#other writers feel free to chime in!

[lajulie24]

You write so many excellent Star Wars fics and I would please love to know what advice you have - especially for writing Luke, Han, Leia, and Wedge, as they're going to be centre stage in my various fics and I'm more than a little nervous. Any tips or recommended reading material would be greatly appreciated, thank you!

Let me start by saying thank you for all the kind words — that’s so lovely to hear, and I appreciate it. And thank you, too, for giving me an excuse to talk about writing, because I love talking about writing with other people, especially writing about characters I enjoy. (This might also be a warning to buckle up because I’m about to get very chatty. I’ll try to stick a “read more” link in there for anyone who would prefer not to have to scroll through ALL my chattiness.)

It feels like your question is more about writing characters than it is writing in general, so I’ll mostly talk about that, but I’ll just mention a few things that really help me for writing in general, most of them blatantly cribbed from Anne Lamott’s book Bird by Bird: Thoughts About Writing and Life. Shitty first drafts. Write what you can see through a one-inch picture frame. Write something every day if you can. Perfection is the voice of the oppressor. Find a way to drown out / ignore KFKD (K-Fucked, the imaginary radio station in your head that is genuinely from hell). I’m happy to go into greater detail on any of these, and I also thoroughly recommend that book.

You mention that you’re a bit nervous, and I think my biggest advice in that realm is — the only way out is through. Meaning, the only way to get better at writing the characters and stories that you love is to let yourself be bad at it and keep writing. That’s why I mention shitty first drafts and perfection being the voice of the oppressor as being so helpful. Write a Han and Leia scene that is so awful that you’re like “who the hell are these pod people, they have no resemblance to the characters I actually like, WTF is this and why does it look nothing like the idea in my head.” And then write it again, or write a different scene, and maybe it will be just as bad, but maybe it will help you see what’s not quite hitting for you about what you’ve written. And you’ll write it again, or write another scene, and it will get better. Or you’ll write a whole fic and it will just be okay from your personal standards. But you learn from writing that fic and the next one will be better. I do regret to inform you that while your skill and comfort with writing these characters will improve the more you write them, each fic will still probably require at least one, if not many, shitty first drafts. The only way out is through.

Hey, looks like it’s time for that read more link! *waves to my followers*

So - specific to the characters that you’ve mentioned. I think there are a lot of different approaches to this, but for Luke, Han, and Leia, there is one very obvious source that you can consult: the original trilogy Star Wars movies, or just scenes from the movies. This is especially helpful for writing dialogue. Watch a few scenes with each of them and listen to how they talk. How casual or formal do they tend to be? What kinds of words do they use? How do they sound when they’re under stress? How do they sound when they’re joyful? How do they sound when they’re angry? What do you think they’re like when they’re not running for their lives or in the middle of a space battle? What do you see in the movies as their dynamic, and how do you imagine that changing when it’s just a boring night on base?

For Wedge, it’s slightly more challenging because you don’t get a lot of his dialogue in the movies, and it’s mostly battle talk, because he’s a side character. If you want reading material on Wedge, I would personally recommend the EU/Legends X-Wing series novels — in particular the ones by Aaron Allston (Wraith Squadron, Iron Fist, Solo Command, and Starfighters of Adumar). It’s a bit out of order because it’s the third in the Wraith series, but Solo Command in particular is really great character-wise for Wedge, and you even get some Wedge and Han interaction in that book.

Personally, I am a visual person but also love listening to music. A lot of my story ideas and scene ideas and character thoughts come to me when I’m listening to music and basically sort of envisioning music videos featuring my favorite characters. Sometimes those videos end up being whole scenes or moments that I write down later (don’t forget to write it down as soon as you can!), like some kind of movie trailer that I’m just transcribing. Sometimes they just lead me to thinking about the characters and what I think they’re like. If you find music helpful, try making a playlist for your characters and picking out songs that feel really them to you. Then take a walk or clean the house while listening to the playlist and see what it sparks for you. Think about a scene you’re stuck on and pick a song that might be playing on the soundtrack if it were a movie, and see where that takes you.

Different writers have different takes on how much they read fanfic while they are writing something. Some writers prefer to avoid it altogether to make sure they’re not inadvertently being influenced / taking ideas from other authors. Some folks will read fic but are more selective about what fic they will read while they’re writing something (e.g. not reading any new fic, or only reading fic about characters or situations that are very different from what they’re writing at the moment). My thought with regard to other people’s fanfic is that your past reading of fanfic can be useful for deciding what rings true for YOU about the characters, but that you should avoid any temptation to study those fics as if they were a guide to “how to write X character”.

Which brings me to another big point: the goal here is for you to write these characters in a way that rings true for you. Even if you tried, your Leia would not be precisely the Leia I write, just like the Leia I write isn’t precisely like the Leia written by @madame-alexandra or @otterandterrierwrites or @yoyomarules or @soloorganaas or @inelegantprose or @organanation or @walkawaytall. But I recognize those versions of Leia (and those versions of Leia and Han’s relationship) as ones that pretty consistently ring true to me. Or if there are bits about them that don’t, I don’t use those particular bits in what I write.

The way to use your past fanfic reading as character inspiration can be the things that stand out even when you don’t have the fic in front of you. Like “I really like how playful this scene was between Leia and Han, I could see them doing this” or “I like how this writer shows Leia and Luke’s friendship even before they knew they were related” or “here’s a point this author made about the similarities and contrasts between Wedge and Han that I think makes a lot of sense” or “I loved that we saw my faves being goofy and having fun together, I want to do that” or whatever. You can also use that past fanfic reading to tell you “yeah, this person had Luke do X and that felt kind of out of character for how I see him” or “that scene was well written, but I don’t know if that’s the kind of thing I really want to explore with these characters.”

I keep thinking about that Tumblr post that basically says “this is my blorbo and wow I’m gonna put him in so many situations” because that’s kind of what we do as writers. We take our blorbos and we put ‘em in some situations and see how they respond. Part of why I keep hammering on “you just have to keep writing and writing” is that honestly, after you start writing your characters for a while, if you pay attention your character will tell you what they would say or do next. (Anne Lamott calls this “listening to your broccoli.”)

For example, once I was writing a fic where the Rogues got caught making a hot tub on Hoth and Han was showing it to Leia before they had to dismantle it and send it back, and I’d gotten to Han trying to convince Leia to at least test out the hot tub before they sent it back, he’d never tell anyone, and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next. The scene could’ve been at a dead end. Except that all the sudden I was writing Leia daring Han to go in, like “I’ll go in if you will” and that was 100% not anything I was expecting her to do. But I had written her enough that when I listened, I knew my Leia was going to offer a dare when I put her into that situation, that part of what made her friendship and later relationship with Han work was that she was able to be boldly herself and challenge him to do the same. If someone else were writing her, they might have resolved that situation differently, or maybe their Han wouldn’t have invited Leia to the hot tub in the first place.

You asked for any tips and tricks. As you’ve already read, my advice is to keep writing and writing and writing, and you’ll find yourself getting to know the characters and being happier with how you’re writing them. But a few other tips and tricks that have worked for me: 1) If you’re having trouble with plot or a specific scene or a conversation, find someone you can bounce things off of and try to explain to them what you want to happen and where you got stuck, e.g. “I’m trying to get Han and Luke to find out X information but it sounds weird”. Sometimes the act of having to explain something to another person makes it clearer in your own head what you’re trying to do and what the problem is; sometimes someone asking questions is all you need to solve your own problem. 2) Read your dialogue out loud. You can do it quietly, to yourself, but it will make it clearer when you’re written something that doesn’t sound like the character, or isn’t how people actually talk, and you’ll have a better sense of how to fix it. 3) Sometimes you have to cut your darlings. Sometimes you have a piece of phrasing that is absolutely lovely and perfect…and doesn’t fit any longer with where the story is going, or it’s wrong for the character. Or it’s too long and you need to get to the action. Cut it. Put it in another document to save for later if you need to. But cut it. No writing is ever wasted — sometimes that thing that was gorgeous but just didn’t fucking work was just the means to an end. Sometimes it will remain in your head (or that other document) to be repurposed in another fic. Sometimes it was the thing you needed to write to get to the REAL thing you were meant to write. 4) If a scene isn’t working, try something to make your brain think about it in a different way. E.g. try rewriting it from a different character’s point of view, or start the scene in the middle instead of giving a big leadup to the action, or tell scraps of it in flashback instead of writing the whole scene.

Phew! That was long. Hopefully some of it is helpful. Anyway, please feel free to chat more if you like — and I definitely encourage my fellow writers to add any of their own suggestions! Getting started is the hardest part, so just DO IT. Good luck!

[jinkoh]

hiiii midnight rain anon here again and i think there's been a ̶g̶l̶i̶t̶c̶h̶ ̶l̶m̶a̶o̶ ̶i̶'̶l̶l̶ ̶s̶t̶o̶p̶ ̶🙆‍♀️ slight misunderstanding that may have been caused by how i worded my ask?? sooo when i mentioned midnight rain i kinda meant a fic based ONLY on the "he was sunshine, i was midnight rain" lyric and not the mismatch in their levels of ambition….idk if im making sens e dskldsalk

then again as a relatively newer universe (love it here so far btw if not for the dearth in fics dfssfljksj) and if hyunggu isn't sunshine (isn't he???? though???? im confused), im pretty curious as to who better fits the concept?? plus if you'd ever consider writing it for said member id still be v much invested despite being hopelessly and unabashedly whipped for hyunggu haha-

also don't apologize!!!!! i really appreciate ur time and insight, thanks again 💕🧎

hey again! 🥰 i'm sorry i totally misunderstood--i'm usually the type to pick apart the lyrics and take as much from it as i find fitting when i write songfics, so i just automatically interpreted it that way!! also omg!! welcome to the uni family!! ❤️ (ikr the amount of fics is a little depressing. i can think of like 3? 4? or so? writers aside from me that actively write for ptg--it's not much)

obvsly this is just my personal take but the first member that comes to my mind when i read the word "sunshine" is always Changgu. He's just. Pure sunshine. Radiates warmth and positivity. A sweet precious soul hfjdhfkjh though the story i had in mind was actually about shinwon (but now after thinking about it i feel like changgu would work so well too help)

Hyunggu is. I mean he is sunshine. He's sweet and kind and caring and has a very bright and happy smile. But he can also be a little cunning and very flirty and smug--a bit like a wolf in sheep's clothing? i don't know how to explain it better but maybe you know what i mean hdjfhs Either way, absolutely valid to be whipped for him. Let's be real, who isn't at least a little in love with kang hyunggu 🥲🥲🥲

thanks for stopping by again!! I hope you have a lovely day ❤️

[nordic-language-love]

Yo @neil-gaiman is there any way we can financially support writers so they stand a better chance of not getting kicked out of their apartments?

Fuck AMPTP and the bullshit going on. I'm tired, might not do this well:

(link to article in above picture) From The Article

Receiving positive feedback from Wall Street since the WGA went on strike May 2, Warner Bros Discovery, Apple, Netflix, Amazon, Disney, Paramount and others have become determined to “break the WGA,” as one studio exec blatantly put it.

To do so, the studios and the AMPTP believe that by October most writers will be running out of money after five months on the picket lines and no work.

“The endgame is to allow things to drag on until union members start losing their apartments and losing their houses,” a studio executive told Deadline. Acknowledging the cold-as-ice approach, several other sources reiterated the statement. One insider called it “a cruel but necessary evil.”

The studios and streamers’ next think financially strapped writers would go to WGA leadership and demand they restart talks before what could be a very cold Christmas. In that context, the studios and streamers feel they would be in a position to dictate most of the terms of any possible deal.

[Image IDs: Twitter thread by David Slack posted July 12th, 2023 that reads in totality:

And right on cue, here’s the inevitable Deadline article claiming that the AMPTP and their CEO bosses are ready to wait us out and let us “go broke.”

They’re not. They can’t. This studio propaganda, and here’s why.

In the increasingly mega-merged and hedgefundified Hollywood, these companies live or die on their quarterly earnings reports. It only takes one bad quarter for their stock price to plunge, putting the company and the CEO’s job in jeopardy.

But their stock prices are holding steady, right? Right. For now. Because our industry is a pipeline that starts with writers. The TV and movies they’re releasing now are shows we started making for them 4-12 quarters ago. But what happens when that pipeline runs dry?

What happens is they run out of product. No new shows in streaming to drive and sustain subscribers. No new shows in broadcast and ad-supported to bring in ad revenue.

No shows, no money.

No money, bad earnings report.

Bad earnings report, bye-bye stock price. Bye-bye CEO.

After 70+ days with no writers to create their product for them, the pipeline is running dry.

Their stock price isn’t tanking yet. But if they don’t make a deal with us, it will.

And they know it.

If they make a deal soon, they might be able to weather it. Stretch out releases. Rush some new stuff through.

But the longer they keep us out, the longer that pipeline runs dry, the more unavoidable a catastrophic dip in new high-quality shows becomes.

And they know it.

So yeah, the studios are planting articles in the trades that make it sound like they’re so determined not to pay us the 0.02% of company revenues we’re asking for that they’re willing to hold out forever.

Bullshit.

I’m sure the AMPTP bosses would love to break our union. But they love their jobs more. They love money more. They can’t make that money without us.

And they know it.

Ignore the trades, walk the line, stand together, and win. #WGAStrong

/End ID]

Bonus: John Rogers' Reaction

[Image ID: A tweet from John Rogers that he posted July 12th, 2023 that reads:

I was trying to be cool and professional about this strike, but this AMPTP “we want to drive them to homelessness” shit means I’m going to be dug in at WB Gate 4 like Hiroo Onada. They’re gonna have to send @ellenstutzman with a bullhorn to order me out of the bushes.

The second image is Ellen Stutzman's Twitter bio that says:

Cheif Negotiator for WGA MBA, Assistant Executive Director, Writers Guild of America, West; Cornell ILR and UCLA Anderson alum. Views are my own.

/End ID]

[sagesolsticewrites]

Hi! I’d like to request a John “Bucky” Egan fic where he tries several times to flirt with the reader, but the reader is super oblivious about it and just thinks he’s being nice. It becomes something everyone on base talks about and gets invested in. Maybe other people set up a scheme to get them together or make the reader realize how he feels. Idk, just something funny and cute like that ig 😁

Thank you so much for requesting, Nonnie, I’ve been having so much fun with these Masters of the Air requests! I loved getting to write for our best boy Bucky 🥰 Shoutout to @blurredcolour’s Trust fic (an absolute masterpiece, check it out y’all!) for helping with the writers block on this one 😅 (Reminder that requests are open! Feel free to check out some of my favorite prompt lists in my pinned post 😊)

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Oblivious

“There’s my favorite nurse!”

You rolled your eyes at the phrase that announced John “Bucky” Egan’s every visit to sickbay.

“Hello, Major,” you said, turning to greet him with a mock-exasperated smile.

Bucky clutched a hand to his heart as if wounded, a hurt expression on his face. “How many times do I gotta tell you to call me Bucky, sweetheart?”

“At least a few more times, Major,” you reply, unable to hide a smile at the usual volley of friendly banter.

Major John Egan had been unusually friendly to you since the first moment he’d sauntered in to introduce himself to the medical staff as Air Exec. Your colleagues had blushed afterward and playfully insisted that he had paid you more attention than the others, but you just laughed and shook your head, insisting that he was just being nice.

This visit was simply another instance of Bucky being friendly to you; well, that and Harry Crosby’s airsickness had gotten the better of him again and he was checking up on the navigator.

You stepped aside as Bucky approached Harry’s cot, ready to update him on the goings-on since the last mission had returned.

He threw you a kind smile before perching on the stool next to Harry.

“How’s my girl treatin’ you, Crosby?”

Harry happily told him how the base had gotten a new shipment of airsickness pills and you had slipped him a spare box for his own personal use, and Bucky’s smile grew wider and wider.

You were glad to see how happy he was at the news that his friend was feeling better, and you quietly excused yourself to tend to the other patients.

Bucky sighed as you walked away.

“She still hasn’t picked up on it, huh?”

“No, Croz, she hasn’t.” sighed Bucky, “She thinks I’m just bein’… nice or friendly or something. Which I am!” He added hurriedly, “But I just…I like her so much. I wish she’d notice.”

“She will, buddy,” Harry replied, with a comforting pat on his friend’s hand, “She will.”

Bucky headed out after a few more minutes of conversation, giving you a wink and a smile as he walked past your station.

“Bucky visited again, huh?” Rebecca, one of your fellow nurses, sidled up next to you with a teasing grin.

“Yes, Major Egan came by to visit Lieutenant Crosby,” you replied, putting emphasis on their ranks.

“You’re sure that’s all he was here for? Somehow he never shows up here without an excuse to see you…”

“He’s just being nice, Becca,” you insisted, “You know how these soldier boys are.”

“But he’s always—”

“Becca,” you cut her off as gently as you can, “I really don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”

“Alright, alright,” she held her hands up in surrender, “Bucky is an off-limits topic, gotcha.”

The conversation turned to the current hot gossip, and you idly chimed in when it seemed appropriate, losing yourself in your routine tasks.

Rebecca broke off to check on Harry again, narrowing her eyes as she noticed Harry watching you.

“Something Nurse L/N can help you with, Crosby?”

He jumped, gaze darting to Rebecca as she approached.

“No ma’am, I just…”

He scrambled to think of some excuse, but all he could come up with was: “I’m trying to think of some way to get Y/N to notice Bucky!”

Rebecca blinked in surprise, then plopped down onto the stool next to his bed, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Oh thank goodness it’s not just me! He’s been at it for months but the poor girl’s just so oblivious…”

“I keep telling him to just talk to her like a normal person, but he insists on dancing around it!” Harry instantly agreed, glad to have someone besides Jean to talk to about this. “He’s been so distracted lately. If he doesn’t do something soon, I’m worried it might start to affect his flying.”

Rebecca pressed her lips into a thin line, twisting a strand of hair worriedly.

After a few moments of quiet, she spoke up again, green eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I’ve got an idea.”

———

“Hey Bucky,” Harry said at breakfast the next morning, “I’m gonna pop down to the infirmary to visit Winks, wanna come with?”

Bucky quickly agreed— he’d been meaning to check on Winks yesterday as well as Croz, but got caught up in… well, you.

As they entered, Bucky made a beeline for Winks while Harry caught Rebecca’s eye and gave a subtle nod, which she returned, signaling her part of the plan was complete.

She had removed the step stool you always used from one of the supply closets, now hidden under one of the cots nearby. When you weren’t able to reach something on one of the higher shelves, well…

Good thing Bucky was so tall.

“Y/N, would you mind grabbing some more bandages for me? My station’s running low.”

“Sure thing, Becca!” You called, stepping away from your current station to check the supply closet.

“Becca…” your confused voice called from the closet, “Do you know where the stepstool went?”

“It’s not there?” She called back, sounding equally confused. “Let’s see, um…”

She scanned the room, putting on a good show of looking for someone who could help.

“Oh, Bucky! Would you mind helping Nurse L/N grab something from the supply closet for me?”

“No problem, Becca,” came his reply, accompanied with his trademark winning smile as he nodded to Winks and made his way over to the supply closet.

It was much smaller than he’d anticipated, and barely half a foot was all that separated you as he asked, “Alright, what do ya need, sweethea—”

The pet name was cut off by the sound of the supply closet door closing.

