push up and rest on the flat of your palms.

John was idle, near-dead to the world, eyes closed as he kept up that gentle rocking, back and forth, as if lost in music or in deep meditation. You only desired to watch him, studying the intricate, striated patterns of his ravaged flesh, gazing over the hollow of his once human nose, and admiring his sullied, foppish tunic that was a part of his infamous ensemble.

While some might consider him a monster, he was a being of light. He had superficial, obvious flaws, but he was no more guilty of sin than anyone else in this day and age. He was a beautiful soul, inside and out, and your opinion was the only one that mattered to you. Hancock always tried to do the right thing—it’s what drew you to him—even if that meant taking out a few loose ends. 

Your heart stirred, natural chemical processes taking hold that would prompt you to touch him, your hormones dictating that you wanted this man carnally.

The ghoul’s eyes bolted open as you shuffled forward on your behind; you set his coat aside almost reverently, folding your legs like his, knees brushing as you leaned forward to kiss his wiry lips. Soft flesh against textured skin, rough in comparison, felt no less wonderful, Hancock groaning out a throaty sound of appreciation as he slowly shut his eyes again.

That was all the encouragement you needed, pressing closer, crawling onto Hancock’s lap as his hands found the meat of your ass to give it a squeeze. “Someone’s feelin’ better…” he quipped, allowing himself to lie back on the floor. His smile was lackadaisical and content, his touch roving to your thighs as he gazed up at you, noting you were tugging off your already unbuttoned top to reveal your shapely breasts.

“How’d a guy like me get so damn lucky…” he drawled, Hancock’s normally assertive way of speaking temporarily replaced by a calming cadence—it was dreamy—his indolent tone arousing your most base instincts.

You didn’t answer at first, thinking you’re the one who’s lucky. You had wanted and needed a change of pace, not happy with the way your business partners were operating, willing to bring death to others in order to get what scrap they could. You only took things from the ruins, or from those who deserved to be robbed, the idea of senseless violence proliferating thanks to people like your ragtag group something you decided you couldn’t live with.

You’d come to Goodneighbor looking for work; Hancock had been willing to give you a chance, and you didn’t disappoint. After a few heady conversations and risqué flirtations at the Third Rail, you had wound up in his arms—a place you found yourself never wanting to leave.

“I could ask you the same question,” you finally muttered, grazing his mouth, kisses repeating, small pecks placed from one side to the other in a physical show of adoration. The ghoul laughed a wry, salacious little laugh, head turning to allow for this impromptu bout of affection, stretching one arm out behind his head to act as a pillow as he relished the attention.

Then, his smile faded, the chem’s effects lingering like background radiation, less intense than before—the high lasted mere minutes if that, his faculties gradually returning. The hand left free gingerly touched your side, just below where he had administered the stimpak hours earlier. Concern was apparent in glistening eyes, so dark and lovely, starry pupils reflecting the faint luminescence of his surroundings.

“Not lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he promised, every shred of levity fleeing to be replaced by austerity, low, somber notes causing a visceral reaction as the onset of something warm and fuzzy spread throughout your core.

“Bein’ out here with me? Means you don’t gotta work, but I should have had your back, sunshine. Ain’t got no excuse.”

“You can have me on my back,” you playfully retorted, the simple suggestion unleashing a purr from the bowels of the ghoul’s throat. The idea of being a kept woman pleased you, but you were more interested in pleasing him.

“You better watch your mouth, or I can’t be held responsible for all those things I’m going to do to you,” Hancock countered. He talked big game, but he was still feelin’ shook. He didn’t want to risk getting too frisky on the off chance your body needed more time to heal; you were only human, after all.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” you simpered. Hancock was quick to snark back.

“I know that’s a lie, ‘cause you’re not wearing any.”

You gasped as Hancock flipped you without warning, pinning both your wrists to either side of your head. He drank in the smooth, supple flesh of your curves, hungry eyes making damn sure to get their fill.

He couldn’t stop himself, exploring the swell of a perfect tit, Hancock’s mouth becoming newly acquainted with the sensitive flesh of your nipple. He flicked its pert tip with the point of his tongue; you brazenly rolled your hips as you tried to contain the lewd sound that threatened to escape you.

“I double dog dare you, ” you tempted, not in the least bit afraid of what he might have in store.

Hancock didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t want to hurt you, love, but let’s say I give it to you nice and slow… Or as slow as I can give it; hard to keep promises, lookin’ the way you do,” he argued, ruined lips applying pressure as he began to suck, his growing erection gently grinding into the meat of your thigh.

“You won’t hurt me.” You shuddered as he pulled back, gazing into murky, otherworldly eyes, their glow hypnotizing. You half-assed a struggle, wanting to pull your hands free if only to touch him, Hancock chuckling mildly at your efforts.

“Don’t be so sure, ‘cause I got a hankerin’ for human,” his voice dropped emphatically lower, toying with you, his dire inflection sending tingles down your spine. Coming from a ghoul, most people would run the other way, but you knew from experience, Hancock had a twisted sense of humor—it was something you loved about him.

“Eat me,” you jeered, snapping your teeth playfully like some creature that roamed the wasteland, Hancock pulling his head back just enough to satisfy you, as if he had a nose to bite off to begin with.

“That’s the plan, sister,” he snickered, finally releasing his grip on your arms.

You took the opportunity to take hold of Hancock’s already tousled vest, guiding him down to meet your lips. Your fingers busied themselves with its unbuttoning as the ghoul had his hands full, cradling the plump, healthy tissue of your blushing cheeks in the crooks of his palms.

Hancock fed a grating moan into your mouth before asking a pointless question he already knew the answer to, not one to miss out on a chance to have his ego stroked. “Somethin’ about me.. turnin' you on? Don’t know why you’d go for this ugly mug,” he conceded, fishing for a compliment. 

“You. You turn me on,” you whined plaintively, “everything about you,” you confessed, furling your tongue around his, willing him to shut his trap long enough for you to kiss him properly. He aided in the undressing, whipping his sash off in one fell swoop, an idea blossoming only to come into fruition shortly thereafter.

“That why you’re actin’ so desperate for me?” Hancock laced that bit of ragged flag around both your wrists, constricting them once more, his own arm extending to tauten its hold. He wouldn’t give you the chance to kiss him the way you wanted to, cinching its loose ends around the legs of the coffee table just behind your head, giving it a good tug to make sure you couldn’t break free.

In reality, it would have been easy to wiggle loose, but he knew you were the type to play along.

“What are you doing?” you asked, feigning alarm. The ghoul only grinned a shit-eating grin, crawling backward across your lap to adjust to a better position for his next course of action. 

“Makin’ sure you can’t skip out on me,” he said matter of fact, a mischievous lilt to his voice, “gonna have to punish you for all that worryin’ you made me do.” 

“But, Hancock—” you protested, realizing he was barring you from the one thing you wanted—full access to his person, unable to grope and caress all those parts of him you were so eager to touch and kiss.

“—Hmm?” he hummed, the bastard having the nerve to stand. He left you in a recumbent position with hands tied, unable to do anything but gaze up at the seductive set of motions he was now subjecting you to.

The ghoul painstakingly unfastened the remainder of his buttons, wizened digits fondling each in turn, his manner suggesting something that for now would remain unspoken. Then, Hancock shrugged his vest off, allowing his arms to hang as the garment dropped silkily to the floor. It was followed by a festooned shirt, leaving the man bare chested and amused; he wasn’t sure you had blinked even once.

“Like what you see?” he asked lazily, tracing a line across his gaunt pecs toward his navel with the curl of a finger, black eyes glinting impishly at the sight of you jostling your wrists as you failed to liberate yourself.

“Yes,” you breathed out shamelessly, unable to deny the effect his little striptease had on you. This in and of itself was torture, finding his brand of punishment entirely unfair.

“Good,” Hancock crooned, doing the unthinkable as he vanished from view. He even went so far as to walk beyond your peripheral vision. Instead, you were reduced to listening out for him, the ghoul shuffling around somewhere behind you. 

“John,” you whined, sitting up and scooting back against the coffee table the best you could. You endeavored to crane your neck, hearing the clink of glass preceding other innocuous sounds, the gentle thud of Hancock’s boots echoing across the rotting floorboards as he made his way back around. 

“You can say my name all you want to, princess, but it ain’t gonna change a damn thing,” Hancock stressed, words clawing their way out of cracked pipes as he nudged your knees apart with his foot; he knelt between your legs, a dispenser of Jet in one hand, and a dose of Rad-X in the other. “Open wide,” he instructed. 

You should have known what he’d been after, the drug-addicted ghoul popping the lone anti-radiation capsule inside his mouth after dispensing a heavy spray of the illicit substance into his lungs; its potency was limited in his case, but you were easily susceptible to its high. 

You gratefully obeyed, wanting any excuse to be close to him, Hancock’s silver tongue molesting you as easily as it had persuaded you to listen. He deposited the pill into your mouth, kissing you deeply, your beloved Mayor giving you a shotgun of thick, odorous chems without so much as a single protest on your part. 

Your heart thrummed, Jet leeching its way into your bloodstream to trigger a bodily response via your nervous system. In the meantime, you had almost forgotten to swallow your dose of Rad-X, Hancock prompting you by trailing the full length of your throat with a single, sallow finger. 

He massaged it down, feeling for the activation of those muscles that would help ferry it along, his thoughts drifting to the memory of his cock once upon a time being slopped on by the wet whorl of your tongue. His prick had throbbed almost painfully, sequestered snugly inside your zealous gullet, the powerful suction of your hollow cheeks threatening to wrench his soul from his body, or it sure as hell had felt that way.

He was drawn back to the present moment by the look in your eyes, your pupils dilating to rival the circumference of dinner plates. You gazed at the man before you; Hancock pulled back the edge of your bottom lip, exposing your gumline, the ghoul snaking another of his fingers inside your partially open mouth. 

The slender extremity would bypass your blunt teeth, saturating itself in your saliva. Even in this state, you had the wherewithal to pucker up, intaking that explorative digit to the knuckle, your plush maw behaving like a deluxe pre-war vacuum cleaner. 

The ghoul shuddered, though keeping his cool intact, lost in the depths of your unwavering stare. He slowly slipped back out, releasing your lip for it to snap gently back into place, Hancock satisfied with the knowledge you had swallowed the pill.

“Look at you, bein’ such a good girl for me,” Hancock praised, speaking in a low, sultry whisper. You did not reply, your desire for the man at its all-time high, that warmth in your belly having spread to complement the unparalleled ache of your loins.

“Hancock,” you whimpered, once more tugging at the cloth that bound you. You felt delirious with longing, your heart racing as you saw stars, euphoria overtaking all of your senses. You pushed forward, halted partway by that fucking flag that had you fettered like some common criminal, too blazed to even think about squirming loose. 

“Please,” you begged, lips reaching for his. Hancock evaded you, trailing a divot devoid of cartilage across your sateen cheek, directing it toward your lovely, intact nose. 

