#or are aware of the general concept of these books

[bassiter2]

i'm realizing through this book i'm reading (same-sex affairs: constructing and controlling homosexuality in the pacific northwest) that like... yknow the conflation between homosexuality and pedophilia. well i've realized why that is, and that it's more than just all "sexual perversions" getting lumped together by homophobes. but also insanely enough more mundane

it's literally that for many decades, the only concept most people were able to have of gay men were through the lens of it being a crime. aka arrest records and the newspapers telling you who got put in jail last night. obviously gay men who were only having consensual sex with other gay adult men did get caught sometimes, but you could only catch them if they were doing it in public, if you were sneaking around in their private home, or if someone involved ratted them out. and if you ratted someone out, whatever motivation you might have, you were also ratting yourself out, so why would you do that? but if you were underage, especially if it was non-consensual, you wouldn't be in trouble at all. so of course the majority of the "immoral acts" charges are going to be between an adult and a minor.

not only that but apparently "youth" in referring to a young person used to literally mean anyone under the age of 21. and the vast majority of charges that read "engaged in immoral acts with a youth" it's referring to like a 17 y/o or even 18 or 19. so then ppl in later decades read that and misinterpreted it too.

and that's literally it lol..... it feels obvious in hindsight but i never would have thought about it. crazy what bias confirmation does.

[bemusedlybespectacled]

what's happening with James Somerton right now: a probably-incomplete primer

TW: suicide, including suicide as a threat and a manipulation tactic.

The short version:

James Somerton is a former Youtube essayist who focused entirely on queer history, queer media criticism, and queer issues in general. He is also a flagrant grifter who has made tens of thousands of dollars via fraud, both directly (lying about his finances to beg for money and getting donations for films he never even started making) and indirectly (stealing whole essays and articles and books, reading them out loud verbatim for his videos without indicating they were anything other than his own work, and then using the prestige he gained from using their work to get Patrons and sponsorships).

The story as told James and James apologists was that James attempted to apologize twice, was hounded mercilessly on the internet for weeks, and then, driven to the end of his rope, he posted a suicide note on Twitter, was MIA for several days, and from then on has been avoiding the internet.

The actual story, as revealed yesterday, was that James used two sockpuppet accounts to defend himself and parrot his talking points (again, while publicly claiming to be trying to take responsibility for his actions), using one to try to rebrand the con under a different name and another to deliberately stoke the panic caused by his suicide note. He was not only aware of the pain and anxiety he was causing people, but he encouraged it on one alt while hornyposting about his favorite movies on the other.

He is an unrepentant con artist who successfully used a suicide threat to prevent further interference with future cons. The only reason he was caught is because he is apparently incapable of going more than a couple of weeks without trying to get back in the internet spotlight, allowing people to tie his alts back to him. He lies for fun and profit and he should not be taken seriously, ever.

The long version:

In December 2023, Youtube essayist Hbomberguy (Harry Brewis) put out a four-hour-long video about plagiarism on the internet, and devoted two hours to addressing as much of JS's plagiarism as he could. I strongly recommend watching the entire thing, as the first two hours build on the concepts that he uses later in the video.

He also blew the whistle on James' fraud surrounding Telos, a studio James founded using thousands of dollars of IndieGoGo money that never actually produced any films despite him definitely working on them! Any day now they'll be released! Don't you worry!

A day later, Todd in the Shadows, a guy whose entire thing is music reviews, posted his own video debunking multiple outright lies that James had told about history, especially queer history. A few more days later, The Ace Couple, who run a podcast about asexuality, released an episode detailing how they'd lost $1.5k donating to Telos.

I have put the videos, Twitter threads, Patreon posts, and Reddit posts by other people discussing different aspects of James' fraud under the cut.

Every other time James was caught plagiarizing, prior to Harry's video, he would lie about it. Either he'd have some excuse (easily proven to be a lie) or he'd retreat to his favorite deflection: "I'm just being harassed because I'm gay."

This last lie was one he'd use not only to deflect accusations of plagiarism, but all criticism in general, no matter how trivial. Every time, the critic or someone associated with them would somehow dox him, or harass him, or send him death threats, or threaten to falsely accuse him of sexual assault.

This happened to The Ace Couple (who'd tried to correct him on something extremely acephobic in one of his videos), Jessie Gender (who'd tried to correct him when he claimed that there were no queer content creators on Nebula, given that she and a bunch of other queer creators were definitely on that platform), and the person who first blew the whistle on him stealing from Tinker Belles and Evil Queens by Sean Griffin (who was accused of being behind death threats he'd received, and hounded so harshly they had to leave Twitter).

It is important to note that every time James faced potentially damaging criticism, or even just a threat to his ego, suddenly he would claim to be harassed by people connected to the critic, including threats to his life. There has never been any proof of any threats being directed at him, nor evidence that, if the threats were real, that they are actually from people connected to the critic.

In the original video by Hbomberguy, Harry makes a compelling argument that James brought on a friend of his, Nick, as a co-writer specifically as a shield against accusations of plagiarism. "How dare you accuse me of plagiarism! Nick would NEVER do that!" This is even more apparent given subsequent developments which I will get into.

When evidence started dropping about different aspects of his fraud (not only Harry's video, but Todd in the Shadows' video debunking his misinfo, The Ace Couple's podcast about their experience donating to his fraudulent film studio, and Dan Olson's tweet thread about James' obvious lies about his finances), he went into hiding for two weeks, and then put out the first of two apologies. He then deleted that one and put out another one a few weeks later. And then he immediately deleted that one.

While his first apology was rambling, vague, and dramatic (lots of sniffing/crying), and his second was more measured, thought-out, and totally batshit (lots of hilariously and bizarrely implausible excuses for why he'd done what he'd done), they had roughly the same points:

Not ALL of his stuff was plagiarized! Actually, a lot of it wasn't! No specifics as to what, though!

Most of the stuff that was plagiarized was just a failure to properly cite sources, as he had no idea that putting someone's name in your end credits or video description (without specifying what parts are attributable to that person or disclosing that you are using their words verbatim) is not sufficient credit,

Also, he totally had permission, in some cases, to use their work verbatim prior to publishing the video (this is not true, and is disproven both in Harry's video and his own screenshots);

He definitely didn't commit fraud with Telos and would soon have a good explanation for where the money went! (he did not)

He was going to keep the videos up so that he could either donate the funds from any monetization to the fund Harry had set up for his victims or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing his work;

He lost his best friend (i.e. Nick) over these allegations, who absolutely definitely wasn't a scapegoat, except Nick was also responsible for a lot of the stuff James was being criticized for;

He was going to keep the videos up so he could either donate the advertising proceeds to Harry's fund for his victims (first apology) or to "help Nick's portfolio" by showcasing the work he'd done; and

As a result of this entire ordeal, he had attempted either self-harm or suicide (he merely alluded to "doing something stupid").

Again, his response was to 1) downplay the severity of his actions or flat out ignore allegations against him, 2) come up with ridiculous excuses for his behavior, 3) throw Nick under the bus, and 4) claim to be in mortal danger. As far as I am aware, he has never taken any concrete action to make amends to any person, not even donating money to charity.

This was coupled with some kind of attempt to profit: monetizing his apology videos, closing and then reopening his Patreon right before the monthly charge cycle happened (totally to let people unfollow him, not at all as a grab for that money), creating a new Patreon under a different name, and changing his Twitter and Youtube handles to distance himself from the controversy while gathering new followers.

At one point (I forget if this was on Twitter or Instagram), he also said that someone had broken into his apartment due to the notoriety he'd received from Harry's video. I believe that was after his first apology, when people started to point out that he'd just changed the name of his Twitter and Youtube channel and had restarted a new Patreon under a pseudonym. (BTW, the pseudonym he used for his new Patreon was "The Gay Raconteur"; this will be important later).

It had what I think was the desired effect: any attempt at pointing out that he was rebranding his grift now came across as weirdly fixated on minor things he was doing, which certainly wasn't worth putting him in physical danger. (Again, he has never provided any proof of this happening, nor provided any evidence that these people allegedly threatening him were, in fact, in some way inspired by Hbomb).

So along comes March 5, 2024, and James posts a suicide note on his Twitter, saying that he is going to set up his videos to automatically publish (for Nick's portfolio), provide in some way for the ad revenue to go to a suicide prevention nonprofit, and then kill himself.

The immediate response from the internet was compassion and totally chilling any further criticism, since you might be callously criticizing a dead person. Harry and Kat worked for a couple of days to get a wellness check for him while a substantial section of the internet called them murderers.

On March 6, a day after the note was published, Nick tweeted that that he had cause to believe James was fine. Kat confirmed that James was safe on March 11. Due to the drama of the "suicide attempt," however, the chill on criticizing James stayed in place for months.

And then yesterday Lady Emily, one of the cowriters for Sarah Z., drops two more bombs:

James has not one but two alt accounts that he was using to rebrand and start over.

The first one was created between his first and second apologies, and originally was for "The Gay Raconteur" until he changed it to "Will"/"thatgayyouknow" and, later, "The Achillean Boy."

The second one was much older, under the pseudonym "Mikey JB," and used stolen pictures from Grindr instead of his own face. However, it is pretty obvious that it is, in fact, a sockpuppet account and not just some other person who happens to like James, as detailed below.

Both accounts, both between apologies and after his "suicide," talked about how criticism of James was unfair because the plagiarized stuff was "like a decade old" and repeating the same excuses that James had also made.

The "Mikey JB" account not only supported James, but actively threw Nick under the bus, saying that a criticized part of a video "reeks of his co-writer."

On March 6, the day after James' main Twitter posted the suicide note, The Achillean Boy account was hornyposting about Ryan Phillipe. James didn't even take a day or two off of Twitter. If he had been completely off Twitter for a couple of days, that could have been an indication that he really had hurt himself and was unable to access his phone, or at the very least unaware of the panic. But he wasn't. He was aware of it and did nothing. Actually, no! Worse than nothing!

On the same day (March 6), the Mikey JB account was actively contradicting Nick saying he was okay (they "haven't spoken in months" so there's no way Nick could know if he was alive) and saying that "people like you" i.e. his critics, "drove him to it." Not only did he ignore the panic he'd intentionally created, he actively drove it.

He saw people going emotionally through the wringer over the idea that they might have somehow caused his death, and intentionally made them keep thinking it. He say people calling his critics "murderers" for "driving him to his death," and he joined in.

Why am I explaining all of this? I want to make a couple of things extremely clear, and the context is necessary to my ultimate points, namely:

James Somerton didn't merely "credit people improperly;" he conned his followers out of more money than some people make in a year with the Telos con, while raking in thousands more per month on Patreon and buying expensive equipment, while claiming to be near insolvency and in desperate need of money.

James Somerton has never taken full responsibility for his actions or attempted to make amends. He has only ever tried to dodge responsibility, particularly by throwing Nick under the bus.

Every time he has ever been criticized, for any reason, he has lied about threats to his life to gain sympathy and quell criticism. This is a standard part of his MO. He has done this over and over and over again. At this point, I think if he says the sky is blue, someone should go out and check first before doing anything.

"But BB, what if he really is getting harassed/threatened or really is suicidal?"

So, okay: people who are attempting to manipulate you may use legitimate problems as a tool. It doesn't need to be fake to be effective - in fact, it might be more effective if it it's true. An abusive ex who says "if you leave me, I'll kill myself" and genuinely means it and actually attempts it (and possibly even succeeds!) is a lot harder to leave than someone who says the same thing but is clearly just bluffing, because the threat is real.

My rule of thumb in these cases is to treat the threat like it's real, without caving to the intended manipulation. Whether your ex is lying or telling the truth when they say, "I'll kill myself if you leave me," the appropriate response in both cases is to immediately call a mental health service or supportive family member. If it's fake, it's inconvenient for them; if it's real, you reacted appropriately. Your response needs to be the same regardless.

You don't get back together with them because it's a real threat (presumably you wouldn't do that if you knew it was fake and they were never in any danger), and you don't tell them that they're a piece of shit who should be dead (HOPEFULLY you wouldn't do that if you knew for a fact that they were telling the truth).

In this case, I am extremely confident in saying that he was coldbloodedly lying the entire time and was never once threatened, and certainly not to the degree he claimed to be. But even if he wasn't, that does not and should not change anyone's behavior in terms of holding him accountable.

And I mean actually holding him accountable: making sure he doesn't try to start a new con on new people, continuing to point out that he hasn't paid anyone back for his previous con (so long as it's still true), that sort of thing. It doesn't mean people should tell him he should go die for real or, I don't know, try to get him fired if he gets a job at Tim Horton's or Target or something else that's not fraud. That would be wrong regardless of whether he's actually in danger or not. The point is to avoid being cruel without negotiating with terrorists.

Video sources and links under the cut:

Links:

It's like Breaking Bad, but backwards: a brief history of how Somerton successfully screwed himself Dan Olson's Twitter thread about the financial fraud My Year With James: Todd's post explaining the backstory of his video (Patreon-locked) DJSO#: Dan Olson's breakdown of James' second apology (Patreon-locked) Lady Emily's Twitter threads revealing James' alt accounts, part 1 and part 2

[pascalispretty]

each man's mad desire

General Marcus Acacius x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Marcus Acacius is a conqueror. You invite him to conquer you.

Word Count: 3.8k

Tags: marcus fucks a nymph, predator/prey, knifeplay, blood, thigh riding, rough sex, sorta consensual-non-consent? Reader very explicitly wants him and invites him to hunt her down. Marcus has an unfashionably huge dick.

A/N: I swore I wasn't going to write for another character from an unreleased film, yet here we are. I loved studying Classics, so there are easter eggs within for those familiar with mythology. "Nymph" is more Greek than Roman, but it's also the better-known version of the word. Barcinus is a completely made-up cognomen for him (from the Latin name for Barcelona). Ichor is a Greek concept, but too delicious not to borrow here. Big dicks really were considered unattractive - it was a sign of barbarism to have a big penis. Title from Book IX of The Aeneid. Painting is 'The Charmer' by John William Waterhouse. (ao3)

The battle is won, the men are settled, and General Marcus Acacius is restless. He wears the efforts of the day in the blood and grime and sand coating his skin, the ache in his muscles. The city is retaken. The barbarians have been slaughtered or captured. He knows he should rest.

And yet, he wanders.

The camp is close by the beach. As he walks, the sound of the army behind him fades away, drowned out by the sound of the sea. The inviting aroma of the campfires and roasting meat is replaced by the smell of salt. There are sentries out here, somewhere in the night. He pays them no mind; he wishes to be alone. Grass turns to sand underfoot and still Acacius walks on. At the edge of the sea, he pauses briefly.

Across the Great Sea, to the east, stands Rome. It’s veiled by darkness and distance, but he turns to look for it anyway. He misses it the way a loyal son misses a beloved father. Word of a great victory will travel before him, the whispers moving faster than any army can.

When he returns home, he hopes he will be warmly welcomed. Those seeking to ride his skirts into Imperial favour will doubtless fall over themselves to praise him, at least. They will preen and flatter, and he will nod humbly and thank them.

“The Gods were with me.” It is always his answer, when asked of his victories. It is a clean answer. Men praise him for his piety; they do not imagine the lives he has sacrificed, the atrocities he has committed, the horrors of sacking a city. The Gods were with him; he does not have to speak of loosing his men like feral dogs upon innocents, of slaughtering barbarian sons so they cannot grow up to seek their vengeance on Rome.

Acacius turns and walks down the beach, leaving the camp behind him. The silvery light of the stars and moon light his path along the coast. He simply enjoys being away from all others, the crash of the waves and his own footsteps the only noise he can hear. The ground to his right begins to rise, soft grass yielding to rock. He has no sense of how long he has walked for when the beach before him suddenly ends. The shoreline curves sharply inward, creating a rocky inlet.

He has no desire to turn back now. Perhaps the path reemerges on the other side. He follows the curve of the stone inward. Ahead, he can see the path sloping down towards the waterline, leading towards the dark mouth of a cave. The tide is coming in; the water at the entrance to the grotto must be at least knee-deep.

Acacius is turning to leave when he notices her.

The inlet in the rock forms a pool at the entrance to the cave. Even in the silvery moonlight, the water looks beautiful and clear. It should not surprise him that a maiden might come to bathe there, away from prying eyes.

For it is a maiden that stops him in his tracks, fixes his boots to the stone. Her back is turned to him; she is perched atop a rock, her bare feet dangling in the saltwater of the pool. Now that he is aware of her, he thinks he hears her singing over the sounds of the waves, a melody he does not recognise.

An honourable man would depart. Acacius can only see her back, but she must be noble. Her dress is so white it is almost blinding, even in the starlight. Her feet are bare, but he spies a pair of finely-wrought sandals on the rocks beside her. Certainly a noble lady then.

His mind is made up to leave.

And at that very moment, she turns.

***

You had not expected to be discovered. Perhaps you might have toyed with him if you had. You could have disguised yourself as a maiden in need of assistance, a princess cast ashore by a shipwreck. There are endless amusements to be found among the mortals.

Yet he has stumbled upon your grotto quite by accident, and from your first glimpse, he intrigues you.

Marcus Acacius Barcinus.

Something whispers his name to you; you know it as soon as you see him, just as you know he has dark hair threaded with grey. You allow a smile to play on your lips.

To his credit, this man does not move. Confronted with something so nakedly celestial, other men have lost their minds. What is it for a man to look upon the face of the divine? They do not always survive it. This one seems strong. He may yet survive you.

“Hail, noble General,” you start, turning in your seat on the rock so you may face him more directly. He is a handsome one. His lovely dark eyes drink you in from head to toe.

“You know me?” He manages after a moment. Not mad then, not yet anyway. You laugh, and he seems startled by the sound.

“I do.” Sliding off the rock you step into the water, your stola clinging to your skin. “General Marcus Acacius Barcinus, son of Gaius Acacius. Your piety is known.” He is always attentive with his sacrifices. You can smell the burning flesh and spilled wine dedicated to the heavens from here, in honour of his latest victory.

You take a few steps towards him. He’s still atop the rocky crest, almost looking down on you. You near the base of the slope, your skirts drying the moment they leave the water, and halt again. The mouth of the grotto is to your back; you can hear the lap of the waves echoing against the rocky walls.

“And which noble goddess do I have the honour of addressing?” He asks. You have many names, too many to sift through. A mortal wrote you into a poem once; you give him the name the poet gave you.

“I had not thought ever to look upon a nymph before.” There is something in the way he says it; a tone of disbelief colouring his voice. It’s as though he expects to wake up in his tent at any moment. In the dark violet light of twilight, the blood on his skin looks brown and rusty. You can almost taste the iron on the air.

“Are you content merely to look?” You ask him, a sly smile on your lips. You already know he is not. This man is a conqueror, and he is looking at you with all the intensity and desire of a man set upon conquest. He does not speak for a long moment. Perhaps he is afraid of offending you, of saying the wrong thing and finding himself transformed into a pig or sea foam.

You walk a little closer to him, emerging from the water. Closer now, the smell of him drowning out the salt of the sea. He reeks of man, of blood and sweat and such pure vitality you nearly stagger. He’s so breathtakingly alive. If all mortal men are thus, you understand why your sisters seek them out and take them to bed, even bear their children.

“I admire a man who knows how to take what he desires. A conqueror in all things,” you continue, feeling the warmth of his gaze as he watches the sway of your hips. Once you are an arm’s length away from him, you reach out. You cannot help it. He’s such a marvellous specimen of manhood, the kind that ought to be honoured with a kingdom or a divine son or his form traced in the stars.

He does not stop you when you rest your palm against the leather of his cuirass. It’s warm to the touch, whether from the heat of his body or a day of the sun beating down upon it. The black leather has a gilded woman’s face across the front; Minerva perhaps. It gives you pause. If he values Minerva and her strategies above Mars and his frenzy, he may not enjoy your games.

Nevertheless, you will not let the tastes of mortal men unnerve you. He watches you as you undo the knot at one shoulder, and wordlessly reaches to help you. Together, the two of you free him from his heavy armour. As he sets it down gently against the rock, you nearly choke on him. You can hear the thrum of his heart, smell the salt of his sweat, the iron in his blood.

You have never starved. Yet this conqueror of men is like being blessed with a feast and realising for the first time that you have been dying of hunger all your life. Freed from his heavy leathers, you step so closely to him that your glimmering white dress brushes against his filthy red tunic. You reach out to cup his jaw, enjoying the way his skin feels to your touch.

He swallows thickly, his lovely eyes searching your face.

“I want you.” He says it simply, though you know it must have taken courage. Men have died for such insults before. You let a smile curl around your lips.  

“Mars himself had my maidenhead. I do not submit easily to the advances of men.” Standing on tiptoe, you lean in until your lips nearly touch the shell of his ear. “If you want me, you will have to take me.”

It’s all the prompting you give him before you turn and run.