And locking.

You lunged for the handle as Bucky reached up to turn on the single lightbulb, both of you calling out in confusion.

“Becca! What?”

“C’mon, guys, this isn’t funny!”

Harry’s voice came through the door, clear and determined.

“Just tell her how you feel, Bucky! Your tactic clearly isn’t working!”

“I— what?” You turned to Bucky, hoping he knew what in the world they were talking about.

Bucky hesitated, but seeing as it seemed he had no choice…

“Well this isn’t… exactly how I wanted to do it, but…” He took a deep breath, twisting his fingers together in an uncharacteristic display of anxiety, “I really like you, doll. I’ve liked you since I first laid eyes on you. And I’ve tried every way I know how to tell you, but nothin’ worked, so…” He gestured around at the supply closet, “I guess it came to this? Which wasn’t my idea, by the way. Just for the record. I would never…”

His voice faltered, and you realized just how close you were to him. You didn’t remember moving forward. You were just suddenly there, so close the two of you were almost breathing each other’s air.

“You… you like me?”

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Doll, you think I call every pretty girl workin’ here my favorite nurse?”

You flushed at the compliment.

“I thought you were just being nice, I didn’t…”

“I mean, I was bein’ nice,” He said with a shrug, grinning, “Just not quite in the way you were thinking.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked down to your mouth, and being this close to you, he couldn’t hide the bob of his throat as he swallowed nervously.

“I’d, uh. I’d really like to kiss you right now, if that’s alright with you, sweetheart.”

You nodded slowly, “I think I’d really like that, Major Egan.”

“It’s Bucky, sweetheart,” he murmured softly as he leaned in, capturing your lips.

You may or may not have spent more than a few lonely nights in your bunk imagining what it would be like to kiss Major John Egan.

Your imaginings were nothing compared to reality.

This was magic unlike anything you could have dreamed.

Your arms wound around his neck as his wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You toyed with the dark curls at the nape of his neck as he slanted his mouth against yours, deepening the kiss. Needing to be closer, you tried to step towards him, but merely succeeded in pressing him back against the shelves.

Ordinarily you would apologize, but something like a thrill ran up your spine when you felt him grin into the kiss as his back hit the shelves, knocking rolls of bandages and boxes of gauze onto the floor.

His right hand moved to cup your cheek, keeping your lips connected as his other hand splayed across your back, pulling you impossibly closer as you arched into him.

You could still feel him grinning as he murmured against your lips, “Knew you were feisty under that good girl act.”

“Bucky,” you whined softly as he pulled away from you, chest heaving.

“Oh, now she uses my name,” he teased breathlessly, bumping his nose playfully against yours.

The two of you flinched as sunlight spilled into the dim closet, a harsh change from the dingy yellow lightbulb you had become accustomed to.

Harry and Rebecca stood in the doorway, wearing twin smug grins.

“Looks like our work here is done,” Becca said, shooting you a wink as she bid farewell to Harry with a two-fingered salute, “Pleasure working with you, Lieutenant Crosby.”

“Same to you, Nurse Carter,” Harry replied, and he turned back to the two of you, a genuine smile on his face.

“About time, Bucky.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky waved off his friend’s I told you so, “You gonna congratulate me or what?”

“Congratulations,” came Harry’s mock-put-out reply, accompanied by a genuinely congratulatory clap on his arm. “You got a good one. And it only took months of unsuccessful flirting—”

“Hey, I got her in the end, didn’t I?” He squeezed you closer, grinning down at you.

Your lipstick was all over his mouth, and you’re sure the Victory Red on your own lips was in no better shape.

You couldn’t bring yourself to care, however, as he pulled you in for a tender kiss.

Which you broke for a moment to point out, “He isn’t wrong, you know, it was months of unsuccessful—”

Your teasing was promptly cut off with a “shush” mumbled against your lips as Bucky silenced you with a kiss.

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the brie

buttercup, chapter two

a/n: i was originally gonna go into more detail and dive into and actually write the traumatic moments, but i decided to go a little bit more easy on myself, just focus mostly on the healing part and regaining the good.

summary: “well, we’re going out to our usual watering hole, or it’s not just us, Karen, who works with us, is also tagging along. Would you wanna join? Might be fun… might tear the city up, dance all night and watch the sunrise or whatever kids do these days.”

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, wingman foggy, reference to croissant theft, alcohol consumption, drunk munching on cheese, kissing, crying, retelling of trauma (if it gets too much for you, then please feel free to just skip the last part of this chapter)

word count: 4978

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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Scooping one divided lump of dough closer with the bench scraper in your grasp, you put it down before first folding the bottom of the blob over itself, then the sides and then stretched the top down as well before you rolled it all up to create that much more tension in the loaf. As you plopped the soft mass into one of the nearby dusted bannetons, nippily pinching the seam and giving it a few stitches, the ingrained dance only kept on as your fingers moved on to shape the next loaf of sourdough. 

To your left, not at the central table where you worked, stood your uncle Howard, a piping bag of vanilla-flaked cream in his grasp as his rotund frame bent over rows and rows of delicate, flaky little pastries, filling the sunken centre up before he could top them off with little chunks of crimson berries. 

“Are you alright, cupcake?” you glanced up to see Walter leaning against the doorframe that led directly behind the counter, “you look like you’re about to nosedive into the dough and use it as a pillow.”

“I’m alright, just didn’t sleep much last night,” you blinked back down at your work, noting how your weary eyes stung slightly from the lack of rest, “I had a nightmare that was really, really not fun, and immediately when I woke up I started crying and shaking, like instant panic attack, so I couldn’t really fall asleep again after that,” you glanced back up at him and offered a tight-lipped smile. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“I just don’t get why it has to feel so real,” you let your hands halt their waltz as you shared, Howard too glancing over in your direction, “why my body needs to remember it so vividly when I fall asleep. It hasn’t forgotten it while I’m awake, so I don’t feel like I need the reminders… sorry…”

“Don’t apologise, it’s–…” instead of uttering the painful truth, Walter instead let a heavy sigh flow and offered, “…do you want me to make you a cup of coffee? Maybe that could be nice, just a little bit?”

“Yeah,” you exhaled, “thanks,” before clapping the worst of the flour off your hands, briefly wiping them against the chocolate brown apron that partially covered your t-shirt and jeans, and wandered around the table, shadowing Walter as he fiddled with the espresso machine, making it hum and puff, till he handed you a steaming mug that had a little heart in the frothy foam floating on the top. 

“Here you go.”

Bringing it up to your lips, you offered him a genuine smile, “thank you, Walt.”

Staying behind the counter as Walter disappeared into the back, the chime of the small bell above the door brought your attention to the pair that then strolled in. Setting down your latte and expecting it to be just any other customer, your eyes instead went wide as you saw who it was.  

“Heya, neighbour!” 

“Y/n, hi,” Matthew smiled as both he and the floppy-haired man beside him came to a stop on the other side of the stocked display case, “uh, Y/n, this is my friend Foggy Nelson,” he gestured to the friendly looking fellow, “Foggy, this is my new neighbour Y/n.”

“The pastry goddess!” Foggy exclaimed excitedly, “I bow to the.”

“Goddess?” you giggled, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks as you glanced over at Matt, secretly in hopes that he’d gotten that nickname from him, “oh, I don’t know about that. My uncle’s the one who oversees most of the pastries. He studied in Paris back in the 70’s, so in other words he’s a bit of a control freak. But, he is getting better! Slowly letting me take care of more things that I’m more than capable of doing… I’m talking a lot, aren’t I?” you sucked in a sharp breath as you noticed 

your rambling, “I’ll shut up. The point was just that he is the one who makes most of the pastries here, not me. He’s the goddess.”

“Well, I tasted one of your croissants the other day–”

“Actually,” Matt raised a hand and interrupted his friend, “you stole it.”

“I did not–”

“You came over and I turned away for two seconds and the next thing I knew you’d obliterated the entire bag.”

“That sounds more like your problem,” Foggy joked, managing to keep a straight face as Matt chuckled, “you’ve known me how many years now? You should know not to trust me with baked goods unless you mean for me to enjoy them,” turning his attention back to you, he leaned his folded arms against the tall section of the counter, “anyways, Y/n, that croissant was properly one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.”

“Really?” your face lit up with a bright grin. 

“Yes, it was so buttery and flaky and urgh!”

“Well, if you liked that, you might like today’s special…” your feet began to carry you further to the left to the very far side of the counter. 

“Oh, please do tell me,” he followed along like a magnet.

Pointing down to the pastry row on the other side of the glass, you explained, “it is this rhubarb danish that also has a little base of pastry cream at the bottom to balance out the tart compote.”

“Oh… my… god…” Foggy nearly salivated, his hypnotised gaze never straying from the treat, “you gotta be some angel sent from above.” 

Busting out a laugh, you grabbed a brown paper bag, “should I take that as confirmation?”

“Yes, please,” he nodded as you plucked one up with a set of tongs. 

“Will that be all?”

“I don’t know if it ever can be all, but slowly but surely I’ll get through your spread, and that is a promise,” Foggy accepted the bag into his waiting fingers, “but for now, yeah.”

“Matt, do you want anything?” you asked, feeling the flutter of butterflies wake up within your stomach as you returned your attention to him, “do you want me to describe the options for you?”

“No, I’ll just have the same as Foggy, as well as–, do you sell coffee?”

“Oh,” the scent wafting off your half-empty mug probably caught his attention, “yes, we do.”

“Then I’ll have a cup as well.”

“Oh, one for me too,” Foggy interjected. When you’d packed up another pastry and filled up two to-go cups, the shaggy-haired man pipped up as they were paying, “hey, what are you doing later tonight?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Properly just head home and rewatch some series for the billionth time,” you said, putting the cash they’d handed you away in the register, “why?”

“Well, we’re going out to our usual watering hole, or it’s not just us, Karen, who works with us, is also tagging along. Would you wanna join? Might be fun… might tear the city up, dance all night and watch the sunrise or whatever kids do these days.”

A laugh then rumbled within Matt’s chest, “we’re not gonna go dancing, Foggy.”

“You never know,” Foggy sang, “I’ve got moves like you wouldn’t believe!” he snuck a small sip of his steaming coffee before meeting your eye, “so, Y/n! Please tell me you’re coming?”

“…and then Karen was like what’s that? Turns out a giant piece of glass had stabbed my side,” Foggy clutched onto his drink as he told his dramatic tale, “I nearly died.”

Cutting her sip of beer short, the golden-haired woman sitting beside him at the round bar table objected, “you did not nearly die.”

“Oh yeah?” Foggy squinted light-heartedly back at Karen, “says the person who barely got a scratch. I single handily rescued both you and Mrs. C from that building and got a sick ass scar to prove it.”

Their voices faded away like grown-ups in a Saturday morning cartoon as you glanced back down at your drink and let the radiating heat of the man next to you seep into your bones. As your fingers brushed down the sides of the glass and played with the condensation, Matt suddenly reached out for his own, though in his search for the stout glass that stood ever so close to your own, his touch briefly grazed against your skin. But if that wasn’t enough to spike your heart rate, when his long fingers enveloped his short glass, the back of his hand pressed up against yours at the proximity.

You weren’t sure how long it persisted before he raised his dark drink up to his lips, but it didn’t seem like he was in a rush to let the contact fade. Your breath managed to grow ragged in the chunk of time you got to stare down at his hand, it looking so massive up against yours. Though the light in the dingy bar was low, you could still manage to make out the dizzying pattern of prominent veins that cascaded off the back of his hand like a calm rainfall rolling down a windowpane. 

For a moment there, assisted by the few drinks in your system, you let yourself dream, just for a little while, just until Foggy’s voice cut through your haze and stirred you from your fantasy. 

“… I mean, am I right? I’m right. Come on, Y/n, back me up here!”

“Huh? I’m sorry, uhm…” you blinked, in some ways feeling more drunk than you had a minute ago, “wha–what did you say?”

As Foggy then began to explain what you’d missed, Matt leaned down close to your ear and whispered, his hot breath tickling your skin and causing goosebumps to erupt. 

“You okay?”

“Mhm,” you hummed fuzzily. 

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” you glanced down and noticed how rapidly your chest was rising and falling. 

“Do you wanna go home? I can walk with you if you want,” he offered quietly. 

“Uhm…” you blinked up at him before uttering, “sure, but I don’t wanna end your night before you want to.”

“No, you’re not,” he reassured you, “I’m ready to go home myself.”

“Alright then,” you nodded before Matt turned to the others. 

“Guys, we’re gonna head home.”

“No!” Foggy boomed, “really?”

Throwing her hands up, Karen added, “but we haven’t even gone dancing yet!”

“Sorry,” Matt got up from his tall stool, “another night.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” you tugged your jacket back on, “I had a lot of fun.”

To your surprise, they both got up and hugged you in return.

“Thank you for coming!” Karen gave you a tight squeeze before Foggy took over. 

“And we’ll be seeing you for the next one, right?”

“Uh, sure,” you gave his back a light pat, “if I have time and stuff the day that it happens, then I’d love to tag along.”

Casting his glance upon the other lawyer, “bye, Matt,” Foggy then yanked him into an embrace, “I love you, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Matt chuckled, clapping his friend’s spine, “I know, buddy.”

“You love me too, right?” Foggy pulled back, though still kept his hands fast on Matt’s broad shoulders, “don’t leave me hanging, it’s bad for a man’s health.”

“Foggy, I started a firm with you. Of course, I love you,” Matt smiled back at his sloshed pal, “good night.”

“Night, night,” Foggy patted his scruffy cheek before letting him out of his gasp, though adding as you turned to exit the bar, “night, Y/n! I love you too! I just met you today, but I love you!”

Soft giggles bubbled out of you as the door slammed shut behind you. 

“So, those are your friends...” you smiled into the night, “I like them. They’re nice.”

“Yeah,” the corners of Matt’s lips turned further up till dimples bloomed, “they’re good eggs.”

As the two of you began to move along, the silence didn’t last very long at all. 

“This is really nice of you, walking me home like this,” you uttered, “I know it’s just because we’re neighbours and headed in the same direction, but–”

“It’s not.”

“What?” your eyes found him.

“It’s not because we’re neighbours. It’s just, you know, the decent thing to do.”

“Right,” you exhaled, casting your glance back down onto the sidewalk as you momentarily got your hopes up. 

“And you know how this city can be,” Matt went on, “it’s not smart for anyone to walk alone at night.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to keep your tone nonchalant, “of course.”

When a street then appeared before you, slicing the path you journeyed on, and even though there wasn’t any traffic in sight, your hand still instinctively shot down to grasp Matt’s forearm before the two of you could cross.

Realising what you’d done, you quietly muttered, “sorry,” though couldn’t find the strength to withdraw your touch just yet. 

“It’s okay,” his low voice slid from his lips like silk. 

“I just didn’t want you to walk straight out into ongoing traffic...” you tore your gaze away from him and forced yourself to look at the road before you, “but there aren’t any right now, so we can cross the street…”

Guiding his palm up to the curve of your elbow, he accepted the gentle aid as you began to cross the lane. 

Once you’d reached the other side and his grasp slowly began to drift back down. When his palm reached the height of your own, you softly caught it before timidly testing, “…do you mind if we–…”

“Hold hands?” with a gentle smile, he filled in before you might wonder if he could even sense your shy touch at all.

“Yeah…”

“No,” you felt him weave his fingers with your own, “not at all.” 

His touch somehow felt even better than you’d imagined. Though surprisingly gruff, with harsh calluses all throughout, he cradled your palm with such care, like he’d held it a thousand times before, occasionally swiping his broad thumb over your knuckles, presumably just a subconscious gesture from his end that still caused shivers to trickle down your spine every time he did so. 

You wanted the latter part of your walk home to last forever, engulfed in the comfortable silence of endless possibilities. But alas, when you did reach your building’s front door and then climbed the steps all the way up to your respective apartments, you couldn’t get yourself to let go just yet. 

“Are you hungry? Because I kinda am,” you weren’t really, but anything to just stretch the night a little longer, “or maybe it’s just my subconscious taking care of me and lessening my hangover by giving me a sudden craving for cheese.”

“I don’t think I have any cheese.”

“I do,” you said maybe a bit too fast, “do you want some?”

Exhaling lowly, a soft smile twitched at his lips as he then uttered, “sure.”

As you unlocked your door, you finally let go of his hand, “make yourself at home!” you placed your keys down on the slender entry table before kicking your shoes off and peeling off your coat, hanging it up on the row of hooks, “oh, do you want me to, uh, describe the layout for you? Or just plant your down on the couch?”

“Just tell me the direction and I think I’ll be fine.”

Facing him, you haphazardly explained, “alright, the hallway goes on for a few steps and then it’s to your right–, no, wait, my right, that’s your left. It’s to your left.”

Whirling around, you delved deeper into your home till you reached the kitchen. Ripping open the fridge, you snatched up a block of half-eaten cheese before seizing a clean butter knife from the dishrack and a roll of seedy crackers from a cupboard. 

Matt was already comfortable on your sage couch as you laid the humble spread out on the coffee table and joined him. 

“I hope you like brie because that’s what I got. Unless you want a single slice of american cheese, then this is all the cheese I have to offer.”

“Brie it is then,” he relaxed into the cushions as you unwrapped the snack. 

“Here, let me make you a bite,” slicing off bits of soft cheese, you spread it both on a cracker for him and one for you. Gently picking up his hand to place his snack in his palm, you then popped your own in your mouth and nearly melted into the couch next to him, “yep… that’s the spot…” you grinned hazily out the tall windows at the night sky as you chewed, “there’s just something about eating cheese when the moon is out that’s just so right in a way I can’t describe…” 

Your murmuring conjured a light chuckle to rumble within Matt, one that swayed your gaze to train on him. Resting your head against the back of the couch, you watched as the moonlight reflected in his tinted glasses. 

When the silence stretched on, Matt eventually cocked his head, “…what?”

Not tearing your eyes off of him, you breathed, “nothing…”

“You’re quiet,” his dark brows furrowed gently, “what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you repeated, feeling almost like you were floating in a calm sea. 

“You tired? Do you want me to go so that you can go to bed?”

“No, please don’t, I–…” you reached out and grazed his arm, “could–… do you want to go?”

Letting his body relax once more, he breathed, “not particularly…”

Gazing up at him, your bottom lip snuck its way in between your teeth, “Matt…”

“Yeah?”

“You–… you’re–… I–…” your pulse pounded in your ears. 

“Mhm?”

“I really, really wanna kiss you right now…” you uttered thickly before you had the chance to chicken out. Like a wave crashing a shore, you didn’t even think as you let yourself dive in and press your lips to his. The kiss however didn’t last too long as you swiftly drew back as soon as your brain turned back on and you realised what you’d done, an apology hastily rushing out of your lungs, “Oh my god… I am so sorry.”

“Y/n,” hearing your name on his silky tongue did not help matters. 

“I didn’t mean to just–”

“Y/n,” he repeated, trying to cut through your fog. 

“We can just forget any of that ever happened, I totally get it if you don’t–”

As he brought his hands up to cradle the sides of your face, your nervous ramble fell short. When he ghosted his thumb across your cheekbone, you swore that you stopped breathing entirely. 

“…can I kiss you?” he slowly asked, leaving you utterly dazed. 

“W-what?”