“Please, what, sister?” he ruthlessly teased, watching as your tongue tried to skirt his teeth; its vertex barely met its goal. Still, Hancock would return the gesture with a sweep of his own, flitting his against yours, inhaling deeply the scent of Jet off your breath as he was suddenly consumed by an almost feral need to taste your neediness—it was nearly palpable. 

“Please.. touch you? Please kiss you? Please.. fuck your pretty little hole?” he asked in a derisive tone, though his movements were languid, Hancock in no rush to oblige you, even as his veiny hands glided over every inch of your sleek skin.

“Is that what my little ray of sunshine wants?” the ghoul taunted, moving to unbutton the clasp at the top of your pants, then pinching the pull of your zipper, teeth parting to reveal clean cotton. You were nearly embarrassed by how damp your panties were, the chems only making your arousal ten times worse; Hancock wasn’t helping matters, a lecherous moan reaching your ears as the man slid back and realigned himself, bending forward to bury his face in the moist outline staining your skivvies.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet—” he marveled breezily, “—is it all for me?” Hancock rasped, nipping you through the fabric, a desiccated finger tucking itself into its elastic hem. Hancock dragged it down just far enough to expose your sweet-smelling sex, the ghoul’s tongue slithering easily between slick folds. 

You inhaled a disjointed gasp for breath, voice cracking as you cried out in ecstasy, Hancock having barely swiped your thrumming clit. That alone was almost too much, your hips bucking beneath him of their own volition as you pleaded with him to keep his promise.

“Don’t tease,” you sighed, naked breasts rising and falling with every labored breath. Hancock’s eyes traveled up your fine as fuck body before meeting your gaze, a twisted hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his ghoulish mouth. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he snickered, fingers grasping the entirety of your waistband to help you shimmy off your bottom layer of clothes. Your hips wriggled all too desperately, overjoyed to finally be free of their constraints. 

“But that’s not fair!” you entreated, unabashedly spreading your legs in the hopes of providing him a suitable meal, ready and willing to be devoured if you could only convince him to take the plunge.  

“And why not?” he asked in all seriousness, nuzzling into the lush flesh of your labia as his silky tongue entombed itself, gathering your moist heat from its source. He dipped back out to your chagrin—you had inhaled sharply in preparation only to be left disappointed—Hancock licking a stripe to the cusp of your throbbing bud. 

“Because I’ll die,” you replied, overexaggerating, writhing in bliss, albeit temporary; Hancock seemed out to drive you mad, retracting once more to glance back up at you, reedy lips downturned in a disapproving frown. 

“No, you won’t,” he asserted, voice taking on a sobering, sincere quality; even if you were being hyperbolic, after the events that had just transpired, Hancock didn’t find it funny, resolving to dine on you good and proper, as if it would be the thing to save your life. 

“I—” You were cut off mid-thought, lightning crashing thunderously outside, the ghoul introducing two coarse fingers into your clenching cunt as the radstorm raged on. Hancock’s neck sank low as you arched your hips, the flat of a thick tongue bringing you toward rapture as he succinctly lapped your clit in delicious combination, playing you like some Old World violin. 

“Aren’t you glad you’re trapped in here with me instead of out there cookin’ alive?” Hancock asked offhand, digits curling to find the seat of your pleasure, warm, wet muscle dancing slow, precise circles across your sensitive nerves. You halfheartedly yanked at your bindings once more, wishing for nothing more than to ravish him like a woman starved, deprived of sustenance. 

“Yes, yes— please, just like that,” you answered, urging him on, the man encouraged to keep at it, long, languorous strokes titillating you toward release.

Then, he simply stopped, fingers glossy upon exit, Hancock sucking your slick clean off with a scarecrow smile, tilting his head like a curious animal as you bemoaned your plight, left to suffer on the edge of an orgasm. 

“Relax, I ain’t through with you yet,” Hancock remarked, lifting himself up to a seated position on his knees. You whined indignantly, made to watch as he unbuckled and unzipped his own pants.

The rogue stood completely, giving you another show, kicking one boot off after the other before slinking out of the rest of his clothes. 

You took a moment to admire him, skin pockmarked with scars, deep pits of tissue missing where cells had inevitably healed all too quickly, John a mosaic of gnarled, misshapen flesh and keloid. Yet he was so handsome, charming, and cavalier, the man leaving nothing on but his tricornered hat, returning to his previous enterprise by way of interring his roiling tongue into your aching center. 

“Oh, John,” you murmured, voice hushed, the man’s thumb working itself concentrically atop your little pearl. 

For once, he was quiet, his strokes inside you meticulous, the nearly silent room filled with a plethora of obscene sounds as he feasted on you like a Yao guai over a fresh kill. Just a little attention was all it took, nails digging into the palms of your tied hands as you twisted beneath him, vocalizing loud enough you were sure the whole State House would hear.

A shiver rocked you to your core, riding out your climax for as long as you could stand it. You were unable to push Hancock’s head back even if you wanted to, the ghoul finding a new way to punish you, continuing to stimulate your already oversensitive clit. 

“Hancock, please—” you begged him under different circumstances, the ball of your foot gingerly pushing against his blatant hard-on. The ghoul finally let up just enough to chortle dryly, obviously nonplussed.

“Done already? Thought we were just gettin’ this party started,” he flouted, sitting up properly, probing fingers caressing the curve of your slit as they trailed upward, ghosting over your navel to tweak your nipple. They didn’t stop there, reaching just behind you to nab a cigarette off the edge of the coffee table, your expression giving away your confusion as he struck a match to ignite the end.

“No, John— you’re supposed to fuck me!” you berated, another devious little chuckle let loose from wilted lips. The ghoul inhaled a deep drag of nicotine laced with radiation, though the amount contained therein was so trivial he didn’t bat a lash—not that he had any.

He gazed at you through a thin veil of smoke exuded from eroded nasal passages—a short burst of pressure from his lungs propelling it outward—a freakish sight to some, but you had grown accustomed to it. 

“So, that is what you want,” Hancock digressed, snubbing the end of his cig on the floor after a few more laggard puffs. The Jet was wearing off, Hancock having already sobered completely, its side effects leaving you feeling used-up and exhausted. Hancock had forgotten what it felt like to come down from such an intense high; you pouted pathetically up at him.

“Baby,” you whined, immediately capturing Hancock's attention. He dropped the act, eyes softening around the edges, colorless voids somehow the most expressive you had ever seen them.

“What is it, sunshine? Feelin’ all right? Need somethin’ to take the edge off?” he asked gently, concern present in his tone, the ghoul finally being kind enough to reach over your head to free you from your bindings. 

“I need you,” you implored, your speech sounding childishly irritable, tired, heavy arms lifting to wrap themselves around John’s neck; you couldn’t help yourself, having been prohibited from touching him for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been a short length of time. 

“I’m all yours,” Hancock vowed, whisking a stray strand of your hair away. A soft kiss was pressed into even softer lips; the man was two sides of the same coin, like night and day. Part of you prayed you would never cross him, his temper volatile, like an active volcano lying dormant until such a time the right conditions were met, inevitably causing an eruption. 

But he was also kind, genuine, and a good person, only wanting to make the Commonwealth a better place; he held within him a righteous anger, and for good reason, determined to stick by him through thick and thin. 

"Nice and slow?" you asked, bringing the conversation full circle, ushering the ghoul down on top of you as you laid back, gazing up with heavy-lidded eyes. He searched your face, as if double-checking for something, needing to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing was wrong—you were only sulking. 

“You got it, sister,” Hancock replied coyly, the fullness of a finger returning to you as he tested the waters; you were still so unbelievably wet. It was a stark contrast to the dry, desolate landscape that stretched for miles just beyond his little town, the ghoul humming in gratitude as you kissed him once again. 

You wasted no time, slipping your hand between the depression of your bodies where hip meets hip, his weight a warm, inviting presence that comforted you like nothing else. Your fingers toyed with his variegated shaft, thumbing a bead of loosed pre-cum to moisten its tip; Hancock moaned lustfully as he buried himself deeper into the column of your throat, teeth raking tender flesh, barely withholding the intention to bite.

“I’m thinkin’ you must be the single best thing to ever happen to me,” Hancock confessed in a dulcet whisper, voice quavering with emotion as you carefully escorted his cock inside you, one delicious inch at a time. Jagged breaths found their way into your ear, distorted, ribbed flesh, more than adequate in length and girth, stretching you open, a subdued sound of longing and relief birthed from parted lips. 

“I love you,” you blurted out, unable to keep your feelings at bay, any and all movements ceasing before they had wholly begun.

You had closed your eyes; they fluttered open, fear wheedling its way inside your heart as Hancock gazed at you in silence. You cursed yourself, having never before expressed such a sentiment out loud, unsure how the man would take it, or if he even felt remotely the same—all signs pointed to yes, but you refused to be presumptuous. 

Then, he pushed up into your tight cunt with one slow, smooth stroke of his cock along your anterior walls, stimulating your G-spot. Pleasure radiated through you as you emitted a stilted breath, Hancock cradling your cheek, resting his forehead against yours to stare penetratingly into your eyes.

“Took you to be smarter than this, but I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that,” he breathed against your lips, slipping a motile tongue into your mouth, wanting to desperately deepen your connection. 

You readily accepted, your own tongue writhing and contracting in unison with his, heart beating fervently behind a wall of blood and bone. Your fingers clawed and grasped at his narrow shoulders and the tendinous flesh of his back, exploring every inch of your ghoulish lover, from head to jutting hipbone.

Hancock drove his cock into you, back and forth, keeping a steady, equal rhythm like the beat of a drum. “Why now?” he asked, voice tempered, each pump of his thick prick inside you unhurried and sensuous.

“Nearly dying may have had something to do with it,” you jested in-between indecent, muted moans, Hancock’s deliberate pace driving you toward orgasm. The arm not supporting his weight curled tightly around you. He clutched you to his chest, and you wrapped your thighs around his waif thin waist in return. 

“Mmn.. that it?” Spindly fingers moved to grip the back of your head, digging into tufts of your hair; your back bowed to support you in joining with him more fully, Hancock massaging your scalp as he massaged your insides, debauch, rich sounds filling both your ears.

“And because I have nothing to lose,” you reluctantly answered, breath picking up speed as you pushed back against firm, rawboned pectorals with the palm of your hand; you had the intention of arranging yourself at just the right angle to please— a simple slant of your hips would make things all too easy.

Within moments, you came, pinpricks of light overwhelming your senses. You were elated, as if your consciousness had been overtaken by a nebulous cloud of love and electromagnetic radiation, a soul set adrift in a swirling haze of thoughts, feelings and emotions that would amalgamate into something beautiful—it caused you to cry out a sound of intense, heartfelt bliss. 

Your mind went blank, only registering that John had simultaneously shared in the experience. It would take you both a moment to calm.

