#no middle ground no equal fights

[dumpy-dump]

for the first hour of matches ive only been against team wizard (obv, since they def got the popularity vote)

and so far these matches have gone only 1 of 2 ways:

either they absolutely stomp us, like we lose 20% to 60% or something

or it's the inverse and we wallop them so hard i feel bad about it afterwards (ive won 3 matches tonight at ≥70%)

fascinating

[itadorii]

women on tiktok are competing in the self-infantilization olympics and women on tumblr are competing in the maturity olympics. and both sides are frankly fucking insufferable like can yall please find balance

[girlkisser13]

being married to erik lehnsherr would include

• erik is EXTREMELY protective of you. he uses his powers subtly to ensure your safety, like redirecting bullets or stopping potential threats without you even noticing.

• when you’re driving he will use his powers to move a car over if he thinks that they’re drifting into your lane.

• as his partner, you have a significant role in his plans and strategies. your insights and ideas are crucial, and he trusts you implicitly with major decisions.

• balancing erik’s often ruthless methods with your own moral compass can be challenging. you constantly strive to find a middle ground, helping him see different perspectives while understanding his deep-rooted convictions.

• erik loves to shares his vast experiences from different historical events, giving you a unique perspective on history and the evolution of mutant-human relations.

• being with erik means constantly learning and evolving. he encourages you to hone your skills, whether they’re related to your powers (if you have any) or other talents.

• despite his tough exterior, erik shows his softer side only to you. his love for you is profound and unwavering, and he cherishes every moment spent with you.

• you both enjoy challenging each other intellectually. debates are a common occurrence, and they often end in mutual respect and deeper understanding of each other's viewpoints.

• erik shows his love in small, meaningful ways, like always having your favorite tea ready or ensuring you have a warm blanket when you’re cold, using his powers to fetch things without you asking.

• you both share a strong commitment to the mutant cause. whether it’s through activism, helping mutants in need, or fighting against oppression, your relationship is a powerful force for change.

• despite the constant battles and responsibilities, erik always makes time for private getaways with you. these retreats are a chance to relax, reconnect, and enjoy each other’s company away from the chaos.

• HIM LETTING YOU WEAR HIS HELMET>>>

• the two of you often host gatherings for the mutant community, providing a space for mutants to connect, share their stories, and support each other. these events are filled with a sense of unity and purpose.

• trust is the cornerstone of your relationship. despite the challenges and dangers, you both have unwavering loyalty to each other, knowing that your bond is unbreakable.

• erik respects your independence and ensures that responsibilities are shared equally. whether it’s managing your home or leading missions, you both contribute and support each other’s strengths.

• if you have children, erik is a fiercely protective and loving parent. he’s dedicated to teaching them about their heritage, powers, and the importance of fighting for their rights.

• GIRL DAD MAGNETO>>>

• i mean come on, it’s basically canon that this man is a girl dad. look at the way he treats wanda and lorna compared to pietro.

• he occasionally shows off his abilities in small, romantic gestures, like creating intricate metal sculptures for you and arranging a metal flower bouquet that never wilts.

• your house is adorned with thousands of metal flowers he's crafted for you.

• he's also made countless pieces of jewelry for you as well.

• he made your wedding ring himself. <33

[kaminando-kon-buenos]

I don’t like making my own posts, but after waking up to the news that there was a pogrom in the Netherlands, I would just like to say this:

I am a North African Jew. Many would call me an ���Arab Jew”, because I look like an Arab and I am treated like an Arab here in North America unless I’m wearing a kippah. My family was terrorized, murdered, and exiled from Libya in the 1960’s and we cannot return because they would kill us

White people may feel uncomfortable saying this, but I do not. Arab society has a problem with antisemitism that must be seen. Middle Eastern Jews have been talking about our experiences with Arab antisemitism for many decades and are constantly silenced. There is an undeniable, vitriolic, hatred of Jews that has been normalized in Arab society, and Arab extremists are now being emboldened to act on that hatred, not just in Arab countries but anywhere in the world

I don’t believe that Arabs are violent or dangerous by nature. They don’t hate Jews by default because they are Arab. This is not about individual Arab people, and individual Arab people should not be punished for problems in Arab countries or the antisemitic actions of other Arabs. This is about the antisemitism that is deeply ingrained in Arab society and culture

Individuals have the opportunity to choose whether or not they want to participate in this hatred. Yes, when you have grown up your whole life being told that Jews are your enemy and that it is good to fight them, it is much harder to make the choice to not act on this because it is all you know, but there are many who still choose peace with Jews. I have many Arab Muslim friends who have no problem being friends with a Jew. My family have many stories about Arab Muslim families trying to save Jews. I have had also many experiences with threats and intimidation and even assault by Arab Muslims because I was wearing a kippah or Magen David

My Arab friends who come to Shabbat dinner at my house and the Arab men who pushed me onto the ground and spat on me and called me a yahood are all equally Arab. The Arabs who call for peace and the Arabs who hunted down Jews in Amsterdam yesterday are all equally Arab. The difference is because my friends and the people calling for peace see Jews as human beings like them, whereas the people committing violence have allowed them to be swayed by Arab nationalist antisemitism

I always hold my tongue when I talk to white people about my experiences with Arab antisemitism or post about them because I know that many people will insist that you can’t criticize Arab extremists without being racist. YOU can’t criticize Arab extremists without being racist because you are a racist white person. I am a North African Jew with firsthand and familial experience with Arab antisemitism both in Libya and in the other places we have lived. I am tired of holding the burden of other people’s racism so I’m posting this without caring if it makes them mad. I’m not going to be responding to hateful responses. I will just block you, so don’t bother

[teaboot]

Do you think that cis men feel the same way as trans men do? Like with how men get treated by society as being inherently evil and as predators?

I think maybe both cis and trans men experience these issues but it's easier for a trans guy to point it out because he gets to see people so quickly turn on him for being a man while transitioning

oh yeah definitely

I find "meninists" fucking obnoxious, especially as any of their VALID concerns fall under the bracket of feminism, but there does exist a presence of radfems and terfs that are scarily eager to lash out at anything resembling masculine that. Definitely needs to be addressed somehow

Like. There's a mile of middle ground between "Um yeah women have problems, whatever, but what about ME and MY FEELINGS 😢" and "I am genuinely trying my best to be thoughtful and considerate of others, and everything I do is being met with bad-faith interpretations and dismissal"

And I think the best advice I have for anyone else getting bogged down by this is that. like.

If someone is determined to see the worst in you, nothing you can do to prove otherwise will be enough. You will never change that person's mind. They don't want you to change their mind. So like... just focus on you, and keep doing your best, and learn, and know that people determined to find something nasty don't really have an issue with YOU- they have their own experiences and traumas coloring their worldview.

Someone who is determined to see you as a monster will only ever see a monster. So it's better to ask yourself, "would a monster do what I'm doing?". If the answer is yes, take steps to change that. If the answer is no, then it's not about you, and you can give yourself permission to move on.

So... yeah, I imagine cis men probably do feel the way I feel about this sorta thing sometimes.

Except, like. After a lifetime being a girl, living as a girl, fighting for equality as the only girl in a lot of men's spaces, being a feminist girl and an Eldest Daughter girl and calling out the bullshit only to later realize I'm not a girl... and that Im actually mostly a dude, still a feminist... at least when people call me a mysoginist, I know they're talking out their ass

I can kinda see where young men encounter their very first radfems calling themselves feminists and immediately become radicalized right-wing conservatives cause like. If I as a teen thought feminism meant Radfems and Terfs, I'd probably start running too

It's all just so exhausting

Any one group being wholesale grouped as "100% helpless gentle victim" or "100% selfish malevolent monster" is doomed, imo

(Now watch the notes blow up with "this is just 'not all men' rhetoric, lol)

But anyways I hate nuance I hate interpretation I hate implication and symbolism and context and I wish everything in the world was simpler so we could all blow a collective joint together and invent some new soups

[spatialwave]

false alarm!

➸ ask: “I will actually go insane if you do “kitchen counter makeouts” with Viktor (established relationship) pls” — ➸ pairing: viktor x fem!reader ➸ word count: 755 ➸ tags: mdni! semi-nsfw, no smut, kissing, fluff, established relationship, dominant viktor, no use of y/n. ➸ notes: i wrote this in thirty minutes. i’m so down bad. tysm for sending! <3

“Viktor,” your voice, panicked, called from the kitchen. You were hovered over the stove, currently in the middle of a futile attempt at cooking a Sunday night dinner. You cut your finger twice already, and forgot an important step when putting the casserole into its dish – everything was falling apart.

The sounds of uneven footsteps and the soft tap of a cane came down the hallway, your lover pulling himself away from his work to check on you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice matched your own, hurrying to your side to see if you’d hurt yourself again. He looked over the empty stove, then to you.

“Sorry,” you smiled up at him, “false alarm.”

The man crinkled his nose, eyes narrowing, “You scared me, I thought you cut yourself again.”

“All good now, thanks to you,” you grinned, lifting your hand to reveal the two bandages that were wrapped delicately around your clumsy fingers. He couldn’t stay mad at you, not when your cheeks dimpled and your eyes sparkled at the slightest bit of attention received from him.

A heavy sigh left his lips, followed by the shake of his head, “I have to finish up my notes, can you let me know when dinner is ready?” He asked, eyes widening when your bottom lip jutted out in a big pout in immediate response.

“But the food is going to take at least twenty more minutes before it’s ready, can’t you just keep me company?” You asked coyly, bandaged fingers pressing to his chest and sliding up until they held his neck. Then, up into his hair, where they brushed through the brunet strands.

“Ah,” he hummed, cane discarded, so his hands could rest on your hips, “you miss me, no?”

“Maybe,” you shrugged, pulling him until your backside was pressed against the kitchen counter, and he leaned much of his weight against you, “or maybe I’ve missed your lips.”

You loved when you managed to wrangle a genuine smile out of Viktor, seeing his teeth flash from behind his lips as a rosy pink blush covered his cheeks. Oh, how that always filled you with butterflies.

It was obvious that he missed yours just as equally, considering your feet that were once flat on the ground were now dangling as you sat on the countertop. He’d pushed himself forward, forcing your legs apart as he gifted you with what you had been desiring.

Viktor’s lips pressed to yours, eager and needy. You whined at the sudden motion, lips parting just enough so he could slip his tongue between yours. Shivers ran up your spine, leaving a chill along your skin as his tongue tangled with yours. A fight for dominance that he won easily.

“Viktor,” you moaned, fingers tightening in his hair and eliciting a whimper from his lips that instantly heated up your once-cold body.

There wasn’t enough time in the world that could be provided to satiate Viktor on his path to experience everything with you. To taste every flavour on your tongue, like the glass of wine you had just finished, or to inhale the perfume that clung to your clothes and made you smell sickeningly sweet. The only scene that calmed his nerves.

He pulled his lips from yours, instead latching to your neck and nipping at the skin. He’d always been so damned good at kissing, leaving you a moaning, writhing mess with only his lips. Whether it was your jaw, neck or between your legs.

A particularly hard pinch of his teeth on your skin made you whine, and he hummed against your skin–licking.

Hands pressed underneath the hem of your shirt, nails grazing the surface of your skin until his fingers tightened around your hips. He forced you closer, room for you to roll your hips against his so you could chase the friction that your body craved so desperately.

“I’m not even hungry anymore,” you breathed out, eyes closed as your back arched when his tongue glided over your collarbone. Over another mark he’d left so greedily.

Viktor pulled back at your words, his hair messy and lips a tad swollen. You felt small under his gaze, feeling this way only when you’d riled him up enough.

“Then we should probably turn off the oven and head to bed, no?” He asked, a flash of lust flickering through his eyes.

The oven beeped when it shut off, and your moans carried through the apartment as you ventured far from the mess you dared to call a meal.

[akela-nakamura]

DPxDC Prompt

Summoning is an imperfect art, mispronouncing a name or having an incorrect symbol can lead to unexpected, and sometimes explosive results. Summoning can open unexpected doors. No one's prepared for what--or who--steps through when a rising gang tries to summon backup.

My little ficlet for this is below the cut:

Smoke. The acrid slam of it in the nose, brought on by the screaming wind. Chanting. A chorus of voices, steady and thrumming. Pain. Everything is hazy, and it’s equal odds on it being from the smoke or the potential head injury. 

Bruce stumbles to his feet, body throbbing. 

This was not how he’d planned this night. 

Of course, he hadn’t planned for Gotham to suddenly be overrun with a new…gang? They claimed to be a government organization, but Bruce has his doubts. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the GIW’s information, but according to Barbara, their claims were sketchy at best.

The shouting about ghosts and waving around sci-fi weapons with no trigger discipline certainly didn’t help their claims. 

Government organization or not, they had no right to raid homes, to drag people out onto the street, or overall threaten his city.

His ears ring, and the chanting rises in volume, impossibly. His chest reverbes with the sound. It’s steady enough to feel like a second heart. His blurry vision locks onto the center of the summoning circle. Because this night couldn’t get any worse, of course. 

First the GIW had rocketed up his list of threats with one simple move. 

They’d gone after Jason.

Jason, who even now was laid out in the middle of the summoning circle, eyes bright, bright, bright green through the haze. 

First they’d taken his son. 

Then they’d used him as a sacrifice. 

Bruce bared his teeth, locking eyes with the closest GIW agent. The man held up his weapon, a glowing baton. His form is weak. 

The baton gord flying, Bruce’s armored elbow slamming the man to the ground. The agent curls up, groaning. Nightwing’s escrima sing electric in the background, followed by the whip of Tim’s bow staff. Damian’s sword glints through the haze, and purple flashes through the crowd of white, white, white. 

He can’t see Cass, but he doesn’t expect too. 

The ground rocks under his feet, and it takes several precious seconds to regain his balance. There seems to be an almost endless flood of agents, with more and more meeting his fists as he tries to make it through the gauntlet. 

Suddenly, the air shifts, the scream of it heading for the circle instead of out. 

The circle glows toxic green, and Jason’s at the center, frozen in the light. 

“No!” Bruce shouts, the sound ripping from his soul. 

It’s echoed by Dick, who stands just outside the circle’s boundaries. His hands are pressed against the light, his blue eyes a shock against the green. 

It’s a confusion of people - GIW white and the summoner’s black. The GIW is here to end whatever it is they need Jason to summon to them. The summoners themselves seem to have broken away from the “agency” and want power from the being they’re calling. It’s a fight on multiple fronts, with the GIW fighting the summoners and Bruce and his family fighting them all. 

The temperature drops. 

“HOOD!” Dick screams, as Jason is swallowed by the green. 

The chant is all he can hear, even as he shoves towards the circle, even as he slams against the same wall Dick’s against. 

The world goes bright and he can’t keep his eyes on Jason. On his son. 

When the light fades, Jason’s not alone. 

A being sits six feet in the air, Jason collapsed over his lap, somehow hovering with the - what is he? He looks human, but there’s something wrong. Off. Bruce can’t quite pinpoint his age. A crown glows on his head, an ever shifting cape spills down his back, dragging close to the floor. His eyes are green as Lazarus, and just as deep. Jason is breathing, Bruce notes. The being’s hands curl in Jason’s hair, playing with it idly. 

The air is *rigid, and everyone’s stopped fighting. No one can draw their eyes away from the being. 

“You dare to summon me with one of my own?” The being speaks, and it’s like crackling glaciers. Someone whimpers. 

“We - wanted to give you a gift,” One of the men in black says, his voice chattering. 

It’s like breathing in ice. 