You run down the beach, back the way he came. You have more powerful kin who could outrun him with ease, if they chose. Minerva could be a continent away in moments, if she chose. You do not have their same powers; you might be fleeter of foot than a mortal woman, but you cannot transform yourself into a swan and fly back to the heavens.

Behind you, you hear Acacius’ feet pounding against the sand. The noise blurs with the roar of his heartbeat, thumping harder as he chases you. You run faster, pulling your skirts up with one hand so they cannot tangle around your legs. It has been far too long since you felt this exhilarated. Off in the distance, you can see the lights of his camp, the torches and bonfires burning brightly in the twilight.

You lose yourself to the chase, paying the distance no mind as you race down the beach. Sand flies up beneath your bare feet, gritty under your toes as you run. Something in you wants to turn around, to see if the handsome general is still close behind you. You can hear him well enough to know he is behind you, but not well enough to gauge the distance.

You don’t look. You only run.

Even though you had invited the hunt, desperately hoping to be caught, the hand that catches your waist surprises you. He seizes you by the waist and tackles you into the sand, pinning you beneath his muscular bulk. The feeling of being trapped sends a perverse thrill racing through you, something warm stirring in your belly.

Though he has caught you, you do not give in so easily.

You thrash underneath him, trying to throw him off you. Acacius is unyielding. His large hands grip your arms; his knees squeeze at your sides. You get one arm free and bring it up. You’re not sure what you intend to do; you don’t want to break him. Scratch him, perhaps? You never get the chance to find out.

Before you see him move, he seizes your arm and pins your wrist beneath his foot. One hand flies to your throat; the other draws a dagger from its sheath and holds the point against the swell of your breast.

For a long moment, you cannot breathe. The large hand at your throat squeezes just enough to threaten a loss of air. The foot on your wrist makes the delicate bones there grind together on just the right side of pleasure-pain. And oh, the blade at your heart. The tip pierces your skin and you don’t know whether to scream or cry or vomit from the shock.

You have never been so still in your life.

When has anything mortal ever pierced your skin? When has anything mortal managed to cut through the skin of your kith and kin? You have vague memories; bandaging Mars’ side after the great spearman Diomedes struck him outside Ilium. You watch in horror and awe as a bead of ichor seeps from the pinprick wound. Mars has made you bleed before, but you never thought a mortal might draw your glittering, golden blood.

You look up at him, your conqueror. He is panting hard, but his face shows no exhaustion; only determination. His eyes are nearly black with desire, and his lovely black and grey curls are damp with sweat. Gods, you want him. You want him to hunt you down as he would a deer, to throw you down and take you like some common mortal whore.

Watching you closely, Acacius eases his grip on your throat. A man used to gauging the weakness of his enemies has seen right through you in turn. He knows you do not need air to breathe. He knows he has done something astounding in the knife at your breast. He holds it steady as he reaches beneath the skirts of his tunic, pulling at the strings of his underthings. He pulls it free with a grunt and discards it beside you in the sand.

Free from its confinement, his manhood pushes against the skirt of his tunic. Something low in your belly twists in anticipation, slick coating the insides of your thighs. Your blood feels as though it’s boiling beneath your skin as Acacius grips the fine cloth of your stola in one filthy hand.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes upon,” he tells you, in all sincerity. You tremble underneath him as he pushes your skirts up around your waist, another bead of ichor welling up around the tip of the blade.

You gasp as the metal shifts, and his eyes flick to your face. Almost lovingly, his hand wraps around your throat again.

“Do you yield?” When no reply is immediately forthcoming, he presses his advantage. The hand at your throat and foot at your wrist push harder; more glittering blood beads at your breast. The surface tension finally breaks, sending the blood dripping down towards your neck.

“I yield.” In an instant, he relaxes his hold. The foot on your wrist disappears, as does the blade. The hand on your throat remains, tipping your head up so he can kiss you. He kisses like his master, Mars; hard and demanding. You return the kiss with bruising intensity, nipping at his lower lip. It seems only fair that you make him bleed a little, in turn.

His beard prickles against your skin, and you answer it by sliding your hand into his curls and pulling roughly. Acacius groans against your mouth, crushing himself closer to you and forcing your legs apart with his knee. His muscular thigh presses against your bare cunt, the pressure sending liquid fire dancing through your body. You rut up against his thigh eagerly, your slick smearing against his skin.

Acacius notices your movements, breaking off the kiss to stare at you. The raw lust in his eyes makes you keep going, rocking your hips desperately against him. His thigh flexes between your legs, and you groan loudly. Without taking his eyes off you, his hand drifts to cup your breast, tantalisingly close to the tiny wound on your unblemished skin.

“Are you going to stab me again, slayer of men?” You ask him, tauntingly. You wouldn’t mind if he did.

“No, dear mistress. I’ll watch you debase yourself on my thigh.” Oh, you want to keep him. Your sisters have kept mortals before; you remember well the fuss around sweet Hylas, cunning Ulysses. Your conqueror finds your nipple through the fine material of your dress, the flesh stiffening beneath his fingers as he toys with you.

Your hips roll easier, faster as you sink deeper into your pleasure. Every glide becomes slicker as you soak his skin. It’s been some time since you’ve so blatantly sought your own pleasure, and you welcome it back eagerly. That familiar tension is coiling tightly in your belly and sends you spiralling higher with every movement.

Acacius watches you with fascination. His own pleasure is forgotten for the moment, though you suppose he is enjoying this. Something divine rubbing against him like a cat in heat; no man alive would believe him if he told them. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps and you clutch at Acacius’ wrist to ground yourself. He’s so solid and warm to your touch; his vitality is unlike any aphrodisiac you have ever known.

It’s not long before you come with a cry, your nails digging into Acacius’ skin as you shudder against him. The fire in your belly burns through you, the heat of it radiating out to your fingertips. It leaves you boneless beneath your conqueror. He seizes the advantage, pulling your legs wider apart to slot his other leg between them.

You struggle. Why not? It amuses you to make him manhandle you into place. He pulls your legs wider with one hand. With the thumb of the hand at your breast, he presses just below the cut. The burst of pain makes you hiss. Cowed, you let him pull your legs apart, his eyes feasting on your cunt. You must look a mess, swollen and soaked.

Acacius lets go of your leg and pulls up the hem of his tunic. He’s big, unfashionably so for his countrymen. Beads of fluid leak from the reddened tip, and he swipes them away with his thumb. He settles himself between your thighs, and you gasp when he notches the blunt head of his cock against your entrance. Without warning or reprieve, he forces his cock inside you.

You throw your head back against the sand, stars exploding against your closed eyelids as you dance along the knife edge of pleasure and pain. A deep groan rumbles out of Acacius’ throat as he presses deeper, working against your tight muscles to seat himself within you. He’s unrelenting, his length thick and twitching as it fills you.

There’s no other word for it; you wail up at the star-strewn sky, pleasure flooding through you. Your body feels too small to contain the fire being stoked inside you, deep in your core. You pull at Acacius, nails clawing, dragging him down to kiss you. His lips meet yours in a messy crash, all tongues and teeth as he finally seats himself fully within you.

He barely allows you a moment to adjust. He retreats almost fully, his cock nearly leaving you completely, before sliding back in with one fluid stroke of his hips. You’re shaken by how willingly your body accepts him, colouring any pain with so much pleasure you barely notice the discomfort. His hand finds your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you feel lightheaded.

Acacius’ incursions become sharper, harder, as he finds his rhythm. Your hands slide under the hem of his tunic to clutch at his back, your nails leaving behind tiny red crescents in his skin. Every breath you take is shared by him, your mouths so close together you can taste the wine lingering on his tongue. The two of you move together, your moans melting into one another as you fuck like animals in the sand.

It doesn’t take him long to send you over the edge again. Bliss wipes all words from your mind; you can only lie there and let your release crash over you. The ichor in your veins feels like it’s singing. Acacius looks down on you in awe, and it only drives you higher. You want to keep him. The Heroic Age is too far past; the world is lacking for heroes. Perhaps you and Acacius can make a few; handsome, strong boys, half-god children who reflect their father’s divine favour.

“Would you give me sons, Acacius?” You ask, breathless at his onslaught. Your foreheads are pressed together still; you cannot see the look on his face. He groans sharply, his hands clutch tighter at you. Is that a yes? What greater blessing to a pious man than a son born to a goddess.

He certainly shows no signs of stopping. He fucks you with the same vigour he fights with. You feel like you’re floating, high above your own body, lost completely to pleasure. Jupiter himself could command you to stop, and you’d be unable to obey. You grow restless beneath him. His hand has slackened around your throat, so you lean down to lick a line across his neck. The taste of salt and iron explodes across your tongue, so delicious that you have to force yourself not to sink your teeth in.

Acacius grunts above you, forcing you back down against the sand. His hips are stuttering; a sign that he’s close to his own release. You want to cry, want to prolong this as much as possible, but you know he has limits. Your sisters have pushed mortal men too far before; you will not make the same mistake, not with so delicious a playmate.

Instead you spur him on. Your nails dig harder into his back, making him groan sharply. His short, desperate thrusts make your eyes roll back into your skull as he touches something deep and private within you, unknown to anyone else.

“I- I must-” He starts, words failing him as he chases his release. You pepper his face with kisses, nip at his kiss-swollen lips.

“You must,” you agree. “I want you to fill me up.” You’re both breathless, barely any air between your bodies to breathe. One of your hands slides into his curls, pulling at them. You guide his head down until your lips are at his ear again.

“I could give you a son,” you whisper. “But only if you finish inside me. Claim me; mark me as yours. Conquer me.”

He tips over the edge with a loud groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You can feel his cock twitch inside you as he does, filling you with his seed. Perhaps something might catch; he seems virile enough. You cradle his head against the crook of your neck as he catches his breath, his body heavy as he relaxes on top of you.

“Noble Acacius,” you murmur fondly, stroking his curls. “Marcus. What do you make of your new conquest?” He is quiet for a long moment. The crash of the waves fills the silence, the tide drawing closer. Soon, the two of you will have to move.

“I shall never know another victory like it.”

Taglist:

Tagging some people who might be interested: @iamasaddie (per their request for Acacius filth) @avengersfan25 @misscharlielulu @apenny4thots @its-nebuleuse

[headspace-hotel]

I hate a lot of trends in climate-change-aware nature writing, but this is one I particularly detest: works insisting that we live in a "post-natural" world.

The lostness, bewilderment, aching, and searching in this piece is understood by the author to be an all-consuming and universal dysphoria, when it is actually a highly specific predicament that the author put himself into: He tried to understand the universe exclusively through the point of view of white people.

I mean that Purdy takes the colonizer point of view without realizing that it is a colonizer point of view. He thinks the colonizer point of view is a universal document of the authentic, naive encounter of "humanity" with "nature," instead of burning wreckage left over from the apocalyptic destruction of a rainbow of ideas and cultures.

It feels weird to be talking about this as a white person, but it shouldn't, any more than it should feel weird to say (as a white person) that aliens didn't build the pyramids.

Very little of what he's writing about would exist or make sense without European colonization of the world. Purdy constantly says "we" and "our" in reference to things that are very restricted to a particular cultural point of view, as if totally oblivious to the idea that other cultures and other perspectives even exist. When he searches for historical references to chart "human" relationship with nature, history goes like this: Pre-Christian religion in the British Isles->British monarchy-> George Washington-> Industrial Revolution->Thoreau.

He manages to repeatedly stumble over giant hunks of colonialism embedded in every concept he's thinking about, like boulders obstructing a pathway, and pretends so hard that they don't exist that his points are janky and meandering. For example, his discussion of Helen Macdonald's book H for Hawk, touching upon human identification with the landscape and with non-human "nature," blunders into this:

Those who love (certain parts of) nature are often making a point of preferring it to (certain kinds of) human beings. The problem is not only literary. Macdonald describes an encounter with a retired couple who join her in admiring a valley full of deer, then remark how good it is to see “a real bit of Old England still left, despite all these immigrants coming in.” She does not reply, but is miserable afterward. The meaning of landscapes is always someone’s meaning in particular. Confronted with all of this, Macdonald tries to shake off the complicities of her own identification with the terrain: “I wish that we would not fight for landscapes that remind us of who we think we are. I wish we would fight, instead, for landscapes buzzing and glowing with life in all its variousness.” The alternative that Macdonald wishes for is, of course, not an escape from political-cultural projection onto landscape, but another approach to that same practice — really, the only one a 21st-century cosmopolitan is likely to feel comfortable embracing. 

AND THEN HE JUST SEGUES INTO THE NEXT POINT LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. Like don't worry about it :) We will simply project onto landscapes in a non-racist way :) because we aren't racist anymore in the 21st century :)

The next book he discusses is Landmarks by Robert MacFarlane, which is basically about how the vocabulary of landscape in English is sterilized and monoculturized, and contrasts that with Scots Gaelic. This is how Purdy explains the thesis of the book:

 Our sense of what lies outside ourselves has been blunted by “capital, apathy, and urbanization” — enemies likely to draw a range of friends, from cultural Marxists to Little Englanders to those who would like to see a bit more effort, please. But behind this scholarly sketch, Macfarlane’s work is testament to a pretheoretical obsession with unfamiliar ways of encountering places. We disenchanted and distracted (post)moderns describe terrain, he complains, in terms of “large, generic units” such as “field,” “hill,” “valley,” and “wood." (...) Many people who have lived intimately with landscapes have had words for nuances of form, texture, and use. Macfarlane’s purpose in Landmarksis to gather these words as proof of how precisely it is possible to name a place, and so, perforce, to know it.

Why is Gaelic endangered? Because of an effort to extinguish its speakers' culture. This article I found on it talks about the history of the language's decline, and it's strikingly similar to what happened to indigenous people in the Americas and Australia, with children being put in schools where they were beaten with sticks for speaking their native language.

This whole essay is about Purdy's general disappointment with nature writing, his craving for an ineffable Something, some sort of magical, primitive identification with the natural world. In the very first paragraph he claims that the pictures of animals on nursery walls are "totemic" and quotes a guy saying that zoos are an "epitaph" to the relationship between people and animals. It's never very clear what he means, but he uses the term "animism" repeatedly, such as when he says this about MacFarlane's goal in writing Landmarks:

His quarry is an animistic sense that Barry Lopez once identified in “the moment when the thing — the hill, the tarn . . . ceases to be a thing, and becomes something that knows we are there."

Given that ambition, Landmarks, which Macfarlane calls a “counter-desecration phrasebook,” can be disappointingly thin as a lexicon. Too many of the terms are simply dialect or Gaelic for some generic form, such as “slope,” “hilltop,” “stream,” or “tuft of grass.” The effect is less pointing out how many things there are to see than cataloguing how many names there are for the same thing.

This is Purdy missing the point, perfectly crystallized as though frozen in amber. He is oblivious to the clear subtext of a language showing a culture's connection to its home, and of the violence against that culture. The Gaelic language doesn't make him feel primal and mystical the way he wants it to, therefore it doesn't mean anything to him. MacFarlane doesn't make him feel a magic animistic connection to nature, therefore his book must have failed at its task.

Who gives a shit? Gaelic isn't FOR you.

He discusses another book about a guy that hikes a bunch of Cherokee trails, but I don't know what to say about that one, observing it through the sludge of the reviewer's unwillingness to recognize that historical context exists. He summarizes his disappointment in a confusing way, using the Gaelic language as a symbol for an obscure and inaccessible place where the answer to your personal emotional cravings lives (???) Then he talks about a kind of epistemicide, or extinction of knowing, of nature, but again, totally oblivious to any relationship to colonization.

Every inhabited continent has been denuded of ecosystems and species. Most North American places have shed wolves, elk, moose, brown bears, panthers, bison, and a variety of fish and wild plants, which were all abundant four hundred years ago. 

Wow, I wonder what happened four hundred years ago?

This writing acts like the dominant Eurocentric attitude towards the world is universal, but the author is haunted by this nameless specter of the possibility of a different way of thinking, which he treats as some kind of mystical, primordial state hidden in the past instead of just a different cultural perspective.

Not only does he not recognize that his own cultural perspective of Nature is dysfunctional and unsatisfying because it was created by exploitation and genocide of other cultures and their symbiotic relationships, he acts like other perspectives don't exist. Take his perspective on forests and the mycorrhizal network:

Wohlleben’s emphasis on interdependence and mutual aid is part of a recent tendency to recast nature in an egalitarian fashion — as cooperative, nonindividualist, and, often enough, hybrid and queer, in contrast to the oaks of generals and kings. Nature does answer faithfully to the imaginative imperatives and limitations of its observers, so it was inevitable that after centuries of viewing forests as kingdoms, then as factories (and, along the way, as cathedrals for Romantic sentiment), the 21st century would discover a networked information system under the leaves and humus, what Wohlleben calls, with an impressive lack of embarrassment, a “wood wide web.”

Listen, I don't think this is accurate to how Europeans thought of forests throughout time, let alone "humanity" in general. The emphasis of power and competition in ecosystems emerged after Darwin, in collusion with capitalism and "race science." Trees have been symbols of life, wisdom and selflessness, and regarded as sacred or even sentient, for centuries before that. But on top of that, this is just blatantly pretending that only white people's ideas count as ideas.

It's the same dreck as all the other "literary" writing about climate change: self-pityingly and unproductively mourning "Nature" and a fantasized "wild" state of the Earth, ignoring colonialism, treating human influence of any kind on other life forms as something that either destroys them or makes them soft and "tame."

I'm tired of reading nature writing from people that obviously do not go outside, or if they do, they do it in such a suffocatingly regimented, goal-oriented way that they can't just sit outside and relax.

Maybe I shouldn't be such a hater if I want to do nature writing. But my love of nature is WHY I am a hater.

[sokosmic]

Astro Observations #8

📧 Scorpio placements love to probe people for information. This is actually something that comes very natural to them and is often an unconscious behavior. Often the Scorpio doesn't even have to do anything. People tend to reveal themselves willingly and unwillingly. This is the nature of Pluto. It naturally uncovers whatever is hidden. Planets in the 8th House can behave this way as well.

📧 The sign in your 3rd House can give clues about the type of work you may be involved in. Because a theme of the 3rd House includes short distance trips, such as your day-to-day commute, the sign ruling this house often goes hand-in-hand with your work. For instance, I have Leo in the 3H. Leo rules government (source: the rulership book by rex e. bills). I have worked in government for almost 20 yrs.

📧 Mutable Signs/Placements move on their own time. Even if they are punctual, their desire to do things when they want takes priority. It's the nature of scattered energy.

📧 Saturn in the 4th House can indicate karma with the mother or native's family. This placement often requires a lot of obligation to the mother/family . The native feels bound by the obligations and often wishes to escape, but may also feel a sense of duty and embrace their role as the glue in the family. Capricorn ruling the 4th House may also manifest this way.

📧 A 1st House Lilith may attract unsolicited sexual energy. These people have a very natural sex appeal that they may or may not be aware of. And it may not be because of what you would identify as things that are overtly sexy

📧 I've noticed a theme among women with Capricorn in 5th House or Ruler of the 10th in the 4th House is they are often stay at home mothers.

📧 People with Pluto square Mercury have a real tendency to try and tear you down with their words. This isn't always the case, but if threatened or feel they need to gain the upper hand in a conversation, they are very likely to lash out with viscous words. Mars square Mercury can behave similarly, but they are usually the folks that tend to cut others off in conversation.

📧 Cancer placements would much rather purchase you an item than to share that item of their own. It's not that they are necessarily stingy, they just like the security of knowing something belongs to them and exactly when they may need to replace it.

📧 Mars in Libra people can be big procrastinators because they have a tendency towards indecisiveness. These are people who sometimes ride the fence because Libra energy can see all sides.

📧 If you've ever had a terrible experience with a supervisor that goes overboard with micro-managing, it is very likely they are Pluto in Virgo generation. These folks thrive off of getting down to the details, and having some sort of control over outcomes, so nothing goes unnoticed...including EVERYTHING you do lol.

📧 People with Cancer in the 6th House or Aquarius Risings may be annoyingly anal, but in a kinda good way, about taking care of their coworkers or things in the workplace. They may tend to stress over things being out of place or generally keeping up with how things should be "taken care of" in the work environment. This stress can lead to gut and stomach issues, such as ulcers or indigestion. Their daily routines often involves them taking care of things to ensure security for themselves and others.

📧 My studies have shown that the North Node sign and placement, often correlates to the native's Life Path number!

📧 Pisces Mercury / Pisces 3rd House folks are some of the most difficult people [for me] to understand at times! Their minds and mode of communication can be very abstract, which isn't hard to follow (especially if you are Mutable/Mercurial like me), but at times it's like you think they are saying one thing, but their theory isn't translating into a relatable, concrete concept. And there's nothing wrong with that. Pisces Mercury people are HIGHLY creative and artistic. These are your fashionistas, makeup artists, musicians, and poets. They also make great actors.