Then, you squeezed Hancock tightly between your legs, a signal for him to not withdraw, but to stay awhile, the tension in your body settling as you laid back down.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Hancock would smother you with his scant weight, caressing the point of your chin, his thumb snaking across your bottom lip. He gave a faint exhalation of breath, the concave outline of his nasal cavity grazing the convex shape of your nose; it tickled.

“Nothing to lose but each other.”

[yusuke-of-valla]

The thing about conflicting headcanons re: Yusuke's financial situation post Madarame (ie is he actually poor, does he make money but spends it all on art because he has poor impulse control, is Kosei a money laundering scheme etc.) is that like Yusuke's financial situation is written to facilitate a running gag so it's not consistent.

The school gives him an allowance, but he's also being charged for utilities despite being on a scholarship and so showers in the cold and works in the dark and worries about the electricity bill.

We know he bought those lobsters that one time but realistically how much of his money is being spent on supplies for class vs non-necessities he feels inspired by? Because canvases are expensive and if there's a certain size expectation/requirement you can't save by getting a smaller canvas. So when someone says "he just spends all his money on art" what are we really talking about?

By Strikers he's very excited to have money from an art contest to spend on his friends but was that true during the course of the base game when he was in his slump? Because I have a hard time believing he was even entering competitions

The details don't really make sense because most of these details come from jokes that are never elaborated on into cohesive worldbuilding.

And even if you want to say the issue is just he's got bad spending habits, that's still a situation that would require intervention by an adult probably because uh, no shit?

Yeah of COURSE Yusuke is completely unprepared to live on his own and is incidentally starving himself, he was raised by a dude who convinced him that the only purpose he served was helping his Sensei. In what way would it have benefitted Madarame to prepare Yusuke in any way to live on his own or know how to balance finances, he actively wanted Yusuke reliant on him, because that's how abuse works.

I'm pretty sure Yusuke has never even conceptualized living on his own, and that's not even adding in the detail of Nakanohara being concerned he'd commit suicide if he stayed with Madarame. NO SHIT HE'D BE BAD AT IT? People don't just emerge from the womb capable of money management

In that situation is the proper response really "oh that Yusuke, he just doesn't understand money, it's not a big deal"?

And like regardless, he IS still starving. Like the extent to which you think it's self inflicted aside, he's a 16 year old who will constantly talk about skipping meals and eating sprouts from the park and that sucks. Someone should maybe like talk to him about the root cause of that!

TL;DR: Yusuke's financial situation doesn't make sense because it's not supposed to, so it kind of doesn't matter to me how people headcanon the nature of it, and I fundamentally think it's incorrect to say one option of "poor vs has bad impulse spending habits" is more correct than the other because arguably they both raise the question of "holy shit why is no one stepping in here" if you think about it all the way through

PS. Also I wrote this whole thing because I saw a tweet that was like "one big misconception i see about yusukes character and how he’s treated is people saying “Why doesn’t Joker/Haru give him money when he’s poor?” and the real fact is that he’s not poor (post madarame). He’s just EXTREMELY irresponsible with his spending and spends it all on art," and I was like "idk if that's a misconception really I think a case can be made for both because it doesn't make sense" and then AFTER I wrote it I remebered that I have repository of every Yusuke scene uploaded into my brain and was like "wait if you call Yusuke poor in PQ2 during the Akihiko/Shinjiro/Yusuke quest he'll agree" and then there's also the scene in Tactica where Marie calls him dirt poor and he doesn't disagree with the poor part, just that she insulted dirt

So like my point still stands but I'd ESPECIALLY not call it a misconception to say he's poor when canon material supports it.

[50calmadeuce]

Ch. 15: After the Dance

Warning: Mention of miscarriage. Some chapters have sex.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the Top Gun: Maverick world, trademarked by Paramount Pictures Corporation. I do not claim ownership of the characters and the world that I am borrowing.

The story and situation I am creating are a work of my imagination and I do not ascribe them to official story canon. This work is for entertainment only and is not a part of the storyline.

I am not profiting financially from the creation and publication of this story, but I do hope it gives you happy thoughts.

These stories are my own, so please do not take them and use them for yourself without my permission. If you see them somewhere else, please let me know. :)

Fortunately, your hotel room was conveniently located within the same complex as the school, sparing you the need for a drive or a long walk after the Gala.

That convenience turned out to be a blessing, allowing you both to easily retreat to the sanctuary of your hotel room after the emotional rollercoaster of the evening. The comfort of knowing that your personal space was just a short walk away provided a sense of relief, especially after the intense interactions and the spotlight of the Gala.

Once inside the room, the familiar, private setting felt like a haven. The tension that had built up over the evening began to dissipate as you stepped into the calm, quiet atmosphere, away from the buzz and social demands of the event.

"You want to talk about it?" Jake asked gently, closing the door behind him and turning to look at you, his expression one of concern mixed with support.

You considered his question for a moment, appreciating the safety and understanding in his eyes. It was a stark contrast to the complexities of the evening. "Let's just unwind for now," you suggested, craving the normalcy of your routine with him. "We can talk about everything tomorrow. I just want to enjoy the peace with you."

Jake nodded, understanding your need. "Sounds like a perfect plan."

Together, you decided to step out onto the balcony attached to your room, where the cool night air and the soft sounds of the city provided a soothing backdrop. The quiet of the night allowed you both to momentarily set aside the evening's events and focus on the comfort of each other's company.

As you leaned against the railing, Jake came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. The warmth of his embrace was reassuring, a physical reminder of the bond you shared.

"This is nice," you murmured, content in the moment.

"It is," he agreed, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. "No matter what happens, we've got this. We'll figure it out together."

"I just can't believe him!" you vented.

"And we're off," Jake remarked, taking a step back to give you space.

You turned to face him, the frustration evident in your expression. "I mean, how could he? The audacity to just announce that we're collaborating without even a formal discussion. And then, to insinuate—"

Jake held up his hands, a calming gesture. "I know, I know. Dorian's moves were out of line. But remember, we don't have to play his game."

You sighed, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease with his words. "You're right. It's just… it felt so undermining, you know? Like my professional choices were being made for me."

Jake stepped closer again, his demeanor supportive. "I understand. But we're a team, you and I. Whatever decisions you make about your career, I'm here for it. We'll evaluate this together, see if there's any merit in considering it, and if not, we'll move on. No one dictates our choices but us."

His words were a balm to your frayed nerves. "Thank you," you said, genuinely grateful for his understanding and support. "I guess I just needed to hear that. It's been such an overwhelming day."

"Let's put it behind us for now," Jake suggested, offering a soft smile. "How about we focus on the fact that your work got recognized tonight? That grant is a big deal, Y/N. It's all you."

A small smile tugged at your lips, the pride in his voice igniting a sense of accomplishment within you. "Yeah, that part was pretty amazing, wasn't it?"

"Absolutely," he confirmed, pulling you into a gentle hug. "Let's celebrate that win, just the two of us. Forget about Dorian and the drama for tonight."

You nodded, resting your head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you. "Just us," you echoed, feeling the day's tension continue to melt away in his embrace. "But how do you feel about it?" you pressed for his thoughts.

Jake gently distanced himself and met your gaze. "You're considering it, aren't you?" he asked, searching your face for clues.

You hesitated for a moment, weighing your words carefully. "I'm considering all our options," you admitted. "Not necessarily with Dorian, but what this grant and recognition could mean for our future. For my research. It's a big opportunity, but I don't want to make any decisions without us being on the same page."

Jake nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I get it. And I want you to know, whatever you decide, I'm with you. My concern isn't the opportunity itself; it's about ensuring you're not being manipulated or pushed into something you're not fully comfortable with."

His response warmed your heart, reinforcing the solid foundation of trust and mutual respect your relationship was built on. "Thanks, Jake. That means a lot. I just… I want to make sure we're doing what's best for both of us, not just career-wise but for our future together."

He took your hands in his, a reassuring gesture. "Look, I've always admired your dedication and passion for your work. It's one of the many reasons I love you. If this grant, if this research, is what you want, then I'm all for it. We'll figure out the details together. Just promise me we'll keep the communication open, make these decisions together."

You nodded, the emotional weight of his words grounding you. "I promise. We're a team, in all things."

A smile spread across Jake's face. "That's my girl."

"And what about you, Jake Seresin? Stop trying to dodge the question," you challenged, seeking his genuine perspective.

Jake's expression turned thoughtful, a hint of vulnerability flickering in his eyes as he contemplated his response. The evening breeze played with his hair, adding a momentary pause to his deliberation. Finally, he spoke, his voice steady yet infused with the depth of his feelings.

"You know, I've been doing a lot of thinking about this, about us and our future," he began, his gaze locking with yours. "Seeing you up there tonight, getting recognized for your incredible work, it made me realize something important. I'm not just here to support you. I'm here because your dreams, your ambitions, they've become a part of me too."

He took a deep breath, choosing his words with care. "I've flown missions, been in situations where the odds were against us, but I always knew what I was fighting for. With you, it's different. It's not about fighting; it's about building something together, something lasting."

Jake's hands found yours again, a physical connection that bolstered his next words. "So when you ask me how I feel about the grant, about Dorian, about any opportunity that comes your way, my answer is this: I feel proud. Proud of you, proud to be with you. And yes, maybe a bit anxious about what the future holds, but that's not a new feeling for either of us, is it?"

He offered a small, reassuring smile, an acknowledgment of the shared challenges and triumphs that defined your journey together. "My career, my decisions, they've always been mine to make. But now, they're ours. And if this opportunity with the grant is something you want to explore, then let's explore it. Together. We'll weigh the pros and cons, make the tough calls, and navigate whatever comes our way."

Jake's sincerity was palpable, his commitment to you and your shared future unwavering. "So, to answer your question, I'm all in, Y/N. Whatever you decide, I'm with you. Because at the end of the day, it's not just about the grant or the research. It's about us, our partnership, and the life we're building together. And that's what matters most to me."

The conviction in his voice left little room for doubt. Jake Seresin, your partner in every sense of the word, was by your side, ready to face whatever the future held, as long as you faced it together.

"Wow. Where was this version of Jake four years ago?" you asked, genuinely surprised by his response.

"Hey, I'm doing my best here," he replied.

You leaned in and kissed him. "I know," you said softly, acknowledging his effort.

Just at that moment, his phone rang. Surprised, you glanced over at him. His phone hadn't rung once since he'd been home. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen.

"Darlin', I need to take this," he said, moving back into the hotel room to answer the call.

You watched him as he listened intently, nodded and said a few words. He then hung up the phone and hurried towards you. "Darlin', we need to go."

"Jake, what's wrong?" You asked, concern on your face.

"I just got called for a mission. I have 24 hours to get back, but the sooner the better."

You watched him for a moment. "I'll change, and then we can head out," you said, turning to walk back into the hotel room.

Tags: @buckysteveloki-me @bellyliveslife @tgmreader @callsign-barbell @86laura11 @dizzybee03 @kmc1989 @guacam011y @nerdgirljen @hookslove1592 @dempy @djs8891

[spankedquail]

I've adored every post you've made up until that last one. That last one is deeply concerning.