Drawing in a breath, he repeated for you, “can I kiss you, Y/n?”

Blinking back at him, you hazily hummed, “mhm,” before he leaned in and brushed his lips against your own. The kiss was soft, just as your shoddy attempt had been, but it made your limbs feel like they morphed into jelly. When the pecks soon departed, you filled your lungs with a shaky breath as you gazed back at him in total awe, “holy shit…” only staying there a moment before you had to have another taste. 

Slowly growing more confident, the intoxicating kiss gradually grew more hungry. When his fingers then weaved into your hair, you realised that up till now he’d been holding himself back, gatekeeping a kiss that caused your frame to crawl into his lap, starving for more. Your little whimpers vibrated against his tongue as he danced it against yours, growing dizzy as you melted into the heart-stopping sensation. 

But suddenly a tormenting flash stabbed your being, and you abruptly tilted your lips away from his, breathlessly uttering, “wait, wait, there’s-, there’s-, uh…”

“What,” he breathed thickly, nose grazing yours before you retracted further, “are you okay?” 

“I’m…” carefully crawling off his lap, you kept going till you were a safe distance away on your own side of the couch, “Matt, there’s something I need to–, uhm, tell you…”

Staying silent, he patiently waited as you gathered up the courage needed to jump off the cliff and tell him.

Casting your gaze up to the tall and dark ceilings above, you felt your limbs begin to tremble, “okay, alright… I have no idea how to, uh, say this, so I’m just gonna do it,” and like a band-aid, you uttered, “I-, I was raped,” your eyes squeezed shut, not daring to risk glancing at his reaction, “a little over a year ago… and I haven’t–, uhm, done or tried anything with anyone since… so yeah, I just thought that was a good thing for you to know since even though I hope for there not to be any problems, I just don’t know, I don’t know what it will be like for me, if my body will suddenly freak out, but I just wanted to tell you so that in case something does happens, that you know not to automatically take it personally...” drawing in a shaky breath, you fluttered your gaze open and waited for his response, “Matt?”

“Yeah?” he answered carefully. 

“Please don’t say that I’m scaring you away right now…” you shifted your position, turning to face him once more.  

“You’re not, you’re not,” his head softly shook from side to side, “I just–… I really, really sorry.”

“Yeah…” you exhaled slowly, feeling tears sting the corners of your eyes, “me too…” staring at him a moment, you then bared your all and uttered, “I really like you, Matt,” a faint smile accompanied the declaration, “I think you might be the only guy in all of New York that I’m not scared of,” every other man you could think of had all had at least a second, a little flicker, of something that over the past year had terrified you, “and I don’t want you to think that I’m made of glass, that’s not what I want, that’s not why I’m telling you this. Please trust me when I say that I want to, I wanna do–…” a weighty exhale flowed from your lungs as your lips remembered his taste, “I wanna do everything with you… if–, if that’s something you’d like as well… but if we do, even though I really, really want to, I think it’s probably smartest to go slow, no pressure, you know, just in case, so that my body doesn’t freak out. Also, I’d really appreciate it if I at any point indicate for you to stop or even just pause a moment, that you’ll do that, that you’ll listen to me,” you briefly glanced down at your fiddling fingers, “and you know, I’m not saying let’s only do PG things, there are so, so many wonderful steps on the way that we can have fun with… I just–, I wanted to let you know now, before, so that we wouldn’t potentially have this conversation when something did happen.”

Only parting his lips when he was sure you were done, he uttered, “thank you for telling me. Are you–… are you okay? Was what happened before too much?”

“No…” you shook your head gently, “no, it wasn’t,” taking his hand in yours, you shared, “and I’m okay, I think… I mean, some days it still feels like it just happened, and others I notice something, something small, that I’ve gotten back, that I’ve regained…” absentmindedly tracing the lines of his palm with your thumb, you asked, “do you–… do you have any questions? Is there anything you wanna know?”

“No, I–… I just want you to tell me however much or little you feel comfortable with sharing.”

“…can I tell you? About it?” you asked slowly and he swiftly offered you a soft nod. Drawing in a deep breath, you began, “It, um, it was a Saturday night… I’d just gotten back from the bakery super late, maybe close to midnight… and when I was getting ready for bed, my roommate came home, he’d been out drinking as he usually spent his weekends. I remember we stayed up a while, just talking about the mundane stuff we always did. It was like any other Saturday, really. That was until I got too tired and went to go to bed, but he didn’t wanna stop talking, so he followed along into my room while I got ready and stuff,” averting your gaze, your bottom lip began to tremble, “we were just talking, it wasn’t anything special and then the next thing I knew, he was kissing me. It just–… it happened so fast… his hands were all over me… I remember he pushed me up against my closet so hard that my back was bruised the next day, and I don’t bruise that easily. He was just so wasted that I don’t think he realised or maybe even cared what he was doing. I tried to say something, tried to make him stop, but he didn’t listen to me. If he heard me, then I don’t think he understood what it was that I was saying… I would have pushed him away, slapped and hit him, but I couldn’t, I couldn’t move my body, not even a little, I just froze…” 

“I can still feel what he felt like… like my skin won’t let go of the memory…” tears rolled down your cheeks as you squeezed your eyes shut and tried to ignore how your palm tingled with recollection, “how he forced me to touch him and held his hand over mine, making it move as if he just thought I didn’t know what to do… he was my friend, you know? He wasn’t just some stranger who dragged me into an alley and held a knife to my throat. He was my friend. He would always make offhand jokes about seeing me as just a little sister and how he wasn’t attracted to you at all. Made such a big deal of it that I never thought he’d try anything… I have no idea how long it actually went on… I don’t even remember when it was that I landed on the bed, if it was before or after he–… after he–… did stuff, t-touched me… I just remember I was laying there when it happened. The masked man, the devil of hell’s kitchen, he ripped him off of me…”

“He’d somehow heard… I think maybe if I hadn’t opened the window that night to air out the room, he wouldn’t have saved me… he beat him up... knocked him out… he told me to call the police, but I couldn’t, so I instead asked my uncle to come get me… my body’s never shaked the way it did that night… I remember I was so confused because I wasn’t cold, didn’t get it till the masked man said I was in shock… it didn’t stop till the next night… when he was about to leave, I asked what if Mi–,” you couldn’t get yourself to utter Michael’s name out loud without feeling as if your whole world would crumble around you, “what if he woke up before Howard arrived, and so he just stayed there with me, right till he somehow heard my uncle walking up the stairs and then he slipped out the way he came in, right before I heard the front door unlock.” 

Letting out a long and unsteady breath, you raised a trembling palm up to wipe your cheeks. 

For a while, the silence got to encompass the space completely, your left hand still shaking in Matt’s as you eventually heard him ask. 

“Did you ever go to the police?”

“No. In the small window that I had to do one of those kits, I was just way too overwhelmed and confused and I just couldn’t think straight, I couldn’t do anything but relive that moment over and over again, so I didn’t do anything in time. But the longer time that passes and the more it sinks in what he did and the ways that I’m still paying for it, the things he ruined inside of me that I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to get back, the more I wish that I had gone to the police. But it’s too late now.”

“No, it’s not,” his fingers squeezed slightly around yours, “I could help you, I’m a lawyer after all.”

“No, Matt,” you said firmly, “it is. I don’t wanna sit there and hear them go oh, it’s your word against his, sorry, and have them think that not enough happened technically for them to take it seriously. Enough happened, trust me. I’m eternally grateful that Daredevil saved me from whatever else he could have done to me that night, but enough happened. Just because he didn’t stick it in me doesn’t mean nothing happened. That is the kind of belief that only belongs to people who think that the only sexual act that counts as sex is when a penis is in a vagina, and that is just so incredibly wrong,” an enraged laugh tumbled out of you as you fumed, “they are the kind of people who think that someone queer, disabled or just someone who isn’t into that sexual act isn’t actually having sex when they are. Sex is about connection, it’s about pleasure and there are endless amounts of things that can give a person pleasure,” clenching your jaw, you let out a heavy sigh, “I wish it could be different, I wish many things, I wish it hadn’t had happened at all, but it did, and I hope that at the very least he learned something from it, that he changed, that he wouldn’t do it again to someone else.”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[toxicanonymity]

For context, a tumblr account has been posting anon hate for the past week or so, mostly toward writers. A parasocial hater of mine discovered the account and has been going to town. I posted this after they invoked Israel as an analogy. Yes really.

Obviously I am disgusted by what I just read, and floored that anyone would post such a deranged analogy in the interest of stirring up fandom drama. I'm very sorry to everyone who has been attacked and everyone who has witnessed all this. Others have posted about the situation as a whole, and I'm not sure what I could add. But I want you to know many of these "confessions" are from one individual who has been fixated on me (and probably others) for weeks if not months. I already had the following in my drafts:

warning: please don't read this if you're sensitive to hate or could be triggered by the trivialization of real abuse. (edit: they went on to trivialize genocide too but they'll pretend to be different people). there's also a really gross anatomical reference.

the screenshots are all after I blocked them.

I normally don't address things like this, but that's because I'm trying to keep it off your dash and off my blog (for several reasons including not wanting to give the hate a larger audience for their message). Normally I block/delete. But thanks to a blog dedicated to posting anon hate, some of this is already on the dash, and I thought some additional context could be illuminating.

a couple weeks ago, this person chimed in on my non-fandom post, and their comment made me uncomfortable. I checked to see if they followed me and they didn't, plus their blog tagline was antagonistic. I was confident they weren't being earnest. I replied, pointing out my issue with their comment and asking them to keep their thoughts to themselves rather than coming at me from a sideblog. I thought they must have followed me from a main account since they somehow found an untagged, unreblogged post without following me. But I now realize they were simply hate checking my blog.

(Blocked the burner too)

They were saying this last bit preemptively - I've never talked about stalkers here. I didn't include all their anons, just enough to show they clearly out themselves as being the same person. In other "confessions," they make repeated references to a former fandom writer they idolize (not me) who they also posted about on their blog.

I won't be dropping this creep's url in this post, but I had never heard of them. This week they have repeatedly changed their url, display name, and blog appearance. Their writing is recognizable and I believe they are responsible for the unhinged asks preceding katy's departure from tumblr. They also made a rude comment on her post.

This may only aggravate them. I expect them to hurl any lies and accusations they can think of toward me. They will act like they're laughing and amused, too. You may recognize their tone. I want to trust this fandom not to believe and repeat anything they hear, but unfortunately my experience in this fandom leaves me pessimistic.

I can only hope people use common sense at this point.

Note - I know I'm normally really private about everything, but you're welcome to share this. Their lies are already out there anyway. Also feel free to DM me and I will tell you what you want to know.

Update: the anon-hate account referred to above has deactivated. It was named pedgeconfessions. It wasn't the first to pop up this summer and may not be the last.

[hellfirecvnt]

Preoccupied

Lee Russell x Fem!Reader pt. 4

Summary: A plan is hatching, sure. You and Lee can't stay focused. What are you two thinking about?

Warnings: ***Sex, drunk sex, drunk driving is bad but don't lose the plot here, riding

Notes: I'm changing the plot and timeline and shit so it's more fun to read and so I don't rip off other writers!

Read part one here. // Part two here. // Part three here. // Part five here.

Monday morning pries through the window like the hands of a thief as it snatches away your blissful sleep before your alarm. You sit up in your bed and extend into a long, pleasant stretch. You pull your blanket around you and a certain lingering scent of cologne takes over your senses. You close your eyes and relive Friday night.

"Do you wanna come back to my place?" You're unsure what possessed you to be so bold. Lee raises his eyebrows, a sly smile spread across his lips. The car ride is full of palpable tension, you nearly chew your lip clean off. The second you two drunken fools step out of the car, his lips are on yours. Desperate hands cling to any part of your body he can grasp.

Lee pins you to the car, and soft moans escape from both of you as you move your heads in sync. You trip and fumble over each other as you make your way to the door, nearly entirely without breaking the kiss. You finally get the lock unhatched and burst through the front entrance of your home. You both stumble inside and finally, your faces separate, only to catch your breath. Lee stares at you, carefully studying the features of your face as if he's not sure if this is real or not.

You lead him to your bedroom and lightly shove him so he sits on the bed. He watches you with a buzzed grin, amazed by you. You plant another long, hungry kiss on his lips before lowering to your knees in front of him.

"Oh... Oh!" He's excited by your initiative, watching as your delicate hands unfasten his belt and work to free his still-swelling erection.

You blink yourself out of the memory when you hear your alarm go off.

"Oh, fuck!" you exclaim aloud, shaken from your blissful reminiscing. After silencing the alarm, you get ready for the day. Lee Russell consumed your every thought all morning. Something about your inability to know how that night ended for him makes you nervous to see him today. All you know is he was gone by Saturday morning when you woke up. You're not sure how to feel.

You park your car and release a stressed sigh. There's no getting around it. If last night was a drunken mistake for Lee, that's just something you have to accept and move on from. Preferably fast. You step in the door and greet the other staff as you pass by. Just as you're about to round the desk and take your seat, the young teacher from the other day approaches you.

"Hey, Y/N," he chimes, more familiar than you recall giving him permission to be.

"Hello, Mr. Hayden," you speak with a tone meant to hint at your disapproval of his overly friendly manner.

"Some of the teachers were talking and they said you got drinks with Gamby and Russell," he laughs. "I'm so sorry, that must've been hell." He's not wrong, you recall Dr. Brown pissing on a cop car.

"I happened to run into them there, yes. I left before they did, though. Thank you for your... Apology?" You knit your brow and attempt to disengage from the conversation.

"Well," Bill steps in front of you again, demanding your attention. "I just wanted to let you know, me and the other teachers do payday drinks every Friday. You're welcome to come. It might be a little better... Conversation wise." Mr. Hayden laughs at his own quip and you stare straight faced.

"That won't be necessary, Hayden. Ms. Y/L/N is in good hands." Lee appears from nowhere, slipping a long, nimble arm around your shoulder as he stands next to you. "Let's all get back to work, shall we? Bell's about to ring." He sassily bobs his head, staring daggers into Bill Hayden. The teacher glances at you and then back to Lee before rolling his eyes and heading to his classroom. The bell rings just a moment after he rounds the corner.

"Lee Russell, to the rescue." You smile up at him as he frees you from his close-knit grasp.

"Good morning, darlin'. You sleep well?" He tilts his head playfully, subtly looking for the answer in your eyes.

"Like a baby," you laugh, nervous from the way he's looking at you. He's fighting tooth and nail inside to keep his behavior professional, only because apparently Super Intendant Haas plans to make a surprise visit after Dr. Brown "mysteriously" put in her resignation letter after meeting with her early this morning by the train tracks.

"Don't look at me with those big doe eyes, sweetheart. You know Haas can't see me with an underling. We'll both get fired."

"An underling? Harsh. You were the one under me," you joke, quietly, taking your seat behind your desk. You lean forward, keeping your eyes locked with his, pushing your breasts together as you pull your blouse down to tease him. Lee's eyes widen for just a moment as he glances down to your chest.

"Keep it in your pants, Y/L/N. I'll make it worth your while." He winks before disappearing into his office. Behind that door, Lee closes the wide sets of blinds, closing off visibility inside his small, glass-walled office. In the dim light, he leans back in his chair, a distressed hand readjusting his pants as his mind drifts off to memories of the weekend.

Your large, shining eyes glare up at him from where you kneel with one gentle hand wrapped around his shaft. Your hand sits perfectly still and yet his breathing is still shuddered, just seeing you touch him like this. His eyes roll back as you begin to work your hand up and down with a firm grip. You smile, proud of the reaction you're getting. You take it a step further and lick a firm stripe up his length from base to tip.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," he groans, reaching a hand down to wrap a fist in your hair. You position your pouting lips at the tip of his cock, leaving gentle kisses before allowing him into your mouth. You bob your head up and down, occasionally taking a new position to take him deeper and deeper into your throat. He's well endowed, and tears prickle at your eyes as you push yourself to your limit trying to please him.

He holds the fist of of your hair firmly, forcing you into a rhythm of his choice. When he pushes you too far, you moan in protest against his skin. The vibration is enough to send him over the edge right then.

"Shhh, shhh," he whispers. "Can't believe this dirty little fuckin' mouth of yours." He throws his head back, basking in the warmth of your mouth for a few seconds longer before roughly pulling you away from him altogether. "Get on the bed, sweetheart."

A hard knock at Lee's office door returns him to reality. He's quick to grant entry to whoever waits outside and in walks Super Intendant Haas.

Back at your desk, you're on the phone with an inquiring parent and Gamby zooms past you.

"Shut the fuck up, Y/L/N, I'm in a meeting!" he says, lightning fast, as he beelines for Lee's office door. The three men have their meeting and you can't help but glance back at the closed blinds every so often, wondering what they're talking about. It's obvious to you that Belinda is done for, her entire reputation lies in the volatile hands of Lee Russell. So what could be going on behind that door?

When the three men finally emerge, all is quiet. Neal and Lee usher Haas to the door and bid him a pleasant farewell. You wait patiently for either of them to speak up as they approach your desk, but they're just grinning from ear to ear.

"Well, Y/N. Looks like our efforts weren't in vain-" Lee starts, but Gamby excitedly cuts him off.

"You're looking at your new principals." He says proudly.

"Principals? Like with an 's'?" You clarify, having never heard of an arrangement like this before.

"We're co-interim, temporarily." Lee leans against your desk. His favorite pastime. "He's gonna send some guys to 'keep an eye on things' until they appoint a new principal that isn't that sorry cunt, Dr. Brown."

"So it seems you two need babysitters, huh?" You laugh, teasing them. Just then, the doors open and Haas re-enters.

"Mr. Russell, Mr. Gamby. I need a moment." He leads the two men to the main office, luckily for you, you can hear into that office. It's muffled, but since the blinds are open, you're able to read their lips to make up for what's too quiet to hear.

Haas sits at the principal's desk and exhales a breath of stress. Gamby and Russell quickly take their seats and listen.

"Dr. Brown's situation is... Upsetting." Haas drones on.

"Oh, no..." You whisper, seemingly catching on before the Vice Principals.

"Belinda Brown has taken a job as the neighboring district's high school principal." The news hit the two idiotic men like a ton of bricks.

At the end of their meeting, Lee and Neal usher Super Intendant Haas to the door. They wave him off with reassuring smiles that drop the second he's out of sight.

"We are so fucked, Gamby!" Lee wails.

"Shut up!" Neal barks. "I just need time to think!" Both men beeline for the office. You follow them inside the large Principal's office and close the door behind you.

"What's the big deal? She's not your boss anymore." You ask, perplexed by all the drama.

"She's going to make our lives at North Jackson a living hell! You saw the way she maneuvered that ball game! We're fucked!"

"Calm the fuck down, Russell. We just need to convince her to move cities." Gamby starts working out a plot. "Maybe we head up in her neighborhood at night, fire off a few rounds to keep the property values low." He uses his hand to mimic shooting into the air.

"Mr. Gamby... No..." You place a friendly hand on his, reeling him back from that preposterous idea.

"It's not like Russell's helping us!"

"I am trying, motherfucker!" Lee falls silent again for just a moment. "She's a mom. She isn't gonna want to stay somewhere that doesn't feel safe for her kids."

"Okay, let's shoot at her kids."

"Gamby!" You and Lee both scold him at the same time, shutting him down yet again.

