#or a woman mentioned in the history books

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 2/18/2025

much like phil, i feel like i cannot quite ever get physically comfy this week. something is always not quite right.

listening: god save the queens by vienna vienna

reading: love's harvest by peggy j herring

watching: cinderella

playing: pokemon

making: return of the baby blanket

listening

im going to start out a little bit mean and say that this self-described glimmer rock song, God Save The Queens by Vienna Vienna, really shone in the ten-second social media clips i saw of its live version. the actual studio version sucks so much. and even the full version of the live version, i want it to me slightly different but in a way i cannot articulate. i am excited to see if other people start covering this in fun ways and maybe it'll be the rare song where i like the cover much more than the original.

I saw a man out in Hollywood He carried a sign that said he hated me I said, "Please, get in line" He stopped to ask me a question He said, "Do you know Christ?" I told him, "Maybe I do, does she work the nights?" He said, "No, I mean Jesus" I said, "That guy was tight But I'm not living in a city built upon your lies" He tried to save me, but somebody already did last night They said their name was Alex, baby, and they showed me the light

like here's the studio version. give us nothing i guess??? i think if you are going to sell merch with GOD SAVE THE F*GS censored out maybe you should say that in the studio version of your song. this is probably a label decision but i want this song to be about 15% less corporate sponsor of a pride parade than it is. i feel like this song got heavily edited from a first draft and i would have liked to hear that probably much angrier first draft. hell of a hook though.

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reading

this gay and/or lesbian romance and/or erotica project is turning into a little bit of a slog, so with the gentle encouragement of @sybilius going "what if you read good books you enjoyed?" going forward we are going to try a novel of dubious quality from my shelf and an acclaimed queer novel from history in the hopes that one of them will be tolerable. so next week we have the dubious pairing of a mob girlfriend in WITSEC romantic thriller from my shelf, and Fried Green Tomatoes At The Whistle Stop Cafe has just come off hold.

last week's assigned book was Heart on Fire, which was supposed to be even!! better!!! than Naiad Press's previous bestseller Curious Wine by Katherine V Forrest. so of course we had to detour to Curious Wine, which had a very short hold time.

reader, i did not finish this book. seven (7!) different women are introduced in the first chapter with almost no physical or clothing descriptions. they are all extremely mean to each other in the way older women who are dissatisfied with their life often sabotage all their relationships. i didn't have it in me to make a cheat card for myself with who the fuck each woman was, bc i expected somewhat lighter going in a contemporary romance with no extra genres tacked on top.

i am glad i did not continue bc while reading reviews everyone mentioned the Graphic On-Page Sexual Assault??? and this is still somehow every older lesbian's favorite book??? truly the times have changed.

Deep in the heart of France's majestic wine country, the sun drenched hills and lush vineyards of the Jeton family estate seem like the perfect setting for a passionate affaire de Coeur. But the life of workaholic winemaster, Nicole Jeton, is anything but romantic. From one harvest to the next, she runs the world-renowned winery, cares for her invalid father, and bails her no-good brother out of trouble—never stopping long enough to consider her own needs and desires. Until she meets the lovely Camille Cartier...

thank you girls. Love's Harvest by Peggy J Herring is one of the books acquired by Bella when they bought out part of Naiad Press. originally published in 1997, this 156p book was reprinted in 2007 with no additional changes or author's notes. it is the same quality as all the Bella reprints: a kind of terrible to hold perfect-bound softcover. i am beginning to suspect i simply do not vibe with the naiad and/or bella publishing market. i may not be their intended reader. im not really sure who their intended reader is, except maybe the 1997/2007 version of people who patiently comb through self-published kindle ebooks? what is the point of having a physical press and an editor if you can't make the line breaks and the quotation marks correct?

i couldn't find out much about Herring except that she died last summer and was part of her own tuesdaypost endeavor:

To further enhance communication within the women's community, [WomanSpace San Antonio] newsletter staff initiated a regular event known as Tuesday Night for discussing topics affecting women's lives. Topics ranging from real estate law to rape/incest were prepared for each Tuesday session. As ties to related community resources and events increased, the Tuesday Night events were superseded in 1995 by other events and meetings for the lesbian and gay community.

i did not like this book. such a wild amount of somewhat disjointed events take place during this novel and i really wish it was good. there is a for-real ghost, her great aunt killed by her grandfather and everyone just kind of shrugged about it??? that can dramatically interact with physical objects and STOPS A MURDER??? people are so calm about this ghost as a daily fact of life when there is exorcist level shit going on in the foreground. nicole has to cancel one of their weekend getaways bc the ghost is simply too on one and she can't figure out how to explain the ghost to camille, a presumably more normal outsider who presumably did not grow up with a ghost. the ghost is not the focal point of this book but it is by far the most interesting thing in the book.

this book felt like a barely fleshed outline. they go here. they do this. they see that. here is a great example of a section where i would have loved more elaboration in literally every sentence. the build up to this call and the call itself could have been a full chapter instead of half a page.

the least amount of dialogue i have maybe ever read in a book, and even fewer thoughts or feelings or interiority. the sex scenes read like stage direction. which is crazy bc they start fucking on page 42 and keep fucking every time they meet. they do NOT waste any time which was really refreshing. if only it was hot.

things mostly seem to happen to vineyard owner nicole— taking care of her dad (who dies quite early in the book) and the vineyard, her brother randomly shows up instead of her summoning him back to get some emotional closure (he doesn’t even show up for their father’s funeral), her gay bestie summons camille back after the third act breakup instead of nicole doing any emotional work and reaching out herself. everyone has at maximum one thing going on at a time that is neatly wrapped up before the next thing happens.

i think the 3.3 on goodreads is overly kind, but people seem to really love her other books so what do i know. maybe all these books ended up at the thrift bc their original owner was unlucky enough to somehow pick the worst book from each author and had to unload them.

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watching

Cinderella (1950, dir. Geronimi, Jackson, and Luske) was on in the background while i was wrangling my bestie's children. probably the least scary (if you are not quite six or not quite two) disney princess movie. the bubble sequence makes me insane in a good way. i think this sort of thing is so easily replicated digitally that it looks unimpressive in 2025 but this shit is 75 years old!!! we were nineteen years away from landing on the fucking moon with a computer outpaced by my current microwave!!!

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playing

having a real brain time with pokemon. i was gently bullied into playing the app two weeks ago by my best friend's husband after trying and failing multiple times to get into the actual video games, but after getting the 45 wins i needed to get the fanciest current event emblem i went ok great! i won pokemon! i am done with pokemon! and have sort of mentally checked it off in my head. anyway i loved my murkrow/toxicroak combo. loved to flip a coin. loved my darkness deck apparently.

the deck autobuild feature is really great bc i am able to basically hold my own while knowing nothing about pokemon other that what ive culturally osmosed. im assuming this is a pretty fun app if you like this sort of thing and your brain chemicals are balanced without outside assistance.

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making

the baby i started this mint green baby blanket for is about to turn two in a couple weeks. better late than absolutely never i guess. my original notes called for 10 repeats but i think we're going to up that to 12, just finished the ninth repeat.

[brainrotroulette]

You’re right, Dally’s “Little Brother” is evocative of gospel, especially with the choral call and response behind him, and maybe they could have handled casting Dally’s role differently to avoid unrealistic depictions of racial struggles in the south in 1967.

However, gospel is not the only genre with overwhelming roots in the black community. I can provide you with links to great sources about how blues, rock, and jazz originated in these communities just as gospel did, but refuting my example of “Runs In the Family” by saying that “the song itself isn’t even good” and “there’s no real meat” when I provided several examples of the history behind the genres the song takes inspiration from doesn’t change the fact that the song is blues and jazz inspired (based on the stylistic qualities pointed out) and those genres originated in Southern African American communities and their unique historical struggles just like gospel did.

Additionally, to your point that the music as a whole doesn’t fit, blues, bluegrass, gospel, rock, jazz, folk— all the genres that this show takes inspiration from didn’t just magically disappear from Oklahoma when the Beatles and Elvis became popular. In reality, these genres are still alive, popular, and thriving in the South today. Before the Beatles and Elvis came onto the scene in the 60s, these kids would have been hearing jazz on the radio, gospel at church, witnessing the birth of rock on television.

Speaking of Elvis, even if the musical were to incorporate his style, the songs would still be deeply steeped in black history. The reason why there was such outcry to his popularity during this era was because it was seen as “black music” to older white audiences. In fact, he stole a lot of music from black musicians such as the original blues tune “Hound Dog” sang and popularized first by Willie Mae Thornton, a black woman. And though it was written by two white men, the song is faithful to the blues style created by black Americans. It has the AAB lyrical format, call and response lyrics, it has the walking bass and swung eighths, and the themes of woes and hard times.

If anything, the music these boys would have been listening to would have had even STRONGER African Americans roots and styles than the musical offers us because the Outsiders Musical is also a musical and many of the songs, including Dally’s “Little Brother” retain heavy stylistic elements of the musical theater genre which do not have the same strong African American roots as these other genres I’ve mentioned.

I think you make great points about how the musical leaves stuff to be improved upon with Dally’s character portrayal. I also think that you’re right, we have had no indication that Dally would have enjoyed gospel and to say that he does based on his race alone is to make a racist assumption.

However I find it hard to believe that as a black man in the 1960s he would not have been at least exposed to gospel. Communities from the South to the North were more segregated than today, and gospel music thrived in the churches of black communities across the country. It was a large part of the civil rights movement which he lived through, and even growing up in New York as the book said he did, he likely would have been exposed to that music.

However Dally’s final song being heavily evocative of gospel does not mean that he ENJOYS gospel.

Gospel is great, gospel can evoke boundless joy, but gospel can also express incredible sorrow and depict struggles unique to the racism and oppression faced by African Americans like “Go Down” which ties Moses’ pleas to the Pharaoh during Exodus and the similar pleas for freedom enslaved African Americans had.

“Little Brother” is in many ways similar to these gospel songs. It is a song of sorrow with a heavy thematic nods to oppression and, in this case being what the greasers experience as an unwelcome minority in the community. It is a position Dally would have known all too well as a black man in the South and one that gospel music has frequently touched on. To me, if the gospel in Dally’s song was the only African American thematic influence in the music, I would definitely be sounding the alarms, but it’s not. This is not to say that the way Dally is written as a CHARACTER is not problematic. Your comments have made me curious to look more into this and educate myself. But from a musical standpoint the ENTIRE score draws from genres that are steeped in black history and accomplishment.

what. what do you mean that people are upset that gone with the wind was changed in the musical adaptation. huh.

[seoscribbles]

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[paldogangsaan]

the most frustrating part abt the scene with alicent and rhaenyra (other than it being ridiculous) is the attempt at portraying alicent as a passive victim with zero agency (TO BE CLEAR she's a victim of both otto and viserys, that's not a question, she had no choice there. she did, however, have a choice in other moments and those are what i'm talking abt in this post). the writers essentially made her go "oh i thought he was talking about MY aegon. well, it's too late. i am a tragic figure who never wanted war. oh no" like ?? some of us have eyes and can see that alicent has been actively trying to gain power, undermine rhaenyra, and divide the family even before the time skip. she shows up to rhaenyra's wedding late and wearing green, she sows discord between their kids, spreads rumors of rhaenyra's children being bastards despite knowing it could get them killed (+ in the book the only ppl yapping abt them being bastards were alicent and criston cole bc the point of spreading rumors was to undermine and hurt both them and rhaenyra, if it was true or not was irrelevant), and she literally hits aegon and insists that rhaenyra will kill him to cement her claim to the throne even when there's been no indication that she would. alicent did not have to do any of those things, she actively chose to

and rhaenyra was willing to leave all that in the past by marrying helaena and jace thus ending the (then metaphorical) war between their sides of the family, but alicent refused bc she wanted power and for rhaenyra to not have any, so she made active choices to ensure that, and didn't care for the consequences. now her son is the king, she never prepared him for it so he's shit at it, she can't control him, she has no power, and the only person surprised is her (and otto). but again, these are choices SHE made or helped make. making an enemy of rhaenyra, and everything that came bc of that, was a choice. she would've helped put aegon on the throne whether viserys quoted the prophecy to her or not, be it usurpation (which it was) or not. that was a choice alicent made. stop portraying her as a passive victim of the dance when that role belongs to helaena

[multi-fandom-magic]

These 3 Ariana Grande albums >>>>>>>>>>>>>>

[fictionadventurer]

People will often say, 'If you could be with Lincoln for dinner, what would you want to ask him? What would be the unanswered question?' And I know I should be asking him, 'OK, suppose you had not been killed, how would you have dealt with the South? How would you have dealt with Reconstruction and all the controversies that arose?' But I know that if I really had him for dinner one night, I would simply ask him, 'Tell me a story, Mr. Lincoln.' Because then I would see him coming alive. He laughed so hard when he told one of his funny stories, his eyes would twinkle. And then I'd know that the Lincoln I knew -- who was somehow able in the worst days of the war to dispel the anxiety of his Cabinet members by his humor and his life-affirming sense of storytelling -- then I’d know I would have seen him alive.

-Doris Kearns Goodwin, Presidential Episode 16

This was where I had to stop the Lincoln episode at the end of my commute, and as I pulled into the parking lot I said to myself, "Wow, that's lovely." A little schmaltzy, perhaps, but I think it gets to the core of why people study history. Sure, there's the intellectual impulse to analyze and understand events with the benefit of hindsight, but deep down, the heart of historical study is a desire to connect with people. To bridge the gulf of time and space and get to know people despite the fact that they lived in a completely different century.

History's not just dry lists of dates and names and theories. It's people. It's personalities. It's quirks and memories and stories. It's knowing that a historical figure isn't just a face on a monument, or a source of information, but a guy who can tell really funny stories. And I wanted to share this quote because it really understands the humanity of history in a way I rarely see expressed.