You are a human being who works and earns your income. Life is very short. Your husband removing all ways of receiving joy in life is trouble. No self-pleasure? No sexual pleasure? Not even being allowed to purchase a coffee, make-up, clothes or whatever your hobby is? You deserve to freely engage in whatever your joys are.

If you're 100% fine with this change in the dynamic, then good luck to you.

But if not, you have every right to safeword that. That's quite serious.

Say you're in an area with no cell service, or cell service goes out unexpectedly because cell companies DO go out at times. Outages do happen, and now you have no access to your money that YOU earned without his permission? That's risky, in not a fun or kinky way.

While this deep level of submission is lovely, you are still an individual with rights.

Not hating- just a worried anon.

Kind regards.

Hey, I really appreciate your thoughtful comment! I’ll do my best to answer it because I think it’s important to share and clarify a few things :)

First off, thank you for your concern. You’re totally right that, in a scenario like the one you mentioned, there could be potential danger. I want to reassure you that I do have access to my accounts as well. While my husband can access them through our shared 1Password account, I’m not locked out. If an emergency came up, I could act independently without needing any special protocol.

I also want to clarify something about sexual pleasure in our relationship. I absolutely experience immense pleasure when we’re intimate. In fact, not orgasming tends to heighten the overall experience for me rather than diminish it. It’s important to note that everything is consensual, and this dynamic enhances our connection, rather than taking away from it.

This is a bit embarrassing to admit, but for context: I’ve been lavishly spending for well over a decade! I love nice things, and I already own more clothes and shoes than I care to admit—essentially, I have an entire walk-in closet full of...everything. I truly don’t need to buy more, and the financial check-ins have been incredibly helpful for us. They’ve actually allowed us to pay off our mortgage almost twice as fast as we originally planned. It also helps curb my dopamine-fueled habit of browsing sites like SSENSE just because I enjoy online shopping. We ultimately want to really build our retirement funds so we can both retire early and maybe work on some less demanding fun side projects or freelance together in a less structured way than the jobs we have now.

I definitely don’t feel that my husband is removing all joy from my life. I completely agree that a lack of joy would be a huge issue, but that’s not the case here. We do a lot of things together—date nights out, traveling, and sports—and these activities don’t involve submission at all. He’ll usually handle the payments for those occasions. Plus, I regularly go out with my friends to concerts, movies, and other fun events. So, joy is very much a part of my life, just balanced in a way that works for our dynamic.

Thanks again for raising your concerns so thoughtfully. It’s great to have this conversation!

[growinguparo]

Hii! this is my first post here and i'm not sure about what to say, but i hope someone can help me. I'm really new to all of this, this world of aromanticism, it's like i found something that was missing. i just came to realize being aroace this year, so i'ts just a few months of knowing that i'm aromantic, but i'ts years of being aromantic and honestly, i couldn't say i'm not confused, but i really want some advice on how to.. accept myself. because, honestly, i reaally love romance movies and books, and i grew up thinking some day it would be me, but what if it isn't, what if it's not going to be me, like ever. how do i lead with that? how do accept the possibility to not fall in love like everybody else does, and meet someone to stay together for all life an get married. i know i don't want to get married, but this idea is internalized in my head, how to be happy without romance? without a partner to take care of me, to support me, to help me. maybe one day i'll wake up and realize that i've fallen in love and that i'm not going to be single forever and that i can be just like people expect me to be. but what if i don't? what if that day won't come and i'll be "Loveless". i really loved that book Loveless and i't just felt like maybe it wasn't that bad to be like this, i also watched Koisenu Futari and honestly, i never felt so part of something, like i've found the REAL happiness for me, not that one that people always talk about, saying that is the only happiness, to date, get married and have kids. i know most people feel fulfilled with this, but what if i don't? i'm not everybody else, i don't need to live based on people's expectations. if anyone reading this, feel something similar, please(if you like) share your experiences :) thank you for your attention

tbh my first impression here is that you've already figured out what i think is the most important part: the fact that what will (most likely) make you happy is different than what seems to make everyone else happy. and you being happy is the goal. you've figured out that you don't want that traditional romantic relationship, and that that's okay. that's awesome!

i also love that you were able to see yourself positively within Loveless and Koisenu Futari in a way that felt authentic to you. representation helps us imagine what our life could be like. if you can't see yourself in a traditional marriage, what can you see yourself doing? you could live a life like in Koisenu Futari. allow yourself to imagine a life you would be happy and authentic in. try to be free with it, not shooting down ideas because they're "unrealistic". (btw - this might be hard. there are nearly infinite varieties of romantic relationships that are spoonfed to us from birth. coming up with your own ideas is harder than being spoonfed, so don't get discouraged.)

if you haven't already i'd suggest reading about relationship anarchy. it's basically the idea that no one type of relationship is superior to another, and within your relationships you can do whatever you want forever, tailoring them to your needs and wants.

besides that, i think acceptance takes time. you're altering your view of yourself and your future and your place in the world. you've had your whole life to get used to one reality, one self-image, and now you're changing that. it takes time to get used to.

there are also some very real material concerns that come along with being aro. to name a few: navigating the world as a single person is harder legally and financially. western society is built on individualism and we are trained to only seek emotional support from a life partner, even though that is a blatantly unstable way of living even for allos. that can result in single people struggling to find continued support throughout their lives.

accepting being aro doesn't mean the hard parts go away, and ignoring them will not help. it's like accepting being gay - there are real material concerns that come along with being gay, but you can still love being yourself and love being gay. and you can fight to make the world a better place for people like you, if you want to.

followers, any advice?

[tinababeh]

No Way to Relax When You Are on Fire

Lately, life feels heavier than it should—like I’ve been carrying far too much for too long, yet somehow, I remain upright. I move through my days collecting fragments of peace where I can: meaningful conversations, moments of quiet reflection, the grounding rhythm of walking, or immersing myself in team projects, financial ventures, and creative pursuits. But even these comforts feel distant, as if I’m skimming the surface of my own life, slipping in and out of a haze I can’t seem to clear.

I know I live a privileged and extravagant life, and I’m grateful for it. But even with all that, I’ve spent so much of myself taking care of others—shining like a steady light for everyone around me—while navigating my own dark sky. Even when my health is in jeopardy, I tend to give more to others than I give to myself. A week ago, I had a harsh reminder of this when I took my 14-year-old cat—who is battling cancer again—on the hour-long drive to the oncologist. I didn’t eat or care for myself properly, and when I got home, I collapsed forward and suffered a concussion. It was a wake-up call: I need to find balance and allow more love into my life. People like me—who have operated in survival mode for so long—aren’t used to being held. But that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Recently, I’ve noticed that I’m receiving more compliments on my thinner frame, which feels strange in ways I didn’t expect. I loved my curvier self just as much, and hearing loved ones tell me I should eat more or express concern while also praising how I look now creates an odd tension. At 5’4” and 124 pounds, I know I should feel fine, but their words linger—like beauty and worry wrapped together in a way that’s hard to separate. Lately, it’s been challenging to eat enough and care for myself, and my energy slips away faster than I can reclaim it.

And still, the spark inside me never dies—it never has. I’ve seen myself through too much to doubt that I’ll rise again. But why does asking for help feel like defeat? Why is it so hard to ask to be held, to let myself collapse willingly, and let someone else carry me for a while without apology?

There’s a rare beauty in surrender—a quiet, raw grace in setting down what weighs heavy on the soul, letting it rest in the open, and still rising, softer but whole.

A new connection I had high hopes for recently took more from me than I initially realized. This wasn’t just anyone—it was someone very powerful, someone with far more privilege than me. I let them in, believing they carried the same sincerity I offered, only to feel diminished and objectified when their true intentions started to surface. They saw parts of me, but only the parts that served their needs. What stings most is realizing they treated me like a trophy, something to be displayed rather than understood.

It was a sharp reminder that I can’t afford to keep people near me who drain my energy, treating me like an opportunity instead of a person. But just because I was hurt doesn’t mean I need to give up my openness or trust. If anything, it makes me want to open myself even more—to lean into the contrast and strive for deeper, more authentic connections. Reignite true flames.

They taught me a lot, and for that, I’m grateful. But knowing what I deserve means I couldn’t stomach being reduced to an object, no matter what privilege or power they hold.

And still, there’s something stirring within me. I called out into the universe, and I sense a quiet answer—soft, deliberate, familiar and arriving in its own time. As Carl Sagan said, “We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.” That thought stays with me: every triumph, every loss, every act of love—it all belongs to something greater. And within me lies a vast capacity to give to life and love in ways that truly matter.

Mediocrity has never been an option for me. That refusal to settle creates a void sometimes, but “the only way to make sense out of change,” as Alan Watts said, “is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” And that’s exactly what I intend to do.

It will be a quiet triumph—knowing that I pushed to live fully, pouring everything I had into life, love, and truth, until the emptiness became not a void to fill but a space for meaning to unfold.

Even with friends, plans, and a life that seems perfect at times, there are moments when all I crave is stillness—the kind found in unwritten words, unspoken thoughts, and the rare connection with someone who doesn’t just notice me but truly understands.

Technically, I do have so many people in my life who love me deeply, who are there for me in many intimate ways. But somehow, there’s still a void—a quiet ache I can’t quite name.

Luckily, my boss is the best, and I have tenure on my team. I was almost brought to tears today by how caring they are—especially coming from a Fortune 500 company team. He’s encouraged me to consider taking a mental break to focus on myself—a mental health vacation—and assured me that my place would be waiting when I return. He would even make sure I get my full pay during that time too which is just too kind. I’m seriously considering this for the month of November.

I’ve realized I haven’t allowed myself a true break in a very, very long time. Maybe this would be nice—a way to step back, rebalance, and recharge. This may be a way for me to accept the help and care I’ve always struggled with, so I can focus on myself again. It makes me strangely uncomfortable to be given such a gift, but maybe that’s exactly why I need it.

But first things first, I’m rallying tonight for the Charli XCX concert with my best friend and celebrating his birthday tomorrow—funny enough, the same birthday my dad had.

Perhaps the only way forward is to trust the soft spaces in life, to surrender to them, and let the universe hold what I no longer can. And when I return—rested, whole, and ready—I’ll know that I carried myself through not by force, but by learning how to let go.

[pumpkinhrat]

(Sorry to keep fic dumping in ur asks but this au has me feral :P)

     Jonathan Sims is not a ‘dating app’ sort of man. Except for the fact that, yes, apparently, he is. There’s something deeply fascinating, he’s learning, about being able to click through people’s lives in a matter of minutes. To have their personal values and oddities laid out on a platter for him to pick through. For some inexplicable reason, people are willing to put their entire lives on an app if it has a chance to find them a partner. Or get them laid, if Tim is to be believed. That particular aspect, of course, is largely unappealing, but Jon has to admit that being able to thoroughly vet each person he talks to is incredibly enticing.