"Let's stage a robbery," you say as a light bulb illuminates above your head. "Get into her house, rough it up a little, and get out. What kind of mother would keep her kids in a neighborhood like that?"

Your two bosses consider your plan, weighing their options. You watch the rays of the sun shift through the multiple windows, time seems to be slowing down in this moment of intense stress.

"That might work," Lee mumbles, already seeming to calm down, relieved by this idea.

"You want us to break into her home? That's against the law." Gamby looks at both of you, disappointed.

"So is shooting at her fucking kids, numbnuts." Lee slings a stray piece of paper at Neal and he swats it away.

"Fuck you, I'm not robbing anybody." The morally confused man stands firm.

"We don't have to take anything, we just have to barely rough the place up and convince her it's not safe to raise a family here. Don't be a baby," you taunt playfully, but as usual, he can't seem to take it that way.

"I'm not being a baby. You're a fuckin' baby. Don't fucking- everybody just shut the fuck up! We'll get in, get out, and never speak of it again, alright?" Gamby essentially relays the exact same plan back to you. You roll your eyes, agreeing just to shut him up.

A few days later, that Friday, North Jackson is to have a game against Belinda's new school, Percival. She's always made it a point to attend every game her school plays, but she will definitely be attending this one.

"Tonight's the night, Y/N," Lee takes his perch, leaned against your desk.

"Tonight is the night, Mr. Russell." You nod sarcastically and charismatically.

"You sure you want to get entangled in all this extremely sexy danger?" He straightens his tie. You laugh at his joke, but mostly you're just happy to see him. Happy to talk to him.

"It was my idea, Lee." You laugh, furrowing your brows.

"And what a good idea it is, darlin'." He disappears to follow behind Gamby, making whatever rounds they've dubbed as their new duty since becoming Principals.

Through no fault of your own, your mind begins to wander. You desperately crave a redo of your night with Lee...

You do as he says, climbing into the bed and waiting patiently for him to undress you. He starts with your shirt, slipping it from your body and tossing it to the side. Next, he makes quick work of your bra, all the while pressing his lips against yours. His soft hands trail softly up and down your body, igniting goosebumps across the planes of your flesh. You moan under his touch and he's amazed to have this effect on you.

He finally removes your skirt and panties before tossing his own shirt to the side. For payday drinks, he's dressed casually. His long sleeve t-shirt that he'd kept rolled up to his elbows had you weak in your knees the first time you saw him in something other than his work clothes.

His jeans barely make it down his legs before you're physically pulling him onto you. He's standing against the bed with you perfectly lined up at the edge. His cock twitches with anticipation as he stares down at you completely splayed open for him to take. His mind is completely blown.

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," Lee whispers, buzzed with alcohol and lust.

"I want you, Lee. I want you to fuck-" That was all he needed. He slowly slides into you without warning. He's careful, drawing out his stride as he sinks deeper and deeper inside you. Loud, song-like moans pour from your lips as he begins to form a rhythm pumping in and out.

"God, you're so fucking tight," he grunts as he thrusts, tossing his head back as waves of intense pleasure wash over him with each slap of his skin against yours. "Like a fuckin vice grip." You grasp hopelessly at the blankets on your bed, pulling yourself forward so Lee can slam into you harder.

"Oh, god!" You wail, all of your senses magnified by the drinking. The feeling of his fingertips gripping your thigh as he fucks you feels almost as orgasmic as the fucking itself.

"Shh, baby. I know," he whispers with a sly grin, picking up his pace. You release a loud, whining moan before sitting up and pushing him away. He withdraws from you and you pull him onto the bed. Once he's positioned, you climb on top of him, straddling his waist. You rise on your knees and reach a hand down to his throbbing erection to guide it to your needy pussy.

Slowly, you lower yourself onto him, pleasure shooting through you like lightning bolts. You adjust your knees and begin lifting yourself up and down on his shaft. You place two hands on the wall in front of you, above his head, and arch your back to skillfully lift your ass and fuck your aching cunt against him.

Lee hooks his hands where your thighs meet your waist and pulls you so you slam down on him even harder with each thrust. Vulgar sounds of pure pleasure spill from his lips as you ride him to his climax. His mouth hangs slightly open, brandishing his brilliant teeth. His dark brown eyes roll backward for just a moment before he locks his grip on your hips, holding you in place as he fucks up into you at a rapid pace.

"Lee!" You cry, quickly approaching the point of no return. He doesn't let up, and you can't hold back the loud, desperate moans and wails as he fucks you through your high. Just as you're coming down, he slams into you hard. His strides become less than steady and then finally, he thrusts inside you to his hilt and stops. You feel his cock twitch inside you, warmth fills your cunt and spills out down his shaft. You look at him with fear and urgency as his cum drips out of you.

"You don't gotta worry about that with me." He winks, allowing his head to fall back into the pillows, still rock hard inside you.

"Ms. Y/L/N? Are you okay?" Mr. Hayden tears you from your steamy memory and you realize your face is beet-red.

"I'm fine, actually. It's hot up here. Allergies are terrible. I will fucking kill you if you ask me about it again."

"What did you just say?" The man knits his brows.

"I said I didn't really hear you, could you ask me that again?"

"I don't think that's what you said at all..." He walks away slowly.

(There will be one ((or two)) more parts! Coming soon!)

•••

Taglist: @therest-stillunwritten // @its-in-the-woods // @justme12200 // @sixx-writes // @littlenosoul // @itsyellow // @blackwoodtree // @hiddlebatchedloki

[eveningepiphany]

welcome to the final show | H.S, part 3

my masterlist!

part one and part two!

summary: harry goes over to y/ns hotel for a good old room service dinner, also getting a little tipsy on wine, while starting to blur some lines. and it’s not long before things are no longer just between the two of them.

warnings: fluff, swearing, alcohol, getting a lil wine drunk, paparazzi, being confused on if you’re falling in love or just really good friends.

a/n: i’m so excited to finally have this written for you all! i’ve had some pretty bad writers block, hence the delay in getting it to you, but thank you so much again for your support and I hope you enjoy <3

———

There’s a certain type of attatchment that comes around once and a while. It’s rare.

It’s when things start to flourish. Maybe with a hobby, a passion, or a new found person. One your brain decides to put all its focus and interest on, to the point it’s all consuming.

This one gets stuck to you like glue. Hard to shake in the sense of no matter how hard you try to ignore it, it’s all you can think about.

Losing yourself in daydreams of something or someone without even realising, until you’re reaching for anything that will bring you closer to filling that need.

That’s exactly what’s leading you to be reaching for your phone at any given point of the day.

You imagine many perceive it to be a permanent growth on your person. But you can hardly help it. Texting is a simple way to reach someone. Feel connected.

So, safe to say you’ve messaged Harry more than your own family over the course of this trip.

You’ve become attached. To Harry Styles. Again…?

Of course, being a huge fan it’s easy to say you should probably already be accustomed to this, given your level of obsession.

But this is a whole other ball game. One that is becoming like an internal battle. Your already unhealthy and predisposed infatuation paired with now a real physical connection is enough to render you useless.

You reach for your phone. Text him, your brain begs. You consider. No, stop being clingy you loser, your brain rolls her metaphorical eyes. You place the phone down. Stare at a wall. Think about him. Rinse, repeat.

Not normal, you don’t think.

However, you search for some kind of justification. That you’re just good friends, and all that shit. It’s normal to miss someone you’re friends with.

If he considers you as that.

Which you would hope since you’ve been texting him enough it would be concerning if he saw you as just some mutual of his.

You’re also sitting in a cafe, unfortunately without him right now. Eating a croissant wishing that he were here. Allowing your gaze to linger on the chair across from yourself, imagining his solid frame filling up the empty space. What he would do if you stood up and ran a hand through his hair, maybe lent down a little so you could just—

The ring of the bell atop their entrance chimes and drags you out if your dangerous and spiralling thoughts. And for some reason get excited like you’ve somehow manifested this man to walk through the cafe door by thinking of him.

Feeling silly at the nag of disappointment in your stomach as you see an ordinary bloke saunter over to the till.

Maybe one you would check out, or emit some kind of interest in before you properly met Harry. You would feel disloyal now. Like the parasocial relationship has entered an entirely new level of psychotic.

If it’s still parasocial, that is. Or if now you’re just simply a girl with very cloudy and mixed feelings about a very beautiful man.

You audibly sigh out. Eating the final bite of your admittedly delicious croissant and picking up your phone.

You type out a message, sending it before you can even think it.

I’m in a cafe right now without you and you’ve honestly ruined them for me. I miss you and your free cups of tea.

Without me? Rude.

You laugh at his quip, watching as the little bubble pops back up indicating he’s typing.

I’m out right now, but if you’re not busy later we can do something? Go out or I can come over to yours.

You pluck mindlessly at your bottom lip with your teeth, how could you say no to that?

You stress over it either way.

well, you’re very welcome to come over to my hotel room. we can order room service if you want?

To this he texts back an agreement, seemingly keen. And you realise immediately you have to tidy your room before he comes over.

You swing him the location of where you’re staying, including your room and floor number.

Thank you love, ill be there in like 3 hours say? If that works for you.

At that, you stand, because who are you if not over-prepared. And it was time to go make sure your room didn’t like a war had been waged in it when he came over for the first time.

Cant be having a bad impression, you figured.

———

You did in fact rush back to your hotel complex. Not even stopping a crepe stall you passed by, which had to be a first for you. You clean the place until it appears well-kept at the least.

And once you’re finished, you easily fall back into overthinking the whole thing. So excited, yet getting those anxious jitters like a caffeine addict 12 hours no coffee.

Which is why you decide to busy yourself with an afternoon shower. And at the time you’d still had over an hour to go.

You take of course longer than you intended, and shortly after you come out there’s a knock at your door, easily making you jump as you tug a shirt over your head. Regretting the last minute decision for a shower since now you have wet hair and probably look like a right mess.

But it’s not like you can leave him out there while you go blow dry your hair, so you rush over to the door, and tug it open.

His brows shoot up, and a smile slowly blooms on his face as he takes in your appearance.

Your hair is still near dripping, and you stand in bike shorts and a loose tshirt. The most casual he’s ever seen you. Which he loved the look on you more than he admits to himself.

“Hi darling,” he smirks, a warm feeling settling over him as he keeps his eyes on you.

“Hey, Harry.” You stand for a few moments longer, finally shuflling out of his way to let him through the door. He is adorning a white shirt and has the cutest little bandana around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” You laugh, gesturing him inside, “I was drastically overestimating how long it would take me to shower… hence why im in this state.”

He pulls a hand from behind his back, a cup being presented to you.

“Don’t be silly, y’not in a state at all.”

“You’re joking—“ You gently take the cup from his ringed hands, “Harry!”

“M’sorry, m’sorry. I saw a coffee van on the way and I couldn’t help myself.”

“Did you get one for you?”

“No, but I did have a little sip of yours.” He confesses with a quiet laugh. But he quickly busies himself with your room, padding around and peeking out the balcony window.

You take a sip, watching him examine your space. Grateful you cleaned it.

He asks you a few questions about random things in your room, and you settle yourself on the foot of your bed, cross-legged.

You didn’t really think about the lack of seating in your one man room. But this hardly bothers Harry, since he’s scoped up the room service menu from wherever he found it, and sat next to you.

“Alright… what d’we have.” He talks to himself, opening up the menu and scanning over the foods.

You discuss the options, settling on a pizza and pasta to share, because, well, you’re in Italy.

The night progresses easily as time always seems to do when you’re together, and you fake fight over the best kind of pasta sauce. But he lets you have to last slice of pizza so peace is made shortly after.

“Should we order a wine or something? T’wash the pasta down.” He suggests as the sun begins setting.

“Why not, I won’t say no to some wine.”

That gets ordered to your door, and you go from the foot of the bed to lazing at the head of it. Sipping on wine and recounting old stories, or discussing stupid topics.

“Do you think the chicken or the egg came first?” You swirl your glass around, eyes shifting to look at his side profile as he gazes at your roof.

His cute nose outlined by the warm light off the lamp, which you flicked on in the corner after it got dark.

He bursts out into a laugh, “what kind of question is that?”

“I feel like it indicates the sort of person someone is.” You shrug, smiling.

“What like it gives you an intel on my personality?”

“Something like that.” You nod, “and decides if we have to stop being friends, if you answer the wrong one.”

He grins, “Well, maybe tell me which one to pick so we don’t have to do that.”

“Awh, so you don’t want to stop being friends?” You coo, still staring at him, watching as his eyes flick from the roof over to you.

“Of course not, who else am I meant to go on cafe dates with.” He laughs.

You’re both teetering on the edge of being tipsy, and it’s evident in the way you’re both talking to one another. Borderline flirting, probably a more fitting way to describe it.

“True, because I’d be very hard to replace.” You snort with sarcasm, taking the another sip of wine.

“You would be! I love our little dates.” He smiles, the second time he’s dropped the word date in the last minute.

You’ve scooted closer to one another somehow. Shoulder to shoulder as you steal glances of his beautiful face. Maybe this was subconscious, or on purpose. But you’re drawn to him like a magnet.

“So do I…” You flush.

“I’m a little tipsy.” You clarify, breaking the searing eye contact and looking at the near-empty glass in your hand. A fourth refill would easily tip you over the edge.

He lets out a quiet laugh, “Wine gone to y’head too?”

“Mhm, and I have a track record of poor decision making when I have too much of it.” You recall the plenty of times you did the stupidest shit just because you were wine drunk. Hoping that does not happen tonight.

“Might have to see it one day.”

“One day…” you agree, but you realise that you’re not really in Italy for much longer. You have about a week and a half left now.

“I… Harry,” you turn your body to face him, and he sits up a little, noticing the almost serious tone to your voice.

“I’m leaving soon.” You blurt it out, because it’s the only topic of conversation you’ve both been steering clear of. The thing neither of you want to address because eventually this won’t be easy to do. Who knows how many miles could get out between you.

And it almost hurts you to admit yourself because… where exactly does that leave you both?

Does your contact end when you leave Italy? Do you become people who occasionally text on a bi-monthly basis?

He draws a breath, “So am I.”

You let out your own tortured sigh, turning to pop your glass on the beside table and then lean your head onto his shoulder.

Your heart jumps at the contact, and somewhere in your brain, sober Y/N lets out a gasp, because she would never have the balls to do that.

So the wine maybe was a great idea…?

He wraps an arm around your back, “I go back to London after this.”

“Second week of August as well?” You pray it’s not earlier than the start of the month, since tomorrow is literally the 1st.

“Yea, the 13th.” He nods and it’s the only tiny shred of relief you’re getting from all this. That there’s still time left.

“I fly out on the 12th.” You say quietly.

But there’s a small silence that consumes you both for the first time since you met. Because you’re kind of exasperated for options right now. What do you say to someone who is going to inevitably slip from your grip.

You shake your head at nothing in particular, moving to wrap your arms around his shoulders, since words really weren’t going to cut it.

Somewhere in his muddled brain he notes this is the second time you’ve ever initiated a hug. And he leans into it, the arm he had around your back tugging you infinitely closer.

Your cheek is pressed to his neck, and you swear you feel his lips ghosting over the top of your head.

Slowly, you pull back. And he watches you with sharp green eyes. You hold that gaze, until he’s the one that breaks it. Stifling a groan with his hand, covering his face.

You look at him quizzically.

“I like this more than I probably should.” He gestures now between the two of you.

You chuckle, a tiny flutter in your stomach announcing it’s presence.

“So we’re making the most of the time left in Italy, then?” You put forward, ready to nearly wipe your schedule clean for the man.

Which, who could blame you?

“What are y’doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing, if you’re the one asking.” You laugh, and he smiles wide at your comment.

“Oh, is that so darling?”

You roll your eyes in attempt to be convincing, “of course, you always buy me tea so…”

“Well, that decides we’re going to another cafe I suppose.” His hand reaches for his phone strewn on the quilt somewhere, pulling up google maps to find some nearby cafes.

You perch your head back onto his shoulder to watch him scroll through the options. He stumbles on a beautiful looking one, less than a 10 minute walk away. He looks to see if you approve.

He peers down to where you rest on his frame, smiling unwillingly at the sight of you. Your own eyes trailing up to meet his.

And he swears they linger on his lips. Just for a fraction of a second.

“Mh, what d’ya think.” He gets out, voice suddenly several octaves lower. Almost gravelly.

You almost audibly gulp at the sound of him. Hyperaware of his existence right now, you could nearly zone out thinking about the strength of his arm muscle that’s right now pressed against you.

“Yea… yea that looks amazing. And tomorrow, what time?” Your hands fiddle with themselves in your lap.

“How about 1, since you’re probably gonna wanna sleep in a bit.” He suggests, free hand pushing his curls from his eyes.

The way he knows you’re probably going to want to sleep in. God.

“I’m down.” (Bad)

A smile erupts over your face, and you almost forget that the clock is still ticking. That you only have so long left here.

Which ‘almost forgetting’ isn’t enough to stifle the urge to use it as some kind of yolo shit. Because that is unbelievably strong. Like why not just invite him to stay the night?

Maybe another glass of wine and you can gaslight yourself into cuddling him and just falling asleep. He wouldnt leave unless he had to, so it’s an almost flawless plan.

———

The plan infact, was flawless.

To say the least, he slept at yours. In your bed.

I mean you don’t really remember it, since you talked into the early hours of the morning and drank some more alcohol to really top it all off.

You woke up under the covers, still clutching onto Harrys side.

He was already awake, scrolling on his phone, seemingly unbothered by the fact your head had taken residency on his chest.

You take the initiative to glance at the time in the upper-right corner of his phone, a little shocked when it reads 11:47am.

You do groan at the morning light streaming in the windows immediately after seeing the time though.

“G’morning. D’ya have a headache?” He asks with what you can only assume is the end of his morning voice. Which although just a taste, is enough to send you spiralling.

It’s also around now you realise he’s stripped down into boxers— still clad in his white shirt. What the fuck!

You struggle to form a coherent response.

“Morning. A little.” Your voice comes out as a hum.

Somehow, considering you’re cuddling him right now and you literally just slept in the same bed all night, both of you outwardly are quite relaxed about it.

Nothing is awkward. It feels lovely.

“I want a croissant so bad.” You huff, sitting up, stomach growling like as if you hadn’t eaten in a whole 24 hours.

“So, you’re the kind of person that’s hungry immediately after they wake up?” He laughs, hand coming to push the locks of your bed hair out of your face.

Outside of the sheer domesticity of that (which makes you literally have heart palpitations), your hair is a proper train wreck.

The humidity in Italy has made it horrific.

“I guess I am right now?” You reply to his previous ask, combing your fingers through the locks.

“Jesus Christ.” You curse at its uncooperativeness.

“Y’know that episode of friends where Monica complains about how the humidity fucks her hair, she was so right.”

“I love friends.” He immediately gasps, nearly jolting upright in excitement.

You laugh at his enthusiastic reaction, noting that you have to somehow find time over the next week to watch an episode or two with him.

“And if it’s any consolation, I think your hair looks great.”

“Yea well, it’s not like you’d really be able to relate to the frizzy hair. Since yours look so perfect all the time.” You joke.

This evokes a genuine flush on his face, “Alright, Y/N, calm it down.”

He’s laughing but you swear he actually looks a little flustered. Without the wine as a confidence booster, he seemed like suddenly he didn’t know how to take a compliment.