[lilhawkeye3]

A Crash Course to Kendrick's Super Bowl Performance, from a Black Woman

Note: this does NOT go in depth into all of the song's lyrics. I don't have time to recount two decades of his discography. This is just a summary of the performance itself.

Let's start with the first visual we get:

UNCLE SAM - most notably recognized from WWII American wartime propaganda, Uncle Sam is the personification of American patriotism and freedom. The term "uncle" is also evocative of Uncle Tom from Uncle Tom's Cabin, an abolitionist book that aided in inciting the Civil War. Uncle is also a very common term (both endearment and derogatory) towards Black men (eg. "unc"). Samuel L Jackson was fantastic. (Edit: and please look up his history of civil rights activism, he was on the FBI watchlist and even a pallbearer at MLKJr’s funeral.)

Uncle Sam also resembles a circus ringleader, notable for my next point:

THE GREAT AMERICAN GAME - no, not Super Bowl. The GAG is us the people being pitted against each other: through late-stage capitalism, through the culture war, through class warfare, through being built of the backs of slaves. We are all players in the GAG because none of us on this site were the oligarchs seated at the inauguration.

This is also seen as Kendrick's stage was a Play Station controller. Not only did it remind of circus rings visually, but it was a game battle stage. The Great American Game is a battle royale of the commoners for the amusement of the rich whites.

Remember the foods / Them color was tin and brown / But now they 100 and blue - For this I'll just say, look what the last election said about lowering the price of eggs... and look at the prices now.

The revolution about to be televised / You picked the right time / But the wrong guy - Election 2024 once more. *Edit to add, the first part of this lyric is in reference to the Black Liberation Song "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" by Gil Scott-Heron. Thanks to everyone who mentioned that.

THE FLAG DANCERS - yes, the dancers formed the US flag... off of the backs of Black people. Not a single white person in sight, and that's true of the cotton pickers in the fields. Plantations are part of how the US came to economic prominence after being a "backwater" colony. Remember tobacco? Cotton? Our bloodlines do. *Edit to add: they also all piled out of a clown car. The US flag in a clown car? Brilliant.

The red and blue dancers are also notable for representing the Crips and Bloods, two infamous street gangs. The dance in Not Like Us is the Crip Walk. I recommend researching more on your own time about them, but just know they are a large part of the stereotype of Black people being "ghetto."

TOO LOUD, TOO RECKLESS, TOO GHETTO. Do you really know how to play the game? - This is exactly what Black people, especially Black men, get told all the time. It's why we change our names on resumes if they sound "too Black." It's why we codeswitch in non-Black company. This is especially rich considering how non-Black people love our culture and love to make money off of us, as the latter part of the quote points to. And it's even more profound during the Super Bowl-- the NFL is majority Black players.

STREET LIGHT A CAPELLA -- "thug" stereotype dancers to counteract the a capella connotations, with Uncle Sam then saying that Kendrick figured out "bringing other street guys around being a culture cheat code." Yes, this is a direct hit at Drake (listen to "Not Like Us") but also politically. Look up "model minority". Notably I would point to Candace Owens, or the Miami Venezuelan political group that's been in the news recently, especially as this directly led to Kendrick being surrounded by...

DANCERS IN WHITE -- it's white America. That's... that's the allegory.

NOT LIKE US TEASER -- Kendrick says "Not Like Us" is "their favorite song." -> he means white people specifically here. It comes after he's surrounded by all white dancers, the women around him who are his call and response are also in white (my opinion, they represent the industry). He's saying "Not Like Us" is the favorite of yts because it is about BLACK MEN FIGHTING. This again is reflected in the video game stage and ringleader Uncle Sam.

SZA -- instead of giving what they want, we see SZA. She's one of Drake's exes and Kendrick has always supported her.

ALL THE STARS -- This was in the first Black Panther movie, which I recommend you watch. Rest in Power Chadwick. Notably, this movie was incredibly mainstream as a major Marvel movie, and then we have Uncle Sam say...

"THAT'S WHAT AMERICA WANTS: NICE AND CALM. DON'T MESS THIS UP" -- translation: Marvel (the industry, America, etc.) wanted a safe, semi-pop song because white American likes safe pop songs, not Kendrick's usual heavy rap style about his life as a Black man! Don't mess up what you've got going mainstream for having this "Black rap feud" with Drake, who is an R&B model minority to white people because he's safe.

So what does Kendrick say?

IT'S A CULTURAL DIVIDE / IMMA GET IT ON THE FLOOR -- He was warned not to be political or apologetically Black for this Super Bowl performance, but he is using this big stage opportunity to speak out.

40 ACRES AND A MULE / THIS IS BIGGER THAN THE MUSIC -- 40 acres and a mule are what the freed slaves were promised. Instead, this land went to white sharecroppers. Research Jim Crow laws.

THEY TRIED TO RIG THE GAME / BUT YOU CAN'T FAKE INFLUENCE -- rig the election, rig the industry like with model minority Drake, rig the Great American Game with culture war to distract from active class warfare.

NOT LIKE US -- the only thing I'll mention because it made me holler is Serena Williams crip walking on Drake's metaphorical grave. She's another one of his exes (read: Drake harassed the hell out of her). *Edit: she was also fined at the 2012 Olympics for crip walking in celebration at Wimbledon.

TURN THE TV OFF -- exactly like he said! The TV is a distraction, the Super Bowl is a distraction, the mainstream news is often a distraction. Turn it off and get with your people!

GAME OVER — could not see this on my stream but at the end of the performance, the lights in the stadium spelled this out. The world is watching, America…

In conclusion, Kendrick Lamar is a visionary and thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

[tomanto-the-friendly-nb]

As a nonbinary lesbian, whenever the rare phenomenon occurs in which I make a post of my own, I usually get the phrase "You can't be nonbinary and a lesbian" as a first response, even if the post had nothing to do with sexuality or gender.

Last time that happened someone said "You can't be a lesbian when you go by they/them".

My friend, that's not even an identity, those are words. You could call me peepee-poopoo and I would still be gay. Go outside.

i wish that people were more accepting of the fact that not everyone's "core being" or whatever you want to call it will line up perfectly with a label. some people use labels that match their feelings 100% some will use labels that mostly of kind of fit. some will use a label but only to get people to stop asking about it. some use no labels. etc. labels are just tools that we use to describe our unique + indescribable experiences and feelings, and they tend to work pretty well, but it isn't 100% effective. this is what it means to not sort people into boxes

[covenofagatha]

Birthday Girl

On your 21st birthday, your friends drag you to a bar to get wasted when you decide it's a good idea to drunk-call Professor Agatha Harkness.

Word count: 3400+

Warnings: smut, fingering, oral, intoxication, mentions of underage drinking, teacher x student (legal)

“One, two, three!” Wanda chants and you and your friends tap your shot glasses on the bar counter and quickly down them. 

You gasp at the burn and they laugh at you. It’s your 21st birthday and your best friends Wanda, Rio, and Natasha had dragged you out to the closest bar to get you wasted. They had all already turned 21 the year before; you were the baby in the group. 

“Fuck, that’s disgusting,” you groan. 

“Another round, please!” Rio motions to the bartender. He sets down four more tequila shots and one is shoved into your hand. 

“Think you can get to 21?” Wanda jokes and the thought of 20 more shots makes you want to gag. 

“I might puke after this one,” you say and your friends laugh. You were never a partier in high school or college, always preferring to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. You’d only had some sips of alcohol a few times, but you had never been drunk. 

“You deserve this!” Nat shouts in your ear. “Harkness has been working you to the bone!” 

You shrug and wave your hand dismissively, suddenly uncomfortable. Agatha Harkness is your History of Witchcraft professor at Westview University. She’s known around campus for being cold to everyone and rarely giving out A’s. She expected nothing short of excellence and would not put up with excuses. Everyone was terrified of her. 

Everyone except for you. 

Something about the older woman captivated you. You were obsessed with meeting her standards, dreaming of the day she would look at you with pride. You poured over your books for her class, rereading every sentence you wrote thrice, just to try to impress her. It had taken your friends days of begging to convince you to come celebrate your birthday with them because you had a paper for Agatha’s class due in a week and you were already worried about it. 

“I don’t know how you’re surviving,” Wanda says. “I had her last semester and got a C in the class. Third highest grade. She’s the worst.” 

“She’s not that bad,” you defend, not quite sure why. Something about Agatha getting so much hate for pushing her students rubs you the wrong way. 

“Yeah she is,” Rio joins in. “I heard that she’s a real witch.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we please stop talking about her? I thought you guys brought me here to get away from school.” You take the shot that’s still in your hand and it goes down smoother this time. 

“Yes, there we go!” Rio whoops. 

Two more shots later and your head has gone completely fuzzy. You feel as if you are floating on air and everything around you is happening in slow motion. You get off your stool and immediately stumble, Wanda catching you with her arms. 

“I think I’m a little drunk,” you tell her. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. 

“No shit, y/n, you don’t have to yell!” 

You didn’t even realize you had. “We should probably go back to the dorms!” You look around to see Nat chatting with some girl and Rio throwing darts at the board in the corner. 

“Not yet,” Wanda says, picking up her rum and coke. You’re not sure how she’s still drinking after she also did four tequila shots. “I’ll get you some water.” She signals to the bartender and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing your vision to go back to normal. 

When you open them, you see dark hair in the corner. Is that–? You shift so you can get a better look and feel sorely disappointed when you realize the person is not Agatha. Why are you disappointed? The thought echoes in your head for a second, and then is replaced by a sudden urge to see your professor. 

“Drink this,” Wanda orders, pressing a glass of ice water into your hand, but you’re too busy scrolling through your phone. You know she put her number on the syllabus somewhere and you are too far gone to think that this might be a bad idea. 

You feel a thrill run through you when you find it. You read the number over and over, like you’re afraid it’s going to change somehow. 

“I’ll be back,” you slur to Wanda and then step out the side door into the alley. You type the number into your phone and your finger hesitates over the call button. You know you shouldn’t. But fuck it. You press the button and lift the phone to your ear. 

It rings. And then rings again. You’re about to hang up to spare yourself the rejection when the call connects. 

“Hello?” It’s actually her. 

Your breath catches in your throat and you stand up straighter. “Professor Harkness?” 

“Y/n? Is that you?” 

“Yeah.” Shit, this was a bad idea. Even with your head still swimming, you know that. You can’t just hang up though. 

“Why are you calling me at 10:30 on a Saturday night?” 

“Um,” you say, trying to think of something. You’re definitely going to have to drop her class after this. You’ll never be able to face her ever again. “It’s my birthday?” You offer lamely. 

Agatha scoffs. “Happy birthday. Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, no, Professor, I just wanted – we’re at a bar – I thought you were – and just wanted to say hi,” you ramble, knowing you’re not making any sense, and you can almost hear her smirk through the phone. 

“Y/n, are you drunk right now?” Her voice perks up and it sounds like she’s finally interested. 

“No!” you protest. “Well, maybe a little. But I’m 21 now!” 

“What bar are you at?” 

“Jimmy’s.” It’s a local dive bar that is a popular place for Westview students to hang out at. 

“I’ll be there in ten. Wait out front.” There’s a click and then she’s gone. You stare at your phone, dumbfounded. Is Agatha coming to pick you up? Why?

You walk back into the bar and order a Dirty Shirley. The call had sobered you up a bit and if you had already drunk-called your professor, why not get even more hammered. Wanda comes back over to you and giggles when she sees the new drink in your hand. 

“Alright, time to party!” she exclaims. You pick up on the fact that she’s a little drunk as well. You stand up, vision blurring for a second. 

“I actually called an uber,” you lie, even through your hazy mind knowing that your professor coming to pick you up might sound strange to them.

Wanda pouts and then throws her arms around you. “Happy birthday,” she says into your ear and your arms tighten around her. 

“Thank you,” you breathe back. You’re close with Rio and Nat as well, but they don’t have the same bond you and Wanda do. You pull back and then go say goodbye to your other friends. 

The wind outside does very little to sober you up and you shiver from the coldness. You’re wearing a purple crop-top and a black mini-skirt, something Nat had found buried deep in your closet. You watch the time on your phone, heartbeat picking up as it gets closer to ten minutes since Agatha had hung up on you. 

And then right on the dot, a slick black Range Rover pulls into the parking lot, and you immediately know it’s her. The car stops right in front of you, the passenger window rolling down, and your breath catches. 

It’s Professor Harkness, clad in a maroon suit, wavy hair falling over her shoulders. 

“Do you need me to open the door for you, too, princess?” Agatha says, sarcasm dripping over the words, when you haven’t moved. You shake your head, partly to answer and partly to clear the fog. You settle into the seat, not missing the way Agatha’s eyes rake over your skimpily clothed body.

“You didn’t have to come get me,” you mutter, putting real effort into not slurring your words. 

She glances at you and sees you struggling with your seatbelt. She reaches over and you freeze at her close proximity. Her breath is hot against your cheek and her fingers brush your stomach as she takes the seat belt from your hand and buckles it for you. “Thought I would spare the other people you drunk-called,” she says. 

Embarrassment runs through you. “You were the only one,” you say meekly, picking at a scab on your hand. You dare to peek at her, only to find her smirking, one eyebrow quirked. 

“Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have called.” This time, it’s harder to keep your words from running together. “We were talking about you and then I thought I saw you and I just wanted to see you.” You need to stop talking, now. 

Agatha hums. “Did you, now?” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ears as she shifts the car into drive and you watch her fingers. 

“You’re really hot,” you blurt out and then clamp a hand over your mouth. Fuck. 

Instead of pulling over and making you get out, like you thought she would, Agatha simply reaches over and pats your leg. “And you’re really drunk, sweetheart.” 