     After leaving work (at 5 o’clock sharp, he may add, since his assistants never allow him to stay any later these days) and returning home, Jon is only able to resist the allure of his newly installed app for half an hour. He barely manages to make himself a cuppa (slightly underbrewed and thoroughly over-sugared) before he collapses on his grandmother’s old couch and swipes open his phone. At work, he’d only allowed himself a few minutes to peruse the profiles that Tim and Sasha had handpicked for him. Some of them had been insultingly bland – bureaucrats and financiers and the ilk – which is borderline offensive. He knows he was a bit uptight those first few years but good lord.

     The one profile he keeps circling back to, even now curled up alone on his couch, is Martin’s. When Sasha had told him Martin was Tim’s favorite, Jon had almost unmatched on that premise alone but Martin’s biography had caught his eye. Jon balances his tea in one hand as he scans the words for a third time.

     ‘Tea, poetry, and cows. Love those nights where there are twice as many stars as usual.’ Jon’s mouth ticks up against his will again but he doesn’t try to tamp down on it now that he’s in the privacy of his own home. A poetry reference is enough to pique his interest, he can admit to himself (even if he thinks most contemporary writers’ language is typically far too flowery) and this quote in particular is eye-catching.

     One of the many, many books Jon had consumed during his childhood had been a first edition of Laura Gilpin’s The Hocus-Pocus of the Universe. Each of the poems in that book had been short, simple, and utterly devastating. He’d spent many a late night under his covers with a flashlight, extrapolating endless meaning from 10 line poems. The Two-Headed Calf is a personal favorite. Something about how unearned tragedy is gently juxtaposed with naive wonder at simply living grabbed young Jon’s mind and has refused to let go. Objectively, he knows his connection to this particular poem likely has something to do with the sudden loss of his parents and the themes of hope and humanity in the face of grief that Gilpin’s work tends to address. That doesn’t stop him from tracing the words in Martin’s bio with an aching sort of fondness, though.

     It’s probably unwise to connect a stranger and an emotionally charged poem from his childhood in his mind, but Jon can’t help it. He’s been… lonely since Georgie. Not that he’d ever admit that to Tim or Sasha. No, they’d be far too smug and far, far too concerned. And besides, it’s not as if he’s a child. It’s not as if he needs constant attention or affection. It’s quite the opposite in fact; Jon has always been a wildly independent individual. It’s just… Perhaps Georgie changed that part of him. Eroded the barriers he’s had up since his mother’s passing just enough for this– this feeling to seep in. He’d forgotten what it feels like to need someone. He hates the feeling and yet can’t help but curl into it like a lost child.

     This is completely unadvisable. He is attaching– complicated emotions to a complete stranger because they happen to like a poem he read as a child. A swell of derisiveness rises in Jon’s chest and he firmly clicks his phone off. Tim and Sasha are a ridiculous pair who are always planning some stunt or another to get Jon ‘back out there’. It was absurd when Sasha had sent him to her cousin's flower shop with directions to ‘ask her what she thinks the most romantic flower in the world is’ and it’s absurd now. Utterly absurd and a definitive waste of his time. He should really just delete the app off of his phone and be done with the entire affair.

     He turns on a documentary to drown out the twisting of his thoughts and sips at his lukewarm tea, grimacing at the taste. He really should stop trying to make tea for himself, it’s always a disappointment compared to what he’s used to at work. Speaking of… Jon reaches for his work bag and pulls out a few documents he’s been meaning to look into, settling them on the coffee table while the documentarian’s voice drones on smoothly in the background. He conveniently forgets to delete the app.

–

     It’s been three days. Martin checks his phone no less than 10 times an hour. He catches himself staring at Jon’s open office door so often that he surreptitiously angles his chair so he’s not facing it anymore. His back hurts from twisting around.

     Why did he think swiping right on his boss was a good idea?? Is he mad? It doesn’t matter if Jon Super Liked him first, it was probably a prank or a mistake or- or a really weird way to keep tabs on him. Jon has always been super intense like that. Because it’s not as if Jon’s actually interested in him. He hasn’t shown a single sign that he finds Martin any more intriguing than Tim or Sasha. He treats the three of them exactly the same – like friends.

     It’s maddening.

     When Martin had first returned to the office after swiping right, he’d barely been able to contain himself. He’d been giddy and sick with nerves and excitement at seeing Jon because surely he knows. Surely he knows now that Martin has been harboring a vicious crush for years and is finally acting on it. Or even if he doesn’t know all that, at least he knows Martin’s interested, that he’s an option as a romantic partner. It’s nauseating and elating and Martin couldn’t breathe when their eyes had first met that morning.

     And then Jon had blithely handed him a statement to file and turned away without so much as a greeting. The adrenaline crash had nearly made his knees give out.

     What was he thinking? It’s been three days of that now. Three days of delusional, hopeful anticipation followed by soul-crushing disappointment. It’s been exhausting and demoralizing and Martin really isn’t sure how much more he can take. He considered asking Tim for help but he thinks better of it when he remembers how Tim had teased when Martin had told him about his crush. No, it’s much better to deal with this on his own.

     Tucking his phone under his desk, Martin opens up his notes app. A dozen half-formed opening lines shine back up at him. They range from completely corny to overly formal, battling between what Martin would normally open with and what he thinks Jon would like to see. He does avoid mentioning work or that they know each other in all of the messages, though. It seems best to follow Jon’s lead in that regard. A few of the ones he’s written directly mention the few things Jon had put in his bio, like the fact that he has a cat. Actually, that one may be a front runner…

     “Watcha lookin’ at, Marto?” A voice booms from behind him and Martin jumps a half foot in the air.

     “Christ, Tim!” Martin spins in his chair to face him, one hand plastered against his chest and the other clicking off his phone. “Warn a guy, would you? You nearly gave me a heart attack!” Tim chuckles and Sasha makes an amused snort from her desk. Martin sends her a betrayed look.

     “He called your name, like, three times dude,” Sasha laughs at him.

     “Yeah, I was worried you might be ignoring me there for a moment. What could I have done to deserve such treatment?” Tim clutches a dramatic hand over his heart and Martin can’t help but huff a laugh. He presses his phone face down on his leg.

     “I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just absorbed in something. What do you need?”

     “Well, you know the Rodriguez statement?”

     It’s not until three hours and six dusty files later that Martin finally gets back to his phone. It takes another 45 minutes and a lot more hemming and hawing, but eventually he settles on an opening line.

     ‘Hi Jon! I’m looking for a cat-dad.’ Then, after a few more minutes of debating, he adds on ‘You seem perfect for the job!’ …Then a winking kaomoji. And a heart.

     Subtlety’s for cowards, anyway.

[start here] --- [previous part]

ANON, KEEP FIC DUMPING ME PLEASE It makes me so sooo happy I don't even have the words to describe it! And receiving it makes me want to get back to drawing and I'm really happy it makes your brain go a bit feral ksjhfkshfk

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR WRITING Your writing style is absolutely *chef's kiss*

UPDATE: You can read the whole story by JJanuaryRain on AO3! Go give them lots of love -> "all's fair in love & tinder"

[annoyinglandmagazine]

Caranthir the financial advisor from hell

The guards of Nargothrond glanced from side to side as if to ask each other ‘Is this allowed?’ They’d had three Feanorians staying with them for a while now but they were still unclear on the protocol for dealing with one of them just turning up at the gates. Nonetheless, they parted to let him through with little protest once their commanding officers gave them the go ahead.

He did not respond to their hesitance, to their great relief, none wished to be on the receiving end of that glare of his. He strode forward with a simple nod of acknowledgment to their general, his boots clicking evenly on the marble floor and somehow managing to echo through the corridor despite the background noise of a bustling city. Did all their nobility have some kind of powers when it came to being excessively dramatic? They’d thought their king was overly theatrical but the Feanorians all seemed to be as well, albeit in different ways.

He made his way straight through the corridors to the ongoing council meeting. This was concerning for numerous reasons, not the least of which being that everyone was fairly sure he had never been to Nargothrond before, so how could he possibly know their floor plan, let alone their schedule? Nevertheless, he flung open the doors and stood in the doorway, his glare at his cousin perhaps not as intense as his father’s but enough to terrify most into submission.

‘Moryo!’ Celegorm began to grin, the sight not even remotely reassuring to anyone. The two other sons of Feanor seemed way too at ease, but then who could ever claim to understand what was going on with that lot? Caranthir shot a far harsher yet somehow fond glare towards his brothers, ‘Tyelkormo. Atarinkë,’ he replied with little enthusiasm. ‘It’s been years, would it kill you to write, brother!’ Celegorm teased jovially. ‘I wasn’t aware you could read. Brother.’

A little snort broke the tense silence and the only grandson of Feanor beamed at his uncle through his amusement, ‘It’s good to see you uncle.’ Caranthir shot his nephew a quick smile and softened his tone, ‘A pleasure as always Tyelpe darling.’ He now brought his focus back to Finrod who was apprehensive as if he knew what was coming, the same as the Feanorians who were all giving each other conspiratorial glances. ‘Ingoldo. Findarato. My dear cousin.’

‘I have recently received your yen’s expenses report.’ ‘Holy shit,’ murmured Celegorm under his breath though still very much audibly, the grin on his face growing to troubling levels. ‘You have truly outdone yourself. Really.’ Finrod was turning gradually paler. ‘Why do you have access to documents from Nargothrond’s treasury?’

‘Because all our relatives have been delegating financial matters to me since I was forty. You didn’t think Fingon could actually draft a budget for his army himself did you? And Nelyo can’t barely do long division. They may say that something is for the king’s eyes only but what they really mean is it’s for Fingon to send my brother in between some graphic sketches and love letters and then for Nelyo to send to me once he’s exhausted his energy for calculations.’

‘And I have to wonder if you have a single person in your council capable of basic budgeting skills or if you simply regularly ignore expenditure plans to support your jewellery problem. I’m guessing the latter. So I have taken the liberty of drafting a comprehensive plan for all your financial dealings for the next yen and I expect you to follow it.’ He slammed a heavy tome onto the table, ‘I’m trusting Curufin to make sure you don’t deviate too far.’

‘Caranthir, it’s hardly like you’re living in some austere shack yourself!’ Caranthir shot a cold glare back, ‘Unlike you I manage my money. I am giving you the chance to do the same and I advise you take it.’ He stalked over to his family and accepted a kiss on the forehead from Celegorm before placing one on Curufin and Celebrimbor’s. ‘Three Cs for life!’ Celegorm called after him, still way too pleased to see his cousin get scolded. ‘That’s never going to catch on!’ Came the synchronised yells of Curufin and Caranthir.