Unbelievable to you since he probably gets that many a day from strangers on the street.

“I, am going to get up and get ready then, so we can go out and eat.” You state, excited to be seemingly spending the majority of the day with him.

He holds back the urge to beg you to stay in bed with him, and says something nonchalant as if he doesn’t mind you getting up. But when you pad off to the bathroom he stares at your now empty space. And immediately shivers at the lack of your body warmth, despite the already warm humid weather.

After a few trips in and out of the bathroom you come out looking beautiful. And he has to get himself up and ready to go in attempt to not overthink it.

You craved his closeness the whole time it took you to prepare for the day. Every few minutes you’d get this almost overpowering urge to just go out there and throw yourself back into his arms.

It’s borderline pathetic. But now you’ve had him in your bed, his strong arms coddled around you, it’s very hard to not to be just that. His physical presence is perfect and comforting. You’re attached to that as much as any other aspect of him.

He puts on his pants, which were folded neatly on his own bedside table, plucking out the car keys in his pocket, “Im gonna nick down to my rental car, because I have an extra button up in there, so I’ll wear that out.”

He comes back and changes into said white button up, stripping his worn shirt off and leaving it somewhere.

Just like that, you’re ready to go, and you both decide to walk the short way there. It was too nice a morning to not.

The whole walk you’re chatting away as usual. But it’s paired with this newfound physical aspect. The way you so obviously want to be close it hurts.

Yet somehow you both act like it’s nothing. That the brushes of hands and shoulder as you’re in step beside each other is a simple coincidence.

And that when you get breakfast, the two croissants and shared cookie is just a friendly thing. In your head you’re even playing off the touching all throughout breakfast.

Which sounds dirty— but just the little conversational touches. Like a hand reaching out to touch a forearm in laughter, acting as if it adds something important to the moment being shared.

Or that somehow when you leave the cafe, with two takeaway cups of tea, the hands that end up interlinked softly between the two of you is just…

Well… who even knows anymore?

Because you’re walking through italy beside Harry— who is talking about his favourite kind of playground equipment, regardless of if he’s a near thirty year old man— all while holding your hand.

And to take a moment, because it’s important, his hands are everything they’re talked up to be. Littered with chunky rings and calloused fingertips from the years of guitar playing. Yet contrasted by his soft palms, which cups yours with this delicateness it almost brings a tear to your eye.

You also pray that your own hand isn’t sweating profusely in his grasp, because you wouldn’t put a clammy hand past yourself. The already humid weather paired with your anxiety surrounding this whole situation is quite literally the match made in hell.

Nothing about this can be passed off as casual to your brain anymore. You’re literally about to implode.

But you strive to hide it. So you solider on.

“I’m a seesaw girl okay. Hear me out—“

“No, I can totally see that!” He interjects, and you chuckle at his quick agreement to your statement.

“Right? They are so much fun. And even though I nearly took a tooth out playing on one when I was 7, I can still recognise they are superior.”

To that he laughs and bumps his shoulder into yours, “I mean I love that. I’m probably a swing person, I feel like no matter the age I will always be down for it.”

You can agree that a swing is a solid second favourite for you. And as you talk about that point with him, you don’t realise you’ve walked the whole ‘scenic’ route back to your hotel until you turn the corner and the entrance is around the corner ahead. And the way you went usually takes an extra 20 minutes.

It went so fast.

“Are you gonna head off or… come back up with me?” You ask gingerly, the hand not interlaced with his fiddling with the fabric of your clothing.

“Not sick of m’yet?”

“Never…” You shake your head, smiling as he gleams at your answer.

“M’flattered. The feelings mutual love,” he chuckles, “However I do have to go remind my family I’m alive. But it’ll only take about a day until they’re pleased for me to ditch them.”

Gently runs his thumb over your knuckles, whether it be subconsciously or not, “So tomorrow night ill come back over to yours for dinner if you y’want?”

You smile, a little sappy over the way he’s working a plan out like you’re both teenagers, “Yea, thats perfect, and we can try something else off the menu.”

“Maybe, if you want,” he begins carefully, “after that you can come over to where we’re staying. Meet my mum and sister. They’ll love you.”

Now you’re nearly bursting at the seems, “Oh, I would love that, H!”

“Okay, it’s a plan then.” He agrees, pulling his keys from his pocket.

You bid your farewells for the night, unlinking hands and being left with a tingling sensation in it, one that you wonder if he’s also getting.

You go to your hotel room and feel full with joy.

He is all too sweet for this world. And you’re a little obsessed.

———

Although Italy being in Italy feels like being in a bubble, and like you’re so far away from the real world, it is unfortunately a purely mental one.

And there’s one thing about a headspace like that, and it’s just how quickly it can be popped.

At midnight that night a notification pops up on your phone, one that when you open, you have to physically put your phone down.

harryflorals:

what do i even caption this post because is that who i think it is or am i officially delusional? “HARRY WITH A FAN FROM THE LAST SHOW, HOLDING HANDS IN ITALY!” correct me if I’m wrong YALL idek anymore.

And this time, there’s no grain saving your ass. Because this was taken on what, quality wise, looks like a digital camera.

Which has made it so painstakingly obvious that it’s you. And you don’t even remember it being taken?

It was when you were walking back from the cafe, holding hands probably talking about fucking seesaws.

And everyone has caught on fast, because in the comments it’s an all out frenzy.

So, cats officially out of the bag.

———

y’all can expect a part four considering i lowkey left this on a cliffhanger 😝 so its on its way my loves

update: next part, PART 4!

taglist:

@harrystylesgirlie @purple9950 @teamspideyman @rociolunaa21 @spiritofbuddha @lemonhrry @deamus-liv @Iquvlly @kuntxrgraudunkelbunt @hsfanficsrecss @hsstylesrings @saturnheartz @victoriasigaard @lilfreakjez @mrsvxder @skxawngs @theekyliepage @hannah9921 @shiffpring @multifandomsw @roslastyles420 @slutforcoffein @kittenhere @stylesfever @butterfly-lover @daniizstyles @padf00ts-l0ver @sunflowervol18

+ all the anons who sent stuff to my submission box, thank you to you guys too, all my love

[blooming-violets]

The Exhibit

[tasm!Peter Parker x fem!Reader]

Warnings: use of pet names such as Daddy/Princess/Babygirl, BDSM in the form of dom/sub, bondage/spanking/blindfolds/nipple clamps/a bit of masochism, anal play, exhibitionism/voyeurism

WC: 8K

A/N: This was an anon request for window smut off of this prompt list but tumblr said a big no no to (what I'm assuming) was one of the gifs I used for the graphic and hid the post so I had to delete it. I'm reposting it again minus the very bad so naughty terrible gif I used. Porn bots can run free and terrorize the tags with their tits and wide open pussy on display but how dare a smut writer use a tastefully erotic, black and white, gif of a blurry couple making sweet, sweet love against a far away window. So naughty. Such a bad girl.

The elevator chimed with a pleasant musical melody as the doors slid open to their floor. There were only four rooms in this hallway. Behind each door held a luxury suit overlooking the busy streets of Florence. 

Peter had gone all out for their honeymoon. 

They’d spent the last week in Sardinia, making love on the beaches, drinking wine, making love on sailboats, drinking more wine, making love in their hotel room in the early morning with the windows open to enjoy the breeze…more wine…more sex…

They were struggling to keep their hands off of each other. Even now, as Peter guided her towards their room, his hand was slipped under her vibrantly red sundress and fingering the elastic waist of her cotton underwear. 

They left the beaches of Sardinia to come to Florence specifically to see the art but she wondered if they would ever actually make it out of their room with the way Peter’s hands teased her. She was surprised that he wasn’t sick of her yet. Seven straight days of love making and he was still as rowdy as ever. 

He let her admire the suite, watching her as he leaned against the wall, more interested in eying her legs in that dress than the luxury accommodations he had provided for them. 

“Peter,” she whispered, eyes wide as she took it all in. “This is gorgeous.”

Their beachside Sardina resort had a more airy and cool feel whereas this room screamed of sophistication and class. She knew Peter had been working like crazy leading up to their wedding but she had no idea this was why. 

“Like it?” He asked with an arrogant smirk toying at his lips. “A room fit for a queen.” 

She dropped her bag beside the bed and kicked off her shoes, flopping backwards onto the bed to stare up at the arched ceiling with thick, exposed wooden beams. Even the ceiling was stunning. 

She felt the bed sink as Peter crawled on top of her. 

His white, loose button up had the first few buttons undone so his athletic chest peeked through. She loved the sight of his chest hair being exposed. He looked so relaxed, laid back, and blissful with life. Filled with wine, good food, and love. The perfect blend of medicine for him to simply shine. 

He placed a soft kiss against her lips, humming appreciatively, “You look sleepy, babe. Why don’t you take a nap while I unpack our things. I’ll be quiet as a mouse.” 

A nap sounded wonderful after traveling between hotels. She rolled onto her side. It was warm enough that she didn’t need to snuggle under the covers. Peter ran his hands up her bare leg and slipped under her sundress to take one last squeeze of her ass before she slept. 

She awoke to light kisses tickling her stomach. Peter was laid over her legs, her dress rolled up under her breasts so he could let his lips roam over her belly.

She stretched, a sleepy smile growing on her face, as she peered down at him. 

“What time is it?” She mumbled through the lingering sleep. 

“Time to wake up and play,” he said. He blew a raspberry on her belly with his mouth, making her laugh. “It’s about 4 in the afternoon. You slept all morning. I missed you too much to let you keep sleeping. Wake up and play with me. I’m bored.” 

He had his shirt completely unbuttoned and was stripped down to his boxers to get more comfortable while he lounged around waiting for her. 

Judging by the state of his hair, he looked like he might have gotten in an hour or so of sleep, too.

“Alright, alright,” she giggled. “I’m up. Let me go freshen up and then we can go explore the city.”

Peter pulled her up to her feet and gave her a quick spank as she walked off into the bathroom. That man always needed to have a hand on her ass in some way. 

By the time she came back out, she was surprised to see that he had yet to get dressed and had actually lost an item of clothing.

His shirt was now thrown onto the bed, cast aside without a care.  

“Underwear is a bold choice to go walking around Italy in but I admire your confidence,” she said with a teasing smile.  

Peter didn’t smile back. He had a look in eyes. A look that she knew very well. 

It wasn’t the “making love” look. 

It wasn’t the “quickie” look. 

It was dark, ravenous, and screaming of dominance. 

He had yet to give her that look on their honeymoon. So far, he'd been more playful and loving. This evening, he had other plans. 

They were not leaving this hotel room any time soon. 

A shiver of excitement shook off whatever sleep might have still been clinging to her mind. 

She blinked and he was pouncing on top of her. 

Her back hit the wall but his hand slipped protectively behind her head before it slammed, instead, falling into the cushion of his palm. 

Her breath exhaled from her lips at the force but, before she could catch it, he was attacking her lips with hungry, demanding kisses. His tongue pushed possessively into her mouth at the same time he slid a hand over her breast to fondle her over her dress. 

Taking what was his. 

“‘Can’t stand the sight of you in this dress.”

He moaned into her open mouth. 

“Makes me want to rip it straight off your body.”

He grabbed at her breasts, aggressive and horny, rutting his hips against her. 

“Do you know how hard it was not to fuck you while you slept?”

Her hair was being violently pulled, head crashing against the wall, her mouth falling open into a cry.

“Laying there, all innocent, legs spread open and begging for me to touch them.”

He clawed down her bare legs. Nails dragged against her skin. Feeling like she was getting attacked by a raging bear with the force of power behind each of his movements. 

“Teasing me even in your sleep. A foxy, little minx, aren’t you?”

She shuddered, lowering her voice to a whisper, ready to play along, “I picked this dress just for you. I knew what it would do to you.” 

He grabbed her wrists, slamming them above her head against the wall, and holding them in place. He let out a groan, grinding his stiff cock into her thigh. 

“Daddy knew his babygirl was a little tease.” 

A trickle of wetness soaked into her panties at the use of her favorite pet name for himself. 

What had started out as a joke early in their relationship, quickly became a genuine kink to turn them on. 

With that name on his lips, she could guess what kind of torture was held in store for her. It was going to be a dizzying whirlwind of fast, hard pleasure. 

Peter’s voice lowered to a near growl. 

“Pretty, little thing like you shouldn’t be traipsing around in a dress like that. You don’t know who might snatch you up.”

With both her wrists bound tightly in his one hand, he lifted her off the ground, dragging her up the wall, blatantly showing off his inhuman strength so she knew exactly what he could do to her if he wanted. 

To him, she weighed nothing. This was a man who had stopped moving trucks with his bare hands and thrown cars around like a kid with a ball. 

He let go and she dropped the few inches back to her feet with a surprised yelp. 

“You’re lucky you have me to protect you. Daddy won’t let anything bad happen to his little princess, will he?” 

She was shoved straight back against the wall, getting off on the feeling of being handled so roughly. 

He nipped at her ear lobe, sucking it into mouth the sounds of her tumbling whimpers. 

“Do you like to show off when you wear dresses like this? Do you like having men look at you? Do you like that they imaging fucking you when you walk by?”

“I only want you to fuck me. Only you,” she whined, trying to free her hands from the hold he had on her.

“Of course I’m the only who will ever fuck you, princess.” 

He tugged her hand back down to flash her newly placed wedding ring in front of her face. 

“That right there means that my cock is the only one that will ever split you open again. But that doesn’t mean others can’t look. People have eyes. They can see what I’ve got hanging off my arm.”

He brushed her hair away from her neck so he could lean down to graze his lips along her pulse points, murmuring against her heated skin as he continued to taunt her with his words. 

“How do you expect anyone to keep their thoughts pure when you’re walking around in this?” He pulled at the bottom of her sundress. “You’re putting on a show for them, babygirl.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” she cried. “It's hot out! I wanted to stay cool.”

Strong arms twisted her around so she was facing the wall, cheek shoved against the rough wallpaper. The force knocked the air from her lungs. 

He bent both her arms behind her back and a strong, sticky substance shot out to bind them in place. She knew the feel of those webs well and a smile danced on her lips. 

She loved being bound.

The pressure of being restrained was like a tiny slice of heaven.  

“Daddy doesn’t like it when you show off, princess.”

He flipped up the back of her dress to palm at her rounded cheek, giving it a harsh slap to the sounds of her delicious yelp. 

“Do you look at other men, too, when they’re looking at you? Do you imagine yourself with them?” 

She gasped in horror at the thought, “Of course not! I would never!”

No other man could ever compare to her husband. Not even in the game they were playing. There was always only Peter.  

He hummed like he disapproved of her answer, “Well…just to be certain...I think we need to make sure you can’t let those eyes wander.”

Something smooth slipped over her eyes, leaving her in the darkness, while he tied the blindfold tightly behind her head. 

Leather. 

She smelled leather. 

She couldn’t remember them ever owning a leather blindfold before. It must have been something Peter picked up when they arrived here but she couldn’t recall a time when he left her sight. 

She liked how heavy it felt against her eyelids. There was no way she could peek through this one. 

“There,” he whispered. “Perfect. Blind to my advances. Lost in the dark. Never knowing when or where I will touch.” 

He gripped her hips and spun her back around to face him. 

A wave of dizziness over took her and she swayed on unsteady, bare feet. 

“Careful, babe,” he whispered with a tenderness to his voice, breaking his haughty charade, and reaching out a hand to steady her. “I got you.”

Peter teased a finger under her chin, leaning down, to kiss her again. Soft and gentle, filled with the love and joy only a newly married man on his honeymoon could give. 

A coil of tension spread throughout her stomach as she melted into him. 

Her mouth opened to willingly accept his tongue past her worshiped lips to kiss him with all the passion she could muster with her hands bound behind her. 

Peter’s own hands couldn’t stay still for long before they began to wander. 

He squeezed her breasts through her dress, molding them to his palm, and rutting his hips into her. 

She moaned, long and drawn out, leaning her head back against the wall so he could attach his lips to her neck. He sucked on her pulse points like a vampire draining blood and she wished he had fangs so she could feel the sting of pain as he sank into her flesh. 

And then he was gone. 

She stumbled forward, nearly losing her footing without him to push against. 

Her head whipped around in the dark to try and find him through sound. 

It was useless. 

He was as silent as a spider.

“Look at the sight of you,” he chuckled, his voice dark and deep, dripping with desire. From the sound of his voice, he was across the room near the window. 

“You have no idea what you look like right now, do you? Don’t fret, I’ll describe it for you.

He was moving. Pacing back and forth down the length of the room against the far wall.

“The strap of your dress is halfway down your arm. The nipple of your left tit keeps poking over the fabric, desperate to be sucked upon. Your hair is already a damn mess and I’ve barely touched it. Your mouth keeps parting like it’s just waiting for a cock to fill it up. A horny little thing, aren’t you?” 

“Mmm,” she moaned, only getting more turned by his descriptions. “Peter. Come back. Touch me.”

“That’s not my name, princess,” he shot back.

His voice sounded different now, like he was up on the ceiling. 

“Daddy,” she begged, craning her blind head upwards toward the sound. “Touch me, Daddy.”

He gave a quiet laugh, “Come get me then.”

He was back on the floor. In a different corner by the bed. Jumping around the room. Silent. With only his voice to guide her. 

She took an unsteady step forward, blindfolded with her hands bound behind her. She didn’t know this hotel room very well. He knew that. 

Which was why he kept moving. Teasing her. Making her work for his love. 

She kept inching ahead, little by little. 

“Tick tock, princess. Daddy doesn’t have all day.” 

Behind her. 

She gasped, whirling around, stumbling back the way she came only to find nothing but air. 

With another step, her body bounced against the wall he had pinned her to and she staggered backwards. 

She tried to spin back to the way she started but was getting all turned around. 

He laughed at her pitiful efforts. 

In front of her again.

Near the windows.

Or maybe the beds? 

Was he at the door? 

She was spinning in circles. Getting disoriented. 

This wasn’t a fair game and she was getting frustrated. Her foot stomped angrily against the rug with a grumpy whine to accompany it. 

“Is my poor princess getting dizzy?”

She had half the thought to plop herself onto the floor and stay there until he came to her. 

But she didn’t want to lose the game. 

She was too stubborn to give up. 

“Watch out,” he warned. Still by the window. At least…she thought that was the direction she was facing. “If you move any more, you’ll run straight into the side of a table. Wouldn’t want my baby girl to get hurt.” 

The table. She remembered where that was in the room. 

He was by the windows. He was close. 

Excitement tumbled around in her stomach as she tasted her nearing victory. 

She shuffled to the left, feeling the table at her hip, and kept going towards the last place she heard his voice. 

Blind and bound until she heard his soft breaths directly in front of her, thankful that he hadn’t moved again. 

“Good girl, you made it,” he whispered. A soft kiss was placed on her lips as a prize. “As a special reward, Daddy’s going to take your dress off, okay, baby? He’ll be really gentle even though he wants to rip it to shreds.” 

She felt him snake an arm around her waist to rip through the webs binding her wrists. She immediately went to reach for him but he slapped her hands away. 

“Hands at your side or else I’ll spank you,” he ordered. “I’m taking my time. I’m in Florence. I’m here to admire the art. Don’t rush me.” 

The zipper at her side slowly inched down until it rested at her hip. 