📧 Moon in Gemini folks can be some of the best storytellers! They use lots of funny words and phrases to express their emotions through their stories. They often get a bad rap for switching up often, but to me, they have an impressive way of intertwining emotions and intellect. If I had to describe them in 2 words, it would be plot twist lol.

📧 Neptune in the 5th House can cause pregnancies to be elusive or deceptive in some form, such as false signs of pregnancy or having difficulty carrying pregnancies to term.

These are my observations and opinions. Take what resonates and leave what doesn't!

-So.Kosmic 👽💜💫

[starplanes]

A (5 star) review of Bury Your Gays, by @drchucktingle!

I read this book in one sitting. I did not plan to read this book in one sitting, but I could not put it down, accepting that my lunch break was now an extended reading break. Bury Your Gays was just that good.

It starts simple. Screenwriter Misha has been told by his exec that the season finale of his show must out, then kill the two leads. He needs to bury his gays because the board has determined it's where the money is. Misha says no. Then starts getting stalked by his (definitely fictional, right?) characters from other shows. Either Misha developed some incredible supernatural powers in that meeting, or something more sinister is at work…

Bury Your Gays illustrates why queer people should be allowed to tell the stories they want to tell, instead of being made to use queerbating, tragic tropes, or fake relentless optimism in the name of corporate Pride. It's a story about the queer struggle to find oneself in a world that makes it so, so hard. There's a lot of love for the queer community poured into this book, and oh does it shines. I especially adored the ace rep - and the concept of ace rep as a plot point. I shall not explain further. However, I am more scared than ever of the corporatization of Pride.

Bury Your Gays also criticizes capitalism's monetization of tragedy and exploitation of workers. It explores what happens when ethics are ignored in the name of an ever-growing profit margin, to the point where the bottom line becomes a near-sentient thing. It leans into the horrors of AI and data-mining by combining the two and going all the way with it. Chuck Tingle has acknowledged all my fears of black box algorithms and also made them ten times worse. Truly a feat! I will be sleeping with my router off!

It's a masterpiece of horror, both visceral and psychological. Since the main character is a horror writer, the story is very genre aware. There's a lot of fun to be had in the tale of "writer being followed by the monsters he wrote," and certainly no small amount of terror. It gets gory here and there, with plenty of suspense in between. Hints are laid out for the reader, enough where I was occasionally able to predict what was coming just a page or two before it landed. My jaw dropped multiple times! The writing is descriptive enough to pull you right in (and gross you out!), and it's paced near-perfectly. There's all these little moments sprinkled in that elevate the whole story, from fun references of other work to subtle clues you'll only catch on a reread.

This book will be living in my head rent-free from now on. It's about so many things and yet has interwoven them all perfectly. Fans of classic horror movies will love this story. Those of us fed up with AI generated trash will love it. Anyone who joined a WGA picket line will love it. Asexuals fed up with lack of representation will love it. People who watched multiple seasons of Supernatural will love it. Is that you? Go pick up Bury Your Gays. Be scared, be sad, be angry. But also validated, loved, and joyful.

TLDR: Read this book when it comes out on July 9!

[extremely-judgemental]

[Really, really long post.]

Every time I see ‘let my girl be happy’ tag and the post is about canon Nessian, it infuriates me as much as breaks my heart. Sometimes I wonder those who romanticise Cassian’s behaviour are speaking from a place of privilege or ignorance because admitting that calls for addressing real life abuse that misogyny forces them to endure.

I’m an Indian living in a highly patriarchal, misogynistic society where women are still required to marry someone out of convenience for the sake of their families. This is not the cute arranged marriages you read in books or watch in movies. Most women have to sacrifice everything they are and they stand for to ease the family’s burden. Let’s not start with dowry or DV. Sure our society has progressed in many ways, this is still reality of most women when it comes to marriages and having a family. No matter how well off you are, no matter how successful you are in your career. It’s more nuanced than you can imagine where the parents meddle with children’s life at every step and our lives are more intertwined with our families than in western society. So I simply can’t read Nesta’s story and delude myself that she got a happy ending with Cassian or the IC. I try to keep my emotions out of most of the criticisms to help people see the situation objectively. That’s hard to do in this case but I’ll try.

Nesta is the eldest child who ‘fails’ her sisters when it is her father’s responsibility to take care of three young girls. Being groomed to be a housewife all her life, Nesta contributes as much as she can by doing the chores and nurturing her family the only way she knows how. She seeks help from relatives and friends while the ones in position to do so ignore her. And when the time comes, she finds the way to be of useful to her family by marrying Tomas. Despite all this, Nesta is a failure of a sister simply because Feyre made a choice. These only come to light in Nesta’s book and even the few instances where Feyre realises this, there’s no real appreciation for her efforts. They are dismissed and only mentioned to highlight Feyre’s empathic tendencies and her general awareness of her sisters’ plights rather than uplifting Nesta’s character itself. None of these are acknowledged as these aren’t the typical masculine ways that’s glorified throughout the series.

As Nesta navigates her life as a recently transformed fae, she partakes in a war she has no part in. She has no obligation or need to risk her life for Night Court, or any other court, or even the mortals. These are the same acts that make Feyre a hero in the first book. But when it comes to Nesta and she rises up to the occasion, it’s downplayed as she deals with PTSD from her death, the Cauldron, the toll of war, and her father’s death. None of her sacrifices or her attempts to protect her sisters are given an ounce of importance or due respect that it deserves. It’s turned into Nesta’s duty as the eldest sister or the sister of Night Court’s High Lady instead.

When Nesta deals with her trauma, everyone takes great pleasure in controlling how the situation pans out. She goes as far as to live alone to spare her sisters, yet Feyre and Elain who have the choice of when and how to regulate their emotions, don’t grasp the concept of personal space. Her actions are self-sabotaging at best and have no real consequence on any of the other characters. Still, they are amplified to an extent that it’s made into a court affair. And the reason for this is Nesta isn’t coping in the right way. Gambling, drinking and sex which are common activities for the IC become a question of their reputation the moment she does it in her pain, emphasising that these are only acceptable when she does it with them. Spending Feyre’s money on gambling may seem like a reasonable cause for the IC to interfere but if we factor in how Nesta’s rightful wealth from Tamlin or her father was lost because of the direct consequence of IC’s actions, along with the fact that she’s still owed money for her contribution in the war, Nesta is deliberately stripped off any monetary agency to trap her.

If this isn’t punishment enough, Nesta is locked in an inescapable tower with a man she wants no part with. And when she fights, she is lied to about laws and threatened to be thrown among people who consider her a threat. She has no interest in training to fight or work for the Night Court but she’s forced to. She’s not compensated for any of this labour either. Nesta is known to starve herself after the war to the point that she’s all ‘skin and bones’. Cassian, an established gym bro in the series, weaponises food against her when she doesn’t eat what is offered and when. The moment she shows any interest in eating, he judges her for being picky and brings up her latent guilt that leads her down that path in the first place. And later on, knowing she’s not fit enough IC insists on training her right away and in freezing conditions without proper clothing. Nesta soon learns that she has no choice but to comply, goes on to train with Cassian, work in the library, and accept the food the house gives her. This is the first step in breaking her.

Nesta has no one to rely on or even talk to in the house except for Cassian. The relationship that develops between them is not circumstantial but a well orchestrated one. Even for small talk, her only choice is Cassian. After finding out Nesta was SA’d by the kelpie and was on the verge of death, no one (including her sisters) cares for her as much as they should. The one person who checks on her is Cassian and even he’s so overcome with his desire and lust that he has sex with her instead of comforting her. It’s a common knowledge that sex is a coping mechanism for her, and has been SA’d twice which something only Cassian knows. This perpetuates the idea that even when a woman is hurting and in pain, she has to be appealing, her trauma should be sexually gratifying and desirable for the man. A woman can walk back from the doors of death but she has to look pretty while doing it. There’s nothing empowering about that.

Feyre looks down on Nesta for contemplating selling her body to take care of her sisters. But the same is expected from her when she serves Night Court and seduces Eris. It’s almost glorified and revered by Cassian himself. During their conversation in River House, he lets Nesta believe that she has to earn his love and her sisters’. Not once does he contradict any of her fears or insecurities. For the first time, Nesta has sex with him without it being an escape and the next morning Cassian abandons her enforcing the idea that she indeed earned the sex and love for what she did in CoN.

When Nesta reveals the truth about Feyre’s pregnancy, her true feelings are swept under the rug with how she ‘failed’ her sister again. Nesta has the right to out Rhysand and his plans. And even if the situation isn’t the most appropriate, Nesta is locked in a tower and only ever talks to anyone when IC choose which limits her options. Besides, when will the timing be perfect for such conversation? Nesta is again vilified for being the only one honest to her sister and punished. Her intentions are warped to cover up others’ mistakes. Cassian is again the one who punishes her for it. Nesta is suicidal and Cassian recognises the signs. He insists on taking the hike, also using silent treatment to enforce the idea that Nesta is the one on the wrong. His interactions with Feyre proves none of them dwell on Nesta’s actions as much as she believes. While Nesta is having a guilt trip edging her closer to suicide, Cassian is laughing behind her back with Feyre, almost enjoying her fears. At the end of this trip, Nesta talks about her trauma for the first time, Cassian swoops in with his own sorrows and how he overcame them. Instead of making Nesta feel seen and heard, she’s again lectured on what she should do and how.

Lastly, Cassian and Morrigan have a mildly, if not completely, inappropriate relationship which Nesta is expected to accept. If she expresses jealousy or anger, it’s not because of the bond or their relationship but will be seen as an inherent quality of Nesta. She can’t fight it as everyone else has accepted it as a normal relationship. If Nesta shows any displeasure, her past of sleeping with other men will be brought into the conversation and she will be scrutinised. This is very similar to the ‘men will be men’ narrative where the man can flirt with whoever he wants and it’s harmless but the woman has to behave.

Throughout the series, everyone is against Nesta. Her family is her responsibility. She has duty to protect them and serve them no matter the circumstances, no matter how it costs her or how much pain she is in. Her own sisters will side with her in-laws saying it’s how things are and she ‘doesn’t have to be so miserable’. Her life is forever bound to a man she initially wanted nothing to do with and her everyday life is dependent on him. She is trapped with him until she learns to accept her fate. He doesn’t lay a hand on her but he psychologically and emotionally abuses her until she complies with his family and behaves to fit their image. He even gives her silent treatment, withdraws sex/intimacy from her, leaves her alone in the tower, cuts her off from everyone she loves and cares about if she misbehaves. She has no financial independence leaving her at the mercy of her sister and her family. Even when she’s hurting, she has no choice but to risk her life for them or go to wars when they demand. She goes as far as to change her body for her future child. Her life is threatened by her in-laws but no one bats an eye at that forever leaving her fearing for her safety.

If you believe it’s just fiction and all this is exaggeration of something in a fantasy book, you really need to look around you. This is a real nightmare for most women all over the world. Your girl Nesta isn’t happy. She settled. She has accepted a life where she’s treated less than a dog and is used as a weapon. She’s been beaten down until she learnt not to step out of line if she wants to live. She is still with Cassian because she doesn’t see a life other than that as an option and has come to accept whatever scraps her sister and her family have decided to throw her way. And I sincerely hope if you ever come across a real life Rhysand or Cassian, you have the wits to protect yourself and run the other way.

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

will you please give us examples of resources to look at if we want to learn more about the concept of gender and maybe even transness in Medieval Europe? thanks!

whooooo boy right, there's a lot! I wanna start this by saying that I am very much not an expert, and I only have access to stuff I can find for free and the handful of books I can afford to buy second hand. Most of my research has been around gender as it relates to transness and GNC people. I am absolutely missing stuff, or have forgotten stuff, or simply lack the know-how to find stuff.

There's a few bits I've got on a TBR but haven't read yet - some I've included and some I haven't, depending on the source and how established it is.

Also: this is medieval Europe. The way pronouns are used to describe people don't really align with modern views of sex and gender. Also be aware of old-fashioned language use (for example, some texts talk about "hermaphrodites"). Remember that the way we talk about gender and trans identities is far different to how we even spoke about it 20 years ago.

So with that out of the way... I am chucking this under a read more, because it's long:

---

GENDER

Medieval ideas around gender were different to how we now think about it. The Hippocratic view of gender saw gender as a sort of wet/dry, cold/hot spectrum upon which men were at one end and women the other (and in the middle were intersex people). The male body was seen as hot and dry, and the female as cold and wet. The cold, wetness is what made women try to seek out heat from guys. A lot comes down to humors rather than genitals - if you're hot and dry, that innately means you grow a penis, because the heat sorta forces it out. So the marker is that penis = man, but you only have that penis in the first place because of your hot, dry humor.

Some people believed the vagina was an inverted penis - as in, the penis turned outside in. Some schools of thought believed that both men and women produced "seed", and that both were needed for conception. These thoughts and ideas shifted around a lot.

The Hippocratic view shifted towards Aristotelian ideas around the 12th Century, where the male/female divide was a lot stronger. There were also surgeons throughout all these periods who sought to "correct" intersex genitalia with surgery (how little things change).

This podcast (I've linked to a transcript, because I have more time to read than listen to things) with Dr Eleanor Janega is super interesting. In fact, I'd recommend reading her whole blog, which is fascinating. She also has a book out (but I've not read it so I can't give a yay or nay on that one)

The Meanings of Sex Difference in the Middle Ages by Joan Cadden seems to be a good source on this, but I've not read it so I can't vouch for it 100%.

I've listed below some real people who could fit into our modern interpretation of transness, and the fact that all of these people were only "outed" when arrested or at their death makes me think that there were probably a lot more people at the time who would also fit into this category. It does feel (to me, a layman) that you could rock up in a new town and go "hello I'm Jeff the Man" and people would just accept that.

It's also important to note that the majority of sources I've found are about people we could define as trans men (FTM). I've only found one person who could be described as a trans woman. If anyone out there has more sources for trans women, I'd love to hear them - specifically in medieval Europe/England.

There's also a big discussion to be had around the idea of women dressing as men to achieve a goal. People love getting into arguments about it. My general rule is that if someone lived as X gender, and was forcibly outed against their will or at death, then I feel we can more safely assume that their experience maps more closely onto a trans narrative than it does one of a woman taking on the "disguise" of a man.

---

TRANS & GNC ACADEMIA

Here's some of the sources I've been using that examine medievalism through a trans or trans-adjacent lens.

Trans and Genderqueer Subjects in Medieval Hagiography, Alicia Spencer-Hall & Blake Gutt - a deep dive/collection of essays about medieval religious figures/saints through a trans lens, specifically about cross-dressing figures. Really fascinating, and available on open access.

How to be a Man, Though Female: Changing Sex in Medieval Romance, Angela Jane Weisl - goes into detail about medieval texts in which characters change their sex.

Transgender Genealogy in Tristan de Nanteuil, Blake Gutt - trans theory in the story Tristan de Nanteuil.

Trans Historical: Gender Plurality before the Modern, edited by Greta LaFleur, Masha Raskolnikov & Anna Kłosowska - A great big examination into trans history/gender. I desperately want this book.

Clothes Make the Man, Female Cross Dressing in Medieval Europe, Valerie R. Hotchkiss (book, no online source available) - Another look into women dressing as men and gender inversion.

The Shape of Sex, Leah DeVun (book) - A history of nonbinary sex, 200 - 1400BC. Not read this one yet but it's on my TBR.

In fact, I'd recommend all of Leah DeVun's work, which I'm currently making my way through. I'm currently reading Mapping the Borders of Sex.

The Third Gender and Aelfric's Lives of Saints, Rhonda L. McDaniel - An examination into the idea of a "third gender" in monastic life based around chastity and spiritualism

Erecting Sex: Hermaphrodites and the Medieval Science of Surgery, Leah DeVun - an essay about "corrective" surgery on intersex individuals in the 13th/14th centuries. (I've not fully read this one yet but the topic is relevant)

----

TRANS FIGURES

Joseph/Hildegund (died 1188) - A monk who, upon his death, was discovered to have a vagina/breasts.

Eleanor Rykener (1394) - A (likely) trans sex worker arrested in 1394 (and another source that isn't wiki)

Katherina Hetzeldorfer (killed 1477) - An early record of a "woman" being executed for female sodomy. Katherina dressed and presented as a man, and some scholars read them as a trans man.

Marinos/Marina the Monk (5th Cent) - A monk who was born a woman and lived as a man in a monastery. Marinos was accused of getting a local innkeeper's daughter pregnant. Their "true sex" was discovered upon their death.

-----

ROMANCES* & GENDER

If you're interested in the idea of gender presentation and trans-adjacent stories, I very much recommend taking a look at some contemporary sources. I've tried to take a sort of neutral approach to pronouns for these descriptions, but it's hard to marry the medieval and modern ideas of sex and gender! The titles are all links.

*Romances here means Chivalric Romances: prose/verse narratives about chivalry, often with fantastic elements. Not, like, falling in love Romances.

Le Roman de Silence (13th Cent) - in order to ensure inheritance, a couple raise their daughter as a boy. The baby is called Silence/Silentius/Silentia. The poem features the forces of Nature and Nurture, who argue about Silence's "true" gender - Nature claims they're a girl, and Nurture claims they're a boy. Silence has a variety of adventures, largely referred to in the text as a man with he/him pronouns, and at the end their "true gender" is discovered and, as a woman, they marry the king.

Yde et Olive (15th Cent) - to avoid being married to their own father, Yde, a woman, disguises themselves as a man and becomes a knight. They end up in Rome, where the king marries them to their daughter, Olive. After a couple of weeks, Yde tells Olive about their "true gender", but the conversation is overheard. The King demands Yde bathe with him to prove they are a man. An angel intervenes and transforms Yde's body into that of a man.

Iphis and Ianthe (Greek/Roman myth, but also in Ovid's Metamorphois, which first came to England in the 15th Cent) - Telethusa is due to give birth, but her husband tells her that if the baby is a girl he'll have it killed. When she gives birth to a girl, she disguises the baby as a boy. Eventually, Iphis is engaged to Ianthe. (Incidentally, this is also a really early example of same-sex romance, as Iphis struggles with their love for Ianthe "as a woman"). Before the wedding, Iphis and Telethusa pray at the temple of Isis, who transforms Iphis into a man.

Tristan de Nanteuil (11th/12th Cent) - from the Chanson de geste, after his alleged death, Tristan's wife, Blanchandin/e, disguises themselves as a Knight. Clarinde, a sultan's daughter, falls in love with them. Blanchandin manages to hide their "true sex", but when Clarinde demands they bathe with her to prove they are a man they flee into the woods. There, they meet an angel who asks if they want to be transformed into a man. Blanchandin accepts and he is turned into a man for the rest of the poem. (Incidentally the angel gives him a giant cock. Yes, the text specifies this).

Le Livre de la mutation de fortune (1403) - written in the first person by Christine de Pizan, the poem describes how the narrator is transformed by Fortune into a man after the death of their husband during a storm at sea. They maintain that 13 years after the event, they are still living as a man. (They also mention Tiresias, a Greek mythological figure who was a man transformed into a woman for seven years).

Okay, for now - that's about all I can think of. Happy reading!

[satubby]

◇Yandere Concept◇

•○ 《Ryu Shi-Oh》 ○•

『This is just my own concept but not the general and true view of the character as a yandere, although canonically he may or may not present these... behaviors』

〔Warning ⚠️: This may or may not contain Spoilers for the show in question, please do not read it if you have not yet seen the mentioned K-Drama. In addition, somewhat sensitive topics such as child abuse, drugs, mentions of sex and among others will be included.〕 Postscript: There may or may not be spelling errors, misplaced character pronouns (I'm dyslexic) so I'm sorry for the inconvenience because this was written at night and I was sleepy, and I'm not a fan of English, so this might be bad.

A puppet of the Russian mafia, Ryu Shi-oh is ruthless and unscrupulous. Depending on how you have met him, he will treat you differently. He would most like a Darling who is as lively, positive and almost like the protagonist of the K-drama where he comes from.

》☆ Obsession:

Ryu Shi-oh will take quite a while to trust you, since he has the police and other enemies after his head. However, if you're the gentle type (if you go all in with this yandere, it would be best for both of you), he'll see you as his emotional refuge, the only source of light in his dark life, though that doesn't mean it won't take a little effort for him to be open to you. Despite his yandere tendencies, he feels a desperate need to protect that vulnerable part of himself by sometimes seeming distant (or perhaps he is at first).

Once he is aware of his feelings for you, then things will change (not much but at least he won't always be on guard with you). You will see him as shy, loving (in his own strange way). Of course, he will be somewhat slow in his feelings but VERY loyal once he is sure of them.

》☆ Obsessive Control:

Russian mafia upbringing has instilled in him either consciously or unconsciously, a need for absolute control and even to the point of violence. Ryu Shi-o monitors every move you make (that's only in his facet of having just met you), from his daily interactions to his friendships. Since if it's at the beginning of getting to know you, he wants to make sure there are no betrayals or double-crosses on your part.

On the other hand, if you've known each other for a while, then his vigilance will be more about getting to know you in depth since he is somewhat clumsy in interactions (other than about his work or murder). He will know everything about you, even things you may not even remember. What kind of flowers you like, X item you've been lusting after and so on.

》☆ Dark Gifts:

To express his love, Ryu Shi-oh tends to give you expensive and luxurious things (When he is getting to know you they are more like decoys) But then he gives you things that you might like, as I mentioned in the previous post, but often these carry a hint of double interactions (He stressed, Ryu Shi-oh doesn't trust people much, he has traumas.... Someone get this man some therapy for god's sake!!!).

》☆ Intense Jealousy:

The thought of losing you arouses a fierce rage in Ryu Shi-o. He can become possessive and jealous, going to extreme lengths to keep you tied to his side. His traumatic past contributes to his constant fear of being abandoned or betrayed, he horribly hates lies (This is Canon by the way, he said so himself).

Since he grew up in a precarious and horrible environment, his concepts of love are null to say the least.... he doesn't know anything about the real meaning beyond what is written in books or Google. So when his jealousy is present, he usually lashes out in anger because he doesn't understand or know how to handle his emotions well, that's why he is always stoic and avoids emotional contact with others.

He thinks at the beginning that these emotions are a weakness (because of his upbringing obviously) so you will understand his attitudes and actions at the beginning.

Back to the scenario (depending on whether you work for him or otherwise were Nam Soon's sister, so to speak). However it was, before and after he met you until he gained your trust, his jealousy is powerful and terrifying.

For example, if you deny him or are somewhat alien to his feelings (ahem! Nam soon) then Ryu Shi-oh may or may not threaten those you hold dear or end up killing the subject of his jealousy if provoked enough.

He may or may not send you videos of it, who knows, he's a fucking mafia-bred man.

》☆ Demonstrations of Power:

As CEO of Doogu, Ryu Shi-oh uses his influence and resources to protect you from his enemies, though also to investigate you, but often does so ruthlessly. He uses his position to eliminate any perceived threat (whether real or not, as in the case of being jealous), regardless of the consequences.

When it comes to, for example, demonstrating how happy you could be (excluding that he is a mobster and has a front business for the real thing, drugs) he can afford a whole restaurant for just the two of you or go on trips when he is not busy.

Also when it comes to dealing with you, depending on whether or not you agree to go out with him, he will use his resources. Either way you will end up with him (if you don't want innocent people hurt).

》☆ Hidden Insecurities:

Despite his confident facade, Ryu Shi-o harbors deep insecurities. Fearful that the reader will discover his dark side, he struggles not to show his vulnerability. This can manifest in moments of emotional self-isolation. More common when they are getting to know each other, refusing to accept their emotions more as a passing interest.

When he already falls for you, he refuses to see you leave him for someone else (Or when you don't want more than a friendship) He clings to the feeling you give him or your kindness/courtesy. He has never felt the comfort you give him, you treat him as human and not the tool the Russians used.

》☆ Future plans:

Although his methods are questionable, Ryu Shi-oh looks for love in you. He sees in that relationship an opportunity to find peace and redemption for the sins of his past, even if his actions may be morally ambiguous. He really is a yandere who would give everything for you, though of course after fulfilling his goals.

Since he has experimented on himself, his strength is inhuman and that may or may not lead to use on special occasions... special occasions. Going back to his plans with you,if you behave just by staying out of it, you will have a dream life.... On the other hand, if you are a treacherous liar like Nam Soon (Ryu's own words) Even if he loves and cherishes you, he won't go easy on you.

He will first take it out on your loved ones, then ruining your life until everyone forgets you even exist.... Only then he can stop being angry with you, he is cynical about it.

He will tell you: "But Honey! You did that to yourself... You shouldn't have betrayed me, I gave you everything, I trusted you with my secrets and you were a spoiled whore..... Accept the consequences, only then can we forgive each other."

》☆ Violence as a last resort:

Although he doesn't hesitate to resort to violence towards his subordinates (regarding the real drug business) He never uses it with you as he doesn't want you to see him as someone bad, he tries to keep it as a last resort (We already gave vast examples of which situations can lead him to that) The contradiction between his desire to protect and his ability to be brutal reflects the complexity of his character.

You will always see him as the suave and polite gentleman although distant in his interactions, but as you get to know him better he is just someone traumatized and hurt by his past (He doesn't justify his current actions but he explains why) He never touches a hair on your head if you treat him well (Ryu Shi-oh has the philosophy that his enemies he treats harshly and his allies worse or something similar, what do I know I am just a brat of 18 years old).

》☆ NSFW

》☆ This will be short, but having sex with Ryu Shi-oh is the most sensual thing you could imagine. I won't add much because I need to learn more about the character, well he likes to bite and scratch. He will be slow and very gentle with you when starting this, but when he gets excited like every man he loses his mind and you may or may not end up with whippings or broken bones given his superior strength (literally).

》☆ Ryu loves when you suck his cock or his neck, his favorite parts of your body are those where he can squeeze (female breasts or buttocks). He likes to suck your breasts and play with your neck. His cock is introduced slowly so when you are ready, he gives you everything he has.

》☆ In the end, you will end up tired but satisfied (Unless you have done wrong and Ryu is angry when making love, there it is not smooth and he could even take it out on you due to his jealousy) Afterwards, the care he gives you is soft and sensual, always apologizing for breaking some bones.

In general, having a yandere like him can be a double-edged sword. Ryu Shi-oh can be so kind or cruel depending on your reactions and treatment towards him. It's like swimming on nails, you have to watch where you're going or you'll end up getting hurt.

This is all independent of the K-drama "Nam soon Super Strong Girl" since it is merely my interpretation of this beautiful villain who, from my perspective, didn't deserve so much pain even though he brought it on himself in the end.

[For those anons who asked me for something, I promise that as soon as I get my ideas together I will start writing because I am a mess at this. I could barely do anything right with this yandere concept.]

[four-pointed-leaf]

i also immediately made a dragon loop au. which i’m aware others have done and probably better but i’ve been making self-indulgent dragon aus for every fandom i’ve been in since i was like 13 and id hate to break tradition.

so, au wherein loop is a dragon. pretty straightforward. read more because this is rambly.

in my head, in this au the forgotten island’s universe religion involved constellations pretty heavily. all of the constellations were dragons, a concept that has now been forgotten by the rest of the world same as the island. these dragons, while not deities themselves, were considered harbingers of the universe’s will; they blessed, protected, punished, and warned accordingly, each generally related to a specific area of focus, with some overlap. (a note: the dragons were not like. physical beings. they were just constellations, interpreted in various ways throughout the culture, who would communicate with followers through signs and such.)

loop, upon transferring timelines, gets transformed into the dragon of wishes, a dragon said to guide wishes to the Universe and punish those who wished too greedily (a fable mostly told to children, to advise against reckless use of wish craft). loop, obviously, has no such powers. it feels like a cruel joke.

story pretty much plays out the same in a lot of ways, but with siffrin learning about the island and the dragons and “discovering” that loop is the dragon of wishes, then discovering that loop… is not the dragon of wishes, and just something else, forced to take that shape.

loop looks like this:

the wings are almost invisible when folded, which loop uses somewhat to their advantage to hide them, as they’ve never used them. as siffrin learns more abt the dragons from books and the like, they learn that the wish dragon constellation had wings and confront loop about it. loop has never flown, or even attempted to. siffrin, convinced it might be useful somehow, insists they learn. since they can’t skip a loop without their family dying, which is out of the question once they realize, they end up sneaking out most nights to oversee loop’s flight training (leading to more or less nightly hangouts that loop has A Wide Variety Of Feelings About, of course). it’s not like they were going to sleep anyway.

i’ve got other thoughts rolling around on it, but that’s the groundwork for now.

[1d1195]

Right Here

Hi, idk if you all know this about me, but I love tropes. ALL of them. All. of. them. So here they all are: one bed, nightmares, enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, childhood "friendship," coworker Harry, grumpy/sunshine (I'll let you guess who's who), etc. etc. etc. (Don't look too close this is Zipper but reveresed)

Other warnings: angst

9.2k+ words

“Business or pleasure?” The driver asked.

She stated “business,” immediately. Whereas Harry said, “a bit of both,” with that devilish smirk of his and looked at her with delight in his eyes. He seemed to get more enjoyment out of his comment as she glared at him.

In Year 2, Harry was playing with a few of his friends by the slide. He wasn’t really aware of what was happening but there was a girl in his class playing with a couple of her friends when the screaming started. There was a huge to-do; parents were called, the principal was involved, and the girl that seemed to be at the center of all the drama would not stop glaring at Harry.

But Harry didn’t like girls. He was six. He wanted to hang out with his friends at recess and maybe learn about the shapes and the planets if he had time. So, he didn’t really care that she glared at him. Or that he had to write an apology letter (that his mum told him how to write in his six-year-old scrawl). It was just another day in the life of a Year 2 student. He didn’t even know why he was writing the little note to her. He didn’t know what happened or why he did something wrong.

Year 2 turned to Year 3 and soon Harry was kissing and hugging his mum and sister goodbye as he went off to university. He was studying English Literature and Communications. He wanted to be a book publisher—mainly because he wanted an excuse to read all kinds of books. Moreover, he could read really good books before everyone else did. Eventually, he hoped to open his own publishing company, but he would need a business partner for that.

That was still a long way down the road. For the time being, he would enjoy university: friends, girlfriends, classes, his part time job, and everything in between. His only downfall was listening to his professor who suggested he get a minor in business—especially if he planned on own his own company. Even if he didn’t fully run the business side of things, it was good to have a general idea. Some key words and concepts would be helpful. More so, if the business partner wasn’t someone he trusted.

But Harry was awful with his business classes. The very first one he took was the bane of his existence. He strongly considered never opening his own company, he would just get the other person to handle it. Needless to say, he was recommended for tutoring two weeks into the class.

That’s where he found the glaring girl. Obviously, no longer seven. She was twenty, like Harry. And she was lovely looking. Except for the scowl on her face directed at Harry. Surely, she hadn’t harbored a grudge toward Harry since she was seven?

Oh, but she was. She was curt while she tutored. Everything Harry did was wrong. She managed to correct his mistakes kindly, but he could tell it pained her. There was a lot of sighing and eye-rolling involved. But she was good, he’d give her that.

Harry tried to be friendly, but she clearly wanted no part of it. “I am not here for small talk with you, Harry,” her voice was flat. She didn’t want to talk about the weather, or parties, or anything that wasn’t part of Harry’s class. When she came to help him at the designated time in the library with tears in her eyes, she sat down, took a deep breath, sniffled, and started her help with his homework.

“Hey, we don’t have t’do this now, beautiful. You’re obviously upset—”

“What do you care?” She interrupted.

“Jesus,” Harry shook his head in disbelief. “What is your problem?” She rolled her eyes, tearfully. “Y’can’t seriously still be mad about Year 2.”

She shook her head. “Just...shut it,” she snapped and turned her attention to Harry’s assignment. He sighed, looking at her like she was on the verge of a breakdown but did as she wished. Listening intently to her lesson, Harry felt this pull of how sad he was by her anguish, and he didn’t even know what it was. He kept watching her expressions, judging her tone, in between her explanations. He was worried there was something seriously wrong.

Despite her anger towards him, he didn’t want her to be upset. He worried someone had hurt her or upset her in some way—in a way that he could fix. It didn’t occur to him why he wanted to help her until well after three other classes she tutored him in for his minor over the last two years of university.

He got very little information out of her about anything that didn’t pertain to his classes. He knew she was grumpy in the afternoon and much preferred to tutor in the morning when her mind was fresh. That was when he got a glimpse of her gentler side—for only a second. She liked coffee a lot, she smelled fresh of her shampoo, and her eyes were brighter. She would ask if he had a good weekend or if he had any fun plans. It was the only time she offered up anything to him.

If it was any time past two in the afternoon, she wanted nothing to do with pleasantries or Harry, it seemed. But she was paid to tutor him, and she did it well. Harry never would have made it through his business classes without her. He was forever thankful for her help, even if she didn’t want to be thanked.

*

“Harry, would you like to go to this conference?”

He looked up from his desk where he was reading a riveting historical fiction novel that was passed up the chain to him. Harry thought it would be a NYT bestseller for sure. “Me?” He asked, clearing his throat and putting his pencil down. One thing he hated was marking up people’s hard work in any color pen—but especially red. It felt very secondary school of his coworkers to do it that way. Someone pored over this writing and of course no one expected it to be perfect, not even the author. But there was something so ugly about red ink marking up something that your blood, sweat, and tears went into.

Harry would quit writing if he saw even one smidge of red ink on his work.

Which is why he edited and didn’t publish his own work.

Harry had been a senior editor for four years, now. He loved his job. It was everything he hoped for: he read so many good stories and felt he was still learning so much. He was promoted from junior editor to senior editor after two years. He still hoped to own his own company one day.

“Yeah,” his boss rolled his eyes. “Who else would I send? Someone from the business administration team will attend as well,” he explained.

Harry smiled; he knew the second the title left his mouth exactly who would be attending the conference with him. She was going to hate it. “I would love to go,” Harry nodded excitedly. “But between you and me, I don’t want anyone t’get jealous that m’going. D’you think y’can keep it a secret?”

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugged. Harry loved this office. It was so carefree. When he had his own company, he would want it to be exactly like this. If he could own this one, he would. He liked all of his coworkers and would want to keep them alongside him.

Including the girl from the admin team that constantly glared at him during work parties, meetings, and office breakroom run ins. If she wasn’t there, then it wouldn’t be worth it.

When Harry saw her interact with their coworkers, he couldn’t help but fall more in love with her. She was so utterly beautiful, funny, and of course, absolutely brilliant. There wasn’t a question she didn’t know how to answer. There wasn’t any advice she couldn’t give. She was never condescending and was extremely helpful. Even when Harry needed her help—which was so rare he only recalled it three times in the entire seven years they worked together. She didn’t sigh, didn’t roll her eyes although he was sure she wanted to.

So, nothing made him happier than annoying her to pieces.

He told everyone he had known her since Year 2. Left notes for her on her cute little lunch box in the fridge, would constantly send random items to her office (his favorite was the look on her face when he sent her a bouquet of balloons. It didn’t do anything, but people said Happy Birthday to her all day, and she had to say it wasn’t). He would tell people they were best friends and watch her blush bright red trying to get out of it. There were so many fake secrets he told the person he was near making direct eye contact with her, just to piss her off.

It worked every time.

He worshipped her, honestly. How could he not? She was brilliant and beautiful. The whole package. Even when she was a bit crabby, he thought she was simply the cutest and went on adoring her from afar.

Harry couldn’t imagine how fun a work trip would be with her.

*

She hated flying. It was necessary but she hated it. The space was almost too small. It was stuffy and gross in a lot of ways. The seats were cramped, and it was just awful. She had her headphones in place, a relaxing, quiet playlist, a good book, and her travel pillow around her neck. She was more than ready to begin the flight. The conference was a treat, it was shorter hours than her regular workday and then she could meander the town as much as she pleased. It was going to be a great trip and she had been looking forward to it for the last two weeks.

But then Harry sat right beside her. “Hey beautiful,” he smiled sweetly. She stared at him. This had to be a joke.

“You’re kidding?”

“What?” He smirked impishly stowing his bag beneath the seat in front of him. “Excited t’see me?” She flushed that beautiful shade of red that he loved so much on her cheeks. “Ready for our vacation?” He asked. “Bring a good book?”

The plane was suddenly even smaller. She thought she was going to be sick. A whole five days with Harry. Five. She was going to lose her mind. She closed her eyes as the plane jolted forward. Harry was doing all the things he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Fidgeting with the tray table and the like. She wanted to scream.

How could she possibly get stuck with him?

*

Harry didn’t say much to her throughout the flight. At least not after asking if she was comfortable, which was objectively nice if she couldn’t stand him so much. He grabbed her bag from the bin overhead, made sure she didn’t get lost on her way to baggage claim, and held the door open for her when they reached their Uber. “Business or pleasure?” The driver asked.

She stated “business,” immediately. Whereas Harry said, “a bit of both,” with that devilish smirk of his and looked at her with delight in his eyes. He seemed to get more enjoyment out of his comment as she glared at him.

She really wished Harry wasn’t so goddamn hot. It should have been a sin to make someone so alarmingly attractive. Soft brown curls that looked like they were made to slip between her fingers. He had green eyes—how was that even fair? Those dimples made her stomach flip. He was incredibly tall and so fit; she thought about falling at his feet every day she saw him at work and just ending her silly grudge.

But she never forgave him for that day in Year 2. Call her stubborn, call her stupid. She didn’t care. It ruined a huge chunk of her young life and made her miserable.

Four days and twenty-two hours. She could survive.

“Me and the missus need a place t’eat, do y’have any suggestions?” he asked, reaching for her hand like they really were a couple. She yanked it out of his grip. She wanted to kill him. More so because she hated the way her heart took off when he touched her and the idea of being “the missus” was...ugh.

She was worried Harry wouldn’t survive the next four days, twenty-one hours, and fifty-eight minutes.

*

They arrived at the hotel and Harry was once more a gentleman, even though she didn’t want him to be. He grabbed her suitcase and sweetly pushed it through the lobby to the front desk. “Hi,” Harry said cheerfully. She wanted to shower, get out of her plane clothes, and get away from Harry. His chipper attitude was making her grumpier than normal. “I have a reservation under Styles,” he explained. “Here for the convention,” he added.

The man behind the desk nodded, smiling pleasantly as he tapped away on his computer. “It says two guests for your name,” he informed him. Her heart dropped to her feet.

“No, it doesn’t,” she murmured, but she knew it was right.

Harry was smiling like an idiot. This was too good to be true for him and his endless bouts of annoying her. “That’s correct,” Harry nodded.

“Are there any other rooms?” She asked. She already knew the answer, but she would kick herself if she didn’t at least check.

“No, I’m afraid we’re really booked with the convention.”

She didn’t dare ask if there were two beds because she already knew that answer too.

“It’ll be fine, lovie, don’t worry,” he promised. Part of her thought he really meant it too, sensing how upset she was. She was so overcome with frustration; she almost didn’t notice the new name he gave her. That it wouldn’t be torture for her to be in the same little space as Harry for the entire five days. Her heart started erratically beating at the thought. It felt like the sides of her brain were caving in like the walls surely would be when they got to the room.

She would lay ground rules. She would go buy a roll of tape and cut the room in half. Harry wasn’t going to ruin her little reprieve from work. He continued to be kind and pulled her bag to their room. “I would like to shower,” she told him as she eyed the single, king-sized bed in the middle of the room, mocking her. He settled the bags on opposite sides of the room. He chose the side closer to the window for her.

“I’ll be right in,” he winked at her.

She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, which she knew was exactly what he wanted. “What if I don’t want the window side?” She asked instead.

“Well, that I don’t really care, lovie. M’taking closer t’the door in case someone breaks in. Wouldn’t want you t’get hurt.”

She just wanted to annoy him the way he always annoyed her. Maybe make him move the bags around and then move them again which she informed him she did want the window side. But she didn’t expect him to be so nice. Didn’t think he would give a reason that was kind enough to care about her well-being. Even when she was grumpy toward him.

If her cheeks were going to be red the whole week, she was going to lose it. “Don’t come in the bathroom or I’ll murder you,” she rolled her eyes.

“I would never do that,” he rolled his eyes right back at her. “I was jus’ kidding.”

Unfortunately, she believed him. He seemed genuine, as much as she wanted to kill him.

*

The shower helped her relax marginally. At the very least she got the feeling of the plane off her. “I ordered some pizza. Y’like peppers and onions on yours, right?” Harry, knowing exactly what she liked, furthered her agitation.

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

“I’d like t’shower too. D’you think y’can get the pizza when it arrives and actually get mine too?” He smiled at her knowingly; like he thought she might not take his pizza from the delivery guy in protest of the whole situation.

She rolled her eyes but had to hand it to him because it did sound like her. “Yes, Harry.”

“Hey beautiful?” he said softly. She hated that she looked up, answering to his pretty pink lips calling her ‘beautiful.’ She shouldn’t have. First and foremost, she thought he was wrong. Maybe it was because of all the drama of Year 2 but she never had boys of any age fawning over her after the slide-incident. Not the way they ogled and adored her friends. It did a number on her self-esteem. While she tried to put up this front that she didn’t care about whether she was beautiful or not, it was hard to believe someone like Harry would recognize her as even pretty.

Secondly, it made her stomach flip when he said it and she hated that. It was unfair he was pretty and unfair he could make her crazy with just a word. “M’not so bad,” his face looked apologetic—like he felt bad for existing. “I promise, it won’t be that bad this week with me.” She nodded sullenly, ran her brush through her hair. “’Ve left some notes on the table there for the pizza,” he tilted his chin toward it.

“You don’t need to pay for me.”

He smiled. “Course I do, lovie. S’my treat.”

She hated the way she answered to ‘lovie’too.

*

She sat in comfortable silence while she ate her pizza. While eating, she looked at the itinerary on her phone. Made plans in her mind and thought about some of the things she wanted to do during her free time.

“Oh good, m’starving. Smelled it while I was showering.”

She did a double take, her jaw falling open instinctively. She nearly dropped her pizza on her lap and then her phone right after it. Harry was hurrying across the room to get to his pizza. A towel low on his hips showing off glistening, taut muscles. Her heart hammered against her chest. “Jesus,” she whispered to herself looking away.

“Did y’say something, beautiful?” He asked, taking a bite of his pizza. She shook her head. Once more, angry she answered with the word ‘beautiful’.  His hair was dripping, and she followed the little droplets as they slid down his broad shoulders and across his defined pectorals. It wasn’t fair. She wanted to hate him easily. But his pretty tattoos and his gorgeous body were making it so difficult.

“I’m think I’m going to sleep on the floor,” she told him. He frowned around a bite of his pizza. When he finished chewing, he had a bit of grease on each corner of his mouth. She wanted to reach out with a napkin and wipe it away.

Or lick it away, along with the rest of his body.

“I’ll be the perfect gentleman,” he promised. “M’not gonna let y’sleep on the floor, lovie,” he rolled his eyes. “If you’re that uncomfortable, I’ll sleep on the floor.”

She couldn’t help but feel bad that her awkwardness, her annoyance for Harry, would have him sleep on the floor. He didn’t truly deserve that. This was a work trip for him as well, after all.

Maybe if he was fully clothed, she would have taken him up on his offer. Accepted him sleeping on the floor in her place. But her modern-woman, intelligent brain that she had spent years cultivating so she was independent, and worked so hard to make sure she didn’t go ga-ga over a man was malfunctioning from travel...and knowing she was stuck with Harry in such close quarters for almost a week.

Plus, Harry had the prettiest stomach she had ever seen on a man.

Her primal brain, the one that seemed to be screaming from between her legs, couldn’t help but feel bad for him.

“It’s…fine,” she mumbled focusing on her pizza and phone again.

“Are y’sure, beautiful? I don’t want t’make y’uncomfortable.”

She believed him. He seemed so eager to please her and ease her worries. She nodded. “It’ll be fine,” she was telling herself in hopes it would be true. “But I’m making a pillow wall.”

He smiled around his pizza.

*

“Would y’prefer I sleep with or without a shirt?” He asked. Harry went to use the hotel gym and then took another shower. She used the time to read her book and sit on the balcony while the sun was setting. It wasn’t a picturesque view or anything, but the sky was a bunch of beautiful hues of pink, blue, and orange.

When Harry exited the shower, it was awkwardly silent for a bit. Harry tended to his after shower-care. She was looking at her book but not reading. She yawned, and that was when Harry asked his question. The inquiry felt like a double-edged sword. If she said with a shirt, it might imply she wanted to hide him from her view because she couldn’t help but look at him. If she said no, it would make it seem like she wanted to see him. “Whatever makes you comfortable,” she decided on.

He smirked and pulled his T-shirt off. “‘Fraid you’re not privy t’that sleeping habit, lovie.” She wondered if anyone had ever been murdered with a hotel phone cord. She felt extremely self-conscious about her t-shirt and leggings combo. “Feel free t’do the same, beautiful,” he grinned wickedly at her as he slipped into his side of the bed. She had two pillows under the blankets and two on top. She was certain that even if she had her own room, it wouldn’t be enough distance between them. “What if I want another pillow?” He asked mischievously.

“Go fuck yourself, Harry,” she grumbled.

He frowned. “C’mon, lovie. S’not so bad.” She didn’t say anything in response and turned to her side facing away from him. She scrolled mindlessly on her phone. “D’you want t’watch something together?” He asked.

“No, thank you,” she murmured quietly. “You can though,” she shrugged. “I’ll sleep through most anything.”

He nodded. “Okay...well...good night, beautiful. Sleep well,” he said sweetly.

She didn’t fall asleep right away. Instead, she imagined the nice museum she saw online. The picturesque street about a mile away with cute little shops. There was the coffee shop she wanted to go to. All the things that Harry couldn’t ruin with his annoying little remarks.

Or his stupid hot body.

Other than some gentle laughter, she didn’t hear or worry about Harry sleeping less than six inches from her own body. The pillows provided the perfect barrier between them so that she could sleep easily knowing that he wouldn’t bug her.

Only four days until it was over. She could do this.

*

Harry heard her phone drop from her hands to the floor about an hour later. He hurried to her side of the room and made sure her alarm was set, locked her phone, and placed it on her nightstand. He saw the way she seemed to shiver in her sleep. Probably because she was right under the vent. The space between her brows puckered due to her discomfort. He draped the blanket that was at the end of the bed over her. Almost immediately, the skin between her eyebrows smoothed back out. He wanted to kiss her in the very same spot but of course would never do that without her permission.

The movie Harry was playing was funny and he enjoyed it immensely. True to her word, she slept through his laughter and the sound of the movie itself. She was wiggly when she slept. The pillows and blankets balled all around her and Harry wondered how she slept like that each night. It looked nearly painful at times.

Of course, the movie came to an end, and she was still sound asleep when Harry finally turned the TV off and hunkered down into his side of the mattress. He tried not to disturb her pillow wall, but she had managed to throw all of them every which way. He smirked to himself, shaking his head at her.

Harry must have gotten only an hour of sleep under his belt when he woke up to her kicking and mumbling under her breath. The light coming through the window allowed for his eyes to adjust a bit to the darkness against her figure sprawled in the sheets. He shook his head glancing over at her in complete disarray.  Her body was still twisted around the pillows and blankets. Harry was left with just the sheet. He smirked at her.

He threw his arm over his eyes and ignored her fitful movements. But they kept going and going. The mumbling too. He felt bad about whatever she was dreaming about, but he didn’t dare touch her. If she woke up to him touching her, even if it was for comfort, he was certain she would kill him.

Harry was a pretty heavy sleeper himself, so her fussy movements didn’t bother him in the slightest. Whatever she was dreaming about had to be a kick for sure and for that he felt bad.

But then Harry heard small whimpers coming from her and he felt his stomach knot. It felt like he was dying at the mere sound of her discomfort. The anguish he felt coming from her was brutal and he wanted nothing more than to hold her and fix it. “Oh, hey,” he hummed, sitting up against the headboard. He looked her over and thought incurring her wrath would be well worth it if he could stop her from whimpering miserably. “Lovie? Y’okay?” He gently shook her by the shoulder. She seemed to be fighting whatever she was dreaming about, and the blankets were keeping her trapped. Harry grabbed the pillows that were on top of her. Her arms were nearly swaddled against her body with the blanket wrapped around her and pulled up to her neck tightly.

Harry flicked the light on his nightstand so he could get a better look at her.

The poor thing was glistening with sweat around her hairline, tears were leaking from her closed eyes, and that space between her brows was cinched together like she was in pain. “Oh, no,” he murmured and crawled out of his side and came around to her side. “Hey,” he cooed. He crouched in front of her and began tossing the pillows to the floor. He unraveled the blankets from around her. “Lovie,” he murmured. He called her lovie at the start of the evening and he couldn’t stop. He loved to call her beautiful and enjoyed how readily she answer to it. But something about her sweet face just made the word ‘lovie’ roll right off his tongue. It was effortless; like it was the only thing he should call her. Once she was without the swaddle of blankets, and the pillows attacking her, she was practically gasping for air in her sleep. “Lovie, you’re having a bad dream,” he gave her a good shake causing her eyes to flash open. Harry gazed at her in alarm. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to hide from Harry. But it was far too late for that. “Are y’okay, beautiful?”

She ignored him. Her breathing evening out. She turned away from him. “Lovie...”

“Would you stop calling me cute names?” She asked, the exasperation thick in her voice. But she was still distraught. He could tell. He was quiet for a minute letting her work through whatever just happened. “Please don’t tell anyone about this,” she whispered.

He blinked. He felt so sad she believed so little of him. “I would never tell anyone anything ‘bout you—”

“You whisper about me all the time,” she snipped.

His mouth fell open in disbelief. “Lovie, you have t’know I don’t whisper anything ‘bout you. M’telling them how pretty I think y’are and how you’ll get all flustered that m’whispering nothing ‘bout you. They know I adore you and think nothing short of wonderful things ‘bout you. Y’seriously don’t get it do you?” He felt so utterly annoyed by her, himself. He thought she was lovely and yes; she was fun to annoy but he would never say anything about her that hurt her reputation. He was sad she thought he would. It never made sense for her to dislike him so intently. He never really cared and turned it into a joke. But knowing she truly didn’t like him made his heart heavy.

She refused to look at him. It was silent for several beats. Harry stared at the back of her t-shirt, her shoulders trying to find an easy rhythm. He wanted her to explain it. Right now. In the middle of the night when they were stuck in a small hotel room together. “Why did you trap me in the slide?” She whispered.

Of all the things he expected her to say, that was not one of them. “What?” He shook his head.

“In Year 2? You and your friends trapped me in the slide, now I’m embarrassingly claustrophobic. If I have anything covering my face, I have a meltdown. It feels like I can’t breathe. If someone...holds me the wrong way for too long, I get overwhelmed. It’s ruined so many relationships and it’s...” she sniffled, her shoulders staggering a bit at the effort.

He frowned. “Is that why you hate me?” He whispered. She didn’t answer him. “Lovie, I had nothing to do with that.”

“Well, they blamed you.”

He sighed. “So, all this time you’ve hated me, and it wasn’t even my doing?” He asked.

It seemed to appeal to the logical part of her brain. She was still for a moment longer, her breathing evening out. But then she rolled to her other side and stared at Harry. He hated the tears that stained her cheeks. That little crease between her eyebrows. He reached out and pressed his fingers there to smooth it out and she let him. It didn’t even bother him that she hadn’t liked him for so long.

Her lips rolled into her mouth as she thought over the last twenty-something years of their lives. It may not have bothered Harry but now it bothered her. “Why have you liked me even though I’m so...crabby toward you?”

He smiled excitedly. Like he was getting a Christmas present or told he won a raffle. “What isn’t there t’like ‘bout you, beautiful?” His hand cupped her cheek and his thumb gently rubbed at the stain of salt on her cheek. The back of her head was warm with sweat and if it wasn’t so late at night, she would feel more self-conscious.

“You’re a glutton for punishment.”

It was progress though because she didn’t push his hand away from her face. “Can I get back on the bed? I won’t touch you, but I don’t want you t’have the pillows and blankets attack you.”

“You can touch me,” she mumbled.

He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Oh yeah?” He rose from the floor to head back to his side of the bed.

She rolled her eyes at him. “I hate you.”

“I don’t think y’do, actually,” he said smugly.

“Are you going to annoy me the entire time?”

Harry turned off his bedside lamp and crawled under the sheet. “Probably.”

She sighed; he imagined her pretty eye roll the way she always did. Harry put his arm behind his head, closed his eyes and tried to drift off to sleep. “You really didn’t trap me in there?” She asked.

Harry turned to his side and looked at the shadow outline of her staring up at the ceiling. He wanted to reach out and trace the shape of her profile, follow it down her arm and hold her hand. “Even as a six-year-old, lovie, I couldn’t hurt you. If...I knew...I would have gotten y’out of there so fast,” he promised. “Poor baby,” he murmured and bravely reached out and grabbed her hand. She didn’t pull from him. She let his fingers fit between the spaces of hers, gave her a gentle squeeze.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know why you were mad,” he shrugged.

“You were really just going to let me hate you for the rest of our life?”

“Hate and love are very close together in the brain,” he said knowingly. “Given y’said the rest of our life,” he smiled excitedly, “I had a feeling y’couldn’t keep it up forever. And I’d wait forever for you, beautiful.” He sounded so arrogant she wanted to hate him just to spite him. But she couldn’t argue with him. It was exhausting hating him. Being in the hotel room with him—especially when he was in a towel—was ruining her grumpy front. Even with sleep still on her brain, she couldn’t help but think about how gentle he was with her and her anxious mind. He was so utterly accommodating and kind to her. He would have slept on the floor if she asked. But she rather enjoyed the feel of his fingers holding hers. “Do you have nightmares a lot?” He asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She shook her head. “Not anymore...Only when I get all twisted like that. I usually sleep better with a weighted blanket to help my anxiety about it. It also keeps me in place, mostly. I’ve had a lot of therapy to help cope with it and the blanket usually helps but obviously y’can’t really travel with a fifteen-pound blanket.”

“Can you snuggle?” He asked.

She blinked at the darkness in front of her. “Can I what?”

“Can you snuggle with someone?” He repeated.

She bit the inside of her lip. “As long as my face isn’t covered,” she muttered. “But it’s definitely been a problem in past relationships if that’s what you’re asking me ab—”

Harry had his arms looping around her and he pulled her toward him so quickly, she barely had time to process. His body spooned behind her, one arm snug beneath her neck and the other draped around the front of her hips. Her heart rate had to be approaching a hundred and fifty. “Is this alright, beautiful?” He murmured into the back of her hair. She was speechless, truly. Harry holding her like...like she didn’t just have a major meltdown. Like he adored her still. “Lovie?” He said, nearly releasing her when she didn’t answer. Worried that her heart rate was too high—he could practically feel it through her back pressed to him. Maybe this was too much.

But right as he started to pull away, her arm pressed against Harry’s. She sighed softly. “No...m’fine,” her voice was quiet.

“Are y’sure? I don’t want t’upset you,” he promised. “Been dreaming ‘bout snuggling with you... but not at the expense of your comfort or anxiety,” he assured her.

“You dream about cuddling with me?”

“Among other things,” he spoke to the back of her hair, his lips smiling against her head.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

“I really didn’t think y’could hate me forever, lovie.”

She was quiet for a few moments. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was the first time she ever apologized to him. His heart skipped a beat.

“I know, beautiful. How would y’have known, though? I wish y’told me, but I know why y’didn’t.”

More silence. Harry’s bare stomach was touching her t-shirt, his legs were crooked up against the back of hers. They fit like puzzle pieces. She bit the inside of her lip feeling exhaustion pull over her mind. How was she supposed to sleep knowing Harry was sleeping right next to her?

“Good night, lovie,” he murmured.

She sighed, relaxing, and drifting to sleep almost immediately.

*

The first day of the conference went by quickly with not much to really show for it. Harry enjoyed it immensely and had a thousand new ideas that he suggested to her over their lunch together. She enjoyed it as well but after her night snuggled up to Harry nothing else seemed remotely important.

“Hey, lovie?” Harry said, trying to retrieve her attention. “Did y’have plans this afternoon? M’gonna catch up with a friend,” he nodded toward another table. The idea of Harry leaving her alone actually saddened her, but of course...they’d have the night.

Unless the friend was a girl. In which case he very well could not come back to their shared room. She nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. Have fun,” she encouraged.

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Keep the bed warm for me, yeah?” He winked at her as he pulled away.

She thought maybe killing him would still be an option.

She perused the little picturesque street taking a whole bunch of pictures and stopping in nearly every shop on the street and making a purchase in almost every single one. It was actually really nice. Not too hot, not too cold. She even sort of wished Harry had gone with her on her little adventure. She thought he would have liked some of the shops as much as she did.

It was precisely when she wished Harry had gone with her that she realized she really liked him. All this time.

Maybe he was right, and her brain mistook her affection for him as hatred. She wasn’t ready to say love yet. Even if her subconscious was screaming about how lovely he was.

Even last night when Harry was comforting and gentle about her phobia. He didn’t make her feel bad...in fact he made her feel normal and wonderful. The new information about the slide was a revelation. She had spent so many years with ill-harbored feelings toward Harry. It seemed wasteful after last night. He was kind, understanding, attractive—

She was not in love with him.

She couldn’t be, right?

He was annoying. Even if he wasn’t whispering about her, he was still making her feel grumpy. The constant gag gifts and deliveries were vexing beyond compare.

But those dimples when he smiled? They could undo all those negative emotions she felt. She was certain that there was some pheromone or chemical released in the air when he smiled. One that made her mind momentarily forget that he had been the cause of the slide thing.

However, that wasn’t true anymore.

So...

No. It’s like meeting someone for the first time. You don’t love him.

Not when he called her beautiful or lovie. Not when he openly flirted with her or held her against his warm body in the middle of the night and kept the nightmares away. She did not love him.

But maybe she just really, really, really, really, liked him and wanted to spend all her extra time with him now and show him the little shop she found because she smelled three different kinds of soap that she thought he would enjoy.

Obviously, that wasn’t love.

She looked more like some shopping bag monster than girl, when she made her way into the hotel elevator. Harry was already in the room when she got back. “Have fun?” He asked, putting the new file he brought with him and his pencil aside. His smile was so bright she really wondered how she could have ignored him for so long.

“Did…you catch up with your friend?” She asked. She was gone for almost three hours, she worried that she would come back to find Harry with someone, or someone in the shower...

Or in our bed. One part of her mind was grumpy at the thought. Not our bed. The one brain cell left on the rational side of her mind shouted back.

Harry began untangling her wrists and fingers from the bags she held while her brain had its own conversation. The bags left angry red marks on her skin. He nodded, placing the bags on the floor. “Yeah, jus’ had a quick stop at the pub for a drink,” he gently massaged the inside of her wrists. “I missed you,” he said cutely. She stared at him almost suspiciously. Like maybe all of this was a trick. Her distrust seemed palpable because he frowned. “I did, beautiful. Really missed you,” he brought her wrist to his lips and pressed a kiss on the soft inside skin. She missed him too. Even before she went to the shops, she was dreading leaving his side, but she wouldn’t tell him that. Her face must have softened a bit because the left side of his face turned up in a gorgeous half smile. It made her wonder how Harry had decided on editing and publishing and not modeling. “Would y’like t’get dinner with me?” He asked.

“Like a date?” She blurted out before she could stop herself.

“Yes, lovie. Like a date,” he rolled his eyes.

She frowned. “I don’t really have anything...date-worthy to wear.”

“Well, y’could go naked, but they might throw y’out.”

“Shut. Up.”

“Y’look beautiful now. I’d take y’out in the sexy pajamas y’wore last night.”

She wondered briefly if Harry had ever been hit in the head over the years and suffered irrevocable brain damage. “Sexy?”

“Your leggings?” He smiled mischievously. “M’almost jealous of ‘em touching all of your legs.”

Definitely hit in the head.

“Can I just...have a few minutes to touch up?” She asked, ignoring his comment.

“Course, beautiful. Not that y’need it.” He was good. She would give him that. He was very good at making her feel gooey and pretty. Harry said all the right flirty things. Dinner would be fun, and she was quite hungry.

She exited the bathroom after touching up her makeup and switching out her casual business blouse for a tank top with a cardigan. She swapped her slacks for a pair of jeans. The flats she wore stayed to complete her outfit.

“Will you marry me?” He sighed dreamily as she exited the bathroom.

He was going to give her an aneurysm.

“Shut up, Harry.”

“Ve’been waiting for this date for...” he smiled. “Oh, I don’t know, lovie. Least since university.”

Harry had to have a death wish. “You’ve...liked me? Even though I was mean to you?”

“A glutton for punishment, as it were,” he winked bringing her words back.

She grabbed her little cross body bag and Harry followed her out their hotel room door. Since the slide incident, she had been to at least four different therapists to help alleviate the worry and fear she had. In all honesty, she was much better than she used to be. The airplane was a little daunting during takeoff but that could have been due to a fear of flying, not claustrophobia. Her small attic or the cramped closet in the hall of her place didn’t bother her any longer. Being on a train in public transport rush hour—even when the train came to a standstill in the middle of the dark tunnel—didn’t really bother her anymore. It was only when her face was covered for too long without her ability to get out quickly, sleeping, plagued with nightmares, or swaddled in her blankets too tightly that she felt the waves of anxiety suffocating her like that day on the slide.

Or when the elevator clanged to a stop and jolted her so hard, she nearly fell into Harry.

It was three seconds of pure silence before she realized what happened. Before Harry realized.

“Shit.” Harry whispered.

“Oh no,” her pulse quickened. Her head started to ache, and it felt like the elevator was suddenly the size of an Amazon box and she was crammed inside. It took her a moment to realize the wheezing was coming from her.

“Hey, hey,” Harry quickly grabbed her shoulders. Her eyes welled with tears, and she was heaving on her breath. One of his hands reached for the emergency button causing a monotone ring to take over all sounds in the small space; the volume was louder than her heavy breathing. “Lovie, tell me what t’do,” he begged. “M’sorry,” he whispered. She felt lightheaded and scared. So scared she obviously was having trouble breathing. She worried that she would pass out right into Harry’s arms.

“M’scared,” she croaked.

“I know, beautiful,” he squeezed her shoulders. He held her away at arm’s length afraid to bring her closer in case it would make matters worse. All he wanted to do was wrap her close and console her. “But...s’okay,” he promised. “Really, s’okay.” It wasn’t; he wasn’t trying to make light of her fear either. He knew how bad it was because he had spent the last twenty years waiting for this moment. For her to say she didn’t hate him. For the last ten, he longed for a date. One measly dinner to change her mind. But the broken elevator was going to ruin it all. Honestly, that didn’t even matter to him. All of it didn’t matter. He had to try something to ease her worry. Something to help her scared mind. “I would never let anything happen t’you. Would never let anything hurt you,” he was gazing right into her eyes. He definitely didn’t cure her, but she could feel how devastated Harry felt. He meant it; he wouldn’t let anything harm her as much as he could possibly control. “Deep breaths? Does that help?” He asked. She nodded. She tried but it was hard, the air she sucked in and released was shaky and not very deep. It was hard to think about breathing deeply when all she could think about was dying in this tin box. “Easy, lovie. S’okay,” he squeezed her shoulders again.

The alarm was plain on his face, and she wondered if he wanted to hold her. She wanted to be held but wasn’t sure it would work. Her stomach felt so knotted. Thought maybe she would throw up and she couldn’t imagine a worse first date with Harry than throwing up in an enclosed space. She sank to the floor, her legs scrunched up so she could rest her forehead against her knees. Harry crouched in front of her, clearly still nervous and unsure of what to do. The one part of her brain that still had some rational thought left thought it was a travesty that she would lose Harry from this. She thought if she made it out, she would have to just go home. She couldn’t share a bed with him.

“They’re probably getting someone t’help right now, beautiful. S’okay,” he placed his hands on her ankles. It seemed like the safest option. He was so mortified this happened. To her of all people. The ringing of the elevator seemed to die down with the ringing in her ears. “Lovie?” He asked; he felt anxious that she was breathing so hard. She looked at him, her vision blurred by the tears. “Tell me what t’do,” he begged. He felt so useless. So worried that she was going to pass out or have a meltdown that she would inextricably link to him and never forgive him. After he just made some progress.

He thought about her six-year-old self. Trapped in that slide, her little brain all terrified. He wondered if that little version of herself still existed inside her. It hurt him to think about that poor little girl scared to pieces. He leaned forward and pressed his lips on her forehead and kept pressed there for a moment. That moment in time seemed to stretch on for eternity. But, as he kept his lips on her skin, he noticed her breathing slowly calmed. Her muscles seemed to relax.

“That feels nice,” she murmured almost serenely. He smirked against her skin. Slowly, he pulled away. Her eyes watched Harry with worry, but he slid beside her before he moved too far away. The shaky breathing picked up just a little. Her heart still fluttered with anxiety. She rested her cheek on her knee facing him.

“I...I could...do it again if y’want. If y’think it would help,” he suggested, turning toward her a little more head on. She lifted her head, it felt so achy and heavy. Harry cupped her face and pressed his lips on her skin again. She sighed softly. The ache seemed to ease at his touch.

Ugh. Harry was medicine that she didn’t know she needed. He dragged his lips across her skin, peppering her hairline with soft little presses. She wondered if he would always be this gentle with her.

She still wasn’t sure how she felt about her mind thinking about things like always with Harry. She was fairly certain she would die of humiliation the moment her brain returned to normal once they got off the elevator. There wouldn’t be an always after this. Harry would think she was nuts or ridiculous. There wouldn’t even be a sometimes.

 “Are y’okay, lovie?” He hummed against her skin. “As y’can be right now?”

She nodded, feeling utterly safe with Harry beside her. She enjoyed the way his hands felt on her skin. His lips on her face. It was too bad she didn’t know all these years he had nothing to do with her childhood trauma. She thought she really could be in love with him.

*

It took an hour, but they were finally freed of the metal tin. The moment she had fresh air, she felt infinitely better. Harry could see it on her face and in her body language. She was entirely at ease. Back to normal. After a flurry of questions and the hotel offering a few extra nights, they left for a nearby restaurant. Harry held her hand, fingers twisted together. He didn’t say much, because he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say after that. He knew she had to have felt so exposed and vulnerable.

“We...don’t have to go out, if you don’t want,” she mumbled.

Harry frowned and stopped the pair of them in the middle of the sidewalk. “Do y’want t’go back?” He asked.

She bit the inside of her lip. “I’m sorry.”

He blinked in surprise. “For what, beautiful?”

“For being crazy?” Did he forget what just happened?

“Crazy?” He repeated in surprise. “Lovie, s’not your fault. M’glad you’re okay.”

“You’re not...you don’t think I’m...weird?”

His heart felt such sadness for her. “No, lovie. Course not. Think you’re lovely. I was so scared y’were going to hurt yourself in all the worry. M’so glad you’re okay. M’sorry y’had to—why are y’crying, beautiful? Are you alright?” He asked, her eyes spilling with tears. He thought he might cry right with her. Harry had a good six or seven inches on her and he bent his knees a bit so he could be eyelevel with her teary gaze. His hands cupped her face just like on the elevator and he looked pained that she was crying.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I’m so sorry.”

He didn’t know why she was apologizing. But he let her and pulled her toward him, careful not to cover her face with his embrace. She sobbed into his chest. Harry kissed the top of her head. “S’okay, beautiful. Don’t know why you’re apologizing. But s’okay.”

It felt so embarrassingly awful that she and Harry would never be.

*

They ordered takeout, had a drink while they waited—barely speaking as they did, and headed back to the hotel. Of course, they took the stairs. She didn’t even feel like eating as she sat across from Harry on the balcony. He ate his veggie stir fry quietly while she poked at the pasta in her takeout box. “That’s pasta, you remember?” He smirked at her. “You’re supposed t’eat it,” he encouraged. Trying to joke so she would feel a little better.

She couldn’t even muster an eye roll for him. Ending before they started...after a whirlwind of one night and day of the convention seemed utterly unfair.

“Lovie?” He asked quietly. She didn’t respond. She was worried she would cry. “Beautiful,” he murmured setting his food aside, crouched beside her seat and pushed her food to the side as well.

“I...I think I really like you,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Well finally, lovie. But y’don’t have t’cry ‘bout it, m’right here,” he gave her knee a gentle squeeze. Like he was consoling her.

She shook her head. “S’not fair to you or all that time I wasted. And I’m so weird.”

“You’re not weird, lovie,” he promised.

“Yes, I am, Harry.”

He shook his head. “Y’seriously going t’continue pushing me away when m’literally on my knees in front of you, beautiful? I don’t care if y’weird or not. I don’t care if y’cry on elevators or if y’sing in the shower. You’re m’favorite person t’annoy and I want t’do it, knowing I can kiss you after every joke,” he looked up at her eyes from his crouched position. “Y’don’t have t’waste any more time, lovie. M’right here.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, worried she was going to say no or something just because she was so nervous about all of it. It was twenty years of disliking Harry (well, not really, but yes really). That was twenty years of hating small spaces of getting nervous in crowds and explaining to boyfriends that she couldn’t attend some events even when she wanted to.

But Harry didn’t care.

And she believed him.

She should have begged him to leave her alone because it wasn’t fair to him, and she truly believed that. Harry was so much kinder than she ever, ever imagined. Now he was right, of course. He was right here. Right in front of her. Literally on his knees telling her he wanted her. Despite everything. So instead of opening her mouth where she might say no, she nodded slowly.

He sighed with relief and wrapped his arms around her waist pulling her toward him. He carefully squeezed her rubbing his hand up and down her back so soothingly she wanted to cry some more. Harry had the gentlest touch, and it was melting her—inside and out. She sighed into his chest, arms wrapping back around him. She even pressed her face right into his T-shirt and didn’t feel the creeping sensation of doom surrounding her. Instead, all she could smell was the scent of Harry’s laundry detergent and the very essence of Harry.

“Thank you, beautiful,” he sighed into the top of her hair, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. He pushed her away from his body but kept her in between his arms. He really loved touching her face. “Can’t wait t’join you in the shower, now,” he winked.

She rolled her eyes. He wasn’t going to quit, that much was certain. “You should be better than that detachable shower head,” she murmured.

He stared at her fully for at least half a minute, unable to speak. He cleared his throat after what seemed like a lifetime and then kissed the center of her forehead followed by the tip of her nose. Right before he kissed her lips for the first time in their lives, he whispered, “that I have t’see, lovie.”

--

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[sodaabaa]

to flee or not to flee, part three

anthony bridgerton x OC what happens when a charming and determined viscount courts someone whose worst fear is to marry a man like him?

tropes: damsel in distress, innocent and shy mc, slow burn,

tw: mentions of domestic abuse, angst, anxiety, slight misogyny/patriarchal concepts

masterlist

“Mr. Carrington, Miss Carrington, you have a visitor.” 

Annalise looked up from her book to her brother. 

“Who is it?” He asked.

“Lord Bridgerton, sir. Shall I send him in?”

Her brother only nodded. 

Annalise cleared her throat, sitting up straighter suddenly acutely aware of her appearance. She pulled at the scarf around her collar, ensuring it was properly secured before the viscount arrived. Her brother had confronted her rather harshly about Lord Bridgerton’s abrupt proposal, believing it was her who had exposed Thomas to the viscount. She swore on her life she did not. He refused to believe her. He stormed out of the house to relieve his stress, no doubt with drinks and women. It wasn’t until he came back home from the gentleman’s club where he overheard a few men talking about Lord Bridgerton’s inquiries about Thomas, that he believed it was not Annalise who revealed his treatment of her. Thomas admittedly did believe it was a fine bargain – no dowry and a hefty payment to rid himself of Annalise. He told her he would accept the proposal, should the viscount show a continued interest in Annalise. She was not sure if she should be relieved of her brother’s approval of the proposal. She still did not know what to make of Anthony Bridgerton.

As if on cue, there he was. His presence filled up the room instantly. Her skin prickled and her stomach twisted. No rational woman could deny his beauty, like that of a greek statue with his chiseled jaw, deep brown eyes with his brow always set in a furrow and his lips…She cleared her throat, snapping herself out of improper thoughts. She did not want to think of him as anything but another man, another cage – rationality be damned. 

“Good day, to the both of you.” He spoke, his voice booming through the rather small drawing room. 

“Good day. What brings you here, Lord Bridgerton?” Her brother said.

“I would like to extend an invitation to the two of you to join my family and I on our trip to Aubrey Hall, our country estate.” He glanced at Annalise, noticing her silence since he arrived. 

“That is generous of you, what has spurred such a decision?” Thomas asked.

“I thought it may be a welcome respite from the ton. And, of course, you and Miss Carrington would get the chance to see the grounds that she may become viscountess of.” He replied diplomatically. 

Thomas smiled, pleased that Anthony wanted to continue his courtship of Annalise. 

“Well,” Thomas clapped, “in that case, I believe it would be a welcome respite. Annalise, go prepare your bags for the trip.” 

Annalise stood, curtsied to the viscount and her brother, avoiding any and all eye contact with the former.

“I am pleased you will be accompanying us.” Lord Bridgerton said, his eyes trained on Annalise. 

She looked at him through her lashes, “thank you for thinking of us, my lord.” And with that, she slipped out of the room which grew hotter with every passing moment. 

A trip to his estate? Annalise did not know what would result from this trip but she hardly thought it could be anything good. 

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The town of Mayfair passed by in a blur as Annalise looked out the carriage. Brick townhouses, giggling groups of ladies, the booming laughter of men all sped by. Annalise felt as though she were being shipped off to a butcher. Thomas sat across from her, muttering to himself and checking off items on one of his many lists that helped him keep track of the estate's affairs and finances.

There’d be no fighting it now she thought to herself. She had been invited by the Bridgerton family to spend a week at Aubrey Hall. The looks of envy and wonder could barely be held back when she stepped out of her home this morning. She was now all but betrothed to the viscount. She supposed the week couldn’t be all that bad, after all, there’d be a plethora of people to keep her company. The viscount’s seven siblings would be accompanying them and nearly half of them were girls. Anthony had made them seem charming and mischievous in their own right. Perhaps she may have a pleasant time if she could spend most of it with the Bridgerton siblings as opposed to the viscount himself. 

The sun had now reached its peak and their journey nearly halved since they left early this morning after her viscount’s visit. Her leg began bouncing, her hands growing restless. No amount of fiddling with lace or threads could calm her nerves. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to steady herself. 

“Annalise! Calm yourself. You mustn’t let the Bridgertons see you in such a state of disarray. Have I taught you nothing, girl?” He barked.

She released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “Apologies, brother.” 

Annalise would simply have to wait until she had a moment alone to indulge her emotions.

As she stepped out of the carriage, assisted by her brother, she took in the massive home before her. The building itself was made of gray brick, with four large roman columns at the center, bookended with large domed roofs on either side. A breath caught in Annalise’s throat as she marveled at the stately building. Should she choose to accept Lord Bridgerton’s proposal – which seemed imminent – this would be her home. Miles away from her brother and assuming the viscount’s duties would keep him busy much of the day, she’d have this home all to herself. With no one to fear. She had to admit, perhaps this could be a suitable arrangement for her. 

“You are a sight for sore eyes, Miss Carrington” the viscount appeared before her suddenly, before she had the chance to collect her thoughts and steady herself. She curtsied, stumbling on the way up, still off balance from his sudden appearance. He had quite the presence, always abrupt, sudden. Leaving just as fast as he appeared and leaving her dumbfounded quite often. He reached out an arm, placing it on her elbow gently to steady her.

“Thank you, my lord. I admit, I am not well acquainted with lengthy carriage rides.” 

“No matter, I am sure you will grow accustomed as you journey more frequently” he said brows raised, alluding to his assumption of her acceptance.

“Ah! You must be Annalise, I am so delighted to finally meet you, my dear” a sweet, round faced woman pushed herself past Anthony and towards Annalise, immediately grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her in for a hug. Annalise’s eyes widened and her lips parted but before she could say anything, another woman with chestnut brown hair matching the viscount’s sauntered up to the group.

“The Miss Carrington! I must know all the details on your first dance with Anthony. Did you abandon him because he is a bore? Or did he pester you with his list of interview questions he believes will find him the perfect wife?” 

“Eloise! That is hardly an appropriate way to introduce Miss Carrington to this family. Have you no decorum?” Anthony huffed, grabbing the girl’s arm and moving her out of the way.

“Please excuse my sister, she can be quite… spirited, at times.” 

As if the crowd could not get bigger, two men, one with the same chestnut brown hair while the other had unruly curls in a much darker shade, approached them.

The darker haired one spoke first, his eyebrows raised in amusement, “well isn’t this quite the party. If you are to marry into this family, shall I suggest drinking a few lemonades before arriving at a function in which the entire family will be in attendance?” 

“Benedict!” The other said, to which the dark haired one – Benedict – simply shrugged.

Annalise could do nothing but stare at the commotion, a plethora of emotions overwhelming her all at once. Before anyone else could join in, Anthony cleared his throat and motioned for his family to give Annalise space.

“I think, the Carringtons would appreciate some quiet and the chance to settle in before you lot begin your chatter. Please, excuse their excitement” Anthony said pointedly. He offered a hand to Annalise and pulled her away from the bustling family, her brother following closely behind. Annalise sighed, secretly relieved at his intervention. 

“Your family is quite the unruly bunch, Lord Bridgerton. A bit of discipline would not hurt” Thomas said, looking back at the family in judgment. 

Annalise fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Discipline” was what Thomas called his fits of rage, hiding behind pretenses of doing what he thought was best for Annalise. “Shaping” her into a woman of manners and decorum. Instead, it made her flighty, anxious, and quiet when she had once been a curious and talkative young girl. Like a bird meant for flight having its wings cut, leaving nothing more but a decoration.

Annalise felt Anthony’s arm stiffen in response to her brother’s suggestion. 

“I do not agree, Mr. Carrington. My family is one of the ton’s most respected and it was not discipline that made it so, but my parents’ upbringing of their children.”

“I only mean to say that a man’s duty-”

“A man’s duty is to protect those under his care.” 

Thomas went quiet behind them.

As they made their way inside, Annalise looked up and once again, marveled at the sight of the grand home. 

“You have a beautiful home, Lord Bridgerton” she spoke softly, hoping to change the topic of conversation before things became heated between the two men.

“Thank you, I do hope you find your stay enjoyable despite the introduction you just had” he smiled.

“Your family is charming, my lord. I do think they were simply excited at the prospect of having a guest” she said graciously. Although overwhelmed by the boisterous family, the fondness they had with one another was not lost on her. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Anthony smiled. 

Behind them, Thomas cleared his throat to signal his presence.

“Right. Mr. Carrington, your room will be up the stairs, down the hall to the left and Miss Carrington, yours will be next to Eloise’s on the right side of the hall upstairs. I have sent for your luggage and it will be brought over as soon as everyone makes their way in” the viscount explained. With that, he took off, leaving Annalise and her brother to find their rooms no doubt to reel in his family and perhaps give them a scolding or two. 

After Annalise found her room, she shut the door with an exhale. She took in the room, various shades of blue and gray decorated the room. In the center was a bed with dozens of plush pillows. Annalise all but threw herself at the welcoming sight, landing in the middle of the carefully arranged pillows. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking deep breaths to steady herself. She was not used to this much attention, she wished she could simply disappear into the wall. This week would require all of her strength. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Brother, is Miss Carrington to be our new sister?” The youngest of the Bridgerton clan, Hyacinth, wondered aloud. 

“Hyacinth!” Their mother called out, reprimanding the young girl’s forward question. 

“Sister in law, Hyacinth. That depends entirely on Miss Carrington herself. Perhaps you might convince her.” Anthony replied, the corners of his mouth twist upwards, giving his youngest sister a wink. He spoke to his sister with such fondness, it made Annalise’s chest tighten. 

Annalise took a moment to survey the dining hall to distract herself from her melancholy. The candles placed throughout the table gently lit the room, making the hall feel smaller than it was, more intimate. Porcelain china with delicate floral patterns was placed perfectly in front of each setting. As her eyes made their way around the room, her eyes landed on the viscount. Annalise had not given herself a chance to properly look at the viscount this evening. He sat at the head of the table while his mother sat opposite of him. Was he used to this? Being the head of his household? Or did he find it troublesome? He took the mantle on quite early in life, did he ever get used to it? To her, it seemed he made a perfect viscount. His siblings adored him, his mother trusted him to make wise decisions. Would his wife do the same? Could Annalise find herself trusting the viscount, loving him?

“Of course, Annalise would be honored to join your family, Lord Bridgerton. What more could a young woman ask for?” Thomas said, looking to Annalise for confirmation.

“Yes, of course. It has been a privilege to be courted by Lord Bridgerton, he is too kind” she said, trying her best to remain as vague as she could for as long as she could. Anthony only nodded, his lips set in a tight smile. Not the answer he was hoping for, she assumed.

“Do you read, Miss Carrington?” One of the Bridgerton sisters asked, Eloise, she recalled.

“I do, in fact. Reading takes up a great deal of my time – there’s always some topic that plagues my mind for weeks at a time until I grow tired of it and find the next.” 

Eloise smiled at her response, she opened her mouth to say something but before she could she was interrupted by Anthony.

“Is your mind still occupied with the Renaissance, or have you found your latest obsession, Miss Carrington?” 

She turned back to the viscount, “I am still very much occupied, I have yet to find a chance to discover any new books, my lord.” 

“We have a very big – and very unused library, Miss Carrington, I am certain you may be able to find something of interest there” he replied.

“I’d be more than happy to escort you after dinner.”

Annalise hesitated. She did not want to spend any time alone with the viscount.

“Perhaps another day, I’m sure you are tired from your travels, my lord. Thank you.”

Before he could reply, Annalise turned to the viscount’s mother and his siblings, “enough about me, tell me about yourselves. What is it you all do in your spare time? It must be a great deal of fun to have such a large family.” 

“Fun is one way to put it, I suppose,” Benedict said dryly.

The eldest of the Bridgerton sisters was the only one to provide a proper answer, “well let’s see, Benedict here is a budding artist. Collin has been traveling lately. Eloise is…well, Eloise. Francesca plays the pianoforte– 

“Rather exceptionally, I might add” Anthony cut in.

“Yes, she is quite good. Hyacinth and Gregory are typically occupied with their studies.”  

“And you, your Grace?” Annalise asked.

“Oh, please call me Daphne and nothing more. I suppose much of my days are filled with being a wife and mother” she looked fondly at her husband, the Duke of Hastings, sitting across from her. He returned her affection, the entire night it seems he could barely keep his eyes off her. 

“Of course,” Annalise smiled at the couple. She marveled at the siblings. They each had the freedom to pursue their pleasures and what their hearts desired. They were quite the family, Annalise had to admit. Was this the viscount’s doing? He undoubtedly bore the brunt of the labor to allow his siblings such pursuits. Every passing moment that she spent with the Bridgertons chipped at her determination to not marry. Would she be capable of holding to her beliefs by the end of this week?

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After dinner, they all retired to their rooms – a break Annalise was much grateful for. She could not fathom how she could make it through this week if she could hardly get through one dinner. Perhaps a distraction is what she needed to pull through. The library she thought to herself. There was bound to be a book in there that could keep her grounded. The sun had set and everyone had gone to bed, she doubted there’d be anyone roaming the halls – and even so, she knew how to keep quiet and hide. 

Annalise slipped from her room, down the grand stairs in search of the library. The darkness blanketing the entirety of Aubrey Hall posed a challenge to her search but she persevered regardless until she was confronted with two large doors, one slightly ajar – inviting her in.

She creeped inside, peaking in to ensure no one else was present. Once she was satisfied that she was alone, she walked over to the nearest bookcase which held at least a dozen rows of books. Each row had been meticulously labeled with a category. History of the Americas, History of Great Britain, History of… this bookcase seemed to be dedicated to histories, Annalise skipped down to the next. 

“Miss Carrington?”

“Oh!” Annalise startled, dropping the book she had picked out.

Anthony came forward, quickly retrieving the book that had fallen from her hands. He was not wearing his usual formal attire, instead donning a simple white shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled to his elbow. The shirt was untied, leaving much of his chest exposed. Annalise felt her cheeks warm, looking away from the viscount.

“My apologies, I did not mean to startle you” he said.

“No, my lord. I apologize, I should not be here at this hour” she replied, gaze trained on the patterned wood floor below her.

“Actually I expected you’d be here. I did not think you capable of keeping yourself from the library. A most tempting place, is it not?” A teasing smile on his lips. When Annalise failed to respond, Anthony scanned the book she had picked out – which he still had not returned to her.

“Medicinal Plants of the Orient? Was this meant to be a sleep aid?” He laughed.

She tried to hold back her smile. This only furthered the viscount’s own smile.

“You needn’t hold back on my account,” he said.

“Is this how you’ve managed to procure the reputation that follows you?” She asked, deflecting the subject of conversation from her to the viscount.

“I do not know what you mean, Miss Carrington. I am simply conversing” he said, refusing to let up that damned smile.

“Every girl I have met at the ton would do horrendous things for the opportunity to simply dance with you, nevermind courting them entirely. Not to mention your wellknown status of being a…” she trailed off. She did not think it appropriate to call him a rake to his face. 

“A what, Miss Carrington?” He teased.

She only looked up through her lashes, refusing to indulge him.

“I promise you, Miss Carrington, my days of rake-hood are far behind me. I have but one woman I intend to be with for the rest of my days” his tone no longer one of teasing.

Annalise held his gaze, unsure of what to say. 

“Annalise. I know you are afraid but trust that no harm would come to you from me. My father raised me to be a man with honor, a gentleman. Believe me, I have tolerated raising those hooligans you met this evening and I never, not once, raised my hand at them. Though they test me, I could never dream of harming someone under my care be it my siblings, my children, or my wife. Please, can you find it in your heart to trust me?” He had taken his hands in hers, his eyes in anticipation of her answer. 

“I do not wish to make decisions with my heart, my lord” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“And that is most sensible indeed” he said, his eyes trained on her face. 

He stepped forward. His breath tickled her face when he spoke, gentle as a feather,  “However, the heart is akin to a light, is it not Miss Carrington? It provides the guidance one needs in order to make your way out of the darkness.” 

Her chest rose, holding her breath.

“What if, Lord Bridgerton, one’s light were shattered and unable to provide guidance through the dark? 

“Then I would travel the night skies and snatch the stars to replace your shattered lights if that's what it takes. Annalise, I swear to you,” his gently lifted her chin to meet his eyes, “your heart is safe with me, shattered pieces and all.”

She could not breathe. Frozen in place and unsure of how to respond. She stared into his eyes, how could they be insincere with such pleading? Tears welled in her own eyes – she was at a crossroads, overwhelmed by the storm of questions in her mind. 

“Annalise, I will not hurt you” each word punctuated with intention as if he thought the more emphasis he put, the more convincing it would be to her. Was there anything she could do at this point? Any amount of delaying or refusing that would save her from her fate? Perhaps there was…

“Lord Bridgerton, may I give you the answer to your question by the week’s end?” She whispered.

That night once she had been escorted back to her chambers, Annalise conjured up a plan. The viscount had seven siblings and she would spend the remainder of the week with his family here at Aubrey Hall. She could use the week to get to know the viscount through his siblings. Perhaps, there would be a flaw, secret addiction, a bad habit – something that might give Annalise reason to deny the viscount’s proposal. Annalise would spend a day with each sibling and by the week’s end, there had to be something that might save her.

[tj-dragonblade]

[FIC] Past the Wit of Man (or, Bottom's Dream)

Fandom: The Sandman Pairing: Dreamling Rated: M Word Count: 3657 Tags: comedy, attempted comedy, comedy devolving into feels, identity reveal, sex worker Hob Gadling, advancing my Men In Lingerie agenda, long-haired Hob Gadling agenda, stretching timelines like taffy, Desire and Dream get along AU, but Desire is not actively in this, Dead Boy Detectives comic spoilers mentioned, miscommunication, Dream of the Endless finally uses his words, happy ending

Notes: Kudos props and huge thanks to everyone in the Mr Sadman discord who creatively interpreted a snippet I posted of something else and launched the whole idea of Hob working for a supernatural escort service; this would not exist without y'all and your beautiful brainstorming. ❤️

This fills the August monthly @dreamlingbingo prompt Identity Reveal, replacing square A2 (creature: Veela) on my bingo card

Summary: Hob is nicely settled in a new career and a new identity and does not expect to see his Stranger until 2089. The universe, apparently, has other ideas.

On AO3

~ "Your client is Dream of the Endless. He is extremely ancient and extremely powerful, an underpinning concept of the universe. Absolutely terrible about loosening up and letting himself relax."

"Don't think I'd be much good at relaxing if I was an underpinning concept of the universe either," Hob jokes, opening the profile that the Agency rep has just airdropped to his phone and thumbing through it.

The rep, a foppish vampire with curly white hair and impeccable fashion sense, arches one elegant eyebrow at him. "Apparently his most recent girlfriend dumped him quite harshly and his sibling has arranged this booking on his behalf; he's—and I am quoting here—'absolutely incompetent at managing his own happiness'."

"He knows he's been booked though, right? I'm not gonna catch the fallout because no one told him what kind of appointment this is?" It's only happened once, a prank played on a shy ace nixie by her well-meaning but ill-informed friends; all the same, Hob does not care to repeat the experience—particularly with someone potentially more dangerous.

"He is very much aware and in agreement, yes. We promised him our top companion." The rep dimples at Hob, a smile of saccharine sincerity that shows only the barest hint of fang. "And that's you, sweet Nick."

"And that's me," Hob agrees matter-of-factly, frowning at his phone, then turning it to show his guest. "No photo?"

The rep glances at the screen and makes a commiserative noise. "Oh, yes. Unfortunate, that. Cameras have a very hard time with this fellow, something to do with his general relationship to reality." His tone takes on a simpering air of great melodrama. "We were forced to use an artist's rendition instead! Tragic, really; it doesn't do him justice."

"Huh," Hob says, turning his phone back and studying the cartoony hand-drawn image. Guy looks like he's got some sort of steampunk insect for a head, dark and bolt-laden and bug-eyed, with a trunk that's strongly reminiscent of a disembodied spine. "Dream of the Endless, you said? Looks more like a bloody nightmare."

The rep gives an exaggerated roll of his shoulders, as if shrugging off his delivery duty now that it's done, and turns to leave. "Well whatever the case, an Endless is far above the average client, darling. Give him your best."

"'Course." Hob grins. "That's why you brought the assignment to me, after all."

"Just so." The Agency rep gives a lazy wave in parting and Hob closes the door, still scrolling through the profile as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"Dozens of titles and names", he murmurs, glancing through the list of them. "King of Dreams and Nightmares, alright. Contains the entire collective unconscious of every living being in. Every…universe…?" He shakes his head. "Has never taken a vacation ever. Bested Lucifer Morningstar and oversaw the reassignment of Hell—okay, wow. Billions of years old." He whistles, a long sound of awed disbelief. "Maybe I throw in a free massage for this guy; sounds like he could use it."

He shakes his head again, pockets his phone, carries on with getting breakfast together.

Bug-headed workaholic foundational concept of the universe. Won't be the weirdest client he's ever serviced.

~

It's been ten years since his stranger showed up late for their meeting and smiled so openly and named him friend. That had been their longest meeting yet, lasting all afternoon and on into the evening and it wasn't until the Inn had started closing up for the night that they wound down. His stranger had spoken briefly of the missed appointment in 1989, making clear that something at least mildly traumatic had kept him away and also that he did not wish to elaborate, and Hob had let it go. There was so much to tell of his own century past, his friend remarking with interest on a great many of his stories, and it was enough. His stranger, his friend, had come back, and they'd had a lovely long meeting. Perhaps in 2089 he would be comfortable sharing more of his own story, but even if not, Hob didn't mind. He was confident once more in the friendship he'd declared back in 1889 and willing to coax it out bit by bit, meeting by meeting. He had all the time in the world, after all.

Within a year of that meeting he'd wrapped up his teaching career, arranged for ownership of the New Inn to transfer to a 'relative' in the States who'd keep it running the next few decades, and started searching for a new career for his next identity.

He stumbled quite by accident into the broader supernatural world after being stalked by two dead teenagers helping that de Rais creep who wanted to steal his immortality. It all turned out fine in the end but opened Hob's eyes to exactly how much the supernatural had integrated into the modern world around him. And once old Hettie clued him in to the existence of a certain Service Agency catering to supernatural clients, his next career path was all but decided. What was he going to do, not seize the opportunity for fantastical sexual exploration when presented with it? Life was for living! Werewolves, vampires, sirens and fae and merfolk, the occasional ghost and even an extra-terrestrial or two; scales, feathers, tentacles, knots—Hob's shown them all a good time and earned a stellar reputation among the Agency's clientele. He doesn't plan to do it forever, but he enjoys exploring new avenues and stretching his limits and 'Nick Bottom' is the perfect persona to let him do so.

And now sweet high-priced in-demand Nick has been booked to rebound-fuck an uptight concept in humanoid form who looks like something straight out of a nightmare.

Hob can't wait to completely take this guy apart one orgasm at a time until he's a boneless puddle of satiation and send him home afterwards a brand new man.

Concept. Entity. Whatever.

~

The booking is scheduled for the following day and when the time comes, Hob is fresh and clean and set up in the Agency's most lavish suite. He's let his hair grow the last few years, sports a proper Hozier-like mane at this point, is wearing it down for this appointment. His beard is several weeks old, trimmed to artfully-scruffy perfection and well-groomed. He's lounging on the bed in a short open silk robe and a pair of lace panties that hug his hips and leave most of both arse cheeks exposed, a popular outfit in his repertoire sure to please the classiest of clients with the most discerning taste. Both pieces are a matching vibrant cobalt blue that complements his skin tone beautifully. He's wondering what fucking a concept is like, idly massaging his dick now and then to keep it primed, when finally there's a peculiar displacement of air and then a figure in dark robes with a weird spine-trunked bug-eyed head is standing in the middle of the suite. He's taller than Hob and inhumanly rail-thin; the robes plunge deep from the neckline, displaying milk-white skin without a hint of chest hair and clavicles that beg to be nibbled on. He's in profile, angled slightly away, and Hob has the distinct sense that this is a deliberate pose meant to make an impression, to instill awe and possibly fear in him.

So Dream of the Endless has a flair for drama, got it.

"Hello," Hob greets in his best breathless-and-sultry tone, rising from the bed to approach his client. He layers in a suitable amount of awe, pitching his voice toward 'smitten' with a subtle ring of sincerity to support it. "Oh, wow. You must be Dream of the Endless; I'm so delighted to get to meet you! I'll be taking care of you today; you can call me Nick."

The guy, the concept, Dream of the Endless, he goes stock-still as Hob speaks, and it's like the air in the room pauses with him. He turns, slowly, until Hob is face to face with his…oh, possibly that's a mask, then; the bug-eyed lenses are somewhat translucent in the light though Hob still can't see beneath them.

"There has been some mistake." The voice is deep and distorted through the helmet-mask, bone-rattling in an almost-pleasant way and, somehow, somewhat…familiar? "I was meant to be meeting with 'Nick Bottom'." The quotes around the name are audible.

"That's me!" Hob says, raking a hand back through his hair and shaking it to settle around his shoulders attractively, flashing his most charming smile. "At your service, love, whatever you need. I'm here to make sure you have a very good time, and—"

"Hob Gadling."

That draws him up short. He's currently Robyn Gadrin for tax-paying purposes in the outside world, but the Agency wouldn't give out his current identity let alone his true name, so how—

Hob's brain is babbling insistently about the note of familiarity in that voice and he finally lights on why as Dream of the Endless reaches up to remove his helmet.

Hob finds himself staring at the slightly-more-than-human-but-still-very-familiar face of his Stranger, his centennial touchstone, his friend.

Everything about his reality tips a little bit sideways, dominoes crashing one after the other in his brain until all that's left is that awful ringing alarm tone that features in emergency broadcast alerts on American telly.

Between them, the silence stretches awkwardly, until finally Hob breaks it, the first thing that comes to his tongue spilling out while his poor brain is still rebooting.

"Six-hundred some-odd bloody years, and this is how I learn your name?!"

~

It is five minutes later. Hob is sitting on the side of the plush bed in his short silk robe and lace panties, clutching a bottled water and seriously considering availing himself of the bar in the next room because his emotions are all over the place. His Stranger—Dream of the Endless, apparently—is seated next to him. His eyes are not the blue that Hob is used to, are fully black with actual stars winking in and out of them; it's gorgeous but uncanny. He's currently not looking at Hob, has got the weird bug-spine helmet gripped tightly in both hands. Which are still so pretty, Hob can't help noticing, his fingers longer and more spindly than normal, splayed wide around the curve of the helm, nails painted black. Or maybe not painted, maybe they just are black.

Pretty, regardless.

Not a helpful thought at this juncture.

It's not like he'd thought his Stranger was actually human, obviously, and okay yes the possibility of meeting up with him via this particular career choice had crossed his mind once or twice, might've featured in a private fantasy or two; but also he'd never seriously imagined it because it felt so entirely implausible that his prim and lofty Stranger would ever engage in something so mundane. So casual.

Apparently, Hob was wrong about that.

He's not sure how to feel about it, either.

The smooth inhumanly-pale chest on display in the plunging vee of those artfully-draped robes is also not helping anything.

His Stranger—Dream— moves slightly, glances at him with those starry eyes, flexes those pretty fingers on the helmet. "I will. Arrange. For another. To take your place, Hob, you need not—"

"Now hold on a minute," Hob interrupts, sudden direction presenting itself for his floundering emotions to flow. "What do you mean, 'arrange for another'? What's wrong with me?"

Dream, his name is Dream of the Endless, Dream looks perplexed. "Our. History—"

"Oh yes, our illustrious storied history wherein we have met all of seven times before now and, may I remind you, you took offense to my suggestion that we might be friends until you'd had time to digest it properly, yes."

"Eight."

"Eight?"

"I visited your dream, before undertaking a daunting journey from my realm to another. We shared wine. You gave a most thoughtful toast."

"I. Okay." He remembers that dream, yes; he remembers the wine that followed him out of it, and now with the knowledge that his Stranger is apparently King of all dreams and nightmares suddenly it all makes brand new sense. But he will process that later. "Eight. Still not a factor in my ability to do my job."

Mostly. It is his Stranger, after all, and it's not like he hasn't ever wanted—

"Sex would be. Awkward," Dream insists, and Hob loses it, never mind he'd half-thought the same thing until a second ago; Dream saying it makes him refute the assertion with everything he's got.

"You dare," he says, setting aside his water.

Dream boggles at him, cosmic eyes wide, mouth slightly parted.

"You. DARE. To disdain my professional services just because we know each other?!"

"Hob— "

"No. No, your booking was very clear that you were to have the very best, and that. Is. Me. So you will not be re-booking with another companion on the grounds that our acquaintance makes it 'awkward'; if you mean to partake of the services you've hired you will partake of them with me."

"My sibling."

"What."

"My sibling hired your services. Did they know—" He's half talking to himself and Hob sighs, forcefully pulling the conversation back on track.

"Yes, right; your sibling booked you and here you are. Did you want to get laid today?"

"You need not be so crude about it."

"Forgive me. Of course. Did you come here hoping to have a sensual skillful sexual experience with a stranger intent on your pleasure with no judgments or expectations placed upon you in return?" He makes a valiant effort to rein in his sarcasm. "Because I can still provide that. Minus the bit where we're not strangers."

Dream looks positively miserable, a sodden wet cat of a man in sex-appeal robes hunched on the edge of the decadently-plush bed, and there is certainly an understandable element of embarrassment to the situation but Dream is taking it so seriously. Hob is not surprised, exactly, but christ—he's more than willing to follow through never mind any feelings he may or may not want to admit to, and Dream is the one who'd agreed to the booking in the first place. You'd think he could handle this hiccup with a little more grace.

"It was my intent to. Do, as you say," Dream says at last, and Hob sighs.

"Is that still what you want, then? I promise I'll take good care of you." He's actually really warming up to the idea, not that he was cold to it to begin with. It's his Stranger after all. He's been willing to say yes for centuries. "They really did book you the best, and I would love to show you how well-earned my reputation is—"

"Hob—" Dream sounds pained, gives an artfully-dramatic shake of his head. "My wants are. Manageable. If no one else is available. I cannot simply engage with you so frivolously—"

Hob leaps up from the bed, stalks a frustrated few steps away and whirls back, spreads his arms. "Am I not appealing to you, Dream of the Endless?" He tosses his head, shakes his hair back, gestures at the blue silk and lace that he knows looks absolutely spectacular on him. "Would you like me to change clothes? I have a dozen more ensembles I'd be happy to put on if you'd rather peel me out of one of those. Would the Prince of Stories prefer roleplay? Golden-age pirate, biker bad boy, Mr. Darcy or Elizabeth, cowboy, librarian, Starfleet officer—I'll dress however you like." He's fired up, he's…it feels like anger but it's more like alarm; he is absolutely not about to let a colleague fuck HIS Stranger if Dream's looking to unwind. Not with all the thoughts he's entertained the last couple centuries, not when Dream is looking so entirely miserable about the whole experience. Hob wiggles his bare toes in the plush carpet, forcing a deep breath; he is jealous and possessive and protective all at once and has no idea how to safely navigate this storm to get Dream what he wants without pissing him off.

"Your…clothing becomes you greatly, Hob." He's sneaking a glance as he says it, like he's not allowed to look but can't help it. "Your clothing is not at issue."

"Then what is?" Hob rakes a hand back through his hair, frustration fizzling, careening toward concern. "If you're truly that put off by me, I'll let it go. But you're here, for sex, which you did say you wanted; this is my job and I'm good at it and you clearly need—" Someone to take care of you, he'd nearly said, and while Dream has been giving him so much leeway in this conversation he thinks that might be one straw too much for this particular camel's back.

Nice to know he appreciates Hob's hairy chest and his dick in blue lace, though.

Dream levels him with a look that almost puts him right back to 1889, and Hob has half a second to start panicking before Dream closes his eyes, draws himself up, sets his bloody weird helmet on the bedside table with a soft leathery clunk. When he opens his eyes again, they are resolute, resigned, the eyes of a man headed for the gallows despite the stars winking hopelessly in their depths.

"I do not wish to be intimate with you. When you view it as simply a job. I. Would like—but not. If it is a transaction. If I am merely a client."

Oh. Oh.

Oh shit, really?

Impossible.

Really?

"You want. You want it to mean something?" Hob is embarassed at how small his voice comes out.

Dream closes his eyes, something like shame written all over his beautiful otherworldly-pale face. "I had thought. At our fifth meeting. That perhaps there was the possibility of. Attraction, between us." He opens his night-sky eyes again, meets Hob's resolutely. "Had we not been interrupted…" He shakes his head. "I pondered the idea until next we met, anticipating the possibility of. Seeing, where we might have come to. But you named what was between us friendship, you named me lonely; I perceived your words as mockery and acted accordingly. I spent the next century with a surplus of time to wander my own thoughts. They turned to you, Hob Gadling, with regularity. As I expressed when last we met, I regret leaving our previous meeting so abruptly, so harshly. Your friendship is of great value to me. I am content to let it remain friendship, in the interest of keeping it. But I am unwilling to engage with you, who named me 'friend', as I would a lover when I have yet to fully bury the wish. That you might have been my lover in truth."

Hob is desperately trying to keep from bluescreening again and while he's focused on that, his mouth runs along without him. "You never even gave me a name, but you wanted us to be lovers?"

"I am. Aware, of how foolish my wishes—"

"No, oh no. Dream. Love." He absolutely cannot let him think that. "All you ever had to do was ask."

Dream looks at him, starry eyes full of misery with the faintest spark of hope underneath, glimmering with unshed tears. "I. Could not—"

"That was then. Water under the bridge. What about now."

Dream shivers, his more-than-human face wary and pleading and resigned all at once and the last of the fight drains out of Hob. He approaches gently, until he is directly in front of Dream on the edge of the bed again; he half straddles Dream's lap with one foot still on the floor and a bare knee sunk on the mattress beside him, threads both hands into Dream's hair behind his lovely ears, tips his pale face up.

"Ask me now. Please."

Dream's hand settles above his bent knee, a gentle, tentative touch; his eyelashes flutter, and the sound that leaves him steals Hob's breath. That hand travels softly around to grip the back of Hob's thigh, slides hesitantly higher, and then it's Hob making the helpless noise as Dream's fingertips card beautifully through his leg hair, run up beneath the short robe. Dream's spindly black-nailed hand caresses up over his exposed arse cheek, squeezes, and all the while Dream's beguiling uncanny eyes are fixed on him, wet and wondering, full of blossoming hope.

"Hob Gadling." His voice is hushed, almost reverent. "I should like to have you, as my lover. If you are amenable." His face is tipped up, so close between Hob's hands, and Hob.

Hob's shaking. He's actually trembling, pent up, a little scared; daring, as he leans down and his hair falls around them both, hoping—

He brushes his lips to Dream's.

He kisses his Stranger, his friend, his touchstone.

And Dream of the Endless, who is all of those things, kisses him back.

It's nothing like he might have imagined, and ten times as wonderful, and over before he realizes he's ended it.

"Do you mean it." His voice is breathless, the words spoken directly against Dream's mouth. It's a stupid question, in light of the entire conversation gone before and the hand still on his arse, but he can't help asking. This entire turn of events is just too good to be true.

"Yes."

But true it is, apparently, and Hob's heart soars.

"Then. Dream of the Endless. My Stranger. My friend." He presses soft kisses to those plush pink lips between each moniker, dizzy that he's allowed. "Let me add another title to the list, darling. Take me to bed; the suite is ours 'til tomorrow. Let me learn how you would have me. Let me show you how I would treat you. And let me, at long last, name you mine."

= Started: 8/21/24 Drafted: 8/27/24 Posted: 8/30/24

If you're looking for a spicier take on this concept, @delta-pavonis has you covered: Dossier 54392 - please, give it a read, it's delicious.

(and here, have a post-script-y epilogue-exchange of sorts that did not quite fit:)

= "You chose to name yourself Nick Bottom?"

"What better name for a callboy to the supernatural than the bloke who got unwittingly embroiled in a fae lovers' spat and ultimately survived the entire encounter unscathed? Feels pretty relevant to me. Empowering, a bit?"

"Nick Bottom was less 'empowered' than simply lucky, perhaps."

"Perhaps. I'll not turn my nose up at good luck, either. But a name like Bottom in this business is also too good a pun to pass up, and I figure old Shaxberd would approve."

"I believe he would, indeed."

"The irony being that fully half of my clients want me to top them, heh."

"I do not wish to speak of your clients while you are in bed with me."

"Got better uses for my mouth, have you?"

"Other sounds I would prefer to hear from it, yes."

"Fair enough. Why don't you tell me what you want, Mr. Sandman, and see if I can make your dreams come true."

"Must you be so cliché?"

"You love my clich—mmph—"

"Stop. Talking."

"Yes love."

(Dream will tell him about commissioning A Midsummer Night's Dream at some other time 💖)

= Nick Bottom's lines from A Midsummer Night's Dream that lent themselves to the title: I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was and also The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream

[merchantziro]

DP x DC: Superboy Prime

You know, I'm surprised I haven't found even a good few fics/prompts that involve a certain character. Cause in a DP X DC setting he has untapped potential for interactions depending on how you wanna handle him.

Namely the one and only, Superboy Prime

Like his entire deal is that he's meant to be from Earth Prime, our world (or a world extremely similar to our world where DC is fictional and such). There is so much people could do with that element of his character alone.

I've seen some prompts touch upon Danny Phantom being a fictional in DC and vice versa, but the shenanigans of Danny Phantom as a show on Earth Prime? Here's some examples of what one can do...

Superboy Prime sees Danny and the characters from that show as some type of anomaly or something that exists in DC for unknown reasons and tries to eliminate Danny.

Superboy is aware of Danny Phantom and may be a fan of the show, and further may or may be a part of the Phandom.

If you wanna play Danny being from a different universe than DC, Superboy can realize the greater scope of the multiverse beyond DC and have so many other worlds to do whatever with.

There's a future version of Superboy who was apparently one of the identities of Time Trapper so you could do something with him and Dan.

Superboy Prime did become redeemed after sacrificing himself against The Darkest Knight, maybe instead of him waking up back on Earth Prime where nobody is aware of his exploits unlike before when he was last sent home... He awakens in the Ghost Zone instead.

Alternatively you can do something with Redeemed Prime and Redeemed Dan with them bonding over trying to make up for all the destruction they've caused in their lives.

I get he doesn't have the greatest reputation and is at worst just a needlessly overpowered but somewhat shallow representation of an angry comic book fanboy, but I still like him for his concept regardless of execution and think he could be interesting to play around with in a DPxDC setting. Especially Post-Redemption as of Death Metal there is so much people can do with him and Earth Prime in general.

[thesensteawitch]

Insights About Your Destiny!💌🍃

Pick A Pile Reading

(Left to Right- Pile 1, Pile 2, Pile 3)

Hey, Senstea Souls!🤍

This collective reading is divided into three parts:

-Your destiny when you were born

-How it changed due to your karma

-Where it's leading you now (Paid)

Parts 1 & 2 are available in this blog but to know Part 3 you'll need to pay $10 and get a personalised reading about where your destiny is taking you.

Choose your pile intuitively. Take what resonates and leave what doesn't as it's a general reading.

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Pile 1

Your destiny when you were born

Tarot Cards- The Devil, King of Cups, 7 of Swords, The Lovers, The Moon

Okay, my dear pile 1. The first thing that I heard was 'twins'. It's very specific but some of you have twins. I also sense that your mother may have faced difficulty during delivery. Probably a lot of pain. You have been emotional since birth. Cancer, Pisces, and Scorpio are coming up (sun, moon, or rising). I also hear, “When you're young they assume you know nothing.” When you were born your destiny was all about dealing with relationships. You were a child who could easily absorb people's energy. A lot of karma you carried in this lifetime. When you were born some of it started settling in your subconscious. Your destiny was all about choosing because I also sense Gemini energy here which shows confusion and difficulty in finding balance. It was written that you'll find it difficult to say no. I am sorry to say but I also sense that some of you have even dealt with sexual abuse of some kind. That too at a very early age. My heart is with you pile 1. I send you so much healing and love. It was written in your destiny that you will face many betrayals and will see the devil behind sweet faces. But no one would believe you. So you'll keep a lot of truths to yourself. Not to avoid conflict but because you had conflicting thoughts. You questioned yourself when others were the ones to be questioned! Up until now, you may have faced a good number of heartbreaks. All the relationships in your life were/are meant to make you realize your true potential. Because you are so different from the crowd pile 1. You couldn't see that since childhood. You felt like an outcast or maybe unimportant. But that's not true. You were born to be different and realize how unique you are! I also sense that you developed your intelligence. It wasn't like you were born intelligent. Since the day you were born, you are only shedding skin and becoming new now and then. Your destiny was all about finding true connections right through the false and painful ones. Many of you were born to be artists or do something different/out of the league. I also sense that your decisions have always been governed by the trauma you went through and the good thing is that you are aware of it.

How has your destiny changed based on your karma?

Tarot Cards- 7 of Wands, 6 of Swords, The Fool, 4 of Pentacles, 7 of Pentacles

I am so proud of you pile 1. You worked hard to be who you are today. You've changed so much. You were practically pushed towards your purpose. Your soul couldn't take it anymore is exactly when rage intervened and you found your strength. You always did your best. You changed your destiny. Where it was written that you're continuously going to face relationship trauma you found your way out of those patterns. You made yourself aware. Despite opposing forces and disempowering words, you stood your ground. I must say your initial years of stubbornness made you walk to the other side. Your rage and stubbornness were the beginning. You suddenly became the warrior. You have finally unlocked new chapters and have shifted the vibrational frequency of your destiny. Otherworldly concepts influenced you a lot to change your perspective towards life. You left the fear-based reality far behind. You became a risk taker. You have developed some very special gifts and are holding onto them. You're also hoping to grow yourself further. You have got a lot to learn and you know that. You want to learn more. You are continuing to be on this transforming journey. No matter how painful it is, you're still moving ahead. You have a thirst for truth, hence you have the patience to wait for it. Currently, you are letting go of the control. Slowly but steadily.

To know where your destiny is taking you book a reading with me only at $10.

Pile 2

Your destiny when you were born

Tarot Cards- 10 of Pentacles, Ace of Pentacles, 5 of Cups, Page of Pentacles, 4 of Cups

Hello, my beautiful pile 2. The first thing I saw was that either you were born into a well-to-do family or a family that was financially facing a tough time. For some of you, I also see a big family. But when you were born something major happened. Someone with whom you were close to when you were born or someone who loved you dearly when you were born is no more. I say this with utmost sincerity and love for you. I sense that your destiny was about dealing with a family where everyone and everything was perfect except you. You were ridiculed a lot for how you looked or your overall personality. I also sense that you were given everything but still, there was something that you were looking for. Your destiny was about coming out of the cocoon of the perfect world and truly experiencing life with its imperfections. I also sense that you have lived among perfectionist people. Deep in your heart and destiny's chart, you were meant to give something to the world. Everyone around you was focused on taking but you wanted to know how you can make others lives better. You were destined to be dependent on yourself and create a life of your own. A life that is not defined by your background. You are someone who was destined to see the darkness behind the gold and glitters. You have been somebody who always questioned the ways of the world. I hear, “You're on your own kid. You always have been. You were destined to bring a powerful change in your family. Any direction you have chosen was only meant to take you to a better place, closer to your purpose. Some of you may even have gone through some health crises as it was written because you function differently compared to other members of your family. You were meant to be the trailblazer.

How has your destiny changed based on your karma?

Tarot Cards- Knight of Wands, King of Pentacles, 3 of Wands, The Emperor, King of Cups

I hear you had to break your own heart to free yourself and move towards your purpose. You weren't understood and that created a deep wound, a longing to move away, especially from your family dynamics. I strongly sense that you lost someone very dear to you. For a very few of you, it might be literal death. Based on your karma you created a certain reality in your mind and it still gives you pain. You're asked to change your thought patterns and question yourself. To want what you want you had to learn what you don't want. And what you don't want is what you got since the beginning. But I see that you've made yourself firm about certain aspects of life. You have your guard up but deep down you are a very emotional and caring human being. You somewhat have your emotions locked up but you do feel them in silence. You are now moving towards making yourself a better human being and growing yourself so that you can genuinely contribute to the world. I also see that some of you have been traveling for quite a while now but still some days you feel restless. You are still being asked to look within and look closer. You're somewhat distracted and still aren't following your purpose. Making money is not the end goal and you know that. Your soul knows that. Always staying on your guard is stressful and you feel that. You're still living in a survival mode. Though you have made slight progress you still need to see the truth. You're missing the details. You're afraid of expressing yourself. I hear your destiny saying, “I just wanna keep calling your name till you come back home.” Now, go deep into the meaning. Don't read it on the surface level. Stop feeding your mind with negative thoughts. Your destiny is still calling you to look in the right direction and release the pain. You deserve love and you'll find love. For some of you, I also sense that love will heal you. Finding someone who loves you dearly will heal you. All you need is love. You're passionate but you stop yourself as you think you need to present yourself in a certain way. You are looking for something and I am telling you all you need is someone who can provide a safe space for what resides deep within your heart.

To know where your destiny is taking you book a reading with me only at $10.

Pile 3

Your destiny when you were born

Tarot Cards- Knight of Cups, Judgement, King of Swords, 3 of Cups, The Devil

Hello, my beautiful pile 3. The first thing that I observed was that your cards were very eager to come out. There was a desire that you couldn't fulfill in your past life and your soul wanted to have that fulfilled in this lifetime. I sense that you have been an active kid in your childhood. Someone who loved making friends. But there was also something saintly about you. You seem to be a bit flirtatious too. I sense that your purpose was to reconnect with your soul tribe. Some of you are walking on the spiritual path. Your purpose was to find romantic connections that could liberate you from your patterns and make you reborn into a different being every time. You were destined to go through all the unwanted situations and meet unwanted people to finally find what you want. You were meant to heal your wounds around friendship and romantic bonds. I also hear your shadow side saying, “You broke me first.” As you may have been aware of this destiny for a very long time so you lived in pain and stayed in this cycle where you kept hating those who broke your heart or who played with your heart. Some of you may even like to dance. Move your body often and release stuck energy. Dancing can have something to do with your purpose too. Your destiny was to go through emotional ups and downs to finally think logically and see the truth of your life. To see why things happened the way they did. You were meant to reflect years after a situation happened. You may have found many answers to your trauma years after it happened. This is for your inner child, “I keep every hour of every day keeping you safe.” You won't be able to escape your destiny. BECAUSE IT IS THE PATH LEADING YOU TO YOUR SPIRITUAL GROWTH. I also hear, “I am just protecting my innocence. I am just protecting my soul.” Protect your inner child. It's a part of the destiny you were born with.

How has your destiny changed based on your karma?

Tarot Cards- 3 of Swords, Ace of Pentacles, 4 of Wands, 8 of Pentacles, Strength

Wow, pile 3. Well done! You're healing your heart chakra. You're appreciating and seeing the lesson in situations you came across. You're no longer blaming people but trying to see the divine reason behind things. You're not stuck on one polarity. You see all the perspectives and can make peace with them. You've gained a lot of strength right through this desire to find the right people that match your mindset. Though you haven't found them yet you soon will. I see some of you are even working so hard to make yourself financially stable. The painful cycle that you have been in for years is now approaching its end because you were willing to learn the lesson. You're so brave, pile 3. You've developed this spark and light around you that others can't help but notice. You've mastered the art of self-transformation pile 3. You didn't let yourself stay stuck in the energy of looking for your worth in the other people. Some of you may still be realizing it and are working on it. You've finally found your balance. You're keeping your calm and continuously learning the lessons. Some of you may have strong Sagittarius placement (it's not necessary). You are no more afraid of the predators that are out there in the wild. You have trust in your intuition. Consider reading pile 1 too if you were drawn to it. I am finding some similarities. You're currently on the verge of balancing your private and personal life.

To know where your destiny is taking you book a reading with me only at $10.

🐦Bookings Are Open!!!!!!🐦

[kaitaiga]

Archie “Frost” Campbell Profile

》[Open Profile] Disclaimer: as I’m still working through the lore of Task Force Dagger, Archie’s biography is still quite bare. Everything else is finished :)

General

Name: Archibald (Archie) Charles Campbell

Callsign: Frost

Age: 29

Birthday: 16th November, 1995 -  Newcastle, NSW, Australia.

Face Claim: Callum Turner

Occupation: Fast Jet Pilot (F-35A Lightning II)

Affiliation: Royal Australian Air Force (RAAF - 75th SQN)

Rank: Flight Lieutenant (FLTLT)

Height: 183cm (6ft)

Education: Bachelor’s Degree in Aviation

Languages: English, Spanish, German

Appearance

Hair: Dark brown, wavy hair. Short back and sides.

Eye Colour: Grey

Facial Hair: Pencil moustache

Marks: None

Tattoos: None

Family 

Unnamed Mother and Father

Grandfather (Former RAAF 460 SQN)

Pet: Vader (Black cat with white markings on face)

Affiliates

Task Force Dagger

Captain Lachlan Jones (2CDO)

Sergeant Damien Whitlock (2CDO)

Sergeant Daniel Greenhill (2CDO)

Sergeant Joseph “Joey” Hernandez (CCT)

Talullah Jones (ASIS)

Personality

Myers-Briggs Type: ISTJ (Logistician)

Honest and Direct: Archie is a straightforward, no-bullshit kind of person. Will tell his peers how it is without holding back. 

Observer: Not one to talk much unless needed, Archie prefers to observe and analyse his peers or situation.

Archie is a level-headed person. He is calm and is able to keep his cool under difficult situations.

Archie doesn’t let his emotions drive his thought process. He is a logical person who bases his thoughts and opinions based on research and experience, and can become stubborn when he doesn’t particularly agree with something.

Skills

As a fighter pilot, Archie has inherited a range of skills apart from simply flying a fighter jet. There include:

Mental Skills: quick and accurate decisions, situational awareness.

Technical Skills: navigation, avionics, flight system and weapon proficiency.

Social Skills: effective communication, cooperation and working as a team, leadership.

Air Combat Manoeuvring (ACM), Fighter tactics and manoeuvres, etc.

Mission Planning

Maths and Physics, as well as creativity in situations.

Survival, Evasion, Resistance and Escape (SERE)

Archie also likes to partake in electrical work, commonly seen tinkering with devices and studying mechanical/electrical engineering concepts in his spare time.

Behind the Callsign

At a glance, “Frost” derives from his frosty attitude towards his peers around him. Being one to keep to himself majority of the time and only speaking when necessary, his attitude was often perceived as cold to others, even when he didn't mean it.

Though if you were to ask his squadron and ground crew, they’d tell you that they call him “Frost” due to his impressive flying skills, often leaving onlookers and other pilots frozen in awe. Almost like an advantage over opponents.

Biography

Archie was born in Newcastle, New South Wales, Australia on the 16th of November, 1995. Growing up, Archie would listen to his grandfather’s stories of being a pilot on an Avro Lancaster throughout the majority of WW2. Though a little incoherent at times, Archie still enjoyed them regardless as they shaped his childhood and future to come.

Throughout high school, Archie would spend a lot of time volunteering at an aviation museum alongside his grandfather as a technician assistant, working on maintaining planes on display whilst rambling bits of information of various planes to visitors. Archie would also frequent RAAF base Williamtown, where he would stand just outside the base and watch Super Hornets scream over his head. He wasn’t the type to stand out among his classmates, much preferring to stick his head in a book and soak up as much information as he could on various aviation and engineering topics. He graduated with a top ATAR score of 97.

Thanks to his constant exposure to the Air Force along with his grandfather’s stories, Archie knew he wanted to become a fighter pilot from an early age. In his later years of high school and after, he worked diligently preparing for multiple officer and screening boards during his application process. He managed to score one of five spots out of hundreds of applicants.

Archie then attended the Australian Defence Force Academy (ADFA), where he pursued a Bachelor’s degree in Aviation. He would be a maths tutor to a few of his peers in his spare time, but most commonly Joseph, his newly made friend who he bonded with over their love for Star Wars. 

Upon graduating ADFA, Archie was sent to Perth to begin his initial specialist employment pilot training (ISET), where he spent a year flying the PC-21. He graduated from Number 2 Flying Training School and was recommended by his instructors to pilot the newly introduced and mighty F-35A.

Now part of 75th Squadron, Archie is posted to RAAF base Tindal in the Northern Territory to continue his training, also managing to deploy overseas to various locations such as the US and Japan.

At some point, Archie was approached and recruited into Task Force Dagger on recommendation from Joseph. Working with TFD would show him his first set of real combat outside of simulations and practice exercises. To be continued…

*(Archie would have been 26 years old when the F-35A was first introduced into the 75th SQN, a few years after he graduated ISET (22-23 years old). For story purposes, assume the F-35 arrived earlier.)

Trivia/Preferences 

His favourite music band is Daft Punk. His favourite song from them is ‘Face to Face’. Also likes Coldplay, Kenny Loggins, Phil Collins, Foo Fighters, Linkin Park, etc.

In his spare time, he also likes to build lego sets and model jets. He’s also a gamer, preferring to play games like Arma 3, League of Legends, Cyberpunk 2077, Helldivers 2, etc.

He likes to wear Rayban Aviators in the colourway black/black or gold/green.

He is a big fan of Star Wars. His favourite movie is ‘A New Hope’ and he also really enjoys ‘Star Wars: The Clone Wars’. His favourite characters are Wedge Antilles and Commander Wolffe.

He likes to spoil Vader rotten! Buys him all kinds of toys. Even has a Death Star cat house. He has a really big soft spot for Vader which Joseph likes to tease him about, quote: “he is the only one to knock down that icy wall he’s built around himself.”

When Archie chose his aircraft preference, he originally chose the F/A-18F Super Hornet.

If he didn’t become a pilot, he’d become a mechanical engineer. 

After his grandfather passed, Archie carries his ID tags with him as a source of comfort and support. 

Archie was inspired by the character ‘Viper’ from Titanfall 2 and the song “Dodge This”.