[dearsakuaka]

"what's mine is yours" and the consequences that come with it

pairing: sakusa kiyoomi/akaashi keiji word count: 750 kiyoomi buys two of the same sweater because keiji keeps "borrowing" his but somehow both sweaters end up with keiji and now kiyoomi has to explain to his mom why he needs extra allowance for the month

"...but it's been barely two weeks..." comes the skeptical voice of his mother through the speaker. her face, taking up a fourth of the screen, frowns in concern.

it's the sakusa family's scheduled bi-monthly call. usually, kiyoomi would look forward to this—to check up on his brother's toddler, listen to his sister's stories from the country she's in, know how dad is doing and whatever new hobby his mother picked up now that the kids are out of the house—especially after he moved out for uni (not that he would admit it, of course).

now, though, is an exception.

having his mother and siblings just stare at him as he struggles to explain why he's short on money for the month is, he thinks, far harder than receiving ushijima's serve.

"i seem to have overspent it on... clothes..." kiyoomi trails off lamely

at this, his sister perks up from her part of the screen.

"is this the sweater you showed me the other day?"

kiyoomi hums in affirmation. in response, his sister raises a questioning brow.

"what happened to it? i'm pretty sure that wasn't too expensive, no?"

at this, kiyoomi pauses, nibbles on his lip as he decides how best to phrase it.

it's not like he can outright say he bought two of the same sweater on a whim and the boy he's been pining over just "borrowed" both of them without signs of planning to return it anytime soon.

1) it's not kiyoomi's smartest financial decision and;

2) kiyoomi cannot handle the teasing that would come if he ever mentions keiji to them (especially not after rambling to his sister about his crush while he was drunk off his ass).

and so, he settles for:

"i was robbed on the way home." he deadpans.

he mentally kicks himself for it. nice going, kiyoomi. you fucking loser. totally believable.

from the way the light dies inside his sister's eyes and the overall skeptic silence that comes, kiyoomi knows they're not buying it. the silence stretches that even kiyoomi himself feels the need to shift around and settles for fiddling with the ring on his pointer finger.

kiyoomi's too lost in his thoughts that the sound of the door to his apartment opening and closing makes him jump out of his skin.

"kiyoomi! i got what we needed for hotpot." keiji's voice rings from the foyer. "i didn't get the soup base you wanted so, i just picked out my favorites. i hope that's fine—oh! but i did get the lamb cut you were craving, the pork belly, and i ended up picking up clams too because motoya-kun was raving about it yesterday."

keiji's rambling comes and goes as he flutters about in the apartment.

he doesn't pause for breath which meant he wasn't exactly waiting for kiyoomi to respond; seemingly aware of kiyoomi's tendency to just listen to him after being friends for so many months.

kiyoomi unwittingly smiles as keiji keeps talking.

keiji walks behind him to transport the bags of groceries and it's only on his third trip back that kiyoomi realizes five things:

1) keiji is wearing one of kiyoomi's new sweaters.

2) another sweater is tucked in the corner of keiji's elbow.

3) kiyoomi is still on the phone with his family.

4) keiji doesn't know he's in call with his family.

5) kiyoomi does not tell keiji he's in a call with his family soon enough.

so, really, he can't blame keiji for the casual way he stops behind kiyoomi, a sweater on his person and an identical one in his hand.

"i forgot i had both with me so, i had to stop by my... apart... ment... " keiji trails off when he sees the phone propped on the table, kiyoomi's ears flushed red, and the phone call still ongoing on the screen.

"oh my goodness! i'm so sorry to intrude!" keiji yelps and scrambles to the kitchen, babbling about washing the vegetables and cutting the meat.

when keiji is out of the room, kiyoomi braves a look at his phone. varying levels of amusement—that only his brother seems to try to hide—greet him. the dread settles heavily in his chest.

of course, it's his sister that pipes up first, smile predatory and sharp.

"so, you were robbed, huh?"

(needless to say, kiyoomi does get sent extra that month but with the promise of filling his mom in about this keiji person his siblings keep teasing him about on their next scheduled call.)

[tododeku-or-bust]

you deserve to be treated well and treasured!!! would def be interested to hear about the bf situation. do what's right for you!

I appreciate that, and I agree!

Ice's vent about her partner troubles and life journeys and growth under the cut. Feel free to be nosy:

So... I've talked about this before on here, but I've been working very hard on myself, and that includes my communication and my grace. I am far from the hair trigger, explosive tempered person I was 8 (well, therapy was 6) years ago, and that was not just "time". That was effort. It was knowing that I didn't like how I felt, and how draining it was. Like yeah, I burn at a constant irritation to this day (tis the PTSD), but just bc I feel that way doesn't mean I can't control the words that come out of my mouth or the actions that I take. I try very hard to implement this grace in my life.

That being said, just because I choose grace, does NOT mean I'm a pushover. I know how to stand on business for myself.

That being said, I do feel like it's come to a point with my partner where... I don't think I'm the issue. Well, I don't think there's anything I can do to stop being his issue. My partner is a good man, but... I don't think he's a strong man, not necessarily in the way I need him to be. What I need in my life is somebody that allows me to relax, that allows me to express without feeling like I have to always prove something. To carry some weight so I don't always have to.

We have this thing, where he'll do something that upsets me, right? And I'll express, tone annoyed sure, but still direct communication, that it bothered me. And then suddenly the conversation will go from that, to how 'he can't talk to me bc sometimes I'll get mad and sometimes i don't', bc 'I don't listen or acknowledge his feelings and that's how he feels'. Now I admit, this long in, I sure don't take his retorts seriously like he'd like, and that's bc I don't appreciate how it always manages to go from "the thing that happened that caused this" to "I don't like how you responded". Like... Bruh. YOU caused this, but somehow I'M the one on the stand?

For example. Last night I was worried his water bottle lid wasn't on tight and it'd spill on him. So I pointed it out to him, urgently. He stares at me, continues drinking, and puts it on the table silently. ...okay. so I say it again, this time annoyed. Bc no tf you didn't just look me in my face and ignore me. He says "that's how it always looks" I'm like "does it" and he pushes the cap down. Okay, so it wasn't broken. So I tell him I don't appreciate that you ignored me when I was expressing concern for you. I coulda just let the bitch spill (I didn't say that part like that but I thought it).

Then it becomes "well I was drinking so I couldn't reply", and "you wouldn't believe me anyway bc sometimes you dont", and "that's why sometimes I do speak and sometimes I don't because you get mad". Bruh. Why wouldn't I be upset if you ignored me straight to my face? Ntm, you do this every time I bring something up, and notice how I STILL approach you and directly communicate my feelings! Like I just don't get it.

A bitch couldn't even enjoy the last of her Soju buzz, when he pulled this shit.

So I finally had to tell him, maybe we should stop bc I'm tired of being treated like a threat or a burden. ESPECIALLY when I carry most of the weight financially and emotionally in this house! Yeah it is wild to me that I work, cook or buy the meals, buy most of the necessities and 2/3rds of the bills... And you think you're being victimized when I tell you your communication skills are not good at your big age. Like it doesn't matter, but it's insult to injury to me rn. And mind you, I've never complained. I don't mind that he's struggling to find work bc ik it's not his fault, I've even offered to help him go back to school. But now you got me in here experiencing the very struggle love I hate most in the world?

Bc I can go. I got my first car, and I realized for the first time in my life... I can go where I want. I can buy my own shit, carry it... Literally I have no use for anyone else lmao. So now it's down to WANTING this man in my life... And you choose to stress me out?? And again, he's not a bad man. Genuinely, one of the best Black men when it comes to political opinions and allyship and such. I feel safer with him than any other man in my life. But still, that whole "men need to be explicitly told everything" shit Black people love teaching their daughters bro come ON you're a grown ass man, and your actions have consequences. This is ridiculous. Like I'm not doing this the rest of my life, he either need to grow some critical thinking skills or I'm good. He's the only guy I've ever wanted to marry, but I'm not doing this shit the rest of my life lmao if I gotta be stressed I might as well be single.

[nelyoslegalteam]

hello i'm here again! i saw your tags on the get to know your characters post and i'd love to hear you talk about murdoc!! (also gondolin campaign 😮 tell me more :DDD )

HIHIHIHIHI IM SO HAPPY YOU'RE IN MY INBOX THANK YOU FOR LOVING MY BOY YOU ARE A GIFT OF A PERSON ;w; i assume you don't mind if i answer these for murdoc then :0

What is the character’s go-to drink order? here's the thing: i think if murdoc is ordering, it's ale. just ale. murdoc is an alcohol snob, largely on account of being a hobbit AND specifically on account of his aunt being a brewer (and so therefore clearly HIS family's ale is the best), so it's an opportunity for him to be just a little bit showily snobbish and judgy and more knowledgeable about his choice of drink than the average patron, but it's not quite so personal to him as, say, tea would be. (murdoc never orders tea. from anywhere. he only drinks his own, or radagast's, or that of a few other trusted friends. tea is his craft. it's personal to him. he picks and dries and blends the herbs for his own brews. it's personal long before he even gets to brewing a cup, and there's meaning in just that act in and of itself already.) so, murdoc gets to be an alcohol snob in public, but it's a matter of showing off for fun. he'll scoff at ale from anywhere but his own inn, but he'll still order it and drink it. and enjoy it more than he puts on a show about.

What is their grooming routine? murdoc likes a long bath. murdoc likes to put a lot of effort into wrangling his hair in particular, when he has the time and effort in him for it. alone, at the inn, where he can rest and take breaks and manage things, shaving the back of his neck is very important to him (sensory comfort, and tied in a way to his sense of self). he doesn't like scents or anything of the sort, he just wants to feel... clean. put-together. both in the privacy and comfort of their respective homes, and while out on the road, letting ríros braid his hair for him becomes a very important part of murdoc's grooming routine. on a good day, it's a visible tie to someone he cares deeply for. on a bad day, it's accepting help with his sensory needs and energy levels, and allowing himself to be taken care of by someone he trusts.

What was their most expensive purchase/where does their disposable income go? oh, murdoc's cloak was ABSOLUTELY the most expensive singular thing he's ever purchased. it may not be real dragon scale, sure but. it's a fine fabric, and the faux scales are well crafted and gorgeous. it's luxurious and sturdy and him in every way. an item with presence. which, to the point, i do think murdoc is generally the sort of person who spends his disposable income on fine things to wear. having fun with and taking pride in his appearance is important to him, and he's financially comfortable enough for that bit of luxury.

Do they have any scars or tattoos? aside from the missing hand (extremely notable), and whatever assorted and unspecified scars he's picked up from adventuring? (which. he has. he's come close to dying before. he's got a few marks.) murdoc has a scar across his nose from some absolutely stupid shit he got up to as an utter hellion of a child. i think he probably fell and bashed his face open running to escape getting caught pulling a prank on farmer maggot or something like that. nothing angsty about it, just complete and utter childhood stupidity and rambunctiousness. something visible left on him from a time before he was overly concerned with responsibility, or duty of care, and entertaining his drive for adventure in much less consequential ways. (he’s also very freckled. i think it’s very adorable how much he freckles.)