His big, warm hands slipped under her straps, fingers scraping along her shoulder, as he pushed them down her arms. His head fell down to kiss her shoulder, dragging his lips across her heated skin. 

Her breasts held the dress up but the moment he gave a light tug to the bottom, it yielded quickly and pooled around her ankles on the floor. 

His shuddered breath told her that he was enjoying the view. Bare chested, nipples taut, and in nothing but her underwear and blindfold. 

The underwear didn’t last long. 

Peter slid them down straight after the dress until she was completely nude. 

“More beautiful than The Birth of Venus. We should put you in a frame and have tourists come to gaze upon that instead. Maybe I should dangle you from the wall…all tied up with nowhere to go…I’ll start my own museum right here since you love to be such a tease. I’ll put you on display and have everyone see the kind of beauty I married.” 

She was surprised to feel a wave of appreciative tears dampening her lashes. There was genuine love and admiration behind his words. 

Married. They were married. Finally. 

Her husband. 

She loved that she got to call him that now. 

Cool air breezed against her throbbing clitoris, halting the tears, to remind her how horny he had made her before she was chasing him around the room. She was too hot and eager to think about where that breeze was coming from. Drunk on her love for him. She bucked her hips to try and find some kind of friction for her to grind on. 

She squeezed her thighs together, rubbing them back and forth. 

“What’s the matter, baby?” Peter teased. “Need a hand?” 

“Please,” she gasped. 

“Hmm,” he pretended to think about it. 

She wished she could see him. 

She hated that he was so close but she couldn’t see exactly where. 

“I don’t know. With the way you were strutting around in that dress, showing off to the boys, I don’t know if you deserve my touch. Maybe you deserve to be punished instead? What do you think?”

He didn’t wait for any answer. 

Thwip!

Her left wrist was encased in a sticky, impenetrable substance and she jumped in surprise. 

She was yanked forward until she felt the cool breeze against her bare chest. 

The wind was softly blowing. 

She could feel it rustling through her hair and dragging up the goosebumps along her flesh. 

For the first time, she questioned exactly where in the room she was. 

Why did it feel like outside when they were inside?

“Pete?” Her voice wavered. “What are you-”

Her arm was dragged out to her side and lifted high above her head as she gave a yelp of fright. 

“Not my name, princess,” he chastised from up on the ceiling above her. 

Thwip! 

The same treatment was done to her right arm until she was bound, outstretched, and helpless. 

Her fingers wrapped around the thick web, holding onto it for purchase, as her toes just barely scraped along the floor. 

Peter chuckled to himself in amusement at her struggles, the sound coming from the ground behind her.

Always so damn silent. 

“You look like a sexier version of Jesus on the crucifix. I want to drive nails through those dainty little hands of yours and listen as you cry out for mercy.”

If her eyes weren’t confined under heavy leather, she would have rolled them in response to his dirty talk. 

“That sounds very appealing. Thank you,” her voice was dry and full of sarcasm, refusing to take him seriously.

Slap!

Her entire body jerked forward from the force of his blow against her ass. 

Strong. Stinging. 

Done with direct intention to cause pain. 

Punishing her for the sarcasm. 

She shrieked, mostly from the shock than the hurt, but immediately felt a trickle of wetness run down her thigh. 

“Won’t you be a good girl and remind me of my favorite rule?” 

His hand spread out over the stinging, hot skin of her cheek, giving her swift, hard pats to make sure the pain didn’t disappear too quickly as he spoke. 

She shivered under his touch, “Don’t talk back to Daddy. Ever.”

“Good girl,” he cooed. “Next time use that pretty, little brain of yours and think before you speak.”

Her hair was tangled in his large hand as he shook her head back and forth to further his point. 

“Otherwise, I’ll be forced to ball gag you.”

Fingers slipped between her thighs. 

She parted her legs the best she could for him to get better access to her core. 

A squelching of wet, soaked squishing sounds followed as two long fingers sunk inside of her. 

A low, deep moan of approval rumbled out his throat at the sounds. 

“You are absolutely drenched, my little whore. Something tells me you liked the pain. Maybe you were using that brain after all. Did you like it when Daddy spanks his naughty girl?” 

Her tumbling whines followed as nimble, expert fingers stroked at her pussy, drowning out any worded response she might give. 

Coaxing her to life. 

Waking up all her senses. 

She tried her best to hold her legs open for him despite feeling unsteady in her web binds. She wanted him to give her as much pleasure as he could and that meant letting him have easy access. 

“Does my baby like the pain?” He asked again, running the hand not buried inside of her against her still stinging ass cheek. “Come on, I asked you a question, use your words, pretty girl.”

“Mmm, yes, Daddy. I like it. I like it!”

Smack!

She yelped, throwing her head back as waves of arousal washed over her. The pain from the spank mixed with the pleasure of his touch was enough for another gush of fluids to soak into his hand. 

“Look at how hard your nipples have gotten,” he gave a dreamy sigh. “Oh wait, you can’t. My sweet, blind baby. All lost in the dark with nothing to look at.”  

Her breathing was becoming ragged in her ears. Her body swayed against the webs. 

Knowing hands wrapped around her stomach, leaving the warmth of her cunt, much to her displeasure. 

They trailed upwards, through the valley of her breasts, until they gripped around her neck. 

Her mouth opened in a silent gasp. 

“Guess where I went today?” His voice was nothing more than a low, darkening whisper. 

She couldn’t respond. His hand had tightened around her, softly squeezing, using a mere feather touch of his strength but still able to restrict her air flow. 

“While my princess was napping, Daddy slipped out to buy you some presents. Found myself a little sex shop. You would have loved it,” he mused. “They had vending machines full of toys. Picked myself up a few fun gadgets to play with.” 

He released his hand from around her neck, never wanting to hold her there for too long, and admired the way she gasped for breath. 

Fingers tweaked at her nipples. He hadn’t been lying before, they really were rock hard. She could feel how tight they were from his rough menstruations.

She could hear him rummaging around behind her when something cold dragged across her breasts. 

“Deep breath, princess.” 

Following his warning, the cold, grooved metal clamped down over her left nipple. 

She let out a genuine cry, her back arching from the pain. 

It gripped her tighter than his teeth ever had, dragging her nipple out from her body, and squeezing down painfully hard. 

The groves made it feel like little razors digging into her sensitive flesh. 

Peter huffed out a laugh in a sadistic amusement at her reaction, “You know, when the woman running the store saw these come out of the vending machine, she looked over with a nod and said something like ‘molto doloroso’. Now, I don’t speak much Italian but I’m going to assume it translates to ‘Those hurt like a bitch and your pain whore of a wife will love them.’ Am I right?”

She choked out a sob, squirming uncomfortably against the webs, “Ow. It hurts…too much…hate ‘em.”

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s another one right here! It’ll help balance out the pain so both those beautiful tits get a turn.” 

Another agonizing clamp bit down against her other nipple. The sharp, grooved metal felt like it might rip her nipple straight off her breast. 

The nipple clamps they had at home were capped with a smooth rubber. These were bare and ready to grip on to her tender skin with the strength of a fucking bear trap. 

She let out a full scream the moment it bit down, thrashing her body in an attempt to get away from the clamps. Crocodile tears rolled down her cheek from under the blindfold. 

��Shh, shh, shh!” 

A heavy hand cut off her cries by wrapping around her mouth. His breath was against her ear, hushing her, soothing her, running his lips over her forehead with quick kisses.

“Not so loud, baby,” he whispered. “You’ll draw a crowd with those cries.” 

“What?” She gasped through heavy, pained breaths. “Crowds?”

Peter’s hands reached up to slide the blindfold up off her eyes and tossed it onto the floor. 

He took a step to the side, watching her blink in confusion, as her tear blurred sight came back into focus. 

She had forgotten about the breeze. 

He had distracted her. 

Kept her mind occupied so she wouldn’t ask questions. 

She was tied up, stark naked, and splayed out directly in front of the arched floor to ceiling window overlooking the streets of Florence. 

The top half of the glass was pushed open, letting in the cool evening summer breeze, and making sure nothing muffled the sounds of her screams. 

And she had been screaming. 

“Peter!” She cried in horror, paranoid that anyone could look up and see her. They weren’t that high up in the hotel. Any curious person who decided to glance upwards would certainly catch her out in all her glory. 

Wack!

The sound of her sore ass being slapped filled her ears. 

Nothing could hurt more than her breasts at the moment and she welcomed the familiar pain his hands brought. 

She also couldn’t deny that growing, aching pressure happening between her legs. Her masochistic tendencies had yet to fail her. 

“Not my name,” he scolded. 

She whined, bouncing her leg against the floor in protest, and trying to tug at her bindings. 

“Let me down!”

She knew full well that those webs would never give but it didn’t stop her from giving it a shot. 

He leaned against the wall beside the open window, arms crossed, a prideful smirk sitting on his smug face, watching her struggle. 

“I told you I was going to put you on display.”

She never thought he meant it literally. 

Tears burned in her eyes at the wave of shame at being so exposed.

At least the shock helped to dull the pain in her breasts.

She scanned the tight streets below and was thankful to see that no one was stopped and staring. 

Yet. 

Her watchful eyes followed Peter as he pushed off from the wall and moved behind her.

Breath caught in her throat as his fingers found a home back inside of her drenched pussy. 

“Still as wet as ever, I see,” he noted. “You can cry and beg and plead all you want but Daddy knows the truth. He sees behind your tears.” 

Slick fingers circled around her aching clit. 

Toying with it. 

Teasing her. 

“You like being held up on a pedestal.”

A long, skinny middle finger sunk inside of her. 

Her head rolled back. Eyes closed. 

“You like people hearing you cum.”

His thumb on her clit. 

Brushing. Stroking.

Building her pleasure. 

“You like having others watch as your Daddy pleasures his princess.” 

In and out. 

Slowly penetrating her with his finger. 

Tending dutifully to that tiny bundle of nerves.

“You like the pain.”

He flicked at her nipple clamps. 

Sending shots of pain throughout her breasts.

Electrifying her. 

Soothing it over with those wonderful ministrations at her pussy. 

“You love me and you’ll let me do anything I want to your gorgeous body…isn’t that right?”

She whimpered. 

Eyes closed tight. 

Feeling that build of orgasmic pleasure rising. 

“I love you,” she breathed back, tears in her eyes. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

He practically purred in her ear. 

Or maybe it was a growl. 

Whatever it was, the noise caused her cunt to gush in reply. 

He chucked, “That’s it baby, you’re so close. I can feel you tightening around my fingers. What do you say we give the people a show?”

He was gone. 

Leaving her empty. 

Dripping. 

Pathetically whining and begging for a finish. 

“Don’t worry, princess,” he called from the other end of the room. “Daddy bought some more toys. He’s going to treat his baby tonight.” 

She listened to the zipping of a bag as he rustled through to find what he was looking for. 

Her chest rose and fell in anticipation. Each breath brought back the dulling sting from her nipples. She tried to keep still, terrified more movement would draw attention upwards toward the window. 

She gave a quiet shudder at the thought and tried to imagine what she would look like from down below. 

The image brought a glint of a wicked smile to her lips. 

Something small and chilly brushed against her back door and she yelped in surprise. 

Slap!

“Hold still!” He scolded. 

The sound of a bottle squirting caused her to try to careen her head around to see what he was doing behind her.  

She managed to catch a glimpse of the butt plug he held in his hand. 

It looked a bit bigger than the small one they used at home but had the same metal teardrop shape. A red jewel flattened out the end. 

“Figured this was the next size up from your old friend. You leveled up from girlfriend to wife. Time to level up in other areas, too.”

Lube smeared over her tight hole as the cold, rounded point pushed against it. 

Not even a warm up with his fingers first. 

Peter really was in a dominant, pent up mood.

Her eyes slipped closed and her head fell back against her arched spine. She let out a deep breath, relaxing her body as much as she could, so it could slide in easier. 

“Ah, ow,” she gasped, hissing in pain. “Oh, fuck.”

Slow and steady he sunk it into her. 

He held it there, stopped in place, over the thickest part of the teardrop. Forcing her body to stretch to the foreign object. 

She tried to control her whines from being too loud. Her thighs trembled under her. Her face contorted into pain and her jaw clenched. 

More lube trickled down between her crack to help the little device along as Peter took note of her tensing body. 

“There you go, baby,” he encouraged. “Nice and easy. Breathe through it.”

He teased it through her ass, pushing it in a little ways and pulling it back out, making her continue to take on the thickest part of the plug just to keep up to torture a bit longer. 

“Please, Daddy,” she whimpered. “Just put it in. Please.”

“Aww, does my sweet baby need her ass filled? You’re Daddy’s little fuck toy. Daddy’s going to have any hole he wants. You have no say in where he ends up.” 

He refused to move it past the diameter, holding it steady. 

“Did you happen to catch the color of that tacky, little jewel they stuck on the end?” 

He pulled it back out. 

Teasing just the tip.

Exciting the bundle of sensory nerves around her anus and making her wriggle around. 

“Spider-Man red. Just for you.”

Finally, he eased the entire thing inside of her. 

“Ahhh!” She wailed. “Fuck!”

Filling her up. 

Swallowing the plug. 

Feeling it heavy inside of her. 

“So you’ll always remember who owns this ass.” 

Smack!

His hand came down hard against her bruising cheek. 

Ecstasy coursed through her veins at the sting. 

She was so full. Stretched and heavy. Uncomfortably aroused. 

An arm snaked up her own outstretched one to brush his fingers over her wedding ring, lacing his fingers with hers.

His bare chest pressed against her back, grinding his hips over her ass.  

His face fell against her neck, inhaling her scent, nuzzling his nose against her.

“My beautiful wife,” he breathed. “All tied up. Horny for her husband. Put out on display for all of Florence to see.”

Fingers wrapped around her waist to dip through her pubic hair, finding her heated crevice, needy for his touch. 

Palming. Flicking. Penetrating. 

“Nipples clamped. Ass filled. My name, cursed forever on your lips. All you need now is a cock to fill that empty cunt.” 

He fished it from the confines of his boxers. 

Dragging it along her soaked valley. 

Feeling it pulsate against her waiting lips. 

“No!” She gasped, staring down at the people below. 

She knew once he started to fuck her she couldn’t keep quiet. Her voice would soar out the open window and onto the people below. 

They would look. 

They would see her. 

“What if-” Her breath quickened. “What if someone looks up? They’ll hear me. They’ll look. I know they will.”

She didn’t need to see his face to know Peter had a cheshire cat grin growing. The sound of his voice was enough to hear his rising libido. 

“Then they’ll see a little princess fucking herself on her Daddy’s cock.” 

The bulbous head of his thick rod pressed between her folds. 

Sinking in. 

Stretching her out. 

He hesitated there. Stilling behind her. 

“Go on, baby. Fuck yourself. Let everyone see what a whore you can be.”

She almost didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to give in. She could play games, too. 

Her breath held in her lungs. Closing her eyes. Biting down on her bottom lip. 

Peter waited. 

The crown of his manhood nestled patiently in her pussy, being squeezed by her heated walls, kissed by her slick. 

Letting her throw her silent tantrum. 

She hung there, counting the seconds, fighting the urge to move, trying to breathe through her body’s desires.

Her legs were trembling. Her toes ached from holding her weight. 

It would be so easy to just…ease back…impale herself on his sword…give up. 

She could hear his labored breaths behind her. Smelled his cologne. Felt him twitching inside of her. 

“Close the windows,” she struggled to whimper out through her held breaths. “Let’s go to the bed. Take me there. Fuck me there. I’ll let you do anything you want. Just…not…not in front of the window.”

Peter tutted his tongue, “Since when has Daddy ever let you make the demands, hmm?”

He reached his hands up to her shoulders and gave a gentle push, getting tired of her defiance, “When I tell you to fuck yourself, you fuck yourself. I’m not going to do it for you.” 

Even the smallest of shoves from her shoulders was enough for her tiptoed feet to give out. She stumbled back, feeling his cock sink deeper. 

She let out a strangled cry. 

“No! On the bed. Bring to me to the bed!”

Her eyes were squeezed shut, refusing to see the window in front of them, torn between finding it extremely arousing and positively mortifying. 

“I’m sorry, princess. The bed is for good girls. The bed is for well behaved women who don’t wear little dresses and shake their ass as they walk for all the men to stare at. The bed is for lovers.” His hand gripped around her hair and shoved her face towards the window. “The window is for whores who get off on pain and love the attention their Daddy gives them.”

His voice lowered into a commanding, deep tone, “Open your fucking eyes and look at your audience.”

She blinked through the flow of overly emotional tears clinging to her lashes and forced her eyes open. 

People lined the tight, winding streets, walking lazily to their destination. Not one glanced up at them. Not one seemed to notice her out on display, front and center, above their heads. Peter was protected behind her body. She would be the one they see. 

Framed by the window. 

Art. 

That’s what he called her earlier. 

She was art and Peter, the artist. 

Helpless to whatever ways he wanted to exhibit her 

Little by little she sunk back onto his cock. Taking him into her. Eyes rolling back. Submitting to his demands until he bottomed out.

His chorus of pleased moans let her know he had won. 

She let her body get used to him inside of her. Her pussy knew his cock well by now but she liked to reacquaint them carefully every time they would meet. 

Peter was always a bit of a stretch. 

With the girthier plug shoved in her ass, her arms bound and outstretched, and her nipples screaming in pain, she felt the need to move a little slower with her pussy today. 

Gradual, small movements, easing herself up off his cock and then impaling herself back down. 

Slow and steady. 

She shifted on her toes, rocking her hips back and forth, taking him with longer and longer strides as her shameful whimpers grew into desperate cries. 

“There you go,” he murmured, brushing her hair back off her shoulder to nip at her skin with his teeth. “Ride Daddy’s cock, babygirl. Show everyone how good you can take it.”

Her own slick coated his shaft, making it slip through her without resistance.

He stayed fairly still behind her apart from making sure his hips were pressed forward enough for her to have easy access to his body. 

She was getting into a rhythm. Starting to get lost in the feelings. 

But, the harder she fucked herself, the more her breasts would sway. 

The more they moved, the more pain the clamps created as they bit down like they might cut clean through her flesh. 

It was getting to the point where it might be too much pain for her to enjoy and ruining her momentum on his cock. 

She hissed, biting down on her lip, trying to endure it the best she could manage. 

Peter shifted behind her, bringing his lips to her ear, and whispering for reassurance, “Color?”

She swallowed, trying to decide exactly what she was feeling, “G-green?”

He stilled her by gripping onto her hips, keeping himself buried inside her warmth, but moving his head around in an attempt to better see her face. 

“You sure? You don’t sound sure.”

She nodded, breathing heavily, “Almost yellow. Not quite though. But almost.”

“Which part?” He trailed loving kisses of safety along her neck, wrapping his arms around her waist to hug her sweetly from behind. 

“The clamps.” When she saw his hands immediately move to take them off her, she hurried to add. “Not yet! I…still like them…but soon, okay?”

“Soon,” he agreed, giving her one more adoration infused kiss to her cheek, before slipping back into character. “Daddy never told his little princess to stop, did he?” 

To shove her back into the role, he slapped her ass with three hard, lashing blows of his open palm. 

Each slap caused her breasts to bounce, sending shooting shocks of pure, agonizing pain through her body and a rush of warmth to her cunt. 

Pain and pleasure. Her favorite combination. 

“Looks like the sweet little angel is getting quite the bruise back here. If you keep misbehaving, you won’t be able to sit down for our breakfast tomorrow. Then everyone will know what a bad, little whore you’ve been.”

She whined in response, bucking her hips backwards to find his cock again, needing more pleasure to balance out the scales. 

“Eager little thing, aren’t you?”

He soothed his hands over her shoulders, pushing her down, sinking her onto his length.

“My pain hungry baby.” 

It wasn’t difficult to fall back into her previous rhythm. Her cunt was soaked and starving for its lover to come back home. 

“Fuck yourself on Daddy’s cock. Let those people down there know how much you love me. Be louder, princess. I want them to hear.”

She whimpered out a tiny cry. 

Her motions grew frantic the more he continued to talk dirty in her ear. 

That tiny cry grew into loud, unadulterated, guttural moans. 

The sounds of a whore taking her favorite cock. 

She struggled against the webs binding her. Her shoulders were starting to ache. Her arms were losing feeling. 

Her body was stretched tight. Nipples crying. Ass sore. The weight of the plug was even more noticeable with his cock pushing in and out of her. 

It felt like it was bouncing inside of her each time he pushed under it. 

Her toes hurt from being hung up on such an unsteady height. 

“Peter- Daddy,” she gasped. “Daddy, please…” 

She didn’t know what she was asking for.  

Some kind of relief. 

Something steadier. Something more concrete. 

“Shh, baby, it’s okay, Daddy’s got you.” 

He reached around to her chest with both hands, simultaneously unclamping her nipples from their prison. 

Fire erupted in its place as the blood rushed back. 

A new kind of pain bloomed. 

Searing and hot. 

Her breasts were in flames. 

She cried out. Loud and sharp. 

At the same moment, Peter ripped her down from the webs, still embedded on his cock as he wrapped her up in tight arms and pushed her flat against the window. 

Her hips pressed against the cool glass but her torso nearly bent out the opening. 

Her anguished nipples happily sought out the cool breeze. Soothing over the sting. Settling her inflamed body. Not caring who looked up. 

Peter gripped onto her hips so he could better ram into her. Her job was over. She had done what he wanted. 

Now it was his turn to take over. 

Her body surrendered to him. 

“Ugnnn,” she whined. “Fuck!!” 

Her hands clenched into fists against the glass. Her back arched. 

Eyes wide. 

Taking his thrusts with near drooling moans. 

His rigid shaft drove into her, surging deep up inside, stretching her walls and drawing out the most luscious rumbles of pleasure. 

His balls slapped up against her. The sound echoing around their vaulted ceiling. 

Filling her. Stuffing her full.

Both holes used and defiled. 

She couldn’t stop the noises she was making. Throaty moans, shrieking cries, babbling coos.

He was getting it all out of her.  

Someone was watching. Looking at them. Spying them from down below. 

A young couple.

“Daddy!” She sobbed. “They’re-”

“Shh,” he hushed her. “I know, baby. I see ‘em, too. They like what they see. They’re talkin’ about us. Enjoyin’ it.” 

A broken cry fell from her lips and she stared down through her tears at the couple. 

Her eye sight wasn’t the greatest. She couldn’t make out their faces very clearly but neither of them looked horrified. 

They looked…giggly…

The woman was running her hand along her partner's arm. His hand disappeared behind her back and traveled down to her ass. 

Harder and harder Peter slammed. 

She was being ravaged by his strength. Losing the ability to make any noise. 

Nothing but silent, open mouthed gasps and a raining of tears were all that came out. 

“Too-” He grunted, crashing into her again. “Hard?” 

Through a shuddering, gasping breath, she managed to choke out, “Don’t you fucking stop.”

As long as Peter was fucking her like this, he could do it any way he wanted. He could drag her out onto the streets and fuck her at that nosy couples feet if he pleased. 

It was his art show. He held the control. 

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t pause. 

His finger marks would be bruised into the soft flesh of her hips for the upcoming days with how tightly he gripped them. 

She held eye contact with the watching woman down below. Stared straight at her. Sizing her up, silently challenging her to get as good a fuck from her partner as she was from Peter.

She wanted to make her jealous. Or horny.

Either was fine as long as the woman was thinking of her.  

“Yes, Daddy!” She cried, loud enough for her voice to carry down below. “Feels so good! Making your little girl feel so good!” 

She knew damn well Peter’s face was cast in the shadows behind her. The idea of this couple truely thinking she was being fucked by her own father made her laugh under her breath.

“Somethin’ funny, princess?” His voice was getting strained and she knew that meant he was getting closer to his release.

“Just enjoying my fans,” she gasped back. “They love what you’re doing.”

Her eyes were wild as she breathed in the fresh air. 

She felt free. 

She was married and in love. They were on their honeymoon in Italy. 

She was getting absolutely pounded by her husband in full view of a watching, interested couple.

She should be embarrassed, ashamed. 

But all she felt was bliss. 

That plunging, relentless cock, massaging her channel, thick veins grazing over that tender g-spot whenever she angled her body correctly, the weight of the plug in her ass, her aching nipples…

Everything was pushing her straight towards her final hurdle. 

Without much warning, it suddenly became all too much. No build up. 

Just explosions.  

A wave of ferocious, intense pleasure roared over her, sweeping her up, taking her by surprise. 

She came hard and fast. 

Sheiking. Crying out. 

Thrashing against the window, leaning half way out of it, trying to gasp for air. 

Peter grabbed at her hair to yank her back inside like he was terrified of losing her over the edge. 

“Fuck, princess,” he grunted. “Where ya goin’?” 

Her ears defended under the rush of blood swelling to her head but she was certain she was screaming in ecstasy from the way Peter’s hand clamped over her mouth to muffle her sounds. 

She contracted tightly around his cock, squeezing him, using him to further her explosion of pleasure, still feeling the stinging pain of her breasts to only shove her deeper into subspace. 

On and on her orgasm went. Unstoppable. As Peter kept driving into her and furiously rubbing his fingers over her clit. 

He kept her heightened. Overloaded. Knowing that it would destroy her.

She had the brief sensation of feeling him cumming inside of her. Feeling the spurt of warmth. Feeling full. 

But her agonizing long orgasm only served to weaken her rational thinking. She no longer existed. She was no longer on solid ground. 

Floating. Drifting through space. 

Lost amongst the stars. 

Finally, her body gave up. 

Finally, the orgasm came to a simmering hault. 

She was done. 

She hung limply against the window pane. Eyes rolling in her head. Twitching and whimpering. 

Peter scooped her into his protective arms, cradling her against his chest, peering his face to see their onlookers. 

“Shows over!” He called down to them. “Fuck off!”

Without his raging, pent up, sexual energy to seize control of his brain, he no longer liked the idea of anyone getting to view his naked wife besides him. His protective nature spiked to replace his dwindling arousal and he turned his back to the window to shield her with his body. 

He carried her away from their stares back into the safety of privacy where she belonged.  

She made no protests or struggles as their game finished. Her head hung limp against his shoulder. 

“My sweet girl,” he murmured in her ear. She was being placed on their bed. “Daddy’s going to clean you up. Wait here.”

Time wasn’t real. 

She blinked and he reappeared holding a warm, wet cloth to her legs. 

Over her thighs. 

Spreading her open. 

Cupping it against her used and battered sex. 

Gently cleaning away their mess. 

“There,” he whispered. “All better.”

Peter crawled into bed in front of her, wrapping an arm over her waist and kissing at the tip of her nose. 

Gradually, she returned to her body, her mind drifting slowly back into her skull. 

“Mmmm,” she groaned. “Everything hurts. Think you broke me.”

He chuckled to himself, soothing a hand over an abused nipple, “Sweet girl. I’ll try to find you some ice in a minute. But, right now, I’m not leaving your side until you fully wake up. Rest, baby. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” 

When she adjusted herself on the bed, sliding a leg through his, she took note of the fact that the plug was still snuggly lodged inside of her. 

Their night was only just beginning. 

He had left it there on purpose. 

She kind of liked it. 

Maybe she would wear it out to dinner…

[copperbadge]

Radio Free Monday

Good morning everyone, and welcome to Radio Free Monday!

Ways to Give:

Anon linked to a fundraiser for Andrea, a trans woman, UU minister, and veteran, and her wife Wren, a genderqueer veteran, who are currently homeless along with their three cats. While they are working with the VA to get approval for housing assistance, they're in need of funding to get back on their feet; you can read more and support the fundraiser here.

littleredreadinghood linked to a fundraiser for kirkaut, who was recently diagnosed with an aggressive cancer and is in need of help with medical bills. You can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

like-the-midnight-sun linked to a fundraiser for a close friend, a queer, trans, and multiply-Disabled writer who has just lost their job and needs to pay a steep phone bill to reactivate their service so they can look for work. You can give via paypal here or via Chime to nachonaco.

Anon linked to a fundraiser for crazywolf828, whose grandfather, one of the household's main income sources, recently suffered a broken hip and is currently in a rehab center; they need help with medical bills among other things. You can read more and reblog here or give via ko-fi here. (The page does pop up a "possible NSFW comment" warning window but there's nothing NSFW on that page.)

Anon linked to a fundraiser for Vinn, a disabled nonbinary person who is raising funds to move away from Utah, where being a queer person is becoming steadily less safe, to Michigan, where they have a place to live with their partner already set up. You can read more and support the fundraiser here.

like-the-midnight-sun and her wife are multiply marginalized people who don't feel safe in the US anymore; they are fundraising to move to somewhere in Europe, probably Norway or Sweden, where they will be less likely to experience violent persecution. You can read more and support the fundraiser here.

like-the-midnight-sun and her wife are also hoping to get temporary assistance with a vet bill before they go out of town; the appointment is the day before payday and they won't be able to cover it until they are paid. They need a loan of $150 that they can pay back; you can give (with repayment on March 30th) via paypal here, via Venmo to ARZinzani (9980), or via Chime at $Nassun-0428.

Recurring Needs:

thelastpyler is raising funds to help with food, transportation, and replacement IDs after being robbed; you can read more, reblog, and find giving information here.

And this has been Radio Free Monday! Thank you for your time. You can post items for my attention at the Radio Free Monday submissions form. If you're new to fundraising, you may want to check out my guide to fundraising here.

[boyprinzessin]

is it just me or does Keith's shack bother anyone else immensely

theres a tendency to default to having that be Keith's old house in fic and art bc of the proximity to the Blue lion & Krolia's crash site by proxy but also like. hold on let me get some pictures.

so 2 things. 1, Krolia literally crashes in Kogane Sr.'s yard. are there just houses spread out in the middle of whatever the fuck in the desert??? where is everyone?? Senior was a firefighter so they HAD to be near some sort of town?? but also rural enough that no one else (NAMELY THE GARRISON) saw an alien ship crash???? and him walking around with his purple lover???

and 2. this is not the same building. it actually looks quite similar to the shed next to Senior's home except with an extra block and a tree behind it. the fences in the foreground also look somewhat similar. while searching for pictures I actually found a floormap by @/wiccoppi that gives a great overview of what's happening in there.

but anyway, Keith definitely wasn't raised in that shack. there isn't even a bed in there and it's much smaller. plus Senior's house was like. actually nice on the inside.

so what happened to the house?? and where did he find this shack??

it has to be from the same general area as the house at the very least because both are somewhat close to the Blue Lion. I don't know if it's the same one next to Senior's house because the trees are different and there's no reason for the entire house to be gone unless there was some sort of accident that happened and voltron just never brought it up (which.... they totally would do tbf but the tree also bothers me).

maybe it's someone else's abandoned property??? he left the Garrison around 17 it's not like he could be a homeowner. his original house may have been sold when he was orphaned or something but that still feels odd to me because why did young bachelor Kogane Sr own a family sized house with a tire swing to boot if it wasn't HIS parents' house?? wouldn't the house just be abandoned until Keith was old enough until he could live on his own if Senior owned it?

I know this is def something they just didn't map out but also like. what the hell guys. why was Keith being raised with no other houses in sight?? did Kogane Sr just drive his kid across the desert to school every day and then pick him up after work?? where were they getting groceries?? in both the shack and the house if they're not the same property. how much money did they spend on gas???? did they move into town after Krolia left and Senior didn't have to hide his purple wife??

I already have like the worlds worst spatial awareness so I absolutely hate this. they really just dropped him in a near empty space and said "okay, good enough."

it's totally something I would do as a writer myself, but along with the lack of information on Keith's life before the Garrison it drives me absolutely bonkers.

if anyone has any of their own personal theories abt this please feel free to chime in. im gonna go chew on sheet metal or something now

[ageless-aislynn]

Title: “15 Minutes” (11/15) Author:  @ageless-aislynn​ Characters/fandom: Master Chief John-117/Reader, Halo the series Summary: John has learned something new that he'd like to show you… Series: How to date a Spartan (without even trying) Rating:  T (PG13) Length: 2,630 (this chapter, 27,487 total so far) Spoilers: Set in the Silver Timeline of Halo the series, not the games or novels. Though we began with the events of Halo 1x06, there will be no more show spoilers. We are still firmly seated in the AU Warthog, merrily driving out to places where there’s only a passing nod to canon. 😉 Disclaimer: Definitely not mine but I do enjoy borrowing them just for a bit! 😉 A/N:  Text is both here in this post or available at AO3, however you like to read. It's, yet again, been awhile since the last update, sad to say. I've been slogging through writer's block, health issues and some kinda awful real life stress but I'm not giving up on this fic (or its sibling, "Recreation"). I'd like to say that the final chapters will be here very soon but, well… I've learned to not call my shots, lol. I will, however, do my best to get them here as soon as I can. If you read, I hope you enjoy! ⭐💖⭐

Taglist: @pinheadbanger​ @mysardencut​ @laurenstacy610​ @sporadicbelievernightmare​ @ultrablackwidower​ @bxmxtx​ @jellotherelol @mirandastuckinthe80s

If you would like to be tagged in my John/Reader fics, just let me know! I also write John/Kai, John/Cortana and Kai/male Reader, so I’m glad to tag you for whatever you’d like. If you would like to be removed from the taglist, also feel free to let me know, no harm, no foul. 😉 💖

Halo fic masterlist ⭐

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10

PT arrived bright and early and, while you continued to bring out every expletive in every language you knew, ultimately it seemed your left side was improving: more range of motion in your shoulder and more strength in your leg, though the healing fractures still ached. All together, though, it was a win, no matter that it left you sweating and shaking like you'd wrestled an Elite and lost spectacularly.

You'd just come out of the shower and put on a fresh set of clothes when the door chimed. To your surprise, you found Riz and Vannak in their civvies standing there. You knew Silver Team had been on stand-by for the past few days – John hadn't been able to join you for every meal, understandably, but he had been there every night. Sleeping curled up in his arms was a luxury you weren't sure how you were going to give up when the time came. Kai and her friend had visited but this was the first time the other two Spartans had.

"Please, come in," you said and they did.

"You need new curse words," Riz said seriously.

"We got here while you were doing your therapy," Vannak explained. "Didn't want to interrupt."

"You could hear me cussing out in the hall?" you asked.

"Superior Spartan hearing," she said, matter-of-fact. "I doubt anyone else could."

"Teach her the one," he urged in as animated a tone as you'd ever heard from him before. "You know, the good one."

Which is how you ended up getting a tongue-twisting word in Sangheili added to your arsenal.

"You say that to any Covenant species and it's guaranteed to send them into a rage," Riz said with a confident nod.

"Except the Unggoy," Vannak added with a sneer. "Little bastards couldn't give a shit. They'll try to kill you on principle."

"I'll make sure I'm on a bullhorn from far away, then," you said, biting the inside of your lip to keep from grinning. "Don't want to be in striking distance if I'm going to send them into a rage."

They thought that over.

"Chief won't appreciate us telling her to pick a fight with a Sangheili," she pointed out.

"Just use it on somebody you're pretty sure you can take in a fight," he told you.

"I'll keep that in mind," you said.

They made slightly stilted small talk for about 15 more minutes, then took their leave.

A rest seemed in order, so you propped up on the bed and checked the news. They were in the middle of reporting that they had yet to apprehend the man who had tried to smuggle the bomb back to FLEETCOM in the Warthog. It showed some stock images of the Pit before being damaged by the explosion and that got you to thinking…

There should be some sort of footage of the explosion, right?

But, after poking around on your padd for a little while, you hadn't found much beyond what apparently had been approved for public viewing.

"Would you like some help with that?"

Cortana's voice startled you.

"Oh, hey there," you said, thinking, Poor thing, she's got the most boring job in the world keeping an eye on me. I hope I get the chance to buy her a coffee or something after all is said and done. Then your brain tardily caught up with her words. "You mean you have footage from the explosion?"

"Yes, I do."

"And it's something I have clearance to see?"

"I have footage from the explosion," she repeated, her tone supremely innocent.

Before you could decide whether to ask to see it or not, the holo on the wall lit up. The security cams had caught the explosion from multiple angles. You winced as you saw a body – your body – fly out of the crane operator seat to disappear into a sea of smoke and debris.

A moment later, the view changed, the quality severely degrading. You squinted through the pixilation and haze and realized you were seeing from the point of view of the holo-emiter Cortana had contacted you from.

"Oh, shit," you muttered. The massive beam that had pinned you down should've killed you outright but you'd gotten supremely lucky in the way the rest of the building had fallen, providing just enough support to give you a tiny open space. But even without the sudden, helpful overlay that detailed out the edges of the debris through the smoke, you could see how quickly that respite was vanishing as the beam's weight bore it inexorably lower and lower.

You found yourself gasping for breath, cast back into that moment. The image changed abruptly. Trying to figure out where you were now viewing from helped to break you free of the encroaching panic attack.

Then it all made sense: you were looking at several officers, so covered in dirt and dust that you couldn't recognize their rank, much less determine their names. They also looked extremely short.

Before you even skimmed over the information feeding out in rapid-fire bursts, you knew that this was John's HUD after Silver Team had arrived back on site.

"John, get here now. The support beam is failing!"

Cortana's voice came through his helmet's comm. "There's no time," he said, interrupting the man as he was saying that they would have to wait for an excavation crew to arrive to safely dig you out.

He was running before the man could object. The feed cut back and forth from his HUD to the holo-emiter. This gave you an unexpected perspective on how efficiently Silver Team worked. They needed almost no words as they homed in on your location, grabbing, lifting, moving and supporting each part of the perilous structure as needed.

It was Vannak who caught the beam before it crushed you but it was John who lifted it off of you.

The holo-emiter's feed abruptly ended and you were back in John's HUD. Vannak and Kai caught another part of the crumbling wreckage, creating an opening for Riz to dig you out by hand.

You noted almost absently how steady John's vitals were. He was holding a building off of you as if it were nothing at all.

"Out," Riz announced and John carefully lowered the weight he'd been supporting.

When he turned, you saw Riz clearing the way for Kai, who was now the one carrying you. Vannak and John followed.

They emerged out of the wreckage and Kai went into the Spartan run, taking you directly into a Pelican where she turned you over to a team of medics. The Spartans were waved back and the ship launched.

"We'll catch the next one," Riz said.

"She'll be all right, Chief," Kai told him. "She's strong."

He nodded curtly, tracking the Pelican that was carrying you away.

And once it went out of sight, that was when his vitals spiked and his heart began to pound.

You were still thinking about what all you'd seen when the door chimed again. A glance at the chrono proved it was lunchtime. You opened the door and, indeed, the first thing you saw was a massive, covered tray that no doubt contained your meal. But it was John who was carrying it.

"Silver's on stand-by," he warned, "but I thought we might get a chance to eat together."

Since you weren't yet cleared to make the long walk down to the Mess, a table and pair of chairs had been set up across from the couch a few days ago. As soon as he'd placed the tray down, you practically tackled him.

"Permission to hug the Master Chief?" you asked well after the fact, your voice muffled into his chest.

He gently returned the embrace. "Always granted."

You found yourself holding onto him a little bit longer than usual.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I saw the footage from the Pit," you said, resting your cheek against him. "I already knew I was lucky to get out of there but really seeing it? I… It makes me appreciate being here."

He paused for long enough that you looked up at him, finding him gazing over your head as if hearing something over a comm. Then he turned his attention back down to you, brow furrowing. "She shouldn't have shown you that footage and upset you."

"Cortana? No, I'm glad she did. It happened to me, after all." You put your face against him again and squeezed him once more around his waist. "You held a building off of me, John."

He made a move as if about to pick you up, then thought better of it and knelt instead to bring you more on a level together. "I'd hold a million buildings off of you, don't you know that?" he said, cupping your face. "Just… try not to be under any more falling buildings, hm?"

"I'll certainly do my best," you swore and kissed his palm.

The look in his eyes altered, grew both darker and softer at the same time. When you leaned towards him, he met you halfway.

He started carefully, like he did everything with you, but soon the kiss intensified, deepened, and his hands skimmed from the crown of your head down your back as if he wanted to map every line, curve and angle you possessed.

And then your stomach growled, loudly and unmistakably, and you muttered your newly-learned curse word.

He leaned back to look at you, amusement tugging insistently at his mouth. "That one's Vannak's favorite. He and Riz talked about coming to see you today. I'm assuming they did?"

"They did," you said, then winced as your stomach grumbled something awfully close to a repeat of the Sangheili curse word.

"Why don't we eat," he said, completely surrendering to the smile, "and you can tell me all about it."

Happily, he didn't get called away and you were able to finish your meal together in peace.

"Could I show you something I recently learned?" he asked as you stood from the table.

"As long as it doesn't involve throwing me around the room," you teased.

"Oh, I'll save that until you're all healed up," he murmured, then winked.

You'd like to think you laughed but no, that was a full-fledged giggle. "So, what did you learn?"

"Therapeutic massage," he said, flexing his fingers. "It's supposed to promote healing and relaxation. Want to give it a try?"

"Absolutely," you said. "Where do you want me at?"

"On the footstool, if that's okay?"

"Sure."

The wide, plush, rainbow-colored bit of furniture was another recent addition to the room, added because John wanted you to have the option to put your feet up. Kai had told you that, as soon as you were healthy again, she was going to high-five you for the color choice.

While his back was turned as he adjusted the stool the way he wanted it in front of the couch, you took your shirt off and tossed it haphazardly towards the bed.

He sat, a leg on either side of the stool, and looked up at you, clearly about to say something. But then his expression went thunderstruck and the words never emerged.

You had the same UNSC sports bra that he had to have seen other marines wearing in the gym a thousand times. You'd spotted Kai and Riz in them before, so it shouldn't have been that shocking.

"This all right?" you asked.

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Yes." Every affirmative had its own completely separate inflection, from stunned to wonderment to Wait, don't put the shirt back on.

You turned away, hiding your grin as you sat down where directed. Considering that you were hardly in top fighting form at the moment, his reaction was a very nice little ego boost.

His hands settled gently against your back, fingers curling over your shoulders. "If I use too much pressure or there's pain, tell me right away. Is there anything I should definitely avoid?"

"Can't raise the arm like I should" –you gave a roll of your left shoulder– "but it's already much better than it was."

"Copy that, no raising the arm. Anything else?"

No matter how battered and bruised you felt, there was no way you were going to miss this. "I'll let you know," you promised.

"Okay," he said and his hands glided up to your neck, then out, following the lines of the trapezius on both sides. The heels of his palms followed your spine down in a feathery touch, then spread out along your lats like he was smoothing wrinkles out of them before skimming down your obliques to your hips.

He returned to your shoulders again and very, very carefully kneaded into the tightness there. You did your best not to flinch when he hit a particularly sore spot but he jerked back as if you'd screamed.

"It's fine," you said quickly, afraid he was about to end up perched on the back of the couch like a very large, traumatized cat. "This is the only way to get rid of it. Just got to work it out."

His hands settled cautiously on your shoulders once more.

"You're doing great," you assured him, patting his knees on either side of you encouragingly, and his thumbs drew circles over the painful places as if he were trying not to fracture a thin sheet of glass.

The knots relaxed and you exhaled in the closest thing to sheer bliss you'd experienced in a long while. The warmth and gentle pressure had you melting back into him, your head lolling a bit, your eyelids fluttering shut and—

The next thing you knew, you were waking up. "Oh come on, I didn't want to sleep through all the good parts," you mumbled.

John's chuckle rumbled beneath your ear. He had pulled you back onto his lap on your right side, cradled comfortably against his chest. One hand was gently rubbing your back while the other covered the hand you had fisted into his shirt.

"I'm going to take this as a compliment to my therapeutic massage skills," he said.

"And you absolutely should." You raised your head to look at him. "Maybe next time I can even stay conscious long enough to really appreciate said skills. If there is, you know, a next time."

"There will most definitely be a next time," he swore and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"I still owe you a proper back scratching."

"And I am absolutely going to collect on that," he returned, his tone unexpectedly husky.

You smiled, straightening up to kiss him. He pulled you closer, then paused and sighed against your mouth.

"I've got to go," he said resolutely right before his wristband chirped.

You looked for a way to roll off of him that wouldn't aggravate your shoulder – or potentially crush any of his, ahem, important Spartan equipment – but he scooped you up bridal style and stood as if you weighed nothing at all.

"I'll meet you for dinner if we're back soon enough," he promised and gave you one more tender kiss then placed you onto the couch. Before he went through the door, he paused, looking back like he was memorizing this moment, then he took a breath and was gone.

It was nearly dinner time when the door chime rang and you went to answer it with as much of a hopeful spring in your step as you could manage. However, this time, it wasn't John holding a tray with your evening meal on it.

"Dr. Keyes," you said in surprise, snapping a salute.

She said your rank and last name. "May I come in? We need to talk."

[syoddeye]

feel free to ignore this one-

i have been a big fan of fanfiction for a while and recently got into cod. and ive noticed a lot of poetic writers tend to head down the noncon/ddne territory, and i guess it’s always a conflict for me?

cus it’s beautiful, but always so fucking sickening. nasty stuff for sure. and being one of my favorite authors, i guess im asking if you believe the writing is supposed to justify it? romaticize it- instead of condemning? maybe it slips past me but im always unsure if the writing is supposed to be seen as strictly art that divulges into the depths of a dark mind and a bad man- or it’s indulging in a fantasy.

im breaking from my comfortable shell from the ‘white picket fence happy ending cute tale’ fanfiction and actually really enjoying reading dark fics because good ones do such a wonderful job at toeing the ‘this is so beautiful but I feel like vomiting’ line- but in the back of my mind i wonder if it’s supposed to be read in a positive light- like the assaulter is…good?

im a bit new to it all which is why I guess there’s a shred of shame in it, because I don’t like the actions in ddne. they’re unsettling, gross (unfeminist? unsure) - but the writing is often times why i have to finish them because it’s jus so beautiful, pulls you in. your guts are all shriveled but your mind is wide awake and your mouth is wide open like you’re trying to swallow the poetry whole (not to be dramatic).

have you ever felt this? or am i jus like. vanilla.

hey friend, thanks for your patience on this.

i know you’ve already reached back out and i’m glad the links shared here helped. i’m gonna respond to both asks here because i don’t want to break your anonymity without your consent.

i’m also disabling reblogs. everything below this is my opinion and experiences. other folks will obviously feel differently. (if any of my smart and talented friends want to chime in or correct me, please do.)

first, i respect and appreciate your openness. you are kind and your thoughtfulness shines through both messages. feeling conflicted about complicated and difficult topics is normal. not to get all woo-ey off the bat, but we’re human beings. this is our first time planetside and all that. it’s important to cut yourself some slack. this post is generally how i see it:

“the human brain is weird. sex fantasies ≠ actual desires. if you ask yourself, “would i want to act out this thing in real life” and the answer is “fuck no,” then you’re fine. shipping is also not an indicator of what you would condone in real life. you are not secretly a monster. you are a human being. human beings are complicated.”

you ask: [do] you believe the writing is supposed to justify it? romanticize it- instead of condemning?

no, and this is where i think the posts i shared help. i do not believe dead dove or dark fic justifies sexual assault and rape, in the same way i do not believe games or horror films make people violent.

you also share:

“maybe it slips past me but im always unsure if the writing is supposed to be seen as strictly art that divulges into the depths of a dark mind and a bad man- or it’s indulging in a fantasy.” “in the back of my mind i wonder if it’s supposed to be read in a positive light”

this just tells me you’re engaging with fiction in a normal way. it’s normal to process how a story affects you. when reading fiction that depicts the disgusting, there’s a chance you feel disgusted. you remind me of how i felt when i first started reading dark fic. i had to unpack and grapple with years of being told any sexual fantasy that wasn’t heterosexual + monogamous + only explored after marriage was a one-way ticket to superhell and made me an awful person. surprise, it doesn't!

again, i’ll echo my first reply in case anyone needs to see it again: content warnings and tags aside, if readers hit an unexpected limit/boundary/landmine in a fic that they know will adversely impact or trigger them, they need to exit immediately. disengaging from fanfic is a reader’s responsibility. no one is forcing anyone to read fanfic, and no one should feel like they have to finish fanfic because it’s beautifully written, at the expense of their well-being. 

(to note, because i don’t want folks to think i’m ignoring it, but i’m not going to wade into what’s feminist or not when it comes to fiction. i think that’s a whole other discussion and i’m not in the headspace to engage.)

(another note, semi-related - something that continually frustrates me in the broader discussion of dead dove and dark fanfic is the pressure for victims to share personal information to justify their opinion, no matter where it falls. while i do share some stuff about my personal life, i do have limits. i’ve been asked point blank in my ask box and ao3 comments if i’ve ever been sexually assaulted, because some folks feel entitled to that information to ‘justify’ my writing about it. people can and will make their assumptions, but i will never divulge that info here, on tumblr.com, of all places. that’s a hard line for me.)

to your second message, i am sincerely happy that those links helped. it really boils down to ‘it doesn’t equal your actual desires’. you said it was a huge relief to see that, and it is! again! i felt a galaxy brain moment when i stopped hating myself for liking darkfic. reading/writing dark fic isn't an endorsement.

and and and not to sound like your grandpapa out on the porch, but now that i know your age—you are young. do not beat yourself up for learning or not knowing your limits just yet. i am in my 30s and learning shit about myself all the time. i’ll be 60 and having lightbulb moments reading fanfic.

okay. i think i’ve yapped enough. linking to early’s post again because it’s so, so good.

[samarqqand]

hi! i recently discovered and have eagerly been reading (and re-reading) all of your fics - your writing is astounding and weaves a story so beautifully, you’ve quickly become one of my favourite silm writers ☺️ in a few comments/notes you’ve talked about other fic - bits you had posted on tumblr that i suppose have been deleted? and you also mentioned another maglor/melkor fic - would you ever post these tidbits? i’d really love to read them even if they’re unfinished!

but if not, thanks for sharing what you already have and know that it’s very much appreciated ☺️

hey hi hi -- i 100% cannot tell you what this message means to me!! seriously, i'm so humbled and so so pleased that these little fics have landed for you!! so thank you, thank you so much for taking the time to read. and! for taking the time to compose this thoughtful message. you've made my week. :']

i think a number of wip snippets or excerpts ended up deleted when i uhhh accidentally deleted my tumblr a while back (all that curation-!!). fie on me.

here's a chunk from early on in that melkor/maglor one -- it's extremely long, and even more extremely unwieldy (i've written myself into some tangles here), but the conceit is Melkor befriending & seducing Maglor in Valinor during the Noontide, & this secret companionship of course cedes to disaster (and monsterfucking, with Melkor's less porcelain, less pleasing form) once the Darkening hits.

again, thank you so much for your interest and superb-kind words. :] (& sorry for any wip-type mistakes in this except, and for the lack of the beloved ë in Makalaurë!!)

*

Tools to nurture or desecrate; tools to reap and sow. Tools to convert. Sharp tools, dull tools.

Melkor gathers each one according to his design, wrenching each free of its moorings and testing its mettle.

He follows Makalaure and two of his brothers home as a dark breeze: harmless as hearth smoke if not for its whispers of the East beyond the Sea. 

The three Noldor princes fall over themselves laughing, made pliant with drink. Casting aside pretense in Tirion’s streets, they join hands and circle into a dance. Makalaure demonstrates a complicated footwork that he insists is in vogue in Valimar; the preeminent bard would know, after all.

Maitimo is a fast learner, but over-tall: Carnistir yelps and shoves when Maitimo steps on his foot. Maitimo kicks at him, grinning. The two abandon the dance to gallop kicking at each other instead: carefree just beyond their majority and expectant of nothing more or less than this lukewarm paradise promised to them.

Only Makalaure, laughing, carries on dancing alone. He countervails his brothers’ happy warfare with defiant grace. A twist of his wrist, fingers upturned in invitation, and swift soundless steps, he entices the breeze.

He entices the breeze. 

And the breeze, enticed, curls in on him; it twists into his hair and swifts around his waist with a lover’s persuasion. Just there under its current, the suggestion of a gale: howling, hard-hearted.

And the breeze pulls.

Makalaure feels the pull. He halts and whirls around, the smile on his lips dying as he looks toward the vacant alleyways and doorsteps.

Maitimo and Carnistir take his hands again; they dance him away before he can wonder.

III.

It begins with a chime. 

The faint peal, spectral and displaced in Makalaure’s bedchamber, stills his composing.

Quill in hand and oud reclining across his crossed legs, he frowns down at the parchment as he listens. He holds his breath to better hear the tone and intuit its meaning.

He glances about his chamber. 

When he turns to his bed, he finds a jagged shadow sitting upon it. 

He quails back; the oud upsets from his lap and thuds against the carpet.

Such a dark. It rests in the way of a thing that has been biding its time.

“Do you know me, child of Fëanáro?” asks the shadow in a many-throated voice felt before heard. 

When heard, rich as velvet, beautified for Eldarin ears.

Makalaurë ducks his head against the sound, his eyes rapidly scanning his parchment and the polished oud as though to glean a means of escape.

Melkor’s voice is beautified for Eldarin ears, but it is not beautiful.

— Makalaurë’s voice is beautiful.

Melkor’s voice is —

The shadow moves to stand before Makalaurë, a penumbra stretching before his eyes.

Ruinous, Makalaurë distantly recognizes.

“Do you know me?” Makalaurë returns then, his voice level to counter the apprehension evident in the set of his shoulders. “Do you know my name? Or indeed is Fëanáro and his ire what you would seek, imposing so upon his house?”

A bright grin slices through the shadow.

“You have the wrong chambers,” Makalaure finishes, clipped.

“Impetuous are raised Feanaro’s sons,” arrives the low voice, accented with a moribund tongue. Makalaure shivers again to hear it; he slips his hands inside his robe’s sleeves to smooth at his arms. “Comforted by the futility of their lot, emboldened by the clutch of their captivity.”

Makalaure glances toward his door, meaning to depart, to hurry from his wing of the compound and call for his brothers. And yet he stays seated, cogitating on the divinity’s words so akin to his father’s. The similarity compels his cautious eyes to return to the Vala.

Fair-minded as is Eldarin wont, he responds to the familiarity with a pale hue of due respect for a Vala: “So what is it, then, that Melkor would request of Feanaro’s son?” 

“Fair is the second son of Feanaro,” Melkor speaks, “with his rare gift.”

Is it worship to share a gift?

“A song from his commanding lips.”

Makalaure grasps for his oud’s unfretted throat and straightens his back, immediately assuming a performer’s bearing even as incredulity creases his brow.

“A song.” He hesitates. “Want of a song compelled you all this way to my chambers?”

A rippling silence impresses upon the space they make between themselves.

“I do not understand.”

Such a dark. A dark new to him; for all Makalaure’s words, eluding description. He blinks into it.

“Which song would please you, Lord Melkor?”

“A song none but mine ears shall hear.”

Makalaure pauses again before he blinks down to his writing. He pages back the parchment once, twice, to where a composition’s scrawl trails into blank eggshell white, unfinished. With his eagle quill pick, he coaxes the oud’s coupled strings into a tentative rhythm. “I can offer you naught but a draft, then.”

When he drifts into singing, the wash of sweet words clear his uncertainty; they build a shelter from apprehension. Comfortable for now, commanding for now, he sings of silver inside the rock and silver from the Tree. Silver of the chattering runnels and silver of the fish that glimmer therein.

Of serenity he sings, the serenity of Valinor: all he knows.

And yet, while the words tide through well-trod sentiments, Makalaure still smiles through the sequence of satisfactions.

Telperion’s light winding through unbound hair; the silken shadows caressing fair faces.

The silken shadows caress fair faces.

Melkor smiles.

An oud string snaps.

The bleak twang rattles Makalaure out of his performance. He starts and clutches at his oud like a child he would comfort. “I am sorry,” he murmurs, distracted, “I have never known these strings to give — “

“Thy voice is the fairest in Aman, son of Feanaro,” Melkor intones again, a deep twist of sound. And suddenly he is crouched before Makalaure upon the floor, having closed in with such immediacy that Makalaure takes a moment to react to Melkor’s visage — a little intake of air — now freed of darkness and distance. Melkor is handsome, and  and unnavigable as a cliff’s sheer stone face.

Slowly, Makalaure draws up his knees around his oud, the hair on the back of his neck prickling. “You humble me,” he responds. He glances away from Melkor to guide the Vala’s attention to where Melkor’s flower, wilted now, rests on his writing desk. It had blackened away quickly upon its arrival at Feanaro’s house, insult for an insult.

“More sweetly I would reward thee, second son.”

Makalaure’s fingers press against his broken string. They look at each other.

A knock at his door. Makalaure turns to it furtively. “Yes?” he calls.

“Me,” Maitimo announces through the oak.

Makalaure looks back to Melkor. 

He finds himself alone in his bedchamber. 

His shoulders slump — an exhale — a tension untying. An emptiness that would leave him questioning if he had ever been anything but alone in this place.

He feels at the snapped string in his hand, considering.

Then he swiftly moves the oud out of sight, as though a shame he would hide.

[gemmahale]

Talk Shop Tuesday (9/10/2024)

Changing the format for this one, because I can. Gearing this more toward writers, but readers, feel free to chime in (sub reading for writing, etc.)

Questions:

How do you determine what POV to use for your stories?

Do you have a preferred POV to write in? Why?

If you're writing a character study, do you ever swap to external POV's? Do you find that valuable?

Other thoughts on writing and POV's and voices as you wish to expound upon them are obviously welcome.

Feel free to reblog this post with your answers, or drop me a line in my ask box! (I'll