The pet name makes you swoon inwardly. “Not that drunk,” you say unconvincingly. “I only had one…two…” You trail off, attempting to count the number of drinks on your fingers. Agatha stifles a chuckle. 

“Is this your first time drinking?” She asks, amused. 

“No, but it is my first time drinking this much,” you admit. “My friends dragged me out since it’s my birthday. I was going to work on the essay for your class.” 

“You were going to spend your 21st birthday doing school work?” 

“Your essay’s due in a week. I wanted to make sure I-it was good enough for you.” 

She notices your slip of tongue and her smirk sends heat down low in your stomach. “You’re always good for me. Your essays are some of the best I’ve ever read.” 

Your heart skips a beat and your face flushes. “I have a B in your class.” 

“You have an 88 in my class. That’s the highest I’ve had in years. Can’t make it too easy,” she says with a wink. 

“You could make it just a little easier,” you grumble, the alcohol clearly getting rid of any inhibitions. 

“You keep doing what you’re doing, sweetheart, and it’ll go up, I promise. I’m very impressed with the work you’ve been turning in.”

A hot flash runs through you. “Just wanna be your good girl.” And if it wasn’t clear how you feel about her now, it sure is. But she doesn’t look disgusted or creeped out, only intrigued. 

She finally stops the car and you peer out the window, expecting to see your dorm. You haven’t been paying attention to where she’s been driving at all, and you’re quite surprised to see you’ve arrived at a two-story house in a cute, suburban neighborhood. 

“This isn’t where I live,” you say dumbly. 

“No, it’s not,” she agrees, getting out of the car and walking over to help you. You stumble up the steps to the front door, Agatha’s tight grip on your shoulder keeping you upright. You can feel her fingers playing with the ends of your hair. 

She unlocks the front door just as a wave of nausea hits you. “Oh, god,” you say weakly, holding a hand in front of your mouth. Agatha doesn’t even seem phased; she leads you to a bathroom in the hall and leaves, only to re-enter with a glass of water moments later. You gulp it down and feel better. 

“You okay?” she asks softly, stroking your cheek, eyes tracing up and down your face. You’ve never seen this side of her and you really like it. 

“I think so. Thank you again,” you murmur and you realize that you’ve been staring at her mouth. 

“Anything for my favorite student.” 

And then, because you’re apparently determined to fuck everything up even more, you lean in and press your lips to hers. Agatha stands still for a second before you pull back, horrified with yourself. 

“Professor, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to–” 

She draws you back in for a longer kiss this time, tongue licking into your mouth. You let out a long moan and she breaks away. 

“You’re drunk,” she tells you again.

You clasp the lapels of her blazer. “I know. But I want you.” 

She softly pries your fingers off her suit and smiles. “You need to sleep. And then we can talk about this in the morning.” 

You pout and she runs her thumb over your bottom lip, slightly pulling it down. You suck her finger into your mouth, delighting in the way her eyes darken. She steps back.

“Let’s go. You can sleep in the guest room. I’ll find you some pajamas and toiletries.” Her hand on the small of your back guides you up the stairs and to the room on the right. The guest room is simple but cozy and you immediately go to the bed and flop onto it. “Don’t fall asleep yet,” Agatha warns and then leaves the room. 

She comes back in a few minutes, an old shirt and sweatpants in one hand and a toothbrush and toothpaste in the other. She pats your legs in an effort to get you up but you can barely move, suddenly weighed down by all the drinks. 

“Come on, hon,” Agatha says and helps you stand up. You don’t move as she works to take your shirt and skirt off, your cheeks and upper chest flushing red. You try to cover yourself and she smirks. 

“M’sorry,” you mumble. 

“Don’t be. I’m enjoying the view.” You stare at her longingly, silently begging her to fuck you right there and then, but she helps you step into the sweatpants and pull the shirt over your head. She watches you brush your teeth and moves the covers so you can get into bed. “Do you need anything else?” 

Your hand grabs hers. “Just you,” you try again hopefully, but she chuckles and wrenches free of your grip. 

“Good night, birthday girl,” she whispers and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. And then she turns off the lights and leaves the room.

You fall asleep immediately. 

***

Sunlight streams through the blinds, waking you up. It takes you a minute to get your bearings and then the events of last night come back to you. 

The bar. Four shots of tequila and half a Dirty Shirley. Calling Agatha and her coming to pick you up and taking you to her house. Kissing her in the downstairs bathroom. Shit. 

You groan, head pounding. You see a container of Advil and a glass of water on the nightstand beside you. You take two Advil and drain the glass, heart warming at the thought of Agatha taking such good care of you. 

And then you remember that your relationship with her will forever be complicated by your actions. 

You solemnly brush your teeth and pull back on the clothes you wore to the bar last night, neatly folding Agatha’s pajamas and placing them on the bed. You hope she hasn’t woken up yet so you can sneak out without her having to tell you how inappropriate you behaved last night. 

No such luck. The second you get downstairs, Agatha perks up from where she’s typing on her laptop on the couch.

“Good morning, darling,” she purrs, shutting her computer. You gulp, taking her outfit in. She’s wearing a robe that ends mid-thigh and the neckline drops low. 

“Hey,” you say casually, trying to hide how much you’re internally freaking out. 

“Do you want something for breakfast? I can cook you something.” She stands up and walks to the kitchen and you follow like a lost puppy. You involuntarily lick your lips at the way her hips are swaying. 

“What are my options?” Your voice is raspy, still feeling hungover. She glances back at you and her eyes dart up and down your body. 

“I can make eggs. Bacon. I think I have pancake mix in the pantry. What would you like?” 

You’re a little confused that she hasn’t scolded you yet. And then you remember something else. She kissed you. 

You swallow hard. Whatever else you may have done last night that you can’t remember, she doesn’t hate you for it. She might even want you back. 

“Are you on the menu?” It comes out before you can even realize what you’re saying. 

Agatha freezes and turns around. You shift your weight nervously, but then you see her pupils blown out. Her eyes are so dark you can barely see any blue. “What?” She asks carefully.

“You kissed me last night,” you say, a little breathless. You have absolutely no idea where this confidence is coming from. “You wouldn’t do anything else cause I was drunk. But I’m not drunk now.” 

She steps toward you and roughly grasps your hair. She tilts your head back, exposing your neck just a tad. “No, you’re not.” She regards you for a second. “You know you’re not going to get extra credit for trying to sleep with your professor.” 

You laugh. “That’s not why I’m doing this.” 

She smirks. “Good.” And then she licks a hot stripe up your neck and bites down, sucking a mark on your skin. You gasp loudly and tangle your hands into her hair. 

“Professor,” you moan and you drag her into a filthy kiss. She backs you up until your thighs hit the table so she lifts you up onto it. Your legs wrap around her to pull her closer. Agatha pushes up your crop-top and kneads your breast, thumb stroking your nipple, never once breaking your kiss.

Her hand creeps under your skirt and cups your mound over your underwear. Your hips jump on their own at the stimulation. 

“Please,” you beg. Her lips curl into a smile. 

“What do you want?” Her fingers have pushed your underwear to the side and have started lazily stroking through your folds, spreading your wetness. 

“You,” is all you can say before she sinks a finger into your hole. 

“Like this?” She asks innocently, thrusting hard. 

“Yes,” you pant, quickly untying her robe so you can touch her. She’s completely naked underneath and you lean down so you can take a nipple into your mouth. 

“That’s perfect, baby,” she sighs, setting a relentless pace with her fingers after she slips another one in you. “Is this what you hoped would happen when you called me last night?”

“I’ve been hoping for this since the first day of the semester,” you answer, and she falters for a second, thrown off by your honesty. 

She pulls out of you and panic runs through you, terrified that you said the wrong thing. But she just pushes you down so your back is resting on the table and she pulls out one of the chairs from the table. 

“What are you–” Before you can finish your sentence, she leans forward and sucks your clit into her mouth. Your back arches off the table, hands rushing down to hold her in place. “Fuck, Professor!” 

She devours your pussy like she’s a starving woman, pulling all sorts of loud noises from you. 

“Oh my god, I’m gonna cum,” you chant, hips grinding on her face, trying to get the last bit of stimulation you need to send you over the edge. She knows what you need and presses her fingers inside you, curling them just right and gives your clit a hard last lick. You cum harder than you ever have before, her name on your lips like a prayer. She helps you ride through the aftershocks and then trails kisses up your body until she can kiss your mouth. 

“How was that?” she asks after you pull away to catch your breath. 

“That was probably the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” you say, which cracks both of you up. “But I’m not finished.” 

Her eyebrow quirks up and she smirks. “Oh?” You stand up, putting your hands on her hips and flipping her around so she’s leaning against the table. 

You sink to your knees in front of you, not even bothering with a chair. You slowly push her robe up so it bunches at her waist. “Can I return the favor?” 

A glint appears in her eye and she fists one of her hands in your hair preemptively. “I’d like nothing more.” 

[writingwithcolor]

Top Fave Books from Black authors and/or Black MCs (2025)

Happy Black History Month from WWC!

In honor of BHM, we've compiled a list of some of our top favorite reads (thus far) that are either by Black diaspora authors and/or the main character is Black. Feel free to add your own to this list!

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Colette’s picks

For my recommendations, I've focused on escapism and/or black woman romances only, because we all can use a bit of joy. These are adult reads by Black authors.

The King’s Seer (series) by L.S. Bethel | Genre: Feudal, Fantasy, Romance, Alt World, BWAM (Hero is Korean-Coded) | Link (My new favorite series)

Voices and Visions by Lashell Collins (Touched Series) | Genre: Mystery, Psychic Detective, Romance, BWWM | TW: Escape from off-screen domestic violence, murder | Link (Love this series so far!)

Taken to Voraxia (Xiveri Mates Series) by Elizabeth Stephens | Genre: Sci-Fi Romance, Fantasy (BWAlien &Alien) Coded race | TW: Kidnapped bride | Link

Taken to Nobu (Xiveri Mates Series) by Elizabeth Stephens | Genre: Sci-Fi Romance, Fantasy (BW&Alien) | TW: Kidnapped bride | Link

Unfrozen by Regine Abel | Genre: Paranormal Romance, Sci-Fi BW&Alien/Monster | TW: Torture, experiments (briefly at beginning) Link

I Married a Naga (Prime Mating Agency, #2) by Regine Abel | Genre: Sci-Fi Romance, Marriage of Convenience BW&Alien/Monster | Link

Rescued by Her Relic by Paulina Woods | Genre: Sci-Fi Romance, BW&Alien/Cyborg, Apocalypse | Link 

The Alpha Promise by Hayat Ali | Genre: Paranormal Romance, Vampires, BWAM | Link

Deena's Deception by G.S. Carr | Genre: Western, Historical Romance, Mail-order Bride, BWWM | Link

Chosen by Tiffany Patterson | Genre: Paranormal Romance, Shapeshifters, BWIM (Indigenous hero) | Link

Honorable mentions at the top of my to-read list

Death at a Seance by Carolyn Marie Wilkins | Link

Conjure Women by Afia Atakora | Link

The Gatekeeper by K. Alex Walker | Link

Melanie’s picks

A mix of fictional narratives, memoir, and politics/culture. All adult reads. 

The Splinter in the Sky by Kemi Ashing-Giwa | Genre: Sci-Fi, Romance | Link

*Kindred by Octavia Butler | Genre: Sci Fi | Link  (*Triple recommended by multiple mods!)

Razorblade Tears by S.A. Cosby  | Genre: Mystery, Thriller, Suspense | Link

Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosely  | Genre: Mystery | Link

Death of the Author by Nnedi Okorafor | Genre: Mixed/Meta | Link

Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates | Genre: Bio & Memoir | Link

Heavy: An American Memoir by Kiese Laymon  | Genre: Memoir | Link

Hood Feminism: Notes from the Women that a Movement Forgot by Mikki Kendall | Genre: Politics, Society & Current Affairs | Link

The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness by Michelle Alexander | Genre: Politics, Society & Current Affairs | Link

SK’s picks

If Beale Street Could Talk by James Baldwin | Genre: Fantasy, Romance | Link

They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us by Hanif Abdurraqib | Genre: Nonfiction, Essay Collection | Link

Buried Beneath the Baobab Tree by Adaoabi Tricia Nwaubani | Genre: Young Adult Realistic Fiction | CW: violence and sexual assault | Link

With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo | Genre: Young Adult Realistic Fiction | Link

Copper Sun by Sharon Draper | Young Adult Historical Fiction | CW sexual assault and slavery| Link

After Tupac and D Foster by Jacqueline Woodson | Young Adult Realistic Fiction | book deals with racism, incarceration, and the foster system | Link

Jaya’s picks

The Poisons We Drink by Bethany Baptiste | Genre: Fantasy, Young Adult (violence against activists) | Link

Each of Us A Desert by Mark Oshiro| Genre: Young Adult, Fantasy | Link

The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas| Genre: Young Adult, Realistic (racial profiling, Black Lives Matter) | Link

Nic Blake and the Remarkables: The Manifestor Prophecy by Angie Thomas| Genre: Fantasy | Link

Krik? Krak! by Edwidge Danticat| Genre: Short Stories (violence in Haiti) | Link

Monster by Walter Dean Myers | Genre: Young Adult (racial profiling) | Link

Meir’s picks

Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler | Genre: Sci Fi (tw for apocalyptic climate conditions)| Link

Parable of the Talents by Octavia Butler | Genre: Sci Fi (tw for apocalyptic climate conditions)| Link

This is a two-part series taking place in a sometimes uncomfortably realistic near-future climate apocalypse. Lauren Olamina is a young woman with a hyperempathy disorder who is determined not only to survive, but to make sure her loved ones, her greater community, and humanity as a whole survive as well. To do this, she will have to found a settlement and a religion.