What was the last time they cried, and under what circumstances? the last time i know for certain that murdoc cried, was after facing irmo. maybe not immediately. maybe much later, on the road home, having spilled the story to his companions and having thoroughly exhausted himself from hanging onto it all. but i'm sure he did cry. from anger at what was done to him, to his dreams, by a power larger than him, without any say of his own in it all. from all his internalization of himself as a weapon finally breaking over, from hearing that perception of himself lovingly rebuffed by the people who care about him. from fully and completely admitting that he's afraid of the person he's made himself in the face of the horrors, but that he would've hated the person he would have been for ignoring them. from exhaustion. from having to question his sense of self yet again. from a lot of things, really. you don't get personally chosen by a god and come away from it quite the same.

Are they an oldest, middle, youngest or only child? oh murdoc is an eldest sibling and it shows. maybe not by actual sibling birth order, but he was adopted by his uncles and aunt as a baby and very much raised as their eldest child. he's got two rascals of younger cousins, raised alongside him, to look out for. they're practically younger siblings from an actual family dynamics standpoint. and besides, he's got all the Eldest Child of being the brandybuck family heir apparent put on him. where else would the responsibility complex and the duty of care complex and the possessiveness over what's his and, most importantly, go-to instinct of sassing the literal servants of sauron have come from? This Man Is An Eldest Child And He Can Do This All Day <3

Describe the shoes they’re wearing. none. Those Feet Are Bare. and hairy. he DOES meticulously wash and brush his foot hair though. but listen. he's a hobbit. he's not FROM a culture that does shoes, and the one (1) time in his life ever that he had to wear them, his only takeaway from the experience is that they are a sensory nightmare that he will not be subjecting himself to under ANY circumstances.

Describe the place where they sleep. ooohhhh i think both at home in the inn and also to the greatest extent on the road possible, murdoc does cozy. i think his (+ his partner's) room at the inn is covered in like. throw pillows. nice big comfy sleeping pillows. lots of soft blankets. it's all very warm and inviting and kinda maximalist in a plush sort of way. i do think he cares about aesthetics and all his pillows and blankets look nice together, but everything is selected with comfort in mind. it's homey. it's warm. he's a hobbit. it's probably not particularly neat, but it's sort of charming in the way where it looks like a space that's meant to be curled up in. he probably accidentally leaves a few stray tea mugs about and this is his worst living space habit, but it adds to the charm as long as he remembers to actually keep up on putting them away (which. he does. he's just on top of it enough to make sure he has clean mugs to actually use for tea, but this may be the only reason he remembers). i think even on the road he'll bring as many blankets as is reasonable to carry and do his utmost not only to make his sleeping space, but the whole camp's, as cozy and welcoming as possible with whatever he has.

What is their favorite holiday? ohh see i don't know if i do know enough about specific hobbitish holidays offhand for this, but in general i do think murdoc is a holidays kind of person. anything sort of extrovert-oriented, where he can feast and dance and get drunk and just be around people, is very much his sort of thing. when he was growing up in the shire, any occasion where gandalf showed up with fireworks was an immediate favorite. for least favorite... i don't know how he feels about new year's (yule, in the hobbitish calendar). i don't think he hates it but. i think he's someone who lives with a bit of a sense of loss over who he was, or might have been, before his dreams and irmo and everything, and i think nostalgia-oriented celebrations grate just slightly up against that.

What objects do they always carry around with them? tea. lots of it. kept in his pockets. (he smells like it. it’s nice.) usually a particular brew (the flavor profile of which i imagine to be something like london fog) that he made for himself, which is very personal to him. a locket with his partner's portrait in it. an ornately carved matchbox, always full of matches, ready to light an arrow or for whatever else he may use his fire for. additionally, on the road: a jar in which he cultivates a toxic fungus, used for coating his weapons in tough battles. a set of his favorite cooking knives. a flask or two of his family’s ale, primarily used in his cooking, as ornate and pretty as all else he owns. (i will also give him that he most always is wearing jewelry, particularly his ruby necklace and earring set. the necklace in particular is important - usually maedhros resides in ríros’ sword, but the necklace is an ideal secondary vessel on the occasions that maedhros does have to remain where murdoc is, and murdoc has selected these pieces in maedhros’ colors for a reason).

as this has gotten LONG i will not try to do them for my new beloved tyelperëkko antar JUST yet. BUT @jaz-the-bard is planning to run a campaign set in gondolin in the first age and i am VERY excited for the character i have made. i’ve given them the oathsworn background. they’re going to be a loyal follower of maeglin, once he exists, but for NOW they’re a devotee of turgon. this is going to go great for them and cause no problems at all (lying).

[ciaossu-imagines]

So, for day 17 of the event, I used Pragma #5 from prompt 1 for Tou Handa from The Vampire Dies in No Time! It’s a new fandom that I’m writing for here on the blog and I hope any fans of the series will enjoy 😊

What importance or value does the character attach to marriage?

I think Handa does definitely plan on getting married in his future. It’s not something he wants to do right away; even dating isn’t high on his current priority list, where his career, his mother, and taking down Ronaldo are his primary goals and priorities. Once he does start to date though, I do think he’d be someone who only has occasional hook-ups, but largely dates with the end goal of it all being marriage. However, I don’t think that the importance he places on marriages is something that is a personal and deeply felt conviction of his own, but rather something he wants to do to please his mother, who has hinted that she looks forward to having a child-in-law and future grandchildren.

Do they believe that it is important to make a public statement of commitment to another person (or persons)?

Because the person Tou marries will gain not only the Handa name but become someone important for not just him, but for his darling mother, he views the act of marrying them into his family to be a huge public statement. He’s very finicky about who he lets close to him, and that’s just in terms of friendship. He’s even more cautious, almost paranoid, of who he introduces to his family, so for him to be making someone a part of that family and to allow someone so intimately and completely into his life, to him it will signify his high level of trust and respect for that person. In Handa’s mind, marrying someone is tantamount to saying ‘yes, this person is the worthiest person I could ever find; this is a truly good person who makes my life better, almost lives up to the glory that is my mother, and is someone worthy of my love and respect and who is going to help me carry on the Handa name.’

Or are they more concerned about inheritance rights and security for their family?

I do not think inheritances or money really factor into Handa’s considerations for marriage. Not only are we living in modern times, where such things aren’t as big a deal, but Handa will have his own life financially very secure before he considers marriage, and I don’t see him marrying someone who is terrible at handling their own finances. He can be judgmental about a lot of things and financial literacy is one of them. He might splurge himself here and there, but he knows how to manage his money, budget, and manage to save every month. Someone who just throws their money around willy-nilly, who is broke at the end of every paycheck because of splurges or gambling or anything like that…Handa would never be able to get serious with someone like that. He will choose someone with the same values and opinions towards money as he has, and both their family and his family will be able to be supported without it needing to be a major contribution to thoughts of marriage. However, as mentioned above, Handa really only does consider marriage to be important to continue on his family and their lineage. His mother’s desire to see him married someday and to have children is a huge driving factor in why he would even want to get married, so the security of his family in that way is a major factor in his thoughts about marriage.

Or do they not see marriage as a necessary signifier of commitment and loyalty?

Handa does have a strong moral compass and his own code of honor. To him, marriage is most definitely a signal of commitment and loyalty to one another. He believes fully and means every marriage vow he takes, and he would never consider being disloyal to his family, which his new spouse is now a part of. He would rather die first. Cheating, talking badly about them behind their back, disrespecting them in any way? It’s just not something Handa could bring himself to do.

[witheredoffherwitch]

Yeah I agree with the last anon. I definitely don’t think all stories should be catered to us but it is kind of laughable to see the amount of unfiltered misogynistic discourse directed towards her and people consuming these stories always rooting for her to die so that him and the wattpad-esque OC can end up together. It’s definitely a trend and as the anon said, very much eye-roll worthy and unoriginal. It’s fine if people want to practice their writing skills ofc but a huge part of being a writer is being able to accept criticism and feedback related to the sort of the themes and tropes we use in stories. I think this is oftentimes conflated with “hate” and that’s just not the case. The “evil witch” trope has been around since fairytales existed and I get why people find it lazy because it inherently is.

Hi nonnie, hope you're doing well.

I do not condone this point of view. Every fanfic writer is allowed to create and narrate their own rendition of these stories however they wish. I believe shaming or even 'taunting' these authors is the worst course of action here. In fact, constantly questioning these genres/tropes can sometimes bring them into the spotlight - Lucemond and Jonsa are two great examples! I personally read stories filtered under both of these tags and have met with a great deal of pushback from other shippers for liking or even promoting these stories on my page. Fanfic writers put in a great deal of time and energy into writing these stories for free, without seeking any financial gain from their readership. Therefore, there is no significant loss for a reader who may dislike a story. While art is certainly open to criticism and interpretation, it's different from critiquing a more financially incentivized book or film aimed at a wider audience.

Secondly, I understand why you feel so exasperated - it is disheartening to witness the frequent rejection of Alys' character. I'm more sympathetic to those who view her as a victim in this dynamic - something of a 'war trophy' for Aemond. What really irritates me is how some downplay Aemond's power in the relationship, making him out to be a victim. If Ewan's portrayal hadn't gotten so much traction, I don't think many people would have even noticed Alys' role in his storyline - or perhaps they'd be applauding her for 'bewitching' him and ultimately sending him to his death.

That being said, I don't think fanfictions are the main issue here. Do people make Alys into an evil temptress and diminish her role as the other woman? Yes! However, we have yet to see her appear onscreen and we're still unaware of what direction the show will go in. With recent rumors that Nettles and Daeron may not make an appearance (which I'm desperately hoping isn't true), many Alysmond shippers are now concerned that Alys will be given the original arc between Nettles/Daemon before Aemond enters the picture. If this is the case, how fucking disappointing! As an Alysmond shipper, these fanfictions are the least of my worries. Other fanfic writers will keep crafting content for these two in the future - I'm positive of that.

I still believe (hope?) that Alys' character will gain popularity when she's introduced in the show but until then, it's best to maintain a healthy dose of caution when discussing them.

That's all 🤗

[cagedchoices]

RELATIONSHIP META - DOLORES & CALEB (PART II)

[PART I HERE]

In The Mother of Exiles, we catch up with Dolores and Caleb, cementing their bond as revolution bros by doing what bros do best... Going shopping together! They need to look flashy enough that they don't seem out of place while infiltrating the 1%, but also not draw too much attention at the same time. Caleb doesn't wear many suìts in his line of work, so he feels a little hopelessly lost when trying to pick a convincing outfit. Luckily, Dolores is good at this sort of thing, so she helps him out.

DOLORES: Did you choose something? CALEB: (Groans) I don't know where to start. It's not really my style. It's not really my social set, either. DOLORES: It's tribal. They use plumage to identify themselves...which makes them easily fooled. CALEB: So who is it? That we're going after? DOLORES: The person who took your future. But first, we have to take his...and to do that, you have to pretend to be one of them.