“A gift?” The being says and the sound is fury, banked in a waiting avalanche. “What kind of gift is this? A denizen of my Realms, trapped and tortured? Used to summon his king, against his will? This is no gift.” 

“B-but we didn’t know,” another speaks, and then obviously realizes he shouldn’t have. 

“Ignorance will not save you,” the being says, and it - he’s? - still holding Jason like he’s something precious. “And I am not the only one you have infuriated. 

“I am not the only one you have awoken.” 

To a man, the GIW agents cry out in panic. Bruce turns, looking for the threat but - the agents are buried to various depths in the cracked concrete floor. The ground is decidedly solid beneath Bruce’s feet but the agents would obviously not agree. They flounder, like the concrete is quicksand. The summoners are next, but it’s ice that gets them, crawling up their bodies until they’re locked into place. 

“My lord!” One cries and promptly finds himself gagged. 

Bruce can’t stay silent any longer. “Hood was used against his will to summon you,” he starts. The being’s eyes meet Bruce’s. “He didn’t want this. Is he alright?” 

“Your son is fine,” the voice is rough, but feminine, and obviously not from the being. It’s around him, dancing through the steel beams and pushing through concrete. “You are mine, my knight. You and yours are mine. The little king will not harm him, nor you.” A figure forms off to his right. 

“Holy shit,” Dick whispers. Bruce has to agree. 

She’s made of concrete, of broken brick and dust, of bone and police tape, of twisted metal and more. 

“Gotham,” Bruce breathes, and he doesn’t know how he knows but he does.

“Hello, my knight,” she says, her form shifting. She turns slightly, and there’s something sharp in her movement. “Hello, little king.” 

“Lady Gotham,” The being - the king? - returns. “You look well,” 

Lady Gotham laughs, a ringing sound - it’s bells and gravel, fresh air on a summer day and rising wind. “How you flatter me, little king. Do you fear me?” 

The being grins, mischief dancing around him, white hair floating high. “I respect you. It’s good to see you awake, Milady.”

“What is happening?” Tim asks no one in particular. Dick shrugs and Steph just leans harder on Tim. Cass holds Damian’s shoulder firmly, watching carefully. 

Bruce wishes he had an answer. 

“It is good to be awake,” Lady Gotham says, and she shifts closer to the circle, fingers skimming against the barrier of light. “How long do you intend to keep my reaper from me?” 

Reaper. Bruce thinks, and it’s a gut punch. 

It makes sense, to describe Jason. Jason can go where Bruce cannot, do what Bruce cannot. 

The king laughs lightly. “The summoning harmed him, Milady. I’m just keeping him safe. I’m not here to undermine you,” the king’s eyes glow. “But remember who is king.”

Lady Gotham smiles. “I’m aware of hierarchy little king.” 

“My son,” Bruce says, because there’s no point in pretending Jason is anything less. He’s talking to - the embodiment of gotham and a king of - something. “He’ll be okay?” 

Lady Gotham sighs. “He will be fine, my knight. The little king cares for his own.” 

“What - what are you the king of?” Tim asks, bold. 

The being smiles. 

“I am Phantom,” he says. “I am the Ghost King.” 

Jason stirs in his lap, and the implications crash over Bruce. Maybe Reaper has more meaning than he’d thought.

[ddejavvu]

pairing: james potter x reader

summary: your yule ball date goes south. James picks up the pieces

a/n: this is relatively close to a scene that's gonna be in a large marauders fic i've had as a WIP for forever so if you read that in a year and think hm that sounds vaguely familiar no it literally doesn't

You've never felt any strong kinship towards James Potter before, but now, shoulder to shoulder, equally stunned looks on your faces, you know you share an experience most don't.

"Well," James hums, dazedly, free from anger even if it should be present, "Alright then."

Neither of your should-be ball dates look up from where they're snogging each other in one of the utility closets covered up by paper streamers and an appetizer table, and you feel irritation begin blooming in your chest the way that they won't even look at you. Perhaps they can't hear you, perhaps there's fireworks in their heads and they're sharing one of those everything-else-melts-away moments.

Good for them.

You turn on your stiletto heel and head pointedly but casually towards the door to the balcony. You're eager for the cool night air on your skin- the crowd seems suffocating now. You snag a bottle of something you're sure was meant for the professors on the way out, keeping it tucked to your side to ensure no one sees you leave with it. It's amber in color and you'll figure out what it is later; right now your only concern is getting out.

You examine your feelings staring out over the grounds, moonlight bathing your skin and making the gems on your dress glimmer. You should be sad. Devastated, even, what with your date shacking up with some other girl when he should have been dancing with you. But you're not.

It's an unpleasant feeling, but it's betrayal more than heartbreak. You suppose you were never really head over heels for the boy you'd agreed to go with, it was just nice to be asked. To be wanted.

A wistful love song leaks out from the open doors to the ballroom, and you chew on its lyrics as you fit your mouth around the spout of your bottle. It warms you, your tongue suddenly heavy and tingling as you swallow a fair mouthful of the stuff.

"That was a sloppy grab," Someone calls from behind you, and you're surprisingly not tense when you recognize it as Potter's, "Someone could have seen you."

"We're not all mischief makers, Potter," You let the ghost of a smile cross your face as you stare out over the grounds, liquor residue leaving them sticky, "You should teach a class on smuggling things in and out of the school."

"I have thought about being a professor here," He admits, taking the place beside you and leaning out over the railing, "DADA if I could get it. Don't think Minnie's goin' anywhere or I'd go for Transfiguration."

"She'll be teaching our grandkids," You laugh, "And god save this school if you're ever hired."

"I'd be great." He assures you, a laugh in his eyes rather than his mouth, "So. Are you- ehm, okay?"

"Yeah." You shrug, your bare shoulders catching the slight breeze where your dress cuts them out, "It's- I'm fine. He wasn't the love of my life. Just sucks he lead me on is all."

"Right. Me too." James nods, "I- I wanted things to work with her. But I suppose in ten years I saw myself with someone else."

You attempt another sip of liquor after a bout of heavy silence, but James's hand holds the bottle away from your mouth, "Hey, slow down, killer! Liver failure is not a good method of revenge."

"Two sips won't kill me," You scoff, but you don't fight him when his large, warm hand takes the bottle from you, "You just want some for yourself."

"Yes and no." He grins, taking a swig of his own, "For courage, I s'pose. And dance moves."

You raise a brow at him, listening as the song changes from a ballad to a swinging one, something that makes you want to let loose and experiment with moves you've seen only middle-aged men showcase at weddings.

"Come on." He offers you a hand, setting the bottle aside and straightening off of the railing, "Come on, you've gotten dressed up to dance tonight, and there's no one else out on this balcony. Just you and me, let's do it."

"I got dressed up tonight to fuck," You clarify, but you're not sure if you really mean it- anything to ward away any good luck that comes to you before it sours like most things seem to be tonight.

"Well that can come after. I'm not fond of exhibitionism," James explains, hand still outstretched as you straighten your dress instead of taking it, "Come on. I'm about to lay out some truly heinous dance moves and I'll be making a fool out of myself if you don't join me."

The beat of the song really is tempting, an oldie but goodie that you'd danced to in your bedroom a thousand times before.

With a decisive huff you surge forwards, taking his hand and letting yourself relax into the rhythm the song sets for the pair of you. James is not wrong- he's a sight to behold while he's dancing, but you let him be your example and soon you're both choking on laughter as you swing each other across the balcony and dance circles around each other. The song dies down into another ballad and you let James press you politely against him, his hands never straying further than your waist as you hold his shoulders.

"I'm almost glad he ditched me," You muse, chest heaving slightly from exertion, "I don't think he would have danced with me like that."

"Mine was- uhm, she wasn't fantastic conversation." James admits, "I feel bad, but-"

"No, she's an airhead." You nod, knowing all too well that the girl James had escorted into the ballroom tonight did perhaps everything in her power to never have an intelligent thought, "It's harsh but it's true."

He nods, and your head comes to rest comfortably against his chest, cheek pressed into his dress robes.

"Thanks, James." You murmur, squeezing his shoulders gently. You feel more than hear his response, but the soft, suddenly tender, 'My pleasure, Y/N.' warms you more than the liquor had, the perfect antidote to the cool air out on the balcony as you sway in time with James.

[illyrianbitch]

Of Our Own Devices — Part Two

For @erisweekofficial Day 2: Legacy

Pairing: Reader x Eris

Summary: Eris Vanserra carries a legacy of cruelty, a reputation forged in whispers and fear. But something doesn't quite fit anymore. You’re beginning to think that the male doesn't truly match the legend he's left behind.

Warnings: brief mentions of abuse, cruelty, injury, battling to death, introspection? like a lot, readers head is soooo big from these big thoughts

Word Count: 3.1k

did someone say eris week mini series???? technically can be read as a stand alone, just squint

Part One | Part Three

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

When Eris Vanserra was born, his mother wept in the bathroom for hours after.

Her trembling hands muffled her soft cries as her handmaidens swaddled a newborn Eris in fine cloth. Beron hadn’t been there for most of the birth—hadn’t held her hand the way her father had held her mother’s. He came only at the end, just in time to praise the heir as he left her womb, presenting him like a trophy before promptly leaving for court business.

She was still young, felt like a child herself— at least in her own mind. So, while she loved her son dearly, his birth had cemented her fate to a male she didn’t love, a male whose hands she feared more than death itself.

His mother loved him, this Eris knew. Even at a young age, he felt that love. It burned in him like a comforting flame, the same warmth as the heavy blanket she would tuck around him at night or the sunlight that seeped into his skin on warm afternoons.

And yet, even surrounded by that love, Eris grew up lonely.

His loneliness led him to finding a home in curiosity, in sticking his pointed nose into matters that often didn’t concern him, picking out small details he'd unconsciously store for later. He was a collector from the beginning—of people, of excuses, of emotions he had yet to name.

Perhaps that was why he was so sickeningly fond of you, so starkly different from the others, equally curious, equally lonely.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

It wasn't Eris who people met first.

It was his reputation.

Eldest son of the High Lord, equal parts cunning and cruel, a loyal soldier with the venom of a viper. Anguish seemed to follow him, seemed to follow any with Vanserra blood, but there was something distinct about Eris, something divinely alluring. Terrifyingly sinful.

It was all true. So you weren't sure why it bothered you so much when your patrons talked about him, when his name was thrown into conversations surrounding the High Lord.

Your family's tavern was always filled with stories. Its dimly lit, worn wooden tables had overheard more whispered secrets and slurred confessions than you could ever count. Most nights were like this, with drinks spilling over into the laps of locals, the hum of conversation swirling in the air like smoke from the hearth. Tucked in a corner of the court’s lands, it was a place for those not high enough to feast in grand halls but not low enough to beg in the streets. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was home. A comfortable middle ground.

You placed a handful foaming drinks before the three males at the bar, taking a moment to analyze their appearance. They were relatively large, muscular builds hinting at some form of laborious profession. The callouses on their hands told you that they handled weapons often. But their clothes weren't nice enough to be one of Beron's men, weren't tailored enough to be one of Eris's either. Perhaps they were border patrollers, the lowest and grimiest of the forces.

They thanked you with lingering, appraising eyes as you moved away to fetch more drinks.

“I heard,” one of the them said, leaning closer to his companions, “that the eldest boy has a new game he plays with those who cross him. A real spectacle.”

The male next to him, the oldest of the three, nodded eagerly. “They say he’s got a private arena where he forces traitors to fight each other to the death. It’s supposed to be brutal—nothing but blood and screams. And Eris just sits there, like it’s a grand show.”

You clenched your teeth, turning around to face the wall behind you, forcing yourself to attend to the pile of glasses waiting to be wiped down. You tried to focus on your task, hoping to drown out their disturbing conversation, but it was no use. You could feel your grip tightening on the material of the rag, knuckles white as they continued to talk, their voices growing louder and louder with every drink they took.

It was a lie. A rumor. Nothing more.

Yes, Eris was cruel. He was manipulative and calculated. But you'd seen slivers of something else, something brighter, kinder, even. While you believed that a male should face the consequences of his actions, there was no honor in perpetuating lies that simply weren’t true.

It made no sense, anyway. Eris had done plenty of questionable things. There were multitudes of actions to choose from, many things worthy of criticism. There was no need to indulge in falsehoods. The image they painted of Eris—a male reduced to a sadistic spectator in a grotesque spectacle—seemed far removed even from him.

“A grand show?” the third scoffed. “He’s not just watching. He’s placing bets on who’ll survive, like it’s some sick sport. It’s all for his amusement. I’ve heard he gets pleasure out of the carnage. Let's his hounds ravage the bodies.”

A knot tightened in your chest and you gripped the glassware harder, cloth bunching in your grasp. Before you could register the motion yourself, you spun around, the movement abrupt enough to make the males flinch.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," you sneered. The males stiffened, large angry eyes boring into yours. You continued. "Bold of you to traverse around spreading rumors of a High Lord's son. Be grateful he isn't around to correct you himself."

You blinked, the anger draining away as quickly as it had surged, leaving a wave of embarrassment in its place. You took in the male’s faces—initially stunned, then quickly morphing into anger. It was an expected reaction from those who felt their pride wounded, especially from males who had just been scolded by a low-court fae like yourself.

You straightened, trying to regain your composure as you cleared your throat.

The largest of the men leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with a sneer. “Well, well, boys,” he drawled, his voice dripping with disdain. “I think our pretty little bartender might be one of the Princeling’s whores.”

You weighed your options as you stood there, hand still gripping the glass. For a fleeting moment, you were tempted to shatter it over his head. The thought of the glass breaking, of the shards embedding themselves in his skin, was almost satisfying.

But you didn't. Your father would be angry, would be disappointed above all. You needed the business.

You took a deep breath and your grip on the glass loosened.

“Allow me to apologize,” you said. “It seems I’m more sensitive about our court’s reputation than I realized. I don’t know what came over me. How about a round on the house?”

Their faces shifted to smug satisfaction as they accepted the offer with eager grins and, soon, their cups were filled once more. As they happily downed their next round of drinks, you slipped out from behind the bar.

The door’s bell chimed softly as you stepped outside, itching to find the heir that was imprinted into your mind.

Strangely enough, you knew exactly where he'd be.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

You found him in a clearing south of The Forest House, an expansive area bathed in the warm light of the afternoon sun. It was a dedicated space for the hounds, adorned in various obstacles that Eris used during their training—wooden jumps, tunnels, and agility courses set up with careful precision. You'd seen the area of land a handful of times before, times when Lucien found Eris to argue or hurl curses.

You approached carefully, watching as Eris kneeled by one of the hounds, gently tending to what seemed to be a cut on its paw.

After a moment, he finally looked up, his gaze meeting yours. The corners of his mouth quirked upwards and a playful glint manifested in his eyes.

"Even after all these years, a vixen without a fox at her side is still a strange sight."

You gritted your teeth, taking a deep breath as your eyes roamed the face of the male before you.

It was an unnecessary jab.

Lucien hadn’t been by your side for centuries now. Though you had visited him as often as you could, the friendship you once shared had changed. He had changed. You had, too. You'd grown into your life at Autumn—managing the tavern that bore your family’s name and living vicariously through the stories that came your way.

The last time you had seen Lucien was marked by a change. You'd looked into his eyes and somehow understood that things were different beyond what had been anticipated.

"Why do you do that?" You asked. "Be a dick when you don't need to be?"

Eris stood, brushing his hands clean as the hound trotted away to rejoin the rest. He narrowed his eyes at you for a moment, a scrutinizing, analyzing moment. Then he offered you a shrug, something so casual and dismissive. You were sure it would've warded off anyone else, that his disinterestedness would have begun to tired them already, turn them the other way.

"Maybe it's part of my charm," he finally responded, "Or maybe I'm just a dick."

He made no attempt to hide the amusement in his voice as he emphasized your insult. Eris had been called many things— you'd heard them, even delivered a few of the titles. But so far, you were the only one to call him two things: a dick, and a prick. Perhaps it was delusion, but you swore that he seemed to enjoy it when you said such things, seemed to smirk in a way that wasn't just cruel, but impressed.

You rolled your eyes. "Most wouldn't wear that title with such pride."

He narrowed his eyes for a moment, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. "What's the use in denying my nature?"

You sighed, a sound of frustration, of annoyance. "Do you not grow bored of your little games?"

Eris rolled his shoulders and straightened his back. He always had immaculate posture, his stature was often so perfect that it was almost uncomfortable to witness. It emphasized his wealth, somehow— emphasized his power. He towered over you even more now.

"Did you seek me out solely to criticize me?"

You bit the inside of your cheek. "No."

"Then why?"

You still weren't entirely sure why you had come.

"Perhaps I was bored."

Eris raised an eyebrow. "Do you not have any friends?"

You bristled. "I have plenty." You paused, allowing your gaze to settle on the view before you, on the open land and the animals that in the open expanse. You turned back to Eris. "It's you that doesn't seem to have any. Your only companionship recently seems to be those hounds. I'm surprised you're not running on all fours."

Eris's expression shifted. He let out a small chuckle and you fought against the twitch in your lips, cursed the warmth that blossomed in your chest. But the amusement dissipated from his face soon after, replaced be a resolve of cold indifference. His eyes seemed tired in this light.

"As much as I…enjoy our little talks," He began after a moment, "I didn't ask for company. You should find someone who wants it."

A small sense of rejection passed through your skin like a cold, morning chill. You were never foolish enough to think Eris would welcome your presence with open arms and a smile, never naive enough to consider yourself anything more than semi-peaceful acquaintances. But still, there was something deep within you that wished he’d show you something beyond the disregard he showed others.

That wasn't a fool's wish— because you knew it was possible.

You'd seen it.

Strangely enough, you had. In the stolen glances when he thought no one was looking, how he lingered after you stumbled, offered a hand before quickly retracting it. There had been flowers at your door after your mother passed of Autumn fever, an unusual number of wealthy patrons who had frequented your father’s tavern for months afterward, tipping generously despite only having a drink or two. They all adorned attire of a specific, deep green that you’d come to recognize easily—the shade often worn by Eris’s personal guard.

His name was never attached to any of it, but you could trace it back to him. You'd always wondered why he'd never taken credit, never basked in somehow proving your presumptions about him wrong.

Twenty-nine year old you, freshly bonded to Lucien after he'd stumbled across your father's tavern, would be shocked that centuries later, she'd be spending more time alongside his cruel brother than Lucien himself.

You’d had an image of Eris back then—an image painted by Lucien’s words. It was accurate, to an extent. You never doubted your best friend’s judgment, never questioned the stories of cruelty and ambition that followed Eris like a shadow. He had, indeed, made Lucien suffer. There were reasons he disliked his brothers so deeply, reasons you knew were valid.

But you were curious by nature, always craving to understand things deeply, intricately. And Eris Vanserra called to you like a riddle from an ancient tale—dangerous, alluring, and impossible to ignore.

Above all else, you wanted answers. Throughout the years, Eris had never called upon your bargain, never asked for a favor, never even mentioned the price you’d paid for that first visit with Lucien. Not once.

It unnerved you.

"I don't understand you," you said, without realizing the words had fallen from your lips.

You hadn't intended on voicing it so blatantly. You weren't quite sure how Eris would respond, how he would interpret your words. It was a tossup, really, between a snarky response or something condescending, something to make you feel silly, naive.

Silence.

Eris shifted, turning his body to look out into the horizon before him.

"Not everything in life is meant to be understood."

You paused.

Eris was complicated. Unfortunately for you, you loved complicated. It wasn't boring. It made you think, made you wonder. You gravitated towards the eldest Vanserra more often than you'd like to admit. It was easier now, you decided, since Lucien's watchful eye wasn't around. He didn't have to witness your betrayal first hand, didn't have to see as you attempted to find something in his brother. You weren't sure what that something was, but you were certain you were searching for it. You had been for years.

"That's not true. I can understand things if I try hard enough."

Eris played idly with the rings on his hands. "You set yourself up for disappointment, Vixen," he said to the empty air before him, not turning to look at you. "Why does everything need to have a deeper meaning?"

You studied his face further. Noting the lines etched around his eyes and the set of his jaw. He was beautiful. You weren’t one to deny it—all of the Vanserras were. But where Lucien had been handsome, radiating a gentle charm that made you blush with every lingering gaze, Eris was more akin to the sharp edge of the season’s chill—striking, with an air of regal severity. His amber eyes alone seemed to hold the crisp, unyielding essence of autumn itself—beautiful, but not without its bite.

"It doesn't need to," you replied. "But it often does. I think details are important."

He didn't respond as he turned to face you. You glanced up at him, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that seemed almost tangible.

"You've never lied to me," you stated. It was a statement more than it was a question.

"No," Eris replied.

His gaze didn't waver. You were almost impressed that you'd managed to hold his stare for so long. No one had ever looked at you like this before—so deeply, so penetrating. You understood now how his mere gaze could make people crumble, understood the rumors of how he only took his partners from behind, how he never made eye contact.

You pushed away the burning thoughts that arose.

"Is it true?" Your gaze bounced around his face. "Do you force your traitors to fight for your amusement? Place bets on them like animals?"

Eris's eyes flickered with something dark, but he didn't move.

"Do you think it is?" he countered.

You shook your head. You were certain of your answer, but you needed to hear his. "No. I don't."

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Then it’s not," he said simply.

His expression revealed nothing more as you scanned his face. He didn't seem startled by your question, didn't seem confused at the context. He was aware of the rumors, of the stories circulating like the last morsels of food at a feast—passed around, savored, and eagerly consumed.

"It doesn't bother you? That these lies exist?"

A hint of confusion crossed his features, as if the question itself was somewhat absurd.

"Why would it?"

You blinked, momentarily retracting into yourself.

As a hound trotted up to Eris, his attention shifted. He crouched down, meeting the beast at its level. The gentle manner with which the hound regarded him, the affection in its eyes, stirred something inside you, deep within your gut. Your father had always said that a male’s nature could be understood through how animals responded to him.

Eris clearly cared for his hounds, and they, in turn, cared for him.

You found yourself wondering if, deep down, Eris was ever troubled by his reputation.

Lucien always had been.

He cursed the blood than ran through his veins, spent every moment trying to prove himself to be better than the legacy of his family— he did everything he could to avoid the curse of a wicked kin.

But then there was the male before you.

Eris, the rightful heir and firstborn son, was different.

You had always assumed he was bestowed with the legacy of the kingdom, that he was born for the role of High Lord, eagerly embracing the title and its accompanying glory. He seemed built for it, seemed to thrive under its weight.

You watched as more hounds approached him, watched as they surrounded him like a loyal fleet.

Could it be possible, you thought, that perhaps it wasn't all gifted. That it was possible Eris was burdened with the legacy of a Court?

You realized, then, that you'd never truly acknowledged that what he had become allowed for a kinder brother to grow in his wake.

The thoughts came faster, hazy, so many that your vision began to blur. It all made you itch, made you uncomfortable, made you overwhelmed and desperate for more.

None of this felt right.

You stared at Eris for a few more moments. When he stood up straight once more, about to turn toward you, you turned and ran to your horse.

You could feel his stare burning into you as you left.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

reader panicking when she has deep intellectual thoughts about sexy man as he tends for his dogs. shes so me fr

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[apheliia]

SUFFERING. — In which Yaoshi's child is wounded.

— trigger & content warnings. mildly graphic depictions of wounds, mild blood, mentions of fainting, both yaoshi and the reader operate on questionable morality at best.

— pairings & notes. hurt/comfort. yaoshi & emanator of abundance!reader. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used). when yaoshi cries, it has a direct effect on those who have come into contact with the power of abundance, including xianzhou natives. 2.1k words.

— author's thoughts. pov lan and yaoshi are divorced parents and their children are fighting. i am very normal about yaoshi i promise 🫶 i made shit up for this fic fr, i am working with CRUMBS you guys 😔🙏 ik from experience that the yaoshi nation is starving so i offer this to my fellow aeon of abundance enjoyers <3 side note, writing two characters with they/them pronouns is so hard LMAO??!??!?!

       Stars dance behind their eyelids every time they dare to let them drift shut.

       The universe is an ever-expanding blur of stars and planets that seem to dance and spin the longer one gazes at them—that, of course, is a natural given.

       ...The stars behind their eyelids are, however, not a given; those are most certainly not meant to be there.

       Their chest heaves, lungs aching and burning as if lit on fire when they painfully expand to take in as much air as possible, lightning striking across their chest and side when they breathe just the slightest bit too forcefully.

       Blood drips from their side—slowly, thankfully, but they've lost so much at this point that it really could not have mattered less if the flow was slow or rapid. The amount lost would have remained the same, nevertheless, because their body vehemently refused to heal the wound that should have been gone within seconds. Minutes, at the absolute most.

       Whatever the Xianzhou Alliance had done to them was terribly effective, delaying their inhuman capacity to heal instantaneously and causing their body to convulse fiercely whenever they tried to force the healing to proceed. It was... less than ideal, but they'd try not to hold it against their siblings.

       (The Xianzhou Alliance just does not see it, does not see anything, the way they do, unenlightened and led astray by the Aeon Lan. That's fine. Perhaps one day they will all come to their senses, snap out of the misguidance, and recognize Yaoshi's benevolence.)

       The ground sways beneath their feet.

       A gasp is torn from their throat as they trip over themselves, ankles snapping inwards, unable to support the weight of their body any longer. Trembling, bloody hands shoot out in a weak attempt to catch themselves, and—

       "Beloved child..."

       —and they're fine, situated on the floor without ever having to fall to get there. The growing cold knawing at their flesh is chased away. Soothing warmth takes its place, and their wounds don't seem to throb as excruciatingly as they did before.

       They're certain that they are no longer where they were before—not hopelessly, blindly stumbling along a familiar planet in hopes of reaching one of its civilizations before the blood loss got to be too much for their body to handle, before they fell unconscious and helpless to the whims of the universe surrounding them.

       (Of course, it wouldn't have killed them. The fainting alone was fairly harmless. However, doing so out in the middle of nowhere while bleeding and wounded was not an ideal fate for any creature to experience. Maybe the blood loss would not have killed them, but if something else of equal or greater strength to them discovered their unconscious body when they were that vulnerable...)

       They're... elsewhere, now, though they haven't the slightest clue where. Truthfully, it mattered not. All they were concerned with was whose side they were at; they were earnestly grateful that their parent had sensed their suffering and seen it fit to bring them somewhere safer.

       Tones soft and saccharine yet richly smooth and vaguely rumbling with the power of something ancient danced across their skin; the sound alone was enough to send a shiver up their spine and to raise goosebumps on their fragile, bleeding body. Undertones of pity and sorrow overwhelm the voice—if it had belonged to a human, perhaps they might say it sounded more akin to horror and shock.

       Actually, now that they thought about it, the chills may have very well been the blood loss... it was hard—if not downright impossible—to tell at this point.

       ...Not that it mattered, of course. Now that they were here, any suffering their child had unfairly endured would be undone and amended.

       "What have they done to you?"

       An unsteady hand dares to reach out to them, and the deity's face twists, displeased, in a way their child cannot quite describe. The flash of displeasure makes them worry through the dazed fog of blood loss that they gesture was unwelcome. Their gaze is quick to move elsewhere—looking so bodly at Yaoshi's face has always felt rude, anyways, so they're quick to look away at even the most minor allusion to disapproval, even though something at the back of their mind reassures them that their actions are hardly the cause of the Aeon's unrest.

       As fast as the concern arises, it dissloves into nothing.

       They did not even have the chance to shift, to pull their arm back, before Yaoshi takes their hand stained wine red, and bestows a tender kiss upon their aching knuckles. The pain is washed away in an instant; there was no trace of it ever having been there in the first place. No lingering ache, no soreness, just relief.

       Sanctus Medicus' touch alone—let alone their kiss—causes their body to have a reaction. The most concerning wound of all has begun closing, skin stitching itself together anew, even without the Aeon extending any of their power to do so. Simply existing in the deity's presence has already guaranteed the preservation of their life. A concern of death did not exist any longer.

       It was only really a halfhearted concern, anyway. Truly killing something like them would have taken an insurmountable showing of strength and wit. The Alliance only injured them; putting a complete end to their life was something their estranged siblings horribly failed to do.

       "G— Guardian, I—"

       A wave of coughs that they cannot suppress no matter how hard they try wracks their body, and they wince, abdomen sharply crying out in protest of the forceful motions. The healing process has not yet concluded, and any excess force or strain put on their body still causes them great discomfort.

       "Speak not," the Lord of Longevity murmurs, chiding, as their many hands gently guide their little one ever closer to their body until their child is strewn across their lap. Blood soaks into the the Aeon's robes, though they pay it no mind and instead opt to focus on the source of it. "Poor, sweet child... how much suffering have your siblings wrought upon you? How much cruelty have they extended? Limitless child, struck down by your limited siblings..."

       The sulking lasts for quite some time, but they feel no compulsion to complain about it. It doesn't even cross their mind once. If anything, Yaoshi's love for them is communicated perfectly through their distraught musings, and the attention makes their little one feel quite embarrassed, if anything at all.

       Embarrassed for not being able to defend themselves? Perhaps, though they would attribute it more to simply being overcome by the ever-abundant love the Aeon carried for them.

       Merciful nails stroke the hair from their face, and the Aeon's tens of thousands of eyes flick across their body, thoughtful and contemplative yet riddled with monumentally expansive layers of all-consuming pity and sympathy. To some, it may have been deeply unsettling to be stared at by something so unfathomably powerful, but they have long since grown used to being gazed at so intently. Yaoshi's affections are not subtle in any way, so having the Aeon's complete and undivided attention on them was an overwhelming feeling that they have learned to welcome with open arms.

       (Well...

       More or less 'complete and undivided'; they're fairly certain that Sanctus Medicus is still keenly aware of everything going on outside of this little oasis, still hearing prayers sent to them, still feeling the pains of death and sorrow that they'll undoubtedly seek out and quell to the best of their abilities in as many societies as possible once they've handled the nasty wound left on their favored child. An Aeon's attention is always divided at least somewhat, but it was not their place to complain about something so inevitable. Divided attention was only natural for cosmic beings, no?)

       It is warm. Peaceful.

       ...But only for a moment.

       Something—disappointment, sadness, perhaps even what could be described as fury—rolls off of the Aeon's being in suffocating waves undoubtedly capable of drowning entire civilizations. It is hard to breathe, somehow even harder than it was when their ribs were collapsed inwards and poking agonizingly at their viscera.

       This is worse.

       In an instant, something deep inside of them shatters, and their chest is seized by the grief and agony of millions and millions of beings. A wheeze is drawn from their chest as any clarity they had slowly gained back is snatched away in a mere second, replaced with terror and pain and screaming, so much screaming—

       Their head spins.

       If not for the Aeon of Abundance's presence, soft hushes and careful nails dragging soothingly over and across their skin on as many areas as they can reach at once, they're certain that these conditions would have made their mara flare. It doesn't, thankfully.

       Something about being held by the very deity who had given them their immortality in the first place soothes that side of them into submission, like a dog kneeling at its master's feet. If they listen closely, beyond the screaming and wailing and pleading for the agony to cease, they can hear adoring yet vague and indistinguishable whispers in the corners of their mind.

       Their mara is sated for the time being, but the storm of despair rages on.

       When the tears begin to fall, it is far beyond their control, impossible to stop no matter how much effort they put into doing so.

       It is immensely difficult for them to see through the hazy blur of their uncontrollable weeping, but their gaze still instinctively shifts up towards Yaoshi's face, the terror and nervousness swirling in their chest growing to be too much. In that moment, they were hardly any different than a child seeking reassurance from their parent; of course, the Aeon was all too happy to provide that to them.

       However...

       To their absolute dismay, though the Aeon's expression remains detached, soft, and thoughtful as ever, they are crying.

       Whatever cracking bits of their will that were still somehow clinging together were shattered beyond repair in a quick instant, and they sobbed harder, pressing close to their God in a feeble and weak attempt at taking some of the agony that their parent endured away.

       Between the sorrow, Yaoshi's tears ignited rage, boiling just beneath the surface of their skin and threatening to consume those who stood in its way. It is one thing to take up arms against them, but to make the Aeon of Abundance cry? It is nothing short of a crime, unforgivable and worthy of only the greatest punishment. If not for said deity's gentle kneading of their skin, easily making the rage dissolve into dazed serenity, they may have very well cut down entire armies, wounds be damned.

       ...But that is blatantly against Yaoshi's will at the moment (and more than likely in general, for such destruction is not in the nature of the path which they emanate), so they allowed the anger to be soothed.

       Concern—what could possibly have made something as incomprehensible as Yaoshi cry? Was it truly what the Xianzhou Alliance had done? And moreover, what can they do to stop it? To amend it without being disobedient?—was there, but they were moreso overwhelmed by absolute horror.

       ...

       Aeons are far above mortality, so far beyond humans and their concepts of everything. Nothing that applied to mortals applied the same to Aeons. They were concepts personified. Living ideologies.

       Seeing a being they had come to recognize as infallible, as the purest form of existence above all other creatures, a being of love and light crying?

       Oh, it sent endless ripples of fear and uncertainty blazing across their skin.

       If their will—the will of someone with a deep and intimate connection to the Aeon, someone who had been spared a beautiful fraction of their strength—was so effortlessly shattered by the Abundance's tears, what were other beings connected to them feeling in this moment?

       ...Far worse things, no doubt, but maybe some of them deserved it.

       (The distant screams, a cacophany of confusion and horror, of their siblings rang in their head. Sick satisfaction brewed in their chest at the sound. If any of the Alliance's fleets were mid-battle, there is not a single doubt in their mind that the entire fight will now be lost and in vain. It is only a small fraction of the pain that they were put through by those people, but it is more than enough.)

       One of Yaoshi's hands pets over their head fondly, and they hum through the tears and pain, eyelids fluttering closed as they press ever closer against the Aeon's collarbone.

       "The actions of your siblings will not go unpunished, precious one," they murmur, leaning down and pressing tender kisses to the battered flesh of their shoulder. Any bruises or scratches in that area disappear miraculously. "The suffering you have endured is unjust."

       "I trust in your judgement, Guardian."

       They could feel Yaoshi's smile against their skin, a stark contrast from the Aeon's tears, burning and stinging their skin yet somehow perpetuating their healing process.

       "Good."

please consider supporting me if you enjoyed! the best ways to do so are as follows: comments, asks, reblogs, and reblogs with tags. tags: @aviiarie @corpsesticks

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔒𝔲𝔯 𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔰𝔢𝔠𝔯𝔢𝔱

Mike Munroe x male reader

Summary: Being in a secret relationship with Mike Munroe was equal parts intoxicating and excruciating. The stolen touches, the nights spent tangled together in secrecy was addictive. But the weight of hiding it all was suffocating, and one night, when the tension between you reached its breaking point, you finally confronted him.

Tags: Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. No use of Y/N. Sensual tension. Jealousy. Friends to lovers. Cute interactions between Mike and the reader. Gay smut. Top Mike munroe. Bottom male reader. Blowjob (reading giving and receiving). Anal sex.

Words count: 5500

You hadn't expected Mike Munroe to notice you. Why would he? You had spent most of your life mastering the art of blending in. If Mike shone like fireworks against the night sky, you were the quiet flicker of a candle in the corner, soft and unassuming.

And you were okay with that. At least, that's what you told yourself.

You'd met Mike through your shared group of friends—Chris, Ashley, Sam— and while he had always been polite, his attention had always seemed elsewhere.

You'd found comfort in your little corner with Chris and Ashley and their easy banter and grounded energy. Chris, especially, had become your closest confidant. He was the kind of friend who could pull you out of your head with a single sarcastic comment, who didn't mind when you sank into moments of silence. You'd never had to fight for Chris's attention; it was just there, freely given, and that simplicity made him feel safe.

But lately, you've noticed something strange.

Or rather, someone.

Mike's eyes lingered on you in ways that made your skin tingle, the hairs at the back of your neck standing on end. At first, you thought you were imagining it. But then there were the moments you couldn't explain away: the sharp way his gaze would cut across the room whenever Chris slung an arm around your shoulder, the tightness in his jaw when you and Sam leaned in close, lost in conversation.

Something in the way his eyes lingered on yours that made your stomach twist in knots.

It was moments like those that made your stomach twist, a confusing mix of excitement and fear. Because the truth was, you wanted Mike's attention. You wanted it in ways that scared you, in ways that left you aching in the middle of the night, your mind replaying every stolen glance, every accidental touch.

The night of senior prom was where everything changed.

The gym was a blur of colored lights and pounding bass, the air heavy with the mingling scents of cheap cologne, perfume, and sweat. You'd been nursing a cup of punch on the sidelines, watching everything unfold with a mix of amusement and detachment. Chris and Ashley were off somewhere being grossly adorable and Sam was deep in conversation with Hannah and Beth. No sight of the rest of the group.

When Mike approached you, it was impossible to ignore how good he looked. His styled hair was now tousled, as though he’d run his hand through it one too many times. Sharp jawline slightly shadowed with the hint of a five o’clock stubble and cheeks faintly flushed, whether from the alcohol or the warmth of the crowded room, you couldn't tell.

The first few buttons of his dress shirt undone to reveal the smooth line of his collarbone and just a hint of skin beneath. The crispness of his tux jacket was gone, replaced by a relaxed slouch that was somehow just as captivating.

The faint scent of his spicy and woodsy cologne mingled with the smell of booze on his breath as he leaned closer to you. His hand was already reaching out as though the decision had been made long before he got there.

“Hey,” he started, his voice lower than usual, carrying a huskiness to it. He licked his lips quickly, almost absentmindedly, before continuing, “You’re not really just gonna stand there all night, are you?” He tilted his head, his fingers flexing in the air between you as if urging you to take his hand.

There was a flicker of something in his gaze that felt equal parts curious and dangerous. His eyes were locked on you, and for a split second, they flicked downward long enough to make your lips tingle like he'd touched them instead of merely looked.

It hit you that this wasn't just some half-hearted attempt to mess around. Mike Munroe, who could have anyone in the room, was standing there, looking at you like there was no one else worth noticing.

You started to stammer a weak excuse but he cut you off with a breathless laugh, shaking his head like he couldn't believe you were trying to resist him.

"You're not gonna make me ask twice, are you?" he continued, "Dance with me."

Your heart skipped a beat, your mind scrambling to process his words. Was he serious? Or was this just another one of his jokes?

"C'mon, don’t make me beg. It's embarrassing." There was something in his eyes, a flicker of curiosity and eagerness that made it impossible to say no.

Not that you had much of a choice.

He grabbed your hand and tugged you onto the dance floor, his grin widening when you stumbled slightly.

The next thing you knew, his hands were on your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other.

The song was slow, unhurried, and so were his movements. His hips swayed lazily in time with the music, as if he wasn't in any rush to let the moment end. His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs brushing small, languid circles against the fabric of your suit. His head tilted slightly as he watched you, his lips curving into that lopsided smile of his, like he was soaking in every detail of your reaction.

His hands lingered on your waist, his grip firm but gentle. Every subtle move he made, from the shift of his hips to the way his thumbs pressed just a little harder into your sides, felt deliberate, like he was testing the limits of the space you shared.

When he leaned in slightly, his breath brushing against your jaw, it was almost instinct to pull away, but his hands held you in place. His lips brushed against your ear as he whispered, "Let's get out of here."

Next thing you knew, he was pulling you through the crowd without waiting for a response, his hand gripped yours firmly as he navigated through the throng of swaying bodies. He glanced back over his shoulder every few steps, his eyes locking with yours like he was silently checking to make sure you hadn't changed your mind.

The thrill of it all sent a heady rush through your veins.

You didn't know where he was taking you until you were outside, the cool night air biting at your skin as he led you to his car, parked in a darkened corner of the lot. The sounds of the party faded into the background, leaving only the echo of your own footsteps and the pounding of your heart.

The space between you was nonexistent, pinning you lightly against the side of the car. His gaze roamed your face, expression unreadable but intense. It was dizzying, the combination of him so close and the way his eyes kept flickering down to your lips, like he was fighting some internal battle he didn't entirely understand.

His lips parted slightly and you could see the faintest tremor in his breath as his gaze dipped to your mouth again, lingering there for just a moment too long.

And then he moved.

It was sudden, almost desperate, the way he closed the gap and kissed you. His lips crashed against yours with a force that made you gasp, his hands tightening on your hips as he pulled you flush against him. There was nothing soft about it, his mouth moving against yours like he'd been starving for this.

He trailed kisses along your jaw, down the side of your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

You could feel him, hard and insistent through the thin fabric of his dress pants. Your own hands found their way to his chest, clutching at the open collar of his shirt as he pressed closer.

He pulled back for just a moment, his breathing ragged as he rested his forehead against yours. "Get in," he murmured, his voice low and strained, pulling you toward the passenger side. You barely registered the cold as you clambered into the cramped interior, the car doors clicking shut behind you.

He was already on you the second you crawled inside the car, his body pressing you down against the leather seat. His weight pinned you there as his lips crashed against yours, hot and insistent, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp.

And God, the low, guttural sound he made that rumbled deep in his chest, sending vibrations through your entire body.

The sharp nip of his teeth on your lower lip pulled a muffled gasp from you and he took the opportunity to press his tongue into your mouth, deep and insistent.

Your head tilted back as his mouth moved, trailing a messy line of kisses down your jaw and neck, biting down just hard enough to leave marks.

He broke away from your neck just long enough to yank your shirt over your head, tossing it carelessly aside before his mouth was on you again, tracing the line of your collarbone. His tongue flicked over sensitive skin, followed by the scrape of his teeth while his hands were unbuckling your belt. The metal clink echoed in the small room, followed by the hiss of fabric sliding down your hips.

Your knees buckled when he finally dipped his hand beneath the waistband, his fingers curling around you with a grip that was firm, stroking you slowly at first, his thumb sweeping over the tip.

His other hand found your thigh, hooking it around his waist as he pressed closer, grinding against you with ferocity. His hands stripped away the last barriers as you lifted your leg higher, opening up for him.

When he entered you, it was with a single, unrelenting motion that left you breathless, your head sinking into the soft material of the seats. The stretch was almost too much, a sharp, burning ache that quickly gave way to a fullness that left you trembling. He didn't stop, his hips driving forward, each thrust forcing a broken sound from your lips.

The tight space of the car was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies colliding. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he drove into you again and again, each motion more forceful than the last.

The car windows began to fog with the heat of your shared breaths, your nails dug into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist as you clung to him.

His teeth grazed over your skin, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises by morning, his lips sucking hard enough to leave you dizzy.

When you came, it was sudden and overwhelming, your body convulsing around him as you cried out, the sound muffled against his shoulder. He followed moments later, his movements growing erratic as he buried himself deep, his whole body tensing as he came with a low, guttural groan.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his lips curling into that familiar lopsided grin. But there was something softer there that made your chest tighten.

From there, things escalated quickly.

It was like once the dam had broken, neither of you could stop.

At first, it was stolen moments like a quick kiss outside the lodge when the others were distracted, his hand slipping under your shirt while you made out in the backseat of his car after a late-night drive. He'd corner you in quiet rooms at parties, lips crashing against yours before you could say a word.

He’d plop down beside you during group hangouts, his thigh pressing against yours under the table and a hand sneakily resting on your thing.

But as time went on, the moments became longer, more intimate.

You started spending more time alone together, under the guise of "studying" or "hanging out." He'd show up at your dorm unannounced, pinning you to the bed, body pressed against yours as he kissed you like he was trying to devour you.

It wasn't long before it started to feel like a relationship.

Like you were his and he was yours.

But neither of you ever said it out loud.

There was an unspoken understanding between you, a mutual agreement to keep things quiet. It was easier that way.

Safer.

After all, Mike had a reputation and you weren't exactly eager to put yourself under a microscope either.

Still, there were moments when the secrecy felt unbearable.

Like right now at the lodge during one of your usual hangouts for the weekend with everyone else. Mike was sprawled out on the couch with Jess perched dangerously close to his side, her manicured nails brushing against his arm as she laughed at something he'd said. Emily sat nearby, leaning forward with that sharp, appraising smile of hers.

You stood near the kitchen, nursing a drink you didn't really want, watching the scene unfold like some kind of slow torture. Mike's boyish grin was firmly in place, his posture loose and relaxed as he soaked up the attention.

Jess was in full matchmaker mode for her bestie, her intentions painfully obvious to anyone paying attention. She leaned closer to Mike, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made him chuckle.

You had no reason to be jealous, not when you knew the truth. Not when you'd spent countless nights tangled up with him.

Watching him now, seeing him turn on that same charm for them to keep up the facade, still hurts in a way you couldn't quite describe.

You told yourself you understood why he acted this way, why he kept the two of you a secret. You'd seen the way people talked, how they whispered and stared whenever someone stepped outside the lines of what they considered normal.

You weren't ready for that, but that didn't make it any easier to sit here, watching him laugh and joke like nothing had ever happened between you.

Sometimes, in your weaker moments, you wished everyone else would know the way he looked at you when it was just the two of you. Maybe then you wouldn't have to sit here, watching him flirt with Jess and Emily like it was nothing.

A small, almost wicked smile curled on your lips as your thoughts betrayed you, pulling you into memories that no one else in the room could even begin to imagine. What would Jess and Emily say if they knew about the nights Mike would sneak into your room?

You could still feel his hands threading into your hair, tugging as his lips claimed yours in a kiss anything but polite.

His tongue would sweep against yours, hot and insistent, leaving you breathless and clinging to him.

And that low, desperate rasp of his voice as he pleaded with you to let him take you right there and then.

The room felt too warm now, the air too thick as you forced yourself to look away from the scene on the couch. You told yourself it was fine. This was the arrangement you'd agreed to. You told yourself that this was enough.

Even though it wasn't.

The kitchen was silent, save for the faint hum of the fridge. You leaned against the counter, nursing a beer that had long since lost its chill, swirling the amber liquid in lazy circles as you watched the bubbles rise, burst, and disappear.

You checked the clock again. 2:12 a.m. Mike had texted to meet him at 2. He wasn't here yet.

You hated how used to this you were. Loving Mike felt like holding onto smoke. You could feel it curling through your fingers, soft and warm, but it was always slipping away, impossible to grasp fully.

Still, you waited impatiently and finally, arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a familiar warmth. Lips, hot and wet, pressed rapid-fire kisses to your neck and jaw.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice rough and breathless, the word catching against your skin as he kissed you again.

The tension melted from your body in an instant, replaced by that overwhelming warmth only he could bring. A smile broke across your face, unbidden and unstoppable, as your chest filled with that dizzying, beautiful ache.

"You're late," you murmured, your tone half-scolding but soft, the words barely audible over the sound of his lips trailing lower before he bit down lightly and sucked like a wolf savoring its prey.

He hummed in response, the sound vibrating against your skin as he pressed his teeth lightly into the curve of your shoulder, biting down just enough to make you hiss.

"Sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffled by your flesh as his hand turned your face to meet his lips. "Had to make sure everyone was out cold. Can't have anyone interrupting us, can we?

His lips slammed against yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a bruising force. The sharp taste of whiskey mingling with the faint tang of beer still lingering on your tongue.

Hands hooked under your thighs, lifting you off the ground with a grunt and hauling you onto the counter, the cold surface shocking against your skin. His grip on your thighs tightened, rough and unyielding, as he spread your legs to step between them.

His mouth was on you again in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue, messy and relentless. His stubble scratched against your skin, leaving a pleasant burn and his hands gripping hard enough to leave bruises.

You moaned softly against his mouth, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him closer, to keep him where you needed him.

Mike's breath was warm and ragged against your neck as he pulled away, his lips brushing the shell of your ear with a husky whisper. "Path clear," he murmured, the words dipped in humor, a callback to the running joke the two of you shared during these secret, stolen moments.

Normally, it made you smile, but tonight, the reminder of your relationship's stealthy nature stung more than it amused.

You slid off the cold counter, his large hands steadying you by your hips. Without thinking, you reached for his hand and laced your fingers with his as you guided him toward your room.

Your thoughts swirled as you walked. The want you'd been carrying for months now sat heavy in your chest, threatening to spill over. You were tired of sneaking around, tired of pretending this was nothing more than casual fun. You wanted him, all of him in the open, without fear or pretense.

But with that hope came the sharp edge of fear that he wouldn't feel the same. The idea of losing him, of pushing him away by wanting too much, gnawed at you, silencing the words before they could even form.

Your thoughts were cut off when his hand slipped from yours to slide down to the curve of your ass, giving it a firm squeeze, a low chuckle coming from him as he pulled you closer, his arm snaking around your waist to pull you against him again and let his lips trail down to the side of your face.

You reached for the doorknob with trembling fingers, your breath hitching as his teeth scraped lightly against your pulse point.

By the time you pushed the door open and stepped inside, he kicked it shut behind him without missing a beat, his hands finding your waist again as he pressed you back against the wall. His lips were on yours instantly, his tongue slipping into your mouth.

You clutched at his shoulders, your fingers digging into the soft fabric of his shirt as he pressed closer, his body pinning you to the wall.

But then you pulled back enough to break the kiss, your chest heaving as you dropped your hands to his. His grip loosened, allowing you to sank to your knees in front of him.

The air shifted, thick with anticipation as you looked up at him, his dark eyes blown wide and locked on yours. His hands twitched at his sides, his jaw tightening as he watched you reach for his belt, undoing the buckle and sliding the leather free before moving to the button and zipper of his jeans and tugging his pants down his hips. His boxers followed and your breath hitched as he sprang free, hard and already dripping with arousal.

His hand came to rest on your head, fingers curling lightly into your hair.

"You're fucking perfect like this," he murmured, his voice rough and dripping with heat, his thumb brushing against your scalp as if in encouragement.

You didn't respond. You couldn't. Your throat was tight with need as you leaned in, your lips parting to take him into your mouth. The first touch of your tongue against him drew a low, guttural groan from his throat, the sound vibrating in the air between you like a spark.

He tasted like salt and heat. Your tongue swirled around the tip, slow and deliberate, savoring the weight of him on your tongue as your hand gripped his thigh for balance.

Mike hissed through his teeth, his fingers tightening in your hair as you took him deeper, your lips stretching around him as you worked him with slow, deliberate precision. The texture of him was smooth and hot, the hardness of him pressing against the back of your throat as you hollow your cheeks.

"Shit, that's good," he muttered, his voice rough and strained as his hips rocked forward slightly. His free hand braced against the wall behind him, fingers flexing as he struggled to keep himself in check.

It spurred you on, your tongue pressing against the sensitive underside of his cock as you moved, your lips slick and swollen as you worked him over with unrelenting focus.

His breaths came heavier, more ragged, each exhale punctuated by a low groan or curse as you pushed him closer to the edge. You took him deeper, swallowing around him until he hit the back of your throat, the motion drawing a sharp gasp from him as his hips jerked forward.

"Just like that," he groaned, his hand tightening in your hair as his head tipped back, exposing the strong line of his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he fought to keep from losing himself entirely.

Your mind spun, your thoughts a jumble of desperate emotions. You wanted him to see how devoted you were, how much you were willing to give him.

But more than that, you wanted him to let you in, to let the world see what you saw in these quiet, stolen moments. You wanted him to hold your hand in the daylight, to kiss you where anyone could see.

Mike leaned back against the wall, his head tipped back, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths as you worked him over.

He was lost in the heat of it, his world narrowing to the slick warmth of your mouth, every nerve alight with pleasure as you brought him closer and closer to the edge.

Something was bugging him.

He couldn't ignore the way your movements felt too precise and mechanical, like you were going through the motions rather than reveling in the moment.

His brow furrowed, hips faltering as he looked down at you. His body screamed for him to let it go, to keep chasing that high you were so good at giving him. But his brain had other plans.

Mike's fingers flexed in your hair, his jaw tightening as he tried to focus on anything but the gnawing unease creeping into his chest, biting his lip as another surge of pleasure rolled through him.

Your brows were slightly knit together like you were concentrating too hard, weren't looking up at him with that mixture of lust and devotion that always made his heart stutter.

Shit.

"Alright, hold up," he said suddenly, his voice rough as he tightened his grip on your hair and pulled you back.

Your lips left him with a wet, obscene sound, your eyes flicking up to meet his in confusion as you knelt there, your cheeks flushed and your lips swollen.

God, you looked so damn good like this. It took every ounce of composure not to just push you back down onto his aching dick.

"Yeah, sorry, I know," he said, letting out a strained, humorless laugh as he ran a hand through his hair. "Not that I don’t appreciate the A-plus performance down there, but seriously… the hell’s going on with you?"

You blinked at him, your brows furrowing slightly as you started to shake your head. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Bullshit," he shot back, his lips quaking into a lopsided grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're too quiet. Not in a sexy way, especially when you’re down there looking like you’re plotting an escape instead of sucking my dick."

"I'm not plotting anything," you said softly, avoiding his gaze as you moved to stand.

"Then what is it?" he pressed, his voice still light as he crouched slightly, his hands gripping your shoulders. "Talk to me, babe. Now it’s in my head and I can’t exactly enjoy myself. You're freaking me out a little here."

"I told you, I'm fine," you said again, more forcefully this time, though the crack in your voice betrayed you.

Mike's eyes narrowed, his smirk fading as he studied you. "No, you're not." His voice softened slightly, his hands moving to cup your face, tilting it upward until you had no choice but to look at him. "C'mon. Spill. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

You hesitated, your throat tightening as you tried to push the words back down, but his gaze was steady, warm and unrelenting, and before you knew it, the truth spilled out in a quiet, trembling voice.

"I'm tired of sneaking around."

His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but no sound came out. He let his hands fall to his sides, his fingers twitching restlessly before he dragged them through his messy hair. His expression was a mixture of surprise and guilt, and he let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh but there was no humor in it.

"Okay. Wow. That's… yeah." he said finally, his voice low and uneven.

"That's all you have to say?" you asked, your voice was sharper than you intended, but the frustration that had been building inside you for months refused to stay bottled any longer.

Mike flinched at your tone, his usual cocky demeanor faltering for just a second before he plastered on a lopsided grin. "I get it. You're right. Totally. But, uh…" He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It's not like it's that simple, you know?"

"Isn't it?" you shot back, your voice tinged with anger and exhaustion. "You're either with me or you're not. You're either proud of us or you're not."

"Whoa, okay," Mike said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. His grin turned sheepish, but there was a flicker of guilt, maybe, or fear in his eyes.

"I didn't say I wasn't proud of us. Don't twist my words, alright?"

"Then what are you saying, Mike?" you asked, stepping closer, your voice dropping to a quieter, shakier tone. "Because I'm tired of feeling like I'm some dirty secret you're ashamed of."

"Ashamed of you?" he repeated, his eyes widening in genuine disbelief. "No. No way. That's not—Jesus, no." He let out a sharp, exasperated laugh.

"Then why, Mike?" you pressed, your voice breaking slightly. "Why do we have to sneak around like this? Why can't we just—"

"Because people talk," he interrupted, his tone sharper than he intended. He winced, rubbing a hand over his face before looking back at you. “Maybe they'll stop talking to me. Or you. Or both of us. Maybe it'll get weird with the group and we'll lose—"

"Them?" you interrupted, your voice rising. "You're more worried about losing them?"

"No! That's not what I'm saying," he snapped, his voice breaking slightly. "Stop twisting everything I'm trying to say."

"Then say it, Mike." You whispered through clenched teeth, your chest heaving as tears stung your eyes. "Say what you actually mean instead of hiding behind all this bullshit."

"I'm scared of what it'll mean if everyone knows. Of what we'll lose." He admitted, the words barely above a whisper. "But then I think about how you've put up with all my bullshit without ever asking for anything in return. And I hate that I've made you feel like you're not enough," he went on, his voice growing stronger, steadier.

His hands found your face, pulling you closer as his lips curved into a small, rueful smile. "You are fucking amazing. So, you know what?" He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours as his voice dropped to a husky whisper. "Fuck everyone else. Seriously. I don't care anymore. They're gonna know. All of them. Because you're mine and I'm not hiding it anymore."

Your chest tightened at his words, your breath hitching as tears slipped down your cheeks. Mike wiped them away with his thumbs, his touch gentle as he cupped your face.

"Soon," he said softly, his voice full of warmth and promise. "Soon, everyone's gonna know. I'll make sure of it."

The kiss that followed was as consuming as it was desperate, lips devouring yours. His hands were firm on your shoulders as he pulled you back on your feet and guided you onto the bed, his body following close behind. The weight of him was grounding, his solid chest and broad shoulders pinning you in place as his lips worked a path down your neck, each drag of his stubble leaving a pleasant burn in its wake.

His teeth scraped against the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, making you gasp. The sound only seemed to spur him on, his lips and tongue leaving the spot until it throbbed with a dull ache.

Your chest tightens with an overwhelming mix of love, relief and desire that coils tight in your stomach, threatening to snap.

When he pulled back, his lips were slick and swollen, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hand slipped lower, cupping the curve of your ass, the rough pads of his fingers squeezing hard.

"You're needy tonight," he teased, his grin sharp and wolfish. But the slight tremor in his voice betrayed just how much he was affected, too.

Your reply was cut off by the sound of your belt being unbuckled, the metal clanking loudly in the stillness of the room. Mike's movements were impatient as he yanked your pants down, leaving you exposed to the cool air. His hands were on you again in an instant, one gripping your thigh to spread you open while the other pressed firmly against your entrance.

His fingers pressed against you, teasing, before one finally slipped inside. The stretch was sudden, sharp, and you bit down on your lip to stifle a sound.

"Don't you dare hold back," Mike said, his free hand sliding up to grip your jaw. "Let me hear you, babe."

You couldn't help the soft whimper that escaped as he added a second finger, the stretch making your toes curl. He moved with purpose, his fingers scissoring and curling inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision blur.

"Fuck," Mike hissed, his breath hot against your neck. "Still so goddamn tight. How is that even possible with how often I've been inside you?"

You had no answer, your brain too scrambled to form coherent words. Your back arched off the bed as his fingers pressed deeper, his pace quickening until the sound of his movements was obscene.

Just when you thought it couldn't get more intense, he shifted, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your chest and stomach until your length was engulfed in his hand with a firm grip. He stroked you in time with his fingers, his thumb swiping over the head to smear the precum leaking there.

His mouth replaced his hand soon, tongue swirling around the tip before he took you in, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked hard. The sensation made your whole body jerk, a shaky moan escaping your lips.

His mouth working you over with the same frantic energy as his fingers. Occasionally, he'd pull away to kiss the inside of your thighs or murmur something against your skin.

When he finally pulled his fingers free, you whimpered at the loss, but soon you felt the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

His eyes met yours, searching for any sign of hesitation.

You nodded with zero hesitation and his lips twitched into a crooked grin.

He pushed in slowly, he was big and the feeling of him filling you completely burned in a way that made your breath hitch.

"Shit," Mike groaned, his voice strained as he bottomed out.

Mike didn't move at first, his hips flush against yours as you took the sheer, overwhelming weight of him inside you. His thick cock throbbed against your inner walls, stretching you wide.

"Fuck," Mike hissed, his voice low and broken, the curse dragged out like he could barely handle the way you gripped him.

The burn of the stretch began to fade, replaced by a maddening fullness that had your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He grunted, the sound deep and animalistic, his body trembling with restraint. "You feel that?" he growled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hands gripped your thighs tighter. "Feel how hard you make me? How much I want you?"

You could only nod, your head falling back against the pillow hissing through clenched teeth.

Mike's restraint snapped. He pulled back fully this time, the drag of his cock against your walls slow and deliberate, making you feel every ridge, every pulse. Then, with a sharp thrust of his hips, he buried himself again, harder, deeper.

The movement ripped a sound from your throat that you couldn't suppress. Mike's hand clamped down on your thigh, spreading you wider as he found a punishing rhythm, each thrust hitting a spot so deep and devastating that it made stars burst behind your eyes.

"Goddamn," he groaned, his voice raw and wrecked, his head dipping to press his lips to your throat. He bit down, his teeth scraping against your skin, and you arched into him, your hands clawing at his back, anything to keep yourself grounded.

Your walls tightened around him with every thrust. "I can feel you, babe. You're close, aren't you?" Mike murmured, his lips curling into a wolfish grin. He looked at you like you were a prey pinned beneath him, helpless yet tantalizingly willing to be devoured.

You tried to deny it, tried to hold back, but the relentless pace of his hips made it impossible. He adjusted his angle, tilting your hips up slightly.

Mike's voice was a guttural growl in your ear, vibrating through your entire body as his teeth skimmed the sensitive skin of your neck. "Say you're mine," he demanded, his breath hot and ragged, his lips brushing the shell of your ear with each word. The deep timbre of his voice shot straight through you.

You couldn't respond. The words were trapped in your throat, strangled by the relentless rhythm of his hips as he drove into you again and again.

"Isn't that what you want?" Mike's voice dipped lower, rough and edged with frustration. He nipped at your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down hard enough to leave a mark.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, hands clutching at the muscles there as you struggled to ground yourself. His cock filled you completely, the long, thick length of him stretching you.

"I asked you a question," he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His dark eyes were blown wide with lust, his jaw clenched tight as he watched your expression twist with pleasure all because of him.

"Stubborn," he said, almost to himself, his tone laced with dark amusement. "Guess I'll just have to fuck it out of you." He adjusted his angle slightly.

The next thrust hit so devastatingly deep, that your voice broke. His cock filled you completely with every thrust, the drag of him against your walls driving you closer and closer to the edge.

You tried to talk back but Mike thrust into you again before you could speak, rough and unrelenting. You bit down hard on his neck in retaliation.

Mike's reaction was immediate. A throaty grunt rumbled from his chest, the deep vibration rolling through your body as his thrusts became rougher, more erratic. "You wanna play like that?" he growled, his voice tinged with dark amusement. "Fine"

He grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head as he loomed over you.

He chased your lips, kissing you with a bruising strength as his thrusts grew erratic, his pace quickening as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. His cock dragged against your walls with every movement, the thick length of him filling you completely, relentlessly and forcing your body to adjust to the girth of him as he drove into you.

"You're so close," he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. "I can feel it. You gonna come for me, babe?"

You could only nod, your head falling back as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter until it finally broke. Your entire body tensing as you spilled over his hand and your stomach.

Mike wasn't far behind. The way you tightened around him as you came had his rhythm faltering, his movements becoming erratic. "Fuck," he groaned, his voice strained and guttural, his hips snapping against yours one final time as he buried himself deep.

You felt the heat of his release as he came, filling you completely, his body trembling against yours. His forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm.

The bed creaked loudly beneath Mike's weight as he flopped down next to you, sprawling out like a man utterly spent. He let out a low groan of satisfaction, running a hand through his damp hair as he caught his breath. "I think I might've broken something… and I don't just mean the bed." He muttered, his voice still rough from the intensity of what had just happened.

You snorted, turning on your side to rest your head on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. His skin was warm and slightly sticky, but you didn't care. The comfort of his solid presence was enough to lull you into a blissful haze.

"You okay down there?" Mike asked, his tone light and teasing as his hand came up to rub slow circles on your back. "Or did I ruin you for life?"

You smirked against his chest, rolling your eyes even though he couldn't see it. "Pretty sure you ruined me the first time we did this. This is just the aftermath."

His laugh was loud and genuine, his chest shaking beneath you. "You're welcome, by the way." He said, his hand slipping lower to give your ass a playful squeeze.

You hummed, too content to come up with a snarky reply and closed your eyes as his fingers trailed up and down your spine.

"So," Mike said suddenly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. "When do you wanna tell everyone about us? You know, the big reveal. 'Hey, everyone! I've been banging the hottest guy in the group and now he's with me, so hands off!’ That kind of thing."

Your face heated, but you couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of you. "Wow. Real subtle there, Mike."

"We gotta make it dramatic. Catch them off guard. Keep it spicy." He replied, his grin turning mischievous.

You raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly did you have in mind?"

Mike's eyes lit up with a devilish glint as he shifted to rest his hands behind his head. "Breakfast. Tomorrow morning. We wait until everyone's settled in, you know? Then, right as they're mid-sip or mid-bite, we drop the bomb."

You couldn't help but laugh at the image he was painting. "So your plan is to potentially choke someone with the news?"

"Exactly, fewer people to deal with if they can't breathe for a minute. It's efficient."

Shaking your head, you pressed a hand to his chest, giving him a mock shove. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah, but you love me," he shot back, his grin softening just enough to let a hint of sincerity slip through.

You smiled despite yourself, the warmth in your chest spreading. "Unfortunately for me, yeah. I do."

Mike chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you closer. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go. Now, get some rest, babe. You're gonna need your energy for round two later."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest remained as you settled against him, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his skin.

[endcant]

Crossposted from my Tumblr Community: The Trans South

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The Trans South Monthly Bulletin Board

. * ❄ . ❅ * { Our pinned post for January 2025. } * ❅ . ❄ * .

in this issue: direct mutual aid opportunities, LGBTQ+ good news, southern events, job board, fun links, resources

comment anything you want to add, and i'll add what fits in this month's post. i'll be making a new post each month, so you may need to resubmit any links that are applicable for multiple months. i'll update this if i get new info in a timely way, but still check the comments for anything i missed!

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[UPDATED 1/24!] Direct Mutual Aid Opportunities:

Actually help a trans southerner today!

Requests in this section are submitted by TTS members.

Cecilpedia needs to eat!

Catgirl-smash needs help getting somewhere safe!

Turing-tested needs help with his grandmother's funerary expenses!

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the bright side:

the fact that you're alive is good news to me!

Good-enough news for LGBTQ+ Southerners.

The First Trans Community Center Opens in Arkansas | "'We declare that Arkansas Can’t Erase Trans People!' said Rumba Yambú, founder and director of Intransitive. 'We are here to stay, and we will keep fighting for our rights to ensure Trans people can build a future in Arkansas'."

Nashville Notary Battles Marriage Discrimination by Marrying Queer Couples | "Huff says... 'If you don’t have a family that’s gonna support you, there are so many other people that will. It’s really inspired me to keep the love going.'"

"Zebra Youth is expanding its short-term housing for LGBTQ+ youth" | "ORLANDO | Zebra Youth, a local nonprofit focused on providing services to LGBTQ+ youth, is expanding its short-term housing for queer youth this month thanks to a grant from the Homeless Services Network of Central Florida through its Brighter Days initiative."

"An Alabama city banned an LGBTQ+ Pride float from its Christmas parade. It marched anyways " | "Prattville Pride was able to march in the city's Christmas parade despite being banned the day prior after swift action from a federal judge."

[Bitter-sweet] Plans for Pulse Nightclub Memorial Move Forward | "ORLANDO | The Pulse nightclub building will be torn down as part of the future memorial design, the Pulse Memorial advisory committee said during its meeting Dec. 12."

More News

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[UPDATED 1/24!] southern events:

no affiliation, just interesting finds

Virtual/Twitch. Mon, Jan 27th. Nashville-based streamer Joe Hills welcomes special guest: trans activist Allison Chapman | "There's a lot of work to do, so let's chat about how each of us can help." Allison will talk about her work, and we can learn more about doing activist work in our own communities. 8:30 PM US Central Time.

Virtual/Zoom. Thurs, Jan 30th. Pre-register. Autistic Self-Advocacy Network Policy Seminar | "Are you interested in public policy and how it affects your community? Do you want to get involved in policy advocacy, but are unsure where to start? Join us for Policy Advocacy: What we do and how we do it on January 30 at 4-5:30pm ET!"

[event complete]Virtual.January 9.Beyond the Ballot: LGBTQ+ Equality and Legislative Trends for 2025 | A public event by Funders for LGBTQ issues: Attend for an overview on policy expectations for 2025.

Are you a member of The Trans South and you want me to find events in your area? DM me and tell me what you need me to know, so I can focus on the neighborhoods and budget ranges of people within our community <3

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[NEW SECTION!] opportunities:

Work, Volunteer, and Make Change in the South!

[closed] Disabled Artists, Tennessee. due [unknown time next week], unpaid. Submit Your Work for Breaking Ground Arts Issue

Black & Latino Gay & Bisexual Men Age 18-35, Middle Tennessee. due ASAP, earn $375 Southern TENNacity | "We are a team of Yale-affiliated LGBTQ+ scholars of color... We are now currently recruiting for the TENNacity trial, a 11-week group therapy treatment created by and for Black and Latino/x gay, bisexual, and queer men (inclusive of cisgender men, trans men, and nonbinary individuals assigned male at birth)."

Community Organizers, 1-2 Years Experience, Alabama. due date unknown, $23-$26/hr. Hometown Organizing Project/Hometown Action is hiring Lead Community Organizer for Gender Justice | "Hometown Action is an affiliated 501c4 nonprofit advocacy organization building a multiracial, working class, trans/queer-affirming movement for racial, gender, economic, and climate justice in rural and small town communities across Alabama."

Experienced Marketers, Texas and Georgia. due date unknown. Lambda Legal is Hiring Remotely for Director of Integrated Marketing Position | "Lambda Legal is a national advocacy organization committed to achieving full recognition of the civil rights for the LGBTQ+ community and everyone living with HIV through impact litigation, education, and public policy work."

[closed] Regularatory Activism, Nationaldue Jan 17Comment on Fair Standards Labor Act Changes

[closed] Subject Matter Experts, Nationaldue Jan 11You Can Make a Difference by Serving on an HHS National Advisory Board/Committees

Are you a member of The Trans South and you want me to find opportunities in your area? DM me and tell me what you need me to know, so I can focus on the neighborhoods and goals of people within our community <3

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fun links:

media, literature, and games keeping me going this month

Read "Love Letter From A Poet Under Empire" by Mónica Teresa Ortiz | "The South isn't just a site of burials... but also of refusals: a list of those speaking out against the brutality that the state imposes."

Watch Black in Appalachia on PBS.org | Black in Appalachia explores the roots of African-American influence on the history and culture of Appalachia through documentaries, research, local narratives, public engagement and exhibition.

CSS Diner | Learn about CSS with this diner-themed game. Knowing CSS can help you learn to publish indie websites outside of social media!

More Fun

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useful links:

interesting resources and organizations you should know about

Repro Legal Defense Fund | The Repro Legal Defense Fund provides financial support for people investigated or fighting charges related to their pregnancy or abortion.

Trans in the South: A Directory of Trans-Affirming Health & Legal Service Providers | "Trans in the South is dedicated to every trans Southerner who persists in growing in this rocky clay soil."

More Resources

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If you're an adult trans person in the U.S. South, join my Tumblr Community: The Trans South.

If you're a teen trans person in the U.S. South and you create a youth community for trans southerners, let me know and I'll link to it in The Trans South.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Love is like the rose thorn

𝔗𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔨𝔣𝔲𝔩 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔡𝔬𝔫’𝔱 𝔰𝔢𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢𝔬𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔨𝔦𝔩𝔩 𝔪𝔢 ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲, ℑ’𝔪 𝔰𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔶

Description: The last thing Y/N expected after quite literally falling down the rabbit hole was to wake up in a world where dragons and knights exist. Throw in an incorrigible but undeniably handsome boy called Benjicot Blackwood who won't stop following Y/N around and we have ourselves a regular ol' fairytale.

Disclaimer: Victoria here to interrupt my regularly scheduled Aeron Bracken content with a Benjicot oneshot. This doesn't have any connection with Elizabeth's masterpiece The Blackwood Knight but is an attempt to fulfill a request from @ithilwen-blackwood for a modern reader finding themselves in Westeros. I'm sorry it doesn't match the request exactly as the reader isn't a dragon rider in this.

Loosely based on Beauty & The Beast. There's now a companion Cinderella retelling for Aeron Bracken called Star Crossed

Warnings: swearing, threat of violence, female reader, world jumping reader, Frenemies to lovers vibes, lengthy (I got carried away whoops), Beauty & The Beast vibes.

Y/N woke with a jolt. Dazed, her eyes frantically tried to take in her surroundings. She was disturbed to find she was not in her own bed, but lying on the cold hard ground with ferns lightly tickling her face. She seemed to have fallen asleep in the middle of nowhere, not recognising any land marks, just the vast expanse of green fields, rocky paths and off in the distance the treeline of nearby woodland. She remembered she'd been hiking and come across a strange arch covered in interweaving vines and blood red roses so dark they were almost black. She had felt inexplicably drawn to the arch that seemed to crackle with magic. But she knew that was ridiculous, there was no such thing. And yet she found herself walking towards it as if pulled by some invisible force until she stepped through it...and was met with darkness.

Y/N was pulled back to the present by an intense feeling of panic. None of this made any sense. Nonetheless her survival instincts had kicked in and she knew she couldn't just linger out in the open, she had to find help. So she started forward, opting to avoid the eery treeline of the woods, hoping that she'd eventually come across some semblance of civilisation, even better someone who could help her make sense of what had happened to her.

Y/N felt like she'd been walking for hours, perhaps she had, her bones wearied with exertion. A shining ray of hope came in the form of a beautiful man sat atop a precarious pile of stones. He struck a princely figure, dressed in clothes that looked straight out of a medieval fair, a fake sword hanging from a belt at his hips. His soft brown hair, lanky limbs, and dimples gave him a boyish charm. But his broad shoulders were suggestive of a strong build and the small scar on his nose gave her the impression he'd once broken it, perhaps in a fight. Eyes suddenly snapping to hers, his features rearranged themselves into a cocky smirk and she suddenly felt quite strongly that the man in front of her was quietly dangerous.

Unfolding himself from his slouched position, almost that of a beleaguered sentry, he jauntily approached her. Although he did stay at a respectful distance of a few paces. "Good day my lady, I have not seen you around these parts before. And I admit I do not recognise the colours of your house. From where do you hail?" Y/N found herself scoffing at his roguish tone and bizarre speech pattern. "From where do I hail? Are you heading to an expo or something. What's with the cosplay and fake sword?" The man's handsome features pulled into a slight frown of confusion. It lasted a mere moment before his eyes were oncemore alight with a mischievous glimmer that Y/N found equal parts frightening and exciting.

"Do you jest my lady? I bear the sigil and colours of House Blackwood as is my prerogrative as Lord of Raventree Hall." He bowed his head to her, a hand to his heart. Y/n had to admire his commitment to his costume but it was starting to grate on her nerves that he seemed to talk in riddles when she was desperate for answers. "Right, sure you are. Could you please point me in the direction of the nearest town?" Y/n asked awkwardly, hoping to try her luck with someone not dressed like a knight.  "You do not know where you are my lady?"

"Not exactly. Not at all if I'm being honest. I sort of just walked through an arch and woke up in a field and here I am. Where exactly is here?" The man's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Y/N detected a trace of concern as his eyes appeared to soften. "You tell a strange tale my lady, and I should be pleased to assist you in any way I can. We are in the heart of the Riverlands, in Blackwood land." Y/N felt a fresh surge of panic rise up within her chest as she struggled to understand any of the unfamiliar words the man in front of her had just laced together. Had she somehow time travelled and that was the cause of their mutual confusion? Trying to maintain a semblance of calm she took a deepth breath through her nose. "Can you tell me what the year is?"

The man's lips turned up in an amused smile. "This close to the borders of Bracken land it depends who you ask. In the eyes of House Blackwood it is the first year of the reign of the true Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the 129th year after Aegon the conqueror's conquest." Y/N let out a high pitched squeek, the panic that had settled uncomfortably in her stomach finally bubbling up to breaking point as she began to realise she may be farther from home than she'd first realised. The young man seemed positively alarmed at her outburst, his eyes widening as she started taking small steps away from him all the while trying to regulate her frantic breathing. His brow furrowing, he started to close the small distance between them, a placating hand outstretched as if he expected her to run from him.

"My lady, I can see that you are distressed. If I have done or said something to alarm you, I assure you it was not my intention." Y/N told herself to snap out of it. This was likely all some big misunderstanding. That or the stricken looking man in front of her was toying with her. The idea that he would do such a thing when she was so clearly lost, confused, and vulnerable incensed her. Glaring at him she wordlessly turned on her heels to walk away from him at break neck speed. Hearing footsteps she glanced behind her to see him following at a distance. "Are you following me?" "Yes" He said simply as if it was perfectly obvious that he should. "Brazen bastard" she mumbled, unfortunately not low enough for him to miss. A look of surprise as he registered her insult quickly shifted to one of bemusement before Y/N could even begin to worry about him reacting badly. "That may be, but I'd rather not see you walk into a den of savages. And that is the direction you're going in."

Y/n was quite frankly sick of his cryptic messages at this point. Stopping in her tracks to face him, the young man immediately halted, mirroring her movements. She fixed him with a stern glare. "I don't know what you're playing at but it isn't funny. I have no idea what you're talking about. And I'm not a lady so you can drop the act."

Turning so quickly she was sure her hair must have whipped him in the face she continued on the path she'd chosen. If he wanted to drop mysterious messages of foreboding without telling her anything concrete she'd just as well ignore him. That turned out to be difficult as he resumed following her wordlessly. Y/N broke the silence a while later. "Why are you still following me? I thought you said I was going the wrong way. Headed towards savages as you put it?" Seemingly delighted that she'd finally looked at him and was willingly speaking to him he shot her a dazzling smile that almost softened her resolve to be irritated with him. "To protect you of course. I am a knight and you are a lady in distress. The course you set is a dangerous one but if you choose to walk it then I shall walk it with you." His smile did not match the promise of life-threatening danger he was suggesting.

"I can take care of myself and since I can't understand half of what you're saying I'm not sure I really believe you." His smile growing wider, the young man took a couple of steps towards Y/N to close the distance between between them before gently taking her hand and planting a kiss to her knuckles. "I don't doubt it fair lady, you seem seem have a will of steel but I'd rather not risk your safety if its all the same to you." Momentarily at a loss for words at his actions, Y/N quickly quashed the traitorous fluttering of her heart and cleared her throat as she pulled her hands from his and attempted to put him down gently. "That's quite enough of that. Look, I appreciate your concern... " she stopped realising she didn't know his name and looked up at him questioning. "Benjicot Blackwood. Might I Iearn the name of the fair lady in return?" Ignoring his question, Y/N went on "but there's really no need to worry. I'll be just fine on my own."

Once again Y/N turned from him and continued to walk towards whatever mythical danger the man had portended. When she didn't hear his footfalls following her immediately a smile of self-satisfaction ghosted onto her face before she realised she was almost dissapointed. That was until she heard them at a farther distance this time. Glancing behind her but this time not stopping she shouted back to him. "Are you still following me" He had to shout too for her to hear him though there was mirth in his tone "yes my lady, you still seem dead set on barrelling head first into danger. And you have not yet given me your name" he responded playfully. Y/N groaned audibly "Why can't you go bother some other poor girl and leave me alone?" Y/N fumed to hear him laugh. "Because then, fair one, I might actually have to bother, as you say, ladies who like my company. And where would be the fun in that when I have you to shout at me?"

Y/n gaped at him in disbelief, this man could not be serious. Shaking her head at him, she decided to just go back to ignoring him. Perhaps he'd get bored of following her or, if she was really lucky, fall into a ditch. They walked a little while longer before an arm suddenly shot out around her waist, the young man having hastened his steps to step in front of her. "A step further and we're in Bracken territory. I beseech you to turn back with me. I will take you to my halls and we can discuss your predicament further." Y/N felt a growing sense of fear at Benjicot's seriousness.

Perhaps she'd been too quick to write his warnings off. No sooner had she thought this than she heard approaching footsteps and spotted four other men dressed just like him, except for the golden colour of their cloaks where his was a deep red. She didn't like the angry looks on their faces and was ashamed to find herself cowering slightly. Taking in her fright the young man shot around and positioned himself more fully in front of her, arm lightly outstretched behind him as if to shield her.

"Get back from the border Blackwood, you're in breech of the assize."

"Fuck the assize. This is Blackwood land and you know it." Y/N didn't have a clue what the two men were arguing about as insults flew back and forth, but her ears perked up as the man closest to her red knight levied the next one at her. "Take her with you. Is she fucking stupid, or is she so bold to think she can waltz around wherever she likes? Typical Blackwood bitch." The Lord of Raventree as he'd called himself earlier snarled out a reply, stepping forward to shove the golden Knight harshly in the chest. "You craven bastard. You dare insult a lady under my protection?" Y/N should have been panicking at the impending threat of violence, but her anger at the man's insults, so blatantly laced with misogyny, rose up so fiercely that she heard her own voice among the din before she could stop it. "Don't you dare call me a bitch. Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? I don't know anything about an assize or why you're so obsessed with rocks and not crossing them but you can't just go around calling people names. Have some respect."

Seemingly stunned into silence, perhaps not expecting her to challenge him so brazenly, the golden Knight just stared at her in stony silence for a few moments before ignoring her entirely and turning back to her red knight. "Control your woman Blackwood." Through gritted teeth, Benjicot bit back "Speak another word about the lady and there will be violence." The golden Knight drew his sword, pointing directly at her red knight's chest. Ok, so not a fake sword then. Surprising her by laughing tauntingly, Benjicot walked right up to the tip of the sword. "You wouldn't dare." Y/N told herself she shouldn't find his passionate defence of her attractive, but in the current circumstances she felt she could be forgiven for being irrational. "Come on, just leave it" one of the other golden knights piped up. After a tense few moments the golden cloaked man lowered his sword and and stalked away, followed by his friends.

Shoulders tense, her defender did not turn his back to the knights until they were out of sight before turning around to look at her, eyes immediately softening from the aggressive glare he'd just been fronting. "Are you alright my lady? I had hoped to avoid such an interaction." Y/N flip flopped between finding his evident concern sweet and being irritated that he seemed to think this was her fault for not listening to him. "You think I'm to blame then? You're the one who kept dropping veiled hints about my impending doom and refusing to clarify what you meant!" Y/N could not for the life of her understand why the infuriating man in front of her was smiling at her. "Why are you smiling at me? Do you enjoy fighting with me?" "You mistake me my lady. I am merely gratified to know that you are well enough to shout at me. I was concerned that you would be shaken and frightened."

When Y/N didn't respond, mouth opening and closing trying to find a response, Benjicot assumed that she must be in some state of shock after all. "Please allow me to take you to Raventree. It would go against my conscience to leave a lady wandering about the riverlands alone when you seem so confused." With that he held his arm out for her to take, an antiquated gesture that seemed to confirm to Y/N she was really not in kansas anymore. Weighing her options, she considered that Benjicot Blackwood had teased her and followed her, but he had not harmed her and had in fact protected her when he could have walked away. Making her decision, she lightly placed her arm on his. "My name is Y/N." Benjicot grinned at her as if she had given him a star rather than her name, placing his other hand atop hers as it rested on his arm and began directing them in the opposite direction "a beautiful name for a beautiful lady." Blushing fiercely with embarrassment, Y/N squeeked out a "Thank you."

Benjicot must have been chasing Y/N around the Riverlands for quite some time, as it took them at least an hour to reach the impressive fortress he called Raventree Hall.

Once she'd gotten over the initial shock of realising she had in fact jumped from her world into another, Y/N actually found herself settling in to life in Westeros. It had taken some convincing for Benjicot to believe her story and stop assuming she was mildly insane, but he had all the while insisted she stay with him in Raventree Hall, gifting her with her own room and beautiful gowns in the colours of House Blackwood. She'd only had her hiking gear on when she was unceremoniously plucked from her world into his, and she sought to avoid similar looks of curiosity to the one he'd shot her when they first met. Y/N grew to love Raventree and the people who lived there.

Benjicot had practically forced his friendship open her and as incorrigible and cocky as he could be, encouraging a healthy back and forth banter between them at all times, she could not be anything but grateful for it. Each day he would show her something new, always hoping to amuse her, whether it be a new room to explore in his ancestral halls, a book he thought she might like, or the rose garden tucked away in the grounds, which had become her favourite haunt.

The roses reminded Y/N of Beauty and the Beast, her favourite fairytale from back home which Benjicot had made her tell at least a hundred times, listening just as attentively, a hand cupping his chin and eyes never leaving hers each time. She supposed that her own situation did somewhat resemble her favourite tale, down to her very own castle and beast. Benjicot had always been a gentleman with her, but she had heard the stories of Bloody Ben whispered by his servants and seen first hand his willingness to resort to violence to protect her when they first met.

More often than not it was Benjicot, or Benji as he seemed to insist only she call him, who came to her, always seeking out her opinions. But today it was Y/N seeking him out. She'd been growing more and more homesick of late and wanted to be with the one person she felt could truly understand, eventually finding him in the armoury, wielding his sword in different formations. Hoping to sneak up on him, and having taken fencing lessons herself back in her own world, she quietly tiptoed over to the swords. Grabbing the lightest one she could she walked soundlessly back over to him before he suddenly turned and clashed his sword against hers. "Sorry Y/N but you should know that I'd recognise your footfalls anywhere and you're not as quiet as you think."

"Rude" she huffed back, sliding her sword down his and shoving him away from her. He grinned at the challenge. "You didn't mention you'd handled a sword before." "Only a little."

He parried a fresh blow from her, easily blocking the next. 

"I can see that" He teased, earning a snarl from her though it did not have any true aggression behind it. He continued to block her blows, but seemed reluctant to attack and she used this reticence against him to lunge and place her sword close enough to his neck to refute any delusions he had about her lack of skill. But he was prepared for this and swung his sword upwards to block her again, before taking hold of her waist and spinning her around, her back hitting his chest. His sword hand wove around around her shoulders, as he kept the blade at a distance from her body, while Benji gently trailed his other hand down the side of her bodice, his touch feather light and searing all at once. He leant down to whisper in her ear "You left yourself open here when you lunged."

Y/N had always found Benjicot attractive, even when he teased and irritated her, but she'd tried to quash any romantic feelings for him so as not to ruin their friendship. But his closeness to her now, her body pressed against his, was intoxicating and she struggled to think coherently. Suddenly releasing her, Benjicot smiled widely and bowed. "I shall see you later my lady, I am off to attend to my duties." Throwing his sword carelessly over his shoulder, he turned and exited the armoury, leaving Y/N to stew over the unwelcome feelings their impromptu sword fight had brought to the fore.

Later that night, Y/n could not help the wave of sadness that threatened to crush her under the weight of it from sending her into a spiral of homesickness. Soft sniffles and sobs echoed about the room as she tried to square the new life she now loved with her feelings of guilt over leaving her family behind. The rattling of her bedroom door knob sent her flying from her bed in alarm as she quickly grabbed a small blade form the wooden desk and hurried to conceal herself behind the door. As the intruder entered she wildly swung around to jab the point of her dagger into their ribcage. The intruder stiffened and she looked up to se that it was just Benji, whose brow was quirked up in amusement. How could he act so nonchalant about her nearly spearing him like a fish?

"What's so funny? I nearly gutted you!"

"With a letter opener?" She looked down to find that what she'd thought was a dagger was indeed just a letter opener, not likely to do much damage. She forced out a laugh that ended up sounding much more like a sob, and Benji's face immediately fell once he took in her tearstained appearance fully. Y/N couldn't bear his look of concern, certain it would just make her cry harder and so she broke the silence. "What brings you to my room at this time of night anyway to give me the opportunity to spear you in the first place?" She'd hoped to diffuse the tension and make him laugh but his expression remained just as serious, eyes filled with worry. "I heard you crying."

"Oh." He had come to check that she was OK. His gentle concern for her sent forth a fresh wave of tears and when Benji opened his arms to her she immediately fell into them, her forehead hitting his chest as his hand came up to stroke her hair in a comforting gesture. "What ails you my lady. Whatever you need I will see it done."

His kindness only made her crying worse and he kissed her sweetly on the crown of her head, rubbing soothing circles along her spine. "I miss my family and my home." Benji stiffened as if he were expecting a blow but he let her continue. "And mostly I feel guilty that I'm not sure I even want to go home. Truthfully I love Raventree and your friendship has meant everything to me."

Benji took hold of Y/N's elbows and lightly pushed her away from his chest so he could look into her eyes. "It gladdens my heart to hear that you feel this way about my home. I should like you to consider it your home too. You will always  have a place here with me." Kissing her forehead tenderly, he held Y/N's head against his heart again as if she were made of glass or something truly precious to him he was scared to break. Little did she know how true this was.

Weeks later, Y/N found that her homesickness had begun to dissipate to a dull ache. But her feelings for Benji had grown and spread like the vines of the rose bushes she loved so much, wild and uncontainable. It was difficult to even be in his presence without wanting him to touch her and hold her as he had the night he'd found her crying.

Sitting with her in what he'd come to refer to as her rose garden, he kept shooting furtive glances at her as she read from a tome on his house history. "Why are you staring at me?" "I'm not?" "Try that again without the question mark"

Benjicot surprised her, shifting in his spot next to her to turn to her fully, their knees touching, before taking both of her hands in his. "I have not been able to look away from you for more than a few moments ever since I first laid eyes on you. I must admit that I am desperately in love with you and wondered if, by some chance of fate, you might feel the same way?"

Y/N's jaw fell open in shock. " You love me?"

He squeezed her hands "most ardently."

Her mind spinning, she threw caution to the wind and flung her arms around Benji's shoulders to kiss him. He reacted instantly, pulling her as close towards him as possible until she was in his lap, his hands grasping at her hips to pull her closer still as if he couldn't believe she was real.

Breaking the kiss for oxygen, Benji began to trail a line of kisses down Y/N's neck, leaving her breathless, one hand pressing her back closer to him. "I wish you to be my wife, to become the Lady of Raventree Hall and House Blackwood."

Butterflies erupted in her stomach.

"Future Lady Blackwood am I?"

"Should you permit it, I will protect you, cherish you, and love you for the remainder of my days or for as long as you will allow. I humbly offer myself to you as your husband, with all the love I possess for you."

"And what if I disagree with you and challenge you. What if we argue constantly?"

"We do not argue my love, you scold me and I listen" He shot back with a playful grin.

"And if I decide to change all the tapestries pink?"

Benji sighed, tilting his head to her eye level so she could read the sincerity in his eyes.

"I want all of you, including your thoughts and opinions. They're what made me fall in love with you. I want you to share them with me even if they challenge mine, especially then, even when I hold you in my arms. As to the tapestries, I'm rather partial to my house colours but I would try to bear the change if it would please you."

Y/N giggled at that before planting a tender kiss to his lips. "Then I consent to be be your wife and Lady. You can't take it back though. You're stuck with me now."

Benji pressed their foreheads together, cupping the sides of her face to brush her lips with his. "And how grateful I am for it." He spoke against them before pressing his lips to hers in a kiss he hoped expressed his undying devotion to his lady.

A face I'd go to war for. The title is based on the line 'love is like the wild rose-briar' from an Emily Bronte poem I love called Love and Friendship.

[jinx-xxed]

Too Late (Almost)

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; Edited through this older piece since I still enjoy it :) also cuz I haven’t posted in forever hey guys

Part of Written in the Stars

Summary; When presented with the choice of winning the battle or saving the one he loves, which path will Kylo Ren take?

Content; Angst, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Commander reader, original characters, Kylo POV and reader POV, Rey vs. Kylo, redoing that TFA fight basically, but now in the TROS timeline yay!, Force bonded to Kylo, Force visions, blood and injury, reader almost dies whoops, battle, Kylo saves you, murder, Kylo chooses you, whole bunch of conflicting emotions, longing, possible down bad behavior

Wc; 2.4k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

Rey grunts against the force of his swing, her heels digging into and slipping against the snow covered ground beneath them. Red sparks against blue, creating a sort of purple mix of light that reflects off her face and his mask. It’s so reminiscent of their first conflict, of the fight in those snowy woods outside of Starkiller Base, where he had lost. Kylo won’t lose this time. He’s stronger, he’s better, he won’t be bested by his outlandish and fleeting desires to have someone who understood because he thought he had no one, to have someone to teach to prove to himself that this wasn’t for nothing.

It’s just them in this clearing, sparse, dying trees surrounding them, snow flying up around their legs and soaking into their clothing. Their hair is plastered to the edges of their cheeks, determination and fury burning in both of their eyes. Determination not to lose, determination to get out of this in one piece. Rey slashes at him, a downward swing that he blocks and jerks his lightsaber upwards, taking hers with it. She steps away to just narrowly avoid the middle swing he aims at her abdomen, going into the defensive again. She slips against the ground, her lightsaber unable to come up and protect her when he prepares another attack, leading her to resort to the strength of the Force. He feels an invisible power blocking his lightsaber, creating a weird effect with the plasma where it’s stuck in the air mid-swing, quivering beneath the Force. With her next breath, Rey rears up and tries an underhand slash, one which he dodges by darting backwards.

The dance is familiar, one Kylo’s practiced time and time again with different partners. It doesn’t scare him, doesn’t illicit the type of fear it does in Rey. She’s scared of losing, of what could happen to her if she does. She knows she’s at a natural disadvantage with him beating her out in almost every aspect, and yet it’s her courage that keeps her going. It’s something intangible that keeps her from bowing to his power—her defiance and spirit. He recognizes the spark in her eyes, because he’s seen it so many times in someone else’s. In someone who is so unbreakable it infuriated him, in someone who is his equal in every way, in someone who has been with him through just about everything.

Lightsabers burn gashes into trees, the wood smoking and burning orange, snow melts from the heat, only to be replaced by a flurry disturbed by the two of them. In the distance, there’s more fighting, more smoke, more blaster fire, more ship engines screaming. But here, it’s like they’re in their own isolated world away from it all. Rey misses a swing, her form falters, and he takes his chance. He uses the Force like the surge of a wave, overwhelming his opponent before she can react, slamming it against her body and sending her off balance. She yells, her back connecting violently with a tree, bringing her to her hands and knees in the white coldness of the snow. He advances with the easy, ruthless power of a predator as she struggles to get back to her feet. The opportunity is open before him, feeling like the sight of a clear sky after days of endless clouds, he only needs to-

Help.

The voice echoes through his mind, it makes his entire body freeze, like he’s unable to move even if he wanted to. It comes from far off in the trees, in a blood soaked clearing, where there’s only pain and anger and a desperate reach outwards. He heard her, her single word ringing louder than any other thought that may occupy his attention. His head turns ever so slightly, just a small tilt to the left, towards that direction. Rey is beginning to get up, she’s readying her saber, she’s prepared to fight again—but she’s studying him as well, curiosity sparking from the sudden change of his demeanor. She recognizes the way something has called him, something she couldn’t hear but could feel like a ripple across a still lake.

She’s alone, his Commander is alone, fighting to keep herself upright in a battle that’s quickly tipping in a direction that is not in her favor. He sees it in flashes across their bond, the imagery so vivid it’s like he’s there, living it through herself. There’s so many of them, all coming from between the trees with weapons brandished and with a determination to make this her resting ground. It was all planned out; get one of them alone, funnel them away from their soldiers and comrades so they can be overwhelmed and overrun, brought down by those they’d spent so long crushing beneath their heel. They knew he’d be too focused on Rey, blinded by his rage, so that left only one remaining. Her Fleet is nowhere to be found, instead fighting their own battles, working together in the skies with the methods they’d been taught. Her breath is forced from her lungs as she’s brought to the ground. He feels it, the way his chest is threatening to cave in on itself, the burning, phantom pain within his right arm and left side.

The scene disappears suddenly and is instead replaced by something else, something formed and created by the otherworldly powers of the Force. He recognizes the hazy look of a vision, a glimpse into one of many possible futures. He watches, powerless, as she’s pinned, grappling hopelessly against a woman with a blaster aimed right at her head. Kylo’s torn from the vision just as the blaster goes off, the sound of it echoing in his skull.

A sudden despair washes over him, a type he’s never felt before and isn’t sure what to do with. It has no weight behind it, being simply the tip of the iceberg of what’s to come depending on what decision he may make. But it’s enough to make him want to fall to his knees. He’s thrown back into his body, his feet feeling unsteady beneath him, the crackling of his lightsaber filling his ears instead of the screech of a blaster. His eyes lift to Rey, his mind reaches for the forest. Two choices, two paths, two outcomes. That’s what it always is, isn’t it? One or the other, he can’t have both.

His fists clench, the ridges of his lightsaber hilt bite into his palm, Rey’s expression hardens, her legs separating into a battle stance. There’s a voice in his head that hisses at him angrily, demanding he not make this choice, demanding that he do what he’s supposed to, what he’s meant to. Weak, useless, too much of your father in you. He listens to it for a moment, listens to its whispers that have plagued him for years.

But then that despair from before pierces him like a stake, yelling at him, grabbing onto him, begging him to listen just this once. There’s a dam that breaks, a cage that opens and frees the bird trapped inside, flying in a way it always dreamed of. He takes a stumbling step back, a final moment of hesitation, like giving himself a chance to reconsider. It’s futile; he made up his mind a long time ago.

And then Kylo runs. He runs in the opposite direction, he runs from Rey, he runs from his victory, he runs from every lesson beat into him, and he instead runs towards something else entirely. Towards his hope, his respite, his safety, his partner, his everything. He feels deep down in the most core parts of himself that he just crossed a line he’ll never be able to uncross—and he finds that he doesn’t want to. Snow tries to suck him down, decaying plants grab at the edges of his robes, that hissing voice inside his head screams, but he ignores it all. Nothing can stop him now. His breath burns in his lungs, icy and angry and desperate. He feels her so acutely, feels her pain and every emotion and thought within her head, and it’s this that makes him realize he doesn’t know what to do were that to suddenly disappear, snuffed out like a flame, leaving him feeling like he’s missing the second half of himself. He’s been too late for a lot of things; too late to make up for what he’s done, too late to make things different, too late to make the right choice.

Please don’t let him be too late for this.

» ☆ «

“I thought you were the good guys.”

The blaster readjusts in the hands holding it, the barrel shifting upwards like it wants to give you a better view of where your demise is going to come from. The woman behind it keeps one eye shut, the other glaring at you as she snarls at your words. “We are the good guys.”

The face of this girl you used to know is now foreign to you, aged by the terrors of war and the fight for survival just like yours is. You can’t even remember her name. Your hand shakes desperately against her wrist, as if it’ll do anything to keep back the inevitable. Blood drips down into your left eye, your breathing rasps past your lips. Your other hand lays limp in the snow, a blaster shot cutting clean through your forearm and rendering it useless. Your lightsaber is somewhere nearby, knocked from your grasp at the same moment an elbow had connected with your jaw.

“You say that, but you all stoop to the same levels you criticize us for.” You spit at her, bloody teeth bared. “What do you think this is? A game to see who can come out on top with more innocence? Don’t kid yourselves.”

The girl’s eyes flare with anger so acute you can see the sparks. She brings her heavy-booted foot down on the blaster wound in your arm, putting as much pressure as possible. You choke out a scream as pain eats you alive, nausea blooming in your stomach. Blood spurts beneath the sole of her shoe, trickling down your charred skin and onto the snow below. “Quit talking like you fucking know anything. You’re vile. You get off on killing us. You deserve whatever fate waits for you in hell.” She jerks your hand off her wrist, gripping it and twisting sharply. Bones crack, more agony. Your mouth merely hangs open, sound unable to come out as your vision flashes white.

You feel as though your body is not yours, your pain cutting the ropes that kept the second part of you inside, allowing it to linger nearby as if this is all happening to someone else. Maybe it’s because you’re empty of your abilities, your muscles and blood no longer able to harbor the power of the Force. You’d used it all up a while ago when you were fighting a different group of rebels. Now you’re left so depleted you can’t even call your lightsaber to you, nor can you seem to keep your soul inside your own body. You look again at the blaster in her hands, you look into the black pit of the barrel. Is that what it’ll feel like? Black nothingness? You think so.

There’s nobody nearby to hear you, to come help—save—you. The Fleet is off fighting their battles in the skies, Kylo is occupied with Rey, you can’t call for backup. This was the rebels plan, after all. They wanted you to separate so you weren’t as strong, so that you could be taken down easier. You’ll admit that they were smart in taking the risk, it clearly worked in their favor. You should’ve been smarter, you should’ve noticed the signs and known not to follow the bait. You should’ve kept your head clear rather than letting the idea of this victory cloud your thoughts. You should’ve known to check your surroundings through the Force so you didn’t get overwhelmed by the rebels. You were stupid in the heat of the moment and you’re going to pay for it. You deserve it. You left BB-12 back in your ship so he didn’t get injured—even if he is a droid. You hope he’ll be okay.

You can’t keep your eyes open anymore, the action using too much strength that you don’t have. The cold of the snow is setting in, making your body numb. Your pain seems so far away when it’s like that. There’s a shift, the blaster clicking, and you know what’s going to happen. That’s fine. You couldn’t escape it forever.

You expect it to happen, for that shot of hot plasma to pierce through your heart and for all of this to come to an end. Your limbs relax in preparation—but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s an explosion of noises all at once. Your ears feel like they’re submerged in water but you can still hear the screams in fear and anger and confusion, the stomping of feet as people try to run, and the screech of an unstable lightsaber as it swings through the air and through human flesh. The weight of that girl on your chest is lifted so rapidly that breath finds its way back into your lungs in a heaving gasp that has your entire body burning in agony.

It takes less than a minute before silence settles over the clearing. The smell of fresh death hits your nose. You can barely manage to open your eyes again, merely squinting up at Kylo standing over you. His black uniform makes him cut such an intimidating shape against the white backdrop of the snow and watery sky, the silver lining on his helmet reflecting it. His breathing is coming out as ragged static through his modifier, chest heaving. His lightsaber clicks off and he attaches it to his belt, calling yours to him as he does and putting it right next to his own.

It feels like a dream that he’s actually here, that he picks you up and cradles you so carefully so he doesn’t irritate your wounds. When he lifts you, you see the carnage he left. Every rebel lays dead on the ground, their bodies getting buried under the snow that’s begun to fall. Kylo’s warmth under your cheek almost doesn’t feel real… you should be dead. You deserve to be dead. When you sent out that final plea through the Force, you never expected him to answer.

“I’m sorry.” You croak. “I messed it up. You lost them because of me. You should’ve left me-“

“Don’t.” Kylo snaps. Your body jostles with his movements as he walks. “Don’t say that.“

Even with your fading strength, you can still feel him through the bond you share. He was terrified, he was terrified of the possibility of losing you. He was terrified of how willing you were to give up; he could sense those final moments. He’s so angry at himself for nearly letting it happen, for letting the rebels get the upper hand like this.

“We will find them again,” he promises you. He pauses, the silence filled with the crunch of snow beneath his boots. “The same could not be said if I lost you.”

[dyns33]

Flufftober 2024 - 16 Yautja

Y/N didn't want to be there at all.

There were times in life when you regretted being a good employee. Since he trusted her completely, sometimes Mr. Weyland would insist that she and no one else take care of a project, attend meetings, spend hours writing boring reports.

This time, her boss had decided that she would accompany him on an expedition to Antarctica, where a strange pyramid had been discovered.

No doubt it was a very important discovery on many levels, but even if she could appreciate History and Culture, Y/N didn't really want to die of cold several kilometers underground in search of the origin of humanity.

This obsession of Weyland's made no sense to her. It was like the debates about the shape of Earth. Round, flat, on a giant turtle, it didn't change anything in Y/N's life, and knowing where their ancestors came from was the same thing.

It would be interesting, but it wouldn't change anything.

"Aren't you curious to meet our creators ?"

"If we have to meet some, and no, sir, I'm not interested."

"Another good reason for you to come. I can't wait to see your face when we find something."

No doubt the old man was too scared when they were attacked by these acid-blooded creatures to think about looking at her face and boasting with pride, then when these weird warriors had chased them into this labyrinth.

According to the scientist De Rosa who was trying to decipher the hieroglyphs on the walls to find an exit, they were two races of aliens who had been fighting for centuries. A hunt, to prove their worth, and Weyland's team was in the middle of this fight that didn't concern them.

On top of that, they had made the mistake of taking the warriors' weapons, the only reason they were attacking them. Otherwise, humans had no interest.

At least, until they were forced to face one of the things and Y/N managed to kill it, avoiding being injured by its acidic blood and its pointed tail. She was the only one left and there was no way she was going to end up in this place.

She didn't even have time to recover when the other alien appeared in front of her, making her jump and fall to the ground. But while she thought he was going to take advantage of it to kill her, he just stared at her, before looking at the creature's body, making strange clicking noises.

With his mask, it was impossible to know what he was thinking, but she had the impression that he was impressed. His noises, which seemed to be his form of language, became a kind of purr as he approached her.

Petrified and knowing that she had no chance against him, Y/N watched him reach out to her, before understanding that he wanted to help her up.

"… Thank you." she whispered, grabbing his huge hand.

He was still as tall even when she was standing. Quickly, he scanned her for injuries, before giving her a weapon. Despite the language barrier, Y/N guessed that it was a sign of respect, that he considered her his equal and that he was going to help her survive.

The alien, which she named 'Scar' for lack of a better term, stayed by her side until they had eliminated all the creatures and had gotten out of the pyramid safely.

For a moment, she wondered if he was going to abandon her here or kill her, because from what De Rosa had understood, these warriors left no witness to their passage.

A ship appeared above them, lighting up the entire plain. Y/N thought of Weyland, who would have laughed at the sight of her face at that moment. It might not have been their creators, but it was still incredible, and if she wasn't about to die, she could have been amazed.

"Come." Scar said then, in a strange voice, like a recording, which surprised her.

"What ? Come where ?"

"Come." he only repeated, taking off his mask, revealing his monstrous face, and yet very human eyes. "Oxloq'inb'il, kaw rib' rochb'een. Yoo."

"Oh. You want me to come with you ?"

"Sei. Come."

She could have said no. But besides the fear of losing her head if she refused, Y/N was curious. Really, her boss would have found it hilarious. Scar purred loudly when she took his hand, visibly delighted that she followed him.

[itsblosseybitch]

The GOP appeals to the white working class not through class issues, but through racism. Because the white working class in the United States is, by and large, racist.

There's definitely a Horseshoe Effect when it comes to the racial politics between wealthy white Republicans and white working class Republicans. It's arguably their biggest common ground.

It's not that the white working class doesn't care about being underpaid and exploited for their labor. It's not that they're unaware of how much bosses and the capitalist system screw them over. On the contrary, they're quite cognizant of those issues. It's just that they are much more fearful of competing with immigrants over jobs or minorities fighting for racial equality, and they vote accordingly.

Some anecdotal evidence on my part: I'm a white woman born and raised in the South where my mom, dad, and stepdad's sides are all economically diverse but solidly Republican. I've heard pretty much every racist talking point across this large class gamut that doesn't include overt, KKK racism. A very close family member, a woman who grew up working class (and became middle class by marriage), cited the aforementioned fear of immigrants and minorities on why she voted for Trump, more than any other issue. The white working class kids I went to school with were also solidly Republican, and you bet your ass they had racist views!

There's a popular narrative that the white working class started voting Republican because the Democratic Party abandoned class issues. That narrative implies that the Republican Party has made class issues a large part of their platform, but that couldn't be further from the truth, as their embrace of Trickle Down Economics proves. Instead, the Democratic Party started emphasizing racial equality, which turned off the white working class by and large.

There's another popular but just as inaccurate narrative that the white working class are voting against their interests. From a class perspective, that's true. But once again, the white working class greatly prioritizes their racial politics over their class politics, so in reality, they actually are voting for their interests. Maintaining white supremacy - whether they want to admit it or not - interests them more than addressing wealth inequality.

As long as all of these factors hold true, the Republican Party will continue to court the white working class vote with Race Panic ad infinitum.