The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms by N. K. Jemisin | Genre: Fantasy | Link

I’m still in the middle of reading this one, but it’s already a compelling and suspenseful story of dynastic succession and powerful but unpredictable magical beings. Don’t spoil it for me!

Jess’ picks

Raybearer duology by Jordan Ifueko | Genre: Fantasy, YA | Link

The Year of the Witching by Alexis Henderson | Genre: Gothic/Horror, Fantasy | Link

James by Percival Everett | Genre: Historical, Literary | Link

Daughter of the Merciful Deep by Leslye Penelope | Genre: Fantasy, YA | Link

The Kingston Cycle by C.L. Polk | Genre: Historical, Fantasy | Link

The Midnight Bargain by C.L. Polk | Genre: Historical, Fantasy | Link

Buy local when you can!

We recommend buying your books at your local bookshop (esp. BIPOC and LGBTQIA+ friendly spots) when you can, smaller online bookstores or checking them out at your local library (the Libby app is great for ebooks and audiobooks) or of course at the author's first preference. Also: if a store doesn't have a book, sometimes they can order it for you.

As for online book trackers, The StoryGraph is Black-woman founded!

Happy reading!

~WWC

[maskedbyghost]

part 2 to Simon marrying another woman. there will be one more part.

That dreadful day, you didn’t stay for the reception. You couldn’t.

The sight of Simon’s lips pressing against hers, his hands on her waist, was more than you could bear. The weight of it settled in your chest, as you pushed through the church doors and into the biting cold. You told yourself you just needed air, but you kept walking, your heels clicking against the pavement as the world blurred past you.

It’s been seven months since he married her.

Seven months since you watched the love of your life vow to cherish someone else for the rest of his days.

Not you like he promised.

Her.

You tried moving on—tried dating, tried sleeping with other men. But no matter how hard you tried, no one compared. They didn’t know how you liked your coffee after a mission, or the songs you hummed when you thought no one was listening.

They weren’t him.

The team had noticed, of course. How could they not? Soap was the first to say something, pulling you aside after a particularly grueling mission.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

You lied, of course. “I’m fine.”

But Soap wasn’t buying it. “Fine, my arse. You’ve been off for months now. We’re worried about you.”

We.

The word stung more than it should have. You knew they all meant well—Price, Gaz, Soap—they were your family in every way that mattered. But the one person you wanted to notice, the one person who had always been able to read you like an open book, wasn’t yours anymore.

Simon barely looked at you these days. He kept things professional, as though the years you’d spent breaking down each other’s walls had never happened.

You hated him for it. You hated her for taking him from you. But more than anything, you hated yourself—for still loving him despite it all.

Why wouldn’t you? You and Simon were perfect for each other. Everyone saw it. The team had long accepted that you and Simon were a package deal, even when neither had put a label on it.

Everything was great—until she arrived.

She was an old friend of Simon’s, someone he’d known long before the Task Force. You remember the day she was introduced to the team, handpicked for her unique skillset, and vouched for by Simon himself.

Captain Price welcomed her without hesitation, and the rest of the team quickly followed. She was smart, capable, and annoyingly charming.

You wanted to like her. You really did. But something about her never sat right with you.

At first, her friendliness seemed genuine, and her interest in Simon was understandable given their history. She would tell stories about him from the past. You noticed how he seemed to soften around her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he listened. It stung, but you told yourself it was harmless.

Then the games began.

She found ways to insert herself into moments that were once yours and Simon’s alone. If you were paired with him during training drills, she’d casually request to swap partners, laughing it off as wanting to “catch up with an old friend.” On missions, she’d position herself as his backup, leaving you to work with others.

Her manipulation was well calculated. When she slipped into Simon’s good graces, it was so gradual that even he didn’t see it happening.

During a team meeting, she’d mention how Simon had always been the one to “clean up after reckless partners” in the past, glancing at you just long enough to make her point. Or she’d joke about how “some people” needed constant saving in the field, her tone light but her eyes sharp as they flicked in your direction.

Simon rarely reacted to that. But you could see the doubt creeping into his expression, the seeds she was planting beginning to take root.

It wasn’t just her words, either. She had a thing for orchestrating situations that made you look bad without ever appearing to do so intentionally. During one mission, she “accidentally” overlooked a key piece of intel you’d flagged, leading to a delay in the operation. When Simon asked what happened, she apologized but subtly implied that your instructions had been unclear.

Another time, she volunteered to handle a critical piece of equipment, only to claim later that she thought you had already taken care of it. It was small things—barely noticeable—but they added up, each one chipping away at the trust you and Simon had built.

What hurt the most was how easily she slipped into Simon’s world. She knew how to talk to him in a way that made him feel understood, playing on their shared history to create a bond you couldn’t touch. She’d bring up memories from their past, reminding him of a time when life was simpler, safer.

And slowly, Simon began to change.

He second-guessed your decisions in the field. When you tried to talk to him about it, he brushed it off, saying you were overthinking things.

The worst part was that she always made sure to maintain her image as the perfect teammate—loyal, competent, and supportive. To everyone else, she was a godsend, a valuable asset to the team.

But you knew the truth. You saw through her façade, the way she manipulated situations to her advantage, the way she slowly turned Simon against you. And no matter how hard you tried to hold on, to remind Simon of the bond you shared, she was always there, pulling him further away.

And by the time Simon announced his engagement to her, you barely recognized the man you’d fallen in love with. The man who once held you with such tenderness now looked at you as though you were a stranger.

You started to fight with Simon often, because he was a dumb, stupid man who didn’t realize he was being manipulated. You tried to make him see it—the way she twisted things, the way she subtly undermined you—but he wouldn’t listen.

“She’s my friend,” he said once, his jaw tight. “You’re overreacting.”

You hated the way he said it, as if you were imagining things. The man you knew better than anyone, was slipping through your fingers, and there was nothing you could do to stop it.

The fights grew worse, spilling over from arguments in private to tense exchanges on missions. The team noticed, of course, but no one said anything. They kept their heads down, unwilling to get involved in whatever was happening between the two of you.

Then, one night, while you were on leave, Simon came home to the apartment you shared and started packing his things. You didn’t understand at first, standing frozen in the doorway as he folded his clothes and stuffed them into a duffel bag.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He didn’t look at you. “Leaving.”

“Why?” You stepped closer, trying to put yourself between him and the door. “Simon, please. Just tell me why.”

But he wouldn’t. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor.

You begged him to stay, tears streaming down your face as you pleaded for an explanation, for anything that could make sense of the sudden shift. But Simon—your Simon—had already made up his mind.

A month later, you saw the photos—Simon and her, sitting side by side at a café, her hand resting on his arm like she’d always belonged there. The smile on his face was small, but it was there, and it broke something inside you.

A few months after that, they were engaged. The wedding followed soon after.

“They want to have a small ceremony,” Soap said. He hadn’t looked at you when he spoke, as if he couldn’t bear to see your reaction.

And now here you were, seven months later, still trying to piece yourself back together while Simon lived a life you were supposed to share with him.

One night, during a late briefing, you caught Simon looking at you. It was just a flicker, his gaze lingering a moment too long, his expression unreadable.

For a second, you thought you saw something—regret, maybe even sorrow—but it was gone before you could be sure. You told yourself you imagined it, that your mind was playing tricks on you, desperate for any sign that he might still care. But the look stayed with you, in your memory next to the happy moments with him.

And so, you wanted to continue living your life normally, and tried to move on, but it was hard. You kept telling yourself it would get easier with time, but time seemed to stand still.

The memories of Simon lingered everywhere—his voice in your head, the way he used to call you “love,” the small habits he’d left behind in your shared life.

You threw yourself into your work, drowning in the chaos of missions and training. But even in the most hectic moments, there was always an ache in the back of your mind, serving like a fucking reminder of the man you’d loved and lost.

You tried dating, fleeting distractions that always ended the same way—with you staring at the ceiling, wondering why no one could make you feel the way Simon did.

But then, one day, something happened.

Price called you to Simon’s office. His tone over the comm was urgent and it made your stomach twist. He didn’t explain, only told you to come immediately.

You hurried down the corridor, your mind racing. Something about Price’s voice told you this wasn’t about a mission or a routine debriefing.

Something was wrong.

When you reached the door, you hesitated for just a moment, hand hovering over the handle. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and pushed it open.

The sight inside made your heart drop.

The office was in ruins—papers scattered across the floor, the desk overturned, a chair broken and lying in pieces. A crack ran through the mirror on the wall, distorting your reflection.

And there, amidst the chaos, was Simon.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, knees drawn up slightly. His mask was gone, revealing a face filled with exhaustion and pain. His eyes were fixed on the ground, as he muttered the same words over and over, barely audible.

“She ruined my life… she ruined my life…”

Price stood near the door, arms crossed tightly as he watched Simon. When he saw you, his shoulders relaxed slightly, as though he’d been waiting for you.

“Please,” he said quietly. “Talk to him. You’re the only one he might listen to.”

Your throat tightened as you stepped closer, every movement feeling heavy. You knelt a few feet away, your voice soft, almost trembling.

“Simon…”

He looked up at the sound of your voice, his gaze locking with yours. He managed a weak, bitter smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Sorry, love,” he murmured, the words barely more than a whisper.

And then, before you could react, he raised the gun to his head.

PART 3

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yup. this is a perfect place to stop. gonna go hide now hehe

(sorry if you didn't want to be tagged)

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[papenathys]

People need Jennifer's Body (2009) and Love Lies Bleeding (2024) to be lesbian films even if they are two of the queerest, messiest and most openly bisexual films of our times, simply because there is a certain subset of queer folks who see bisexuality as inherently less queer and more falling into the paradigm of heterosexual titillation for the male gaze. It is pretty much the same theory that governs the criticism of media like The Secret History (1992), Saltburn (2023) or Hannibal NBC (2013-2015) for queerbaiting or for "being cowards" about the depiction of same sex love stories between two men who are clearly bisexual or attracted to multiple genders in canon.

The onus of the blame for heteronormativity in contemporary publishing and media often falls upon bisexual women. I'm thinking of that God awful YouTube video by that Lavender Menace person who started speaking of how sapphic literature these days is so normative (I personally agree) before veering way™ off course to spew vitriol about how this was because every popular sapphic book nowadays is bisexual and not performing the acceptable model of lesbianism or sapphic desire.

When films like Bound get talked about in terms of being a lesbian classic, nobody mentions the fact that Corky, the butch from the film demonstrates biphobic (and by extension lesbiphobic) feelings towards Violet, the femme, and considers her to be "lying" for the male gaze and performing queerness. The film ends positively, with Corky overcoming her biases and acknowledging that Violet is just as queer as she is. It's irrelevant if Violet is bisexual or a closeted lesbian (I lean towards the latter with reference to her character), what's relevant is the policing of certain kinds of identities as being "less" queer and the refusal to accept or show empathy towards bisexual women, as we are considered beings incapable of authentic self presentation or autonomous desire. Instead, we are all just a gaslit hivemind of people operating under comp het.

Bisexual women cannot have peace when it comes to representation; people took that one sentence about Poison Ivy wildly out of context, retconned decades of her representation as a bisexual icon in popular culture in love with another bisexual woman and then gaslit bisexual folks for being "annoying" about it on social media. When Love Lies Bleeding released, on Twitter, bisexual women were told to stfu because this is a film about "REAL butch4butch dykes" (and then you see the film made by a bisexual director and the muscle mommy you love to gatekeep is a) not a butch and b) an open and proud bisexual).

Villanelle, who was openly bisexual in the Killing Eve books, was retconned by fandom into a man hating lesbian and that apparently made her more authentically queer than Eve, who remained bisexual in both TV and source material. Of course, it is easier to see the more "visibly queer" Villanelle as a lesbian, while Eve, whose relationships centre men more, and who has to have her eyes opened by the sexy assassin hunting her down, can be bisexual.

I find this a really weird pattern. The whole subgenre of "bisexual woman having a reckoning and leaving her husband for a lesbian" is corny at best and poorly equates bisexuality with heteronormativity at worst, especially because the same formula is almost never applied to show a bi woman leaving her husband for another bi woman, or a lesbian leaving behind a comp het marriage or having a mid-life awakening in popular sapphic tradpub literature; the closest to this I can find is the novel Cash Delgado is Living the Dream (2024) by Taylor Kay Mejia.

It's silly, and vapid and frankly very condescending to assume that every bisexual women in popular media is actually a lesbian facing comphet. You need to unshackle your points from separatist biphobic rhetoric on social media, even if it is dressed in shallow feminist terminology. It's literally okay to let a film or book be bisexual, and I can promise you it doesn't make the narrative less queer or feminist or subversive.

I know some nasty people will be rbing this post and talking about how bisexuals are the privileged white people of the lgbtq community etc etc, and honestly I don't know how to articulate about this issue without coming off bitter, so here is an essay by Carmen Maria Machado, whose writing on bisexuality, queerness in horror/dark fiction and on sapphic literature & culture in general I highly recommend:

NON BISEXUALS DON'T DERAIL 💗💜💙

[limarkova]

Yandere Batfam x Neglected Reader x Yandere Al Ghuls

Pt 5.

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The library was quiet when you walked in. Since it was still early in the morning many people hadn't shown up yet. Your luck of finding a tutor were slim right now. It was best to start independent so you could tell a tutor what you needed to learn more about anyway.

You wonder the shelves contemplating where to begin. Maybe the computers to look up what fourth grade standards? Didn't those vary though? Okay maybe you should have goaded your 'family' into telling you were the 'boarding school' was supposedly base. Science sounded like a good option. It used a mix of math and reading comprehension.

You had to choose a science fourth grades typically learned, though. Honestly you wished you could just pick any science and say the school had specialized classes. However you didn't know what type of boarding school Bruce claimed you went to. The slightest misstep and your siblings would alert him that something was up.

Being realistic Bruce could send you back at anytime. By playing into his lies, you would appear compliant or like you don't suspect he was involved. That could buy you time. If it seemed like you were truly trying to integrate back into the family and not expose the experiments, he might let you stay for a little longer. Why get rid of someone if their potential as a threat was limited by their ignorance?

For now you need to match the cover story. Whatever books were labeled fourth grade level than. Maybe a few fifth grade books. You had implied that you were doing more advanced work. Maybe you could safely make the claim that you were placed in advance classes. They had been talking about those during your last year at Gotham prep.

The kids section was full of basic cartoon style books. You browsed a few before frowning. Most of the information was the bare bone minimum. Half the books mark 4th grade level only covered surface level knowledge.

You pulled out a book on human anatomy and almost bursted out laughing. The drawings were over simplifications of the organs, nothing compared to how they really looked. Slimy, covered in veins, shades of pink or gray you didn't expect once the blood was removed. That thought brought back a haunting memory. You shoved the book back on the shelf. Medical research would come later.

Grabbing any books that caught your attention, you headed over to a secluded area. Most of the information was basic understand. Yes, you learned some new things and were fairly certain your reading comprehension was ay the appropriate level. But there was nothing involving math. "Maybe a few tutors have shown up or a librarian can help me call one."

Standing back up you wondering over to the librarian desk. No one was there. You yet out a heavy sigh. Oh course they weren't there, that was just your luck.

"Hello, are you looking for something?" You jumped at the sudden voice behind you. Spinning around you saw a woman with long dark brown hair and green eyes. She carried herself confidently but some part of you screamed the she was capable of violence.

"I was looking into what's available in terms of math tutoring. Maybe social studies or history if that's an options." You angled you body away from her.

She laughed slightly more to herself than you. There was a gleam in her eye, like she was impressed by her assessment. "Well you're in luck. I happened to home schooled my own son in math and know a lot of teachers. What do you need to know?"

"Pretty much everything above adding and subtracting." You scowled down at the books in your arms. It they had and hadn't been useful. Maybe you should take advantage of this woman's help. You needed a tutor, it shouldn't matter who it was also long as your family didn't find out. "What’s your name?"

"I'm Talia." She crouched down to your level and held out a hand. You stopped thinking.

Talia.

The woman mentioned in your mother's diary. It couldn't be. Though she mentioned having a son. No Talia might have been an older flame and Damian's mother had a different name. Maybe you had been to quick to get in a fight with him. Now you couldn't ask him about his mother. What if he sent her to spy on you because you had pissed him off? Not good, really not good.

"I'm (Fake Name)." You gave her the wrong name and watched. If Damian had sent her, she would probably already know your name. So by giving her the wrong one you could figure what she already knew about you. It wouldn't be through her words or actions. No the hints would be subtle. Some kind of disappointment or a sign she felt slighted.

Yet her face remain pleasant. That slight hint of being impressed remaining, "It's nice to meet you. Let's do a few tests so I can see where you are first." Just like that you were swept away into a world of learning.

Talia was beyond impressed with the young Wayne girl. First she correctly identified Talia as a threat. It was obvious by the way she angled herself away from the older woman. How her eyes flicked for the nearest exit, probably a subconscious reaction. Without Talia's weapons or reputation, the girl had pick up on danger.

Next was the wrong name. Said so surely like it truly was her name. The girl shifted so fluidly into the new identity too. Talia would have believed it if she hadn't already done research. Never once did she catch the girl not responding to the name. All without proper training.

However, that all paled in comparison to her true shining trait. The girl's intelligence was well beyond average. She caught trick questions and picked up topics quickly. Talia was willing to bet her intellect could rival Bruce's. Obviously not at her current state, she need guidance to reach that level. Still all the material was there.

"Thank you for the help, today." Her voice was quiet. Movements quick to put away the notebook she had written all of her work in. They had moved from mathematics, to English, social studies, sciences, and the one that she seem the most interested in Criminal Investigation. Damian had taken his father's intelligence but was held back his ego. She didn't have that fault.

Talia smiled, "of course. Will you be returning tomorrow? I would love to continue our lessons. There's a chance I might be able to teach you Arabic."

"Arabic, the language?"

"Yes. I taught my son but well he lives with his father now and I don't get to speak it with him anymore." Talia said the information to get the girl to relax but the opposite occurred.

(Name) bit her lip, "I apologize if this is sensitive to you but what's your son's name?"

"Damian." Talia observed the girl's reaction. Her shoulders tense, body angling again, one deep breath. "Too bad his father turned him against me."

"How?" The girl blinked after saying the word. Her face was too blank to be natural. The information was throwing her for a loop as she tried to make it fit her reality. They would need to work on that.

Talia shook her head sadly, "I'm not a hundred percent certain what he told my boy but I think... I think he made Damian believe that he was in love with me and I broke his heart. Even though it was the other way around when he cheated on me."

Talia watched as the words hit home with the girl. Oh she had chosen the right story to turn her against Bruce. The girl gave her an easy smile that was a smidge too tense in the corners, "Yeah. I'll be here tomorrow. Can I ask one last question?"

"Go ahead." Talia gestured with her hand.

"Do you happened to know any self defense teachers?" Determination morphed her features. It made her come alive in a sense. That fire she saw yesterday back in her eyes and brighter. Confidence shifted her stance into one more sure.

"Oh I know several material arts teachers."

Bruce sat in his car, rubbing his brow. In a little over twenty-four hours since his youngest had shown up at manor things had arguably gotten worst. First the information coming out about (Name) never being at school followed by a full blown investigation by his kids. Than there was what the others had officially dub "The shit list". Damian had become so upset he secluded himself in the barn. Last but certainly not less were the changes the other reported in his youngest.

Dick's last phone call said she was at the library researching for 'school'. They had decided to watch her through the cameras believing space was what she actually need. Yet one thing was clear from the little time she had spent in the manor since coming back. Whatever had happened was traumatic and she was not going to tell them directly. Perhaps whoever had her was now stalking her to ensure she wouldn't cooperate.

Bruce would double the manor's security. He wouldn't fail one of his kids a second time. She hadn't arrived home from the library yet, so Bruce had time to prepare. Taking one last deep breath he exited the car. First stop the Batcave to get an update on investigation.

Bruce might as well have entered a war zone. At least there he would know where to start. Dick and Jason were in a screaming match about who should have been checking in on her. Tim was two steps away from drinking coffee straight from the pot, while pouring over financial records. Barbara looked like she was having an aneurysm. Cass was analysising video footage taking notes on presumably her body language. Duke was being interrogate being Steph on how (Name) acted while the two were out and what she could have been writing in "the shit list."

"Status report." His voice shattered the chaos in a matter of seconds. "Oracle you go first."

"I searched through city wide surveillance feeds and found some video footage from a few days ago. It seems like who ever had her did chase after but..." Oracle, Barbara trailed off. The screen flash to show (Name) being chased by an armed pursuer. In two seconds, she had turned thrown a knife of some kind than ran down an another alleyway. Her pursuer fell to the ground weapon lodged in his throat. "Police reports identified him as James Lenon, a low level criminal with a history of violence. He had a scalpel in his trachea and was pronounced dead on arrival of the scene."

Bruce now understood why Barbara looked ready to have an aneurysm. This footage showed (Name) committing murder. Just to get away from whoever was holding her captive. He could only imagine what might have pushed her to that point. That or she didn't know the guy was dead. It would technically count as self defense either way but not a good sign.

Barbara typed something on her laptop before another video appeared. "Than there's this one." It show (Name) running off screen injured. When she reappeared the injuries were gone, not even a speck of blood. The video ended with (Name) throwing a mangled bullet at the camera. An act of defiance, but towards who.

"Has this video been edited?"

"No. This is the orginial video. Do you think she might actually be a meta?" The room filled with anticipation at that.

Bruce nodded once, "we'll need to test her DNA but the odds are good. Red Robin what do you have?"

"She was telling the truth about her card being stolen. It would seem whoever stole it though knew better than to use it to pay for something directly. All of it's cash withdrawals, the ATMs used are in Gotham though so it's all local. Oracle any updates on ATM footage?"

"Na-da. They're smart, covered their faces with sunglasses and sick masks. Generic brand sunglasses and disposable mask so no identifying markers. They wear them on video until they disappear." Barbara brought several still shots onto the screen.

Bruce nodded to the two, taking in the information. It assumable from the ATM footage alone there were multiple people involved in this. They would need to identify which group had the most to gain.

"Nightwing, Red Hood. What did your investigation of the PO box reveal?"

"They scorched the damn place the night she escaped." Jason dropped a picture of a burnt and destroyed PO boxes on the table. One box in the third row was circled "Also destroyed any mail going to all the PO boxes on that wall. Feds are looking into it since the post office was involved, I couldn't get closer than that."

"The person who orginially opened the box, Marcus Antonio, was found dead last night." Dick placed crime scene photos on the table. A man with a singular bullet wound laid in a pool of blood. There were tipped over and rifled through drawers, books, coffee containers. The scene was mess. "Decided to take a look around. It was a clean hit but catch this. The guy had loads of cash stashed all over the place. GCPD thinks it was a robbery gone wrong since they didn't take all of it and left in a hurry. With what we know, I think it was a targeted attack. They mostly just took the cash they could find, figuring they were going to get cut off"

Tim interrupted, "I second that. All cash withdrawals stopped the day after she escaped. They pulled more than they usually did so the bank flagged the card. It's shut off pending investigation."

Bruce nodded. It was likely that most of the people involved were going to leave Gotham. Cash would be necessary for that. "Any sign of the mail?"

"No but he had a burn bucket in the bedroom." Dick shook his head. Leaning against the table he sighed. "They're getting rid of evidence quickly and have a three day head start."

"Orphan."

"She shows signs of hyper vigilance, avoids cameras, and I think she probing us for information." Cassandra looked up from the tablet she was using one.

"Wait, she's probing us for information?" Tim stopped typing on his laptop before throwing his head back and groaning. "She's become one mystery after another."

"At the breakfast table. She was trying to figure out if we read her diary, was gauging how we all reacted to her mentioning school, and was ensuring the debit card got closed out. The roommates she referred to as troublesome were probably the gaurds."

Everyone nodded. Bruce looked to Barbara, "I want a video of breakfast this morning. I need to know exactly what was said. Spoiler, Signal."

"If she doesn't have PTSD I don't know what she has." Steph leaned back in her chair rubbing her eyes. "Though this one wasn't pay any special anytime to her behavior."

"I didn't know I was supposed to. I genuinely thought she was upset because Damian attacked and having to leave 'school' early." Duke ran a hand over his face. "In the hours we spent at the mall, she implied she had to leave school quickly because something really bad happened. That and she's..."

Duke froze, pieces connecting in his head. When he looked at Bruce, horror started to mix with realization. "Was she a Meta two years ago?"

There was a pregnant pause as everyone in the room thought. Bruce shook his, "No. She never showed signs of being a Meta."

"Disappeared for two years, comes back with meta abilities, refers to the thing making her leave as really bad with potentially two triggers for her being needles and the smell of disinfectant." Duke looked at all of them more pieces falling into place. Bruce's eyebrows knitted together. Duke was on to something but for the life of him, Bruce could piece it together? "What was happening two years when she disappeared? Other than that Joker attack."

It finally hit Bruce what Duke was getting at. Two years ago Meta Human traffickers stop looking for ways to find 'product'. Instead they began looking for ways to create new it. There were reports of them doing horrifying things to create new meta humans. It didn’t work because most of them lacked the funding to get the necessary chemicals and equipment.

Yet, with a Wayne kid's debit card that gets weekly deposits. He even gave her a higher amount than the others because she was supposedly aboard. It was possible but there was one missing component for this. "There are no meta humans in my biological family. She wouldn't have the gene to activate."

"And her mother's half of the family?" It was a valid question for Duke to ask. Bruce thought for a second, had her mother had a meta in her family. She mentioned an aunt that was disowned but that was it.

"Spoiler I want you looking into her mother's side of the family." Bruce gave the command before looking across the room again. "Red Hood start looking into Meta Human Traffickers who went off the grid two years ago. Red Robin you're in charge of looking into whoever made those withdrawals. Find out where that cash went. Oracle, look into the two people we've identified as being involved, get contacts, favorite hunts, anything you can. Send that information to Oprhan and Signal. You two are with me in tracking them down."

"What about me B?" Dick gave Bruce a questioning look.

"You're going to talk with (Name) and get her to open up to you." Bruce nodded at Dick, "Go be her older brother."

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Taglist:

@stove-top96 @mysticalhills @00hellohello00 @a-lurking-fae @yhin-gg @twismare @charlenexoxo1 @moondust-clouds @darkumbreon92 @jsprien213 @bellethesleepypotato @time-shardz @randomlyappearingartist

[youraverageaemondsimp]

“Made for me.” // Aemond Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Thank you everyone for 1K followers, I am so grateful for all the support I've received for my fics, it's kind of an emotional moment for me cause I never thought I'd get this far, so here is the fic from this poll! this is short since I did not have much time and I do not want to delay my 1k celebration fic further! <3

MDNI // DD:DNE // reader discretion is advised.

Summary: As far as Aemond can remember, he had liked you, not in a way a brother loves his sister, no, in a way a man loves a woman, finding out that you were soon to be betrothed to a Tully for alliance, he feels devastated, until he decides he can prevent it, by ruining you.

WARNINGS: heavy noncon to dubcon, mindbreak, mindfuck, canon typical incest, creepy aemond(?), possessive aemond, dark!aemond, jealousy, obsession, breeding kink, tiddy sucking, virginity loss, mentions of blood, purity culture, medieval age standards (no smut until 18+), cum eating, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, porn with little plot. + not proofread.

block the tag #MAE:DARK!CONTENT to avoid seeing dark content from me.

WC: 3k

For as long as Aemond can remember, he had always been smitten with you, his little sister, someone very dear to him, he had loved you since the moment you were born, immediately becoming someone he swore to protect.

He was rumoured to have some romantic feelings for helaena, which wasn't entirely false but if anyone were to look closely, they would realise that the longing gaze he holds for helaena is nothing compared to the one when he looks at you.

As he grew into a man, these feelings developed further, and as he watched you grow into a woman, desire managed to get a hold of him. He remembers the first time he felt carnal attraction towards you, it was your sixteenth nameday, you had worn a beautiful green dress that showed a little cleavage, something his mother would've been against but she let it slide that time, he remembered as you bent over in front of him to get something from the table, giving him full view of your tits which he immediately looked away from.

That night he had rushed back to his chambers as fast as possible to tug on his length at the thought of you.

He was never the same after that, every touch ignited a fire in him, when you would lay on his thigh as you both sat beneath the godswood while he read, he had to fight the urge to take you right then and there, taking your maidenhead in front of the gods to bind you to himself forever.

As the years passed, his feeling for you grew stronger and stronger.

“Aem!” There was your sweet voice calling him once again, his gaze lifted from the book on the table to your form which stood a few metres away from him, you smiled when you noticed his gaze was on you, walking over to him so you stood next to him, peering down on the book he was reading.

“What are you reading?” you ask curiously, voice leaking with inquiry, he looked down at his book before glancing up again, “Just a book about our history, valyria.” he tells you and you lean down slightly over his shoulder, your platinum blonde locks falling over and curtaining the side of his face as you read the text.

“Would you read it to me?” you inquire and he nods, before you shoot him the bright smile that never seemed to leave your face, and pull the chair beside him, causing the wood to make a noise as it glid against the floor, and sitting down on it.

He began reading and you listened to him for quite a while, before your eyes started becoming droopy and closing as sleep tried to overwhelm you, it wasn't because you were not interested in the history, no, it was due to the fact that your older brother's voice was extremely comforting.

He chuckled when he tried your efforts to keep yourself awake and closed the book, “Sister, you must not fight when sleep finds you, go to thine chambers and rest.”

“But brother! You have just gotten to Aegon's conquest.” you pout, and he chuckles, “I shall read it to you tomorrow, now go rest.” he manages to convince you and obey his word.

Aemond sighs as he watches you walk away, you were the Apple of his eye, everyone knew, he had been protective of you since you were younger, though he developed certain type feelings, the kind that a brother shouldn't develop for his sister, but alas, targaryens have queer customs, after all, his elder sister was married to Aegon, their older brother.

It was only time until mother betrothed you both, and he would wait patiently for that, he would often imagine how married life with you would be, it would be perfect.

But all those dreams were crushed when he finds out that your mother was planning to betrothed you to a tully, to get their alliance in case of Aegon's claim for the throne. Angry was an understatement, he was extremely pissed off, and what did you do? You gladly accepted it, even managing to look happy at the proposal.

Just then he remembers his elder sister's words. ‘If one possesses a thing, the other will take it away.’

He could not have that.

He can not have you be taken away from him, that too by an undeserving house such as tully.

You knew something was extremely odd when Aemond came to your chambers at night, he never did that, always deeming it inappropriate for a lady and a man to be together after the moon has risen unless they were husband and wife. So it was extremely shocking as to what he was doing in your chambers, knowing he took the secret entrance since the guard did not mention Aemond at all when you entered.

“Brother? What are you doing here so late?” you ask as you approach him, he is sitting on the chair near the fireplace, turning his head to the side as if to acknowledge your presence, the light bouncing off his face making his features look much more angular and intimidating.

“I have missed you, dear sister.” he stood up and turned to face you, and you peered up at him confused, “I had heard about your betrothal to a tully, though I do not remember his name, I came here to wish you pleasantries and a prosperous marriage.” he tries his best to not scowl.

You smile widely.

And that immediately sets him off.

“Thank yo-” before you could finish your sentence, Aemond grabs you harshly by your cheeks, pulling his face towards his own, “You're happy? You're fucking happy?” he growls as his breath fans your face, “Aemond-” before you could say anything, the same hand that was gripping your cheeks goes to your hair, pulling your head back, your hands fly up to his to make him release his grip as the tug at your strands were incredibly painful.

He doesn't say anything but slams his lips against yours, moving against yours in a frantic rhythm, your eyes widen at this and you push at his chest to pull him off, but he uses the grip on your hair to further push you against him, and soon you're all flush against him, weakly trying to pushing him off while the hand in your hair keeps tightening as the other holds your waist gently.

A true contrast.

He pulls away to breathe and he looks at your teary eyes, as you look at him, “Aemond- you're scaring me.” you say weakly, shaking as his eye narrows, “I love you.” he blurts out and you look at him shocked, “But- we're siblings–”

“We're also targaryens.” he cuts you off, and lets go of your hair.

You squeal when he lifts you up roughly, before making haste over to your bed and throwing you on it, and before you can get up, he traps you in his arms.

“I do not wish to see you married to someone else, you have been mine, since the day you were born, sister.” he whispers in your ear before pressing a kiss to it. You gasped when you felt his hand grope at your clothed breast giving it a tight squeeze and you tried prying his hand off to no avail.

“Aem- please stop-” you beg but he doesn't listen and his eyebrows are furrowed as he looks at you, “Sister, tell me the truth have you not felt anything when you stay with me? A warm feeling in your heart?” your breathe hitches as he asks you that question, and you look away from him, feeling ashamed that you held feelings for him, they very well hidden, you felt ashamed whenever you would feel heat pool between your legs as you watched Aemond do quite literally anything.

He undoes his breeches and pulls his cock out, undeniably hard, “If I ruin you then mother won't marry you off to him, besides, no one would want a woman that is ruined, especially by her own brother.” he says and you sob, shaking your head and you gasp as you feel his dick pressed against your core.

Your silence gave him the answer he needed, he tore your dress apart, the stitches popping off with a noise, as he changed his grip and undoes your clothing.

You try to push him off and hit his chest, in defiance, but he is much stronger than you, pinning your hands above with his one hand as the other pulls off the shredded clothing, with your final strength, you deliver a hard kick to his crotch which causes him to groan and plop on the bed next to you in pain, and you use that change to try and scramble up and off the bed but to your disdain, he immediately recovers and pulls you down with a tight grip on your leg but pushing them apart, placing himself between them and then wrapping his hands around your neck, the grip cutting off air circulation rapidly as you struggled against him.

“Fucking cunt.” he says before spitting on your face and you cry, you feel your brain go dark as you start loosing consciousness at the lack of oxygen only for him to let go, cause you to take a deep breath on relax, snapping you awake at once.

“Sister, look how much you are leaking, way too much for someone that pretends like they hate it.” he rubs his cock against your folds, coating it in your juices and he groans, before he leans in, kissing your neck and then your breasts before pulling back.

“Brother please- ah!” you gasp when you felt his hot fingers press against your bud, rubbing it, making you squirm as you grip his hand and try to push it off but his grip stays firm and you eventually give up, hands falling to your sides and gripping the sheets below as he plays with cunt.

He knew you'd eventually break.

He did not want to hurt you or force you.

But you weren't making it easier and he did not have much time either, so he had to resort to this.

You reach your peak with a loud moan of his name which went straight to his cock, he leaned down and kissed you once more, holding your legs apart by force and then grabbing his cock before lining it up against your entrance, slowly pushing the thick head in, your hands shot up to his shoulder to grab them, nails digging into the skin as he rips you apart on his cock, bullying into you without mercy, his hand covering your mouth as you let out painful whines to shush you up. You whimper when you feel him fully sheathed inside you, feeling too full, your cunt clenching around him painfully tight to push him out but he stays there.

“Look at you, taking my cock so well, like you were made to.” he whispers in your ear before pulling his hips back and snapping them forward, causing you to let out a scream, although it was muffled, at the pain. The orgasm before had only helped a little, he was too thick and big.

At first he starts slowly, pulling back and snapping one at a time, trying to give you time to adjust until you whimpered his name, which made him lose any and all control he had as his pace became faster, brutally slamming his cock inside you as you whined and moaned beneath him.

The sound of wet slapping noises soon fill the air and the smell of sex starts taking over, your mind becomes all hazy at what was happening to you, you watch as Aemond takes one of your breasts in his mouth, suckling on the nipple, drool spilling all over it while his hand gropes the other, massaging it. Your hand travels to his hair and you arch your back, shoving more of your breast in his mouth, making him groan in delight.

He pulls back with a pop and you look at him gasping and wide eyed as he thrusts into you, eyes dropped as slight drool leaks from the sides of your mouth, letting out moans when he hits that sweet spot inside you.

“Fuck- you're so perfect, made just for me.” he grunts, supporting himself on his hands above you, hair curtaining around your face as you stare directly in his eye, watching him close it in pleasure, gasping when he feels you clench around him.

“You're mine right?” his eye opens and he looks at you intensely, you nod, agreeing with what he was saying, your mind losing all of its ability to think rationally the moment he entered inside you, you felt your stomach tighten.

“Use your words.” he commands and you gulp, “Yes only yours— ah! Fuck aemond!” you throw your head back as your second orgasm hits you, moaning out loud and he let's out a shaky breath before you felt his thrusts become sloppy, “Fuck, I'm gonna fill this cunt up, watch my seed take root in your womb, you're mine, mine to fuck, marry, breed, you'll give me many heirs won't you?” he goes off, voicing his thoughts and you feel warm and turned on at his words, “Yes- brother, I'm all yours, only yours.” you say, grabbing his cheek and rubbing a thumb on his scar and he finishes inside you with a loud moan, pushing himself to the hilt as his cock spurts thick ropes of cum inside you.

He pulls out, still somehow hard and lays down beside you, and you feel so empty without him inside you, so you whine, “Aem- I need you.” you pout and he looks at you wide eyed, and you don't know what comes over you, but you find your patience running thin as you wait for him to do something, so you take matters into your own hands, getting on top of him, grabbing his blood soaked cock before rising your hips and sitting down on it.

“Sister?” Aemond asks questionably, as he grabs your hips, watching you bounce on top of his cock, breasts moving up and down as you moan loudly into the chambers, only his name, on repeat and that's when he finally understands what happened.

He broke you.

He fucked your mind.

He should feel bad, knowing how now you're seeking him and his cock out like a bitch in heat but he doesn't, he feels more accomplished at that, knowing you desire no one but him. He moans when he feels your cunt spasm around him as you reach your peak, and instead of stopping, you continue riding him, wanting to bring him to his peak as well, you take one of his hands and guide it to your breast, making him grip it and play with your nipple.

“Brother please! Please cum inside me, I want you to fill me up.” you beg and Aemond groans at that, “Want- want you so bad! please haa, I need to have your children.” you moan and Aemond felt himself reach his peak harshly at that, filling you up once again.

Aemond changes the position, getting on top of you again, cock still inside and you give him a small smile before grabbing his face and pulling him in for a kiss, his lips move passionately against yours, before he pulls away, kissing down your neck and to your breasts, he pulls out and slowly trails kissing down to your down, watching as his loads of cum leak out from you, he pushes his tongue out and collects his juice on his mouth, before shoving it inside again, engulfing your cunt in his mouth, you grab his hair and grind your hips against his face, moaning his name loudly as he works his mouth, his nose shoved against your clit, creating friction whenever he moves his head, and soon enough, you reach your peak once again, “Brother!” you moan as you arch your back and he groans into your cunt, lapping up at the juices being secreted from you, before pulling away from it, placing wet kisses on your inners thighs and coming up towards you again, and kissing you, shoving his tongue inside your mouth, making you taste both your combined juices, and you groan into the kiss at the taste.

You both spent that night just like that.

Your mother was horrified when she had heard about this, and tully had walked in on the conversation, scrunching up his face in disgust and calling off your betrothal, you stood with your arm wrapped around Aemonds arm as he explain his mother what happened, looking away and hiding in his arms as she yelled at him for ruining and spoiling you, before inevitable deciding to betroth you both as result.

And you both were married, two moons later.

The maesters were extremely confused when you went into labour earlier than what they had predicted, they thought that it was going to be a stillbirth, yet they were confused to see when a healthy silver hair babe popped out, crying and cooing. They considered it a miracle but only Alicent and Aemond knew the truth.

Aemond stood there with his child in his arms as he gazed lovingly upon him, a son. You smiled at him as he cooed in high valyrian.

“Maester, When can I take her again?” That question caught the maester off guard and he cleared his throat before speaking up, “I would suggest waiting 6 weeks until she is fully healed, or 3 moons time.” and Aemond hummed.

The maester leaves the room, leaving you, aemond and the babe alone, the baby cooing at his father, small hand entangled in his hair.

“After you heal, I shall put a babe inside you again, dear wife.” He comes down and sits next to you and you smile, “As you wish, husband.” you tease and press a kiss on his lips.

———

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Since you mentioned this in an earlier ask, what is your take on feminist Leona? I see people saying things like "consent king" "he drinks his respect women juice" and "leona kingscholar says men ain't shit" but I think those are mainly jokes but I've also seen a lot of for example Leona x reader fanfics where he's a lot nicer to femme Yuus than masc ones. I don't play the game so I don't know how much of a feminist he really is, could you clarify and give your own insights? Ty Miss Raven!!!!!!!

[Referencing this post!]

Admittedly, I am guilty of having made “consent king” jokes but that’s mainly because I think consent + respecting others’ autonomy is very sexy important and it’s slightly funny to have a 185 cm muscular anime cat boy championing the concept. However, I try to avoid making jokes which would imply Leona puts down his own gender or thinks lesser of them because 1) canon doesn't indicate this and 2) it can be hurtful to non-femme Twst fans. Yes, most of the fandom is women--but that doesn't mean we shouldn't make this fandom space welcoming for masculine or nonbinary Twst fans.

Let's delve into a brief history of where feminist!Leona comes from! After that, I'll discuss my own thoughts and feelings about it.

The idea first came into prominence because of an exchange that occurs in Cater's School Uniform vignette. In it, Cater is trying to convince Leona to join him for a party that he's throwing for Rosaria, one of the talking paintings at NRC. At first, Leona refuses--but he quickly changes his tune once Cater mentions Rosaria is a "she/her". Leona states, "Portrait or not, I respect ladies and Rosaria is a lady." Cater then whispers to Kalim (who is shocked that Leona suddenly agreed to come along), "Leona's kingdom is all about being respectful to ladies."

It should be noted that Leona says something slightly different in JP: “Even if it’s a portrait, a woman is a woman.” JP does not have the “I respect ladies” portion; “I respect ladies” was added to EN, which may have further amplified the interpretation that he is a feminist.

Now, as we learn from that vignette, the Sunset Savanna has a culture of "respecting women". In Leona's Ceremonial Robes vignette, he elaborates that, “[Beastwomen are] already way stronger than [beastmen]." Furthermore, Ruggie states in one of his Chats that “Girls have both the grit and the camaraderie to triumph when the goin’ gets tough.” Then, in events like Tamashina Mina and late in book 7, we are told that many of the royal guards are women who volunteer for the positions and it's common for them to have learned martial arts from a young age. From this dialogue, we can glean that the women of Leona's home country are physically strong, strong-willed, and honorable.

With that being said, I think certain interpretations of Leona's "feminism" (a term not actually used by official materials; this is a fandom take) definitely take it a step too far by either assuming Leona treats woman as a special class and/or he dislikes men. Both of those interpretations (if serious and not said as a joke) are owed to a fundamental misunderstanding of what "feminism" is. Feminism is "the belief in full social, economic, and political equality for women." Feminism is NOT misandry (a hatred of men), and nor is it female chauvinism (the belief that women are superior to men)... unless, of course, you're talking about very radicalized forms of thinking. The basic concept of feminism doesn't involve man hate or putting women on a pedestal.

Twst itself appears to go with the basic definition of feminism. As Leona himself states, he doesn't treat anyone special. "I ain't extra nothin' to nobody. As if [women] even need men fawning all over'em."

Leona, whom we know to be arrogant and unwilling to obey others' orders, appears to be more willing to listen to and carry out tasks if there's a woman involved. I already mentioned the case with Rosaria the painting (which proves that his "respecting women" thing extends beyond just beastwomen from his home country). In his Ceremonial Robes, he also grumpily puts on the aforementioned robes and takes a picture of himself in it upon the request of his sister-in-law. But--and this should be stressed--he's not exactly jumping for joy or eager to do so. Instead, Leona cites that "Goin’ against [beastwomen] only brings more trouble.” This indicates annoyance at having to carry out this chore, and gives the impression that Leona's only complying because not doing so would only overcomplicate things for him. He's not an idiot--he knows when to make a strategic retreat if it's going to save him time and effort in the long run. (For example, he immediately surrenders to the Ferrymen in book 6 rather than continue to put up a fight.)

I should note that, like in the earlier definition of feminism I shared, Leona does not simply bend the knee to every single woman. In the first Halloween event, he was still capable of scaring off the Magicam Monsters (some of which have distinctly female voices) without any qualms. He was still fully able to express anger and upset when Eliza, the Ghost Bride, smacked him. "You've got a lot of nerve turnin' me down over some nonsense!" He's also not above tricking the Fairy Queen and her entourage to steal back the special magestone from NRC.

This shows us that Leona doesn't just... "respect women" indiscriminately. If someone is going to be rude and selfish to him, he's going to respond as is appropriate. He's not going to turn a blind eye because of the offending party's gender.

In terms of Yuu interactions (assuming Yuu can be any gender), Leona acts pretty aggressive towards them in their first meeting. Even though it's clearly an accident and Yuu didn't realize they stepped on his tail, Leona is annoyed by the act and them walking away without apologizing or stopping to acknowledge him. He also makes it known that Yuu is magicless, and thus has no way of defending themselves from him. And you know what this man does? He says, "Well, can't say it'd be much fun to hurt someone so helpless. Still gonna do it, though." AND HE THREATENS TO TAKE A TOOTH. His wording, "No one gets to stomp on my tail and just walk away without payin' the price" + him still deciding to attack Yuu desite knowing they are weak/cannot fight back, implies to me that he may have still reacted this way regardless of Yuu's gender. (Key word: MAY. We don't know if this is the truth or not, I am leaving this up to your interpretation.)

Notably, there is a light change between EN and JP versions for Yuu's dialogue choices in response to Leona's threat. The EN dialogue options are far more humorous, but the JP options clearly convey fear (ie Leona is being serious about his threat of bodily harm). The top option is like noises of surprise, like "Eh, eh, eh!!"; the bottom option is along the lines of, "What, I'm going to be hit/beaten!"

There are, in fact, multiple instances where Leona acts callous towards Yuu. He refuses to let Yuu stay in Savanaclaw unless they earn their keep by beating up some mobs. He constantly degrades them by calling them and others he considers weak "herbivore". He has to be goaded into helping us or taking us along on trips instead of automatically caving. It could be argued that he would be more agreeable or polite if fem!Yuu was in these scenarios. And who knows, that might be the case--but again, I don't think he would be egregiously kind. I would like to point out a more direct example of a Leona-fem!Yuu interaction. Leona has interacted with a female Yuu before: Yuuka Hirasaka, our main character for the Episode of Savanaclaw manga. There's some debate over whether or not the NRC students know that Yuuka is a girl since the topic is never mentioned once, but I assume that they are aware because: 1) Yuuka makes no effort to hide her figure or chest; she even wears her blazer open, and 2) she has no motivation to hide her gender; she is capable of defending herself if needed and has a nonchalant personality. Proceeding with the assumption that Yuuka being a girl is a known fact, Leona does not treat her any differently than any other student.

Yuuka seems to experience the same tail-stepping scene as is depicted in game, although we don't see the aftermath of it/if Leona gives her the same threat.

The more telling scene for Yuuka, however, comes when she and her friends arrive in Savanaclaw to investigate. They are confronted by a bunch of mobs that start to pick a fight with them. Like in the game, Leona intervenes (ie he doesn't stop the fight just because Yuuka is a woman) and has them duke it out in a game of spelldrive/magift instead.

And you know what? Leona doesn't hold back just because he's playing against a woman. In fact, he kicks Yuuka's ass and then some. Then he stands over her and tells her to get back up, to keep playing. Leona isn't cutting Yuuka any slack whatsoever. He treats Yuuka the same as the boys she's playing with.

This brings me to my final prominent example of Leona interacting with a woman, which I think best exemplifies what my interpretation of Leona's "feminism" is. In the JP server's 2024 Halloween event Lost in the Book with Nightmare Before Christmas, Sally indicates that she plans on making a meal using the plants from around the cemetery. Leona is at first displeased by this, but then agrees to help her catch snakes, rats, lizards, etc. as meat for the meal. This leads into a conversation about how sad Sally's home life is, which earns her sympathy from the other NRC students. Jade, Riddle, and Epel are shocked at the cruelty that Sally faces. Jade volunteers to take the doctor out for Sally, and Epel even tries to convince Leona to help him rough up Dr. Finkelstein. But Leona just smirks and tells them Sally's not in any need of their "help"; isn't she the one who slipped the doctor a "drink"? Riddle scolds him for this "ungentlemanly" behavior and Epel refuses to believe that the "kind Sally" would do something like use poison. Leona was able to smell the deadly nightshade on her and deduce that Sally slipped some to her guardian and then slipped out on her own. She's not a damsel in distress--she's resourceful. Sally used her brains and not brute force to rescue herself from a bad situation. (We know that this would deeply resonate with Leona because he has been struggling his entire life to have his own merits recognized.) Leona praises Sally for her cunning and goes so far as to offer her his arm and tell her that he's looking forward to this evening's dinner.

In this situation, could it not be said that Jade, Riddle, and Epel were the ones assuming Sally is weak that Leona was the one who saw her true worth? I'm of course not accusing anyone here of being sexist. Society socializes us to see women as the "fairer sex" in need of protection and aid--but isn't Leona being more equitable by not underestimating Sally because of her gender?

That brings me to my conclusion. Leona respects women, no doubt about that. However, that's NOT a blanket statement. He clearly knows how to separate who is worthy of his respect and who isn't, and then he acts accordingly. Yes, he is polite, slightly softer, and more willing to listen to women he knows (his sister-in-law), women who haven't offended him/are just existing (Rosaria), and woman who have demonstrated their own strengths to him (Sally). He doesn’t become a completely different character just to bend to the whims of women. Those who have acted in ways to earn his ire, woman or not, will be treated as such (Magicam Monsters, Eliza, even Yuu when they/she enters his territory and/or steps on his tail). At the same time, I don't believe he thinks that women are delicate flowers that need special treatment (as we see with how he handles Sally + the Yuus and, more specifically, Yuuka). If anything, the women from his home country have demonstrated that they can be strong and self-sufficient. Why would he feel the need to go out of his way to be extremely lenient with the women he is around?

Lastly, nothing in official materials implies Leona treats men significantly worse than women. If he seems exceedingly rude to men, it’s most likely the result of the main cast (the characters Leona most often interacts with) being guys. If we were to compare how he treats his peers and how he treats women who have irritated him, I would say the behavior isn’t that different.

I know that was a long post but 😅 Hopefully I was able to articulate my thoughts well enough… May you find it helpful in forming your own opinion, Anon!

[wri0thesley]

let me see - arlecchino x fem!reader (3.8k)

you work as a tutor at the house of the hearth; but the father of the children you teach seems to haunt your thoughts.

cw: not sfw, fem reader. employer-employed dynamics, reader calls arlecchino 'sir', chubby reader, reader is inexperienced. arlecchino calls reader 'good girl' and 'darling'. guided masturbation.

You see your employer only rarely, but that does not mean that you do not think about her often. 

It’s in the way that the children - your students, the ones you have been engaged to teach basic arithmetic and reading and as much history as you can squeeze in - speak of their ‘Father’. The look of wonder and devotion and just a touch of intimidation that comes over them, even as they chatter to you about the next time she is coming home and what they plan to do to welcome her. It’s in your salaries; perfectly paid, on time, with extra money left in an envelope and a note in beautiful, sharp handwriting mentioning your students by name and how well they’re progressing.

And, of course, it is in the times you see her - for you do not think anybody could see Arlecchino and not think about her regularly for the rest of their life. 

She makes you nervous. There is something about her commanding presence; her lovely marble face, the strangely striking appearance of her eyes, the self-assured way that she stands. You think her beautiful, of course - but you have always had trouble around beautiful people, and so you find yourself stumbling over your words, your cheeks burning hot, coming far too close to making a fool out of yourself whilst she keeps a small, polite smile on her face as she watches you falter. 

You worry, sometimes, she knows that you find her at once intimidating and irresistible - that something about the way you hold yourself will give away that you have wondered what her nails would feel like, digging into the soft skin of your throat as she tipped your chin upwards - or that you have wondered what it would feel like to have her corner you like a trapped rabbit and have her way with you--

But they are just daydreams. The truth is that you are as green as they come; you had gone to Sumeru’s Akademiya, a child who could not stop devouring books, who was obsessed with learning - and you had returned back to your native Fontaine to teach, and had no time in between that to pursue romantic relationships. The sum total of your romantic experience is a hurried kiss with another student, another beautiful older woman, who had pulled back and laughed at you, touching your cheek gently. 

“Aren’t you adorable?” She’d asked you, in a low, sleepy voice with her eyes half-lidded. “Maybe a bit too adorable for just right now. Come find me again if you’re ever in Mondstadt.”

So . . . your fantasies about Arlecchino are just that. Simple fantasies. You have other things to attend to, after all! You care about the children whose education has been entrusted to you - even those who have now grown too old to need your guidance, who you watch flower and blossom and strike out from the House of the Hearth. Even if they stray beyond the nation you live in, though . . . they always seem to come back, to pay their respects to Father. 

But it doesn’t stop the fact that sometimes she looks at you, when your paths crossed, with her head tilted just slightly to one side, and you feel like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. She always makes you feel strangely exposed; you keep up with fashion, because you enjoy it, but something about the fripperies of your gowns and skirts and blouses and the ribbons and the carefully chosen accessories in front of Arlecchino make you feel as though she is stripping you down in her mind, so perfectly poised and tailored. So you drop books in front of her. Your sentences get tangled together. You go hot all over and look at the floor--

But still she employs you, and still you hurry home at night and try to ignore the pounding in your chest and the way your breath goes short at the sight of her. Your paths cross only occasionally, you tell yourself. Next time you will be prepared. 

But you are not prepared, the day that Arlecchino meets you in the hallway (your arms full of books and the work of the children that you intend to look over that night), running late with your hair ribbons askew and your dress crooked and she looks at you and says, in a voice that brokers no argument;

“Won’t you stay a little longer and have afternoon tea with me?” 

“Do I make you nervous?” The red crosses in her eyes bore into you as she pours you a steaming cup of tea into a delicate teacup. You sit primly, your hands folded in your lap, your feet together, feeling entirely too exposed alone in this room with her. “You shake like a leaf whenever I speak to you.” 

You wet your lips awkwardly, your throat dry, as you reach out for the teacup. You notice your hands are shaking and try to stop them, but she leans forward herself and places one of her hands over yours, steadying you. You stare up at her, eyes wide, whilst she looks down at you with something calculating and predatory in her gaze. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice very soft. You can feel your cheeks going hot against your will, and you wonder what you must look like to her - because you feel like a rabbit who is about to be pounced on by a wolf. Arlecchino slowly and purposely guides your hand back down, to put the teacup back on the saucer, and you begin to get the strangest impression that her invitation for ‘afternoon tea’ was actually an invitation for something entirely different. Her hand comes back up, and one of your idle questions is given an answer as you feel her sharp nails dig into the soft skin under your chin, tipping it up as she leans in closer. Close enough that she could kiss you, if she wanted - close enough you can smell the scent of Rainbow Roses and smoke that lingers on her clothes. 

“Oh,” says Arlecchino, and she smiles at you and something about the smile makes you go hot and cold all over all at once. “Don’t be. It’s terribly cute.”

You don’t know how you end up sprawled out over her lap, your thighs hooked over the arms of her chair, as she takes control of you - but before you know it, that is the position you have found yourself in. Her hands roam slowly all over you, savouring the feel of your skin - soft and warm, generously curved - beneath her long, elegant fingers. 

“These ribbons drove me to distraction today,” she murmurs against your ear, as you melt helplessly against her and she tugs at a brightly coloured red ribbon that trims your blouse. “I kept thinking about tying it around your pretty wrists instead.” 

“M-Miss Arlecchino--”

She clicks her tongue at you in admonishment, running her thumb over the seam of your lips. 

“Call me ‘Sir’, darling.” You practically fall over yourself to rectify your mistake, your tongue messy and heavy in your mouth, and you win a little chuckle from the woman who has you at her mercy. “You’re just so eager to please, aren’t you? What a good, obedient little thing.” 

“Please--” You whisper breathlessly, as she tugs at the ribbon completely and the throat of your blouse falls open. Her nails scratch a slow line over your neck, almost like a threat, and you shiver again helplessly under the touch. 

“Please what?” She murmurs against the shell of your ear. “You know, I did employ you as a tutor . . . for an academic, you’re rather inarticulate.” One button of your blouse, torturously slowly. The next, and she smiles against your bare skin to see the way your chest is rabbiting. “One would think you’d never been touched like this before.”

She knows.

There’s an edge to the way she says that, a note that’s teasing and suggestive, and it tears from your throat a little whimper of embarrassment that, in turn, makes her let out a sigh of satisfaction. 

“My, my,” Arlecchino says to you - two more buttons, and your blouse is barely fastened. You’re inordinately glad you wore pretty underwear today, though you suppose it must look rather fussy to Arlecchino. “Have you not, sweetheart?”

“Sir,” you whine out, feeling tears spring to your eyes at the humiliation of the whole thing. Despite the humiliation, though, heat spirals out from between your thighs - your matching fancy underwear, you know, is soaked through. “Please-- it’s embarrassing--”

The final button, and Arlecchino’s fingers are running over bare skin now. The pudge of your stomach, the curve of your chest through the ruched cups of your brassiere. 

“Say it,” she says to you, her voice sharp in the command. She circles a finger over your nipple through the lace and chiffon and you squirm in her lap at the sensation of the bud puckering and hardening. “If you want me to touch you, you understand, you have to at least have the confidence to tell me the truth. Or I’ll just send you home without your blouse and with your poor little aching cunt untouched, hmm?”

“Sir--!”

She grabs your cheeks between thumb and forefinger, squeezing the roundness of them roughly. The Father of the House of the Hearth, after all, is not one to be intimidated by whining or begging. She has plenty of experience dealing with brats. Her fingers still as she waits for you to do as she asks, and you squeeze your eyes shut and hiccup out a sob of longing. 

“I--I’ve never . . . had anyone else touch me . . . l-like this--”

She lets out a pleased purr in the back of her throat.

“There,” she soothes. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Good girl.” She drops a kiss on the side of your forehead like a reward, her hands sliding over your body to find the catch of your brassiere. There’s a brief tussle of movement as she ensures you are shed of both your blouse and your underwear, and then you’re once more on her lap, your entire top half bared, only your skirts and stockings and underwear still on. “And if I’m honest . . .” She moves back to your ear, pressing a kiss on your jawline beneath the earlobe. “I rather like getting my claws in someone before they can learn any bad habits. I, too, am an excellent teacher.”

She takes a firm hold of you, pulling you even closer to her so that her hands can each take a palmful of your breasts. You feel exposed before her; the rolls of your stomach, the way that your chest sags into her grip, but Arlecchino does not seem to care about these things - instead she just sighs like you’re a fine wine she’s sampling, palming and squeezing the heavy weight of them. 

“You’re such a pretty thing beneath the flounces,” she says to you, plucking idly at your nipples between thumb and forefinger - the movement sends hot lightning flashes of pleasure right down to the space between your legs. “If I were in charge, I think I’d leave you naked in my bed. Much more practical like that, don’t you agree?” 

“I--” 

“What about kisses?” She asks you, not letting you say anything. Your head is spinning pleasantly, and you cannot say that you are annoyed she’s stopping you from making a fool of yourself. “Are you as unversed in those, too?”

“I--I’ve kissed . . . someone--”

“Just one?” She laughs, a not unkind noise. “Oh, just the one kiss, I see. Poor thing, your cheeks are like Pyro slimes. Come here. Let me show you how to kiss someone properly, hmm?” 

Arlecchino pulls you into a kiss that is so unlike the one you once had that to call them both by the same name seems a great disservice. There is no other way to describe it; she claims you, her mouth like a conquering king, your own the battlefield. Her teeth tug at your lower lip and you are helpless to do anything but open your mouth, let her tongue sweep over yours. She tastes like fire and tea, some of the little cakes she had offered to you - and you whine helplessly, clutching at her slacks because there’s nothing else you can reach in the position she has you in. 

She lets go of your face with a satisfied sigh, and your head lolls back against her shoulder as she delicately wipes a smudge of her lipstick from the corner of your mouth. 

“Let’s get this off you,” she says, tugging at the frills of your skirt. “Let me see you, darling.” 

You’re only too eager to assist, embarrassed but needy, wanting but nervous. The fastenings at your waistband are unhooked, and then she is carelessly sliding it off of you until you are back before her in nothing but your underwear and your stockings, digging into the fullness of your thighs. For a moment, you are embarrassed again of your softness - but Arlecchino grabs your hips, pulling you back bodily onto her, and you realise from the possessiveness of her movements that she does not see it for a moment as something to be ashamed of. 

Arlecchino’s hands are hungry as she squeezes at the softness of your thighs, as her palms sear hot across your stomach, as her fingers drift towards the gusset of your underwear. Her touch is feather-light, there, but you keen even so - terribly aware of every movement, even the smallest brush of her fingers. Arlecchino clicks her tongue against your ear again. 

“So sensitive,” she whispers. “I’m afraid I might hurt you, and I’m afraid I’d very much like it. Why don’t you show me how you touch yourself?”

Your breath gets caught in your chest. Her suggestions so far have been, perhaps, embarrassing - have put you at a disadvantage due to your lack of experience. But nothing so far has been quite so brazen. You burn with the unease of it, but Arlecchino is already grabbing your hand, placing it over your soaked underwear. 

“Don’t worry about making a mess,” she murmurs into your ear. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. My pants are soaking.”

She seems to enjoy watching you squirm as you whimper again, face hot. But her hand does not move, keeping your own anchored against your underwear until you do as she asks and shyly, nervously, rub at yourself through the sodden fabric just a little. 

“Oh, darling,” she breathes, condescension dripping off every syllable. “You’ll never get anywhere like that.” You are inarticulate with your touches, still trembling and shaking at the strangeness of all of this - and you have done this, of course, but never with an audience! Never spread out over someone’s lap as they critique your technique!

“Sir, please--”

“You’re supposed to be a teacher,” she admonishes you. “You’re supposed to know everything, are you not? Have I really got to help you with something so simple as touching yourself?” She’s enjoying it; the sight of you, normally so prim and shy, utterly undone by her every word and action. Her hand moves over yours, holding it, guiding you to press two of your fingers together and circle over your swollen clit through the underwear. 

It’s different, with her guiding you. You turn your head to try and bury it against her collar as she continues to mercilessly guide you into circles, sniffling pathetically - but she just coos, just nudges you back so you watch the visual of her hand over yours between your thighs. 

“Shall we get your underwear off too?” She phrases it as a question, but it’s not one - she is already peeling off the frilly cotton, inching it down your generous thighs. She laughs a little meanly when she sees just how large the damp, darker patch is, and you think you will cry. Every feeling you have ever had is magnified a thousand fold here, in this incredibly vulnerable position spread over the lap of your employer. 

(There are whispers that Arlecchino is even more than that; that there is a secret purpose behind the orphanage you have been employed by. But you do not put much stock in rumours, even when the children look at each other strangely and whisper when they think you cannot hear them. The thought of who you might really be letting touch you . . . You wish it did not stoke a fire in you even hotter and brighter than before). 

“There we are,” she murmurs. “Good girl. Look at you. Look how pretty you are.” She deals your sex a short, soft slap - her palm comes away sticky, the noise indecent in the little room she had brought you to for afternoon tea. “I wonder how much prettier you’ll look with three of your fingers stuffed inside of you?”

Another strangled noise from your throat at the easy way she says the filthy things, and Arlecchino merely makes a soft huff of laughter. 

“Carry on touching yourself for me,” she says to you. “Let me see.”

It’s an order, and you know that orders from Arlecchino are to be obeyed. Shyly and hesitantly again, you bring your fingers back to your sex. She rests her head against your shoulder, and moves her own hand; uses two of her fingers to make a ‘v’ shape and places them on your sex, using them to spread the plump outer lips aside so that you have better access to your clit and your entrance, still soaking and leaking slick out onto Arlecchino’s lap. 

You’re hot and awkward as you touch your clit; as you try and mimic the circles that she had drawn on you earlier - but you are not brave enough to keep at it, and before long you have returned to your own faithful back-and-forth motion on your clit, your hips moving in little thrusts to try and prolong the sensation. You can hear yourself in the charged air; the hot little pants, the whimpers of frustration that none of it feels as good as it did when she was in charge. Arlecchino, though, merely watches you struggle. 

You cannot see her face, but you can imagine the look upon it; the barest quirk of the lip, the single raised eyebrow. You carry on as best you can, trying to think of all the things you would usually think of - but it all spirals back to where you are, what is happening, and the fact no fantasy can truly compare. 

Her voice is a little thick when she speaks next, and you realise with a strange jolt of pleasure that your inarticulate touching is still having an effect on her. It’s almost unnoticeable - but Arlecchino’s normal tone is so very poised, even the smallest change feels like a blaring siren to you. 

“Put two of your fingers inside of you,” she says. And then, as you inexpertly slide two of your fingers inside your channel, she lets out a shuddering breath. You’re wet and tight around yourself, aware that you must look a mess - but Arlecchino’s fingers are sliding between your sex, moving to touch the space on your clit you just vacated, and your entire mind goes blank. “Don’t stop. Let me see you move them.”

You do your best, but Arlecchino’s own movements are just too much. The sensation of her dragging the pads of her fingers over your swollen clit; the way she circles and flourishes and swirls . . . you try, desperately, to keep your fingers in some kind of rhythm as they slide in and out of you, but before you know it you’re using your other hand to clutch at her arm and whimpering as you hump upwards into her touch. 

“I ought to stop you,” she tells you, but she doesn’t for a moment stop her ceaseless assault on your clit; the wet, sticky clicking noise of your slick between her fingers. “You’re being a brat.”

“Please, Sir,” you whisper, babbling, “I’m . . . it feels so good--”

“Flatterer,” she murmurs, in that low, hungry voice. “You’re lucky that you look so very pretty like this, and that I am perhaps more soft-hearted than I appear . . .” Tears are running down your cheeks, sniffling, whimpering, helplessly moving your hips in time with her touches. Nothing seems to exist but the feel of Arlecchino’s fingers on your clit and the firm, certain way she touches you. “Be a good girl and come for me.” 

The order tips you over the edge. The knot of heat in your belly comes undone and you whine helplessly as you buck into her touch, and you feel a gush of your own slick wet the fingers that are still stuffed inside of you. Your thighs try to clamp shut around the sensation, but the position that Arlecchino has you in with your thighs over the arms of her chair stop you from doing it - and so does she, still working her fingers over your clit through every trembling moment of your orgasm. 

You come back down, panting, aware of the wetness between your legs and your nakedness, the stiff points of your nipples and Arlecchino’s fingers on you and the fact that Arlecchino is still dressed exactly as she was when she caught you in the hallway. 

She moves her hand, and to your surprise she presses her fingers against your lips, forcing your mouth open. 

“Taste yourself,” she tells you, and you are still so in awe of her that you can do nothing but obey - the slightly tangy taste of you lingering on your lips. You’re even more surprised when she uses her other hand to pluck your hand from between your thighs and guides the two fingers that had been inside of you to her own mouth, her tongue hungrily drinking in the wet webs of your slick. “Well. Aren’t you sweet?”

The unprofessionalism of what you’ve just done begins to creep up on you, shame drenching your back. All of those talks about ethics that you’d had at the Akademiya - but Arlecchino takes your head and turns it and gives you another firm kiss, another bite to your lower lip, another conquering that makes you feel weak at the knees. Your own taste lingers in your mouth, but, too, it lingers on her lips, and she seems supremely satisfied as she pulls back. 

“I’ll be away on business for the next week,” she tells you. “In Snezhnaya. I’ll bring you something back.”

“Sir--”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she continues. “That little apartment you live in - well, it seems a shame, when we have so many empty rooms, and a live-in tutor would be far more beneficial - don’t you think? The children do adore you, and it seems so very practical.”

It’s a bizarre time to be having a business meeting, with your slick staining her clothes, with your own clothes a crumpled pile, with your position so terribly open and exposed - but all you can do is blink at her, and she smiles at you like a cat who has gotten the cream. She pats your cheek. 

“Besides,” she says. “It will give us far more time together. And I do have so much more I’d like to teach you.”