I always saw Dolores's use of "They" in this context as being about "The Rich." As in she doesn't associate Caleb with the rest of them because he possesses more humanity than most of them, but also because he's a working class guy who would, under normal circumstances, never have any business interacting with anyone in this particular tax bracket.

Dolores and Caleb leave the store and Caleb expresses some concern that the guy whose money they stole to buy the suit will find out about it, with Dolores assuring him that they won't get caught. Even if they were to get caught, the guy they stole from won't even realize his money is missing until it's too late to do anything about it.

Uh...You know I think this is just- this is two friends running totally normal rich people errands here. What's a little light murder among friends? Doesn't really look like anything to me.

Okay jokes aside, though... Dolores kills this man, a financial manager by the name of Michael Tritter, who manages Liam Dempsey as a client. She takes a syringe and fills it with his blood, which contains an encryption key in the form of a unique blood marker, and then injects it into Caleb.

They travel to The RGGR Centennial, a bank designed specifically for the financial elite in the world. The job here is to transfer all of Liam's money out of his account and covertly into Dolores's possession. To do that, Caleb impersonates Tritter using the blood marker, and Dolores uses Liam's personal hash key, which she acquired earlier with the help of Connells-Dolores.

CALEB: I thought we were going to a bank? DOLORES: This is a bank. For a certain social set. Blood marker should be good for another fifteen minutes or so, but try to stay calm. The faster your heart beats, the faster the marker degrades. CALEB: What happens if it degrades too fast? DOLORES: We do this the old-fashioned way. CALEB: The old-fashioned way? DOLORES: I kill everyone.

Fortunately, things at the bank go fairly smoothly and nobody has to die, although for a minute it feels like a very real possibility.

Caleb is nervous and it makes his hands sweaty to the point that the blood scanner can't get a clear reading on his ID. Seeing Dolores start to reach for the gun she has concealed in her handbag probably doesn't help with his nerves much either, but she hands him a cloth and after he wipes down his hands, the scanner is able to get a clear ID on the blood marker and the money transfer is successfully taken care of.

The next part of the plan is to intercept Liam at a masquerade event, where sex workers and models auction off their various services to wealthy patrons. The proceeds from the auction sales are donated to charitable organizations.

One of Liam's friends passes him a vial of an experimental drug known as Genre, a virtual movie marathon that is meant to be marketed as "The Poor Man's W/estworld" and allows its user to experience reality as seen through the lens of popular movie genres. Liam pockets the drug for later, and attempts to enter the auction so he can bid on a girl, but he discovers he has no money, not knowing Dolores has it all.

Dolores and Caleb move in to catch Liam, but her old friends Bernard and Stubbs reach him first, thinking Dolores has already killed and replaced Liam with a host copy, or is planning to, to gain control of Rehoboam. They escape from the auction hall. Dolores passes Caleb her gun and sends him ahead in pursuit of Liam, while she stays behind to fight and subdue Stubbs.

DOLORES: Stay on Liam. I'll handle this one. CALEB: You sure? DOLORES: Take it. I won't need it.

As has been pointed out by the lovely @copiesofme [in this post], Dolores's fight with Stubbs is never intended to kill him, nor is it fought on bad terms between either of them. It's only fought out of necessity and Dolores does everything she can to fight fair and not hurt Stubbs too badly.

I will also point out, Dolores giving Caleb the gun in this situation speaks to just how much trust she has in him! As Connells-Dolores will tell Bernard just a little bit later in either this episode or in the next, he's the only host they can't replace. Meaning that if Caleb had felt threatened or at all like he had to shoot Bernard, then Dolores's grand plan would've probably been fucked. But Dolores knows this, and she can trust that Caleb won't bring Bernard to harm.

Their friendship remains pretty unchanged from the end of Mother of Exiles to Genre. Partly because there's not really anywhere else to go for now, Caleb has already committed himself to helping Dolores. He has seen her kill and as concerned as he was about "what the fuck are you doing??" it didn't discourage him from wanting to keep helping her.

Toward the beginning of Genre, Caleb gets drugged by Liam with the dose of Genre he was given previously, which also sort of stunts how much growth Caleb can achieve at this point. If he's not making woozy faces or shooting worried glances at Dolores, he's busy trying to help her keep Liam alive.

Caleb does have A moment (or two) where everything becomes rose-tinted, time slows down, a romantic piano melody plays in the background, and he finds himself staring, eyes wide and glassy, mouth agape - at Dolores while she fires a gun at Serac's men. It's all very silly and lovey-dovey at a first glance.

I think this does reflect, as do ALL of the Genre phases he experiences, what Caleb is feeling in his subconscious (he goes from the pensive mystery of film noir, to a cheesy action hero in the thrill of battle, to romance, to drama, with a brief interlude of reality before finally arriving at the finale of horror). But I'll also say that from start to finish of the romance sequence, he never speaks a word. He just looks. To me, that's the most honest telling of his internal feelings being externalized. He doesn't act on or expect any romantic feelings to be reciprocated just because he might happen to feel them.

I don't ship Caleb and Dolores in the romantic context. I think all the potential was there for it. I don't know, maybe there will come a day where I change my mind on this, but after what happened with both William and Teddy respectively, I don't think Dolores would be okay with putting Caleb through anything similar to those experiences, and even more importantly I don't think Dolores would be okay with putting herself in that kind of situation again.

So I've kinda avoided talking about this for over 3 years because I genuinely didn't really know how to put it into simple words until now (also at some point early on someone had like. anon messaged me saying my caleb with my main dolores was their otp and i was like 'uhh you mean the relationship that isn't romantic in any way whatsoever on our part?' but. that was a long time ago i'm trying to get over it okay. It did put me off from wanting to talk about things for fucking ever tho).

Anyway, romance rant over I didn't mean to write an entire essay there oops. Caleb manages to snap himself out of the daydream and get back to fighting even though he's definitely not at the top of his game. By the end of the scene he starts to look over at Dolores again with the love theme reprising itself, only to be interrupted again, this time by Giggles popping up to tell everyone he knows exactly what drug Caleb is on. Ash sarcastically refers to him as Loverboy, and then everyone quickly moves on.

The group makes their way down to the LA Metro station and Dolores makes the final preparations before sending the entire world their Incite profiles, which will radicalize them against Rehoboam. Caleb has all kinds of conflicted feelings about seeing the real world as Dolores sends everyone their profiles detailing their various fates. It's chaos and anarchy which he's not the biggest fan of because innocent people can and will get hurt, but it's also people acting out and rebelling in the realest ways they can against an unjust system, and that part of it is very appealing in a world that had no free will before.

Dolores moves in front of Caleb, shielding him from taking these bullets and killing the enemies who seemed like they were after Caleb specifically? But they're not dressed like Serac's people so maybe they were just random criminals. Maybe the bounty that got put on him in episode 3 is still up? He did see some suspicious-looking guys when they first entered the Metro station and seemed pretty convinced they were bad news considering how quickly he alerted Dolores to them, so maybe these two enemies were working with those guys.

Whatever the real reason is, Caleb experiences the shocking revelation that Dolores is not a human, because she just tanked 5 bullets without a thought and didn't die. Dolores just. zips up her jacket to hide the wounds because we are not talking about that right now we have other matters to take care of. Caleb, still in disbelief, follows right ahead.

CALEB: Back there... The shooters... DOLORES: We can talk about it later. We need to get to the airfield. (Gesturing to Liam) We don't need him anymore. What do you want to do with him?

At the beach, beneath the same pier where Dolores first brought Caleb to show him the truth about his world, things take a turn. Liam begs the group to let him go and whines that they've taken everything he had. He claims that the system isn't the prison and that people don't have a choice in who they are by nature. Caleb tries to confront Liam directly, but experiences a PTSD flashback. Ash shoots Liam, angered by his remarks, and Caleb tries to stop Liam from bleeding out, reminded of how he watched Franci die.

There's nothing he can do for Liam here, so Liam dies.

After Dolores and Caleb arrive at the airfield, Caleb has some doubts as to whether or not they are doing the right thing. His hands are still stained with Liam's blood, representing a sense of guilt for what happened, as well as foreshadowing what he'll learn the next time we see him, in Passed Pawn.

CALEB: Maybe Liam was right. Maybe people shouldn't know their own fate. DOLORES: People have the right to know. You wanted to know, right? CALEB: Well, maybe I'm not like other people. DOLORES: Neither am I.

Dolores boards the jet and Caleb has a moment of hesitation, as if he's maybe thinking about leaving instead, before ultimately choosing to board the jet and continue on with following and helping Dolores.

[girl-mercury]

i finished watching queen charlotte before i start watching the next installment of bridgerton, and i am fascinated by the worldbuilding in it

so like, this show, about young queen charlotte marrying george III only to find that his incapacitating mental illness has been hidden from her, starts out with a disclaimer that no one should treat this like history. it should not be compared to history, it is framing a story with historical figures but telling things that never happened, so don't get worked up about it being inaccurate when it is 110% intended to not portray history accurately. this is an extremely necessary disclaimer, and based on all the critical response i've seen to the show, not read by anyone except me

bridgerton has been notable for having colorblind casting in a regency romance, and simply not making any kind of deal out of POC being a part of high society, which i appreciate: that's basically the last thing on the list of things i care about being inaccurate in historical fiction (the first might be corsets.) (and victorian views of sex in non-victorian eras.)

in queen charlotte, race actually is part of the story. but here we dive straight into the fact that regency romance (even though this particular story is from the 1760s) is a fantasy genre, not history; in this fantasy, the obstacles of gender and class are what matters more than anything. so in this fantasy version of eighteenth-century english nobility, nobles venture outside europe to look for people of suitably high breeding to marry; lady agatha danbury, for example, is a princess from sierra leone married to a (Black) english landowner. however, these people are not fully accepted by white society, because they are of lower class.

but there is something dubbed "the great experiment," which i don't know if it actually has a historical parallel or if it was made up wholecloth. charlotte, a german princess of moorish (Black) heritage, marries the king, and to provide her with a suitable court, many of this lower class of POC are given titles by the crown, and suddenly, they're being integrated into society, and also facing the regency-romance-typical threat of potentially losing those positions due to legal questions (of if the title is hereditary) or financial ruin.

there's no mention of slavery and no way in which slavery affects how POC are viewed: it is straight up class issues. pure alternate universe where the nobility marriage network heads straight into africa and asia

it reminds me a little of ek johnston's that inevitable victorian thing, in which there is the alternate history of queen victoria going "FUCK we gotta slow down the inbreeding, my million children will be getting spouses from as far abroad as possible to preserve the empire"

idk it's just really interesting to me! and not something i've seen anyone talk much about. shonda rimes made a fantasy world where POC get to have silly balls and fancy clothes and romance concerns without being obliged to carry historical trauma with it. white people have the privilege of getting history-flavored fantasy without reliving trauma all the time, but the opportunity to do that for anyone else is not as readily available. all regency romance whitewashes history, but usually only white people get to enjoy representation in the result. this universe allows for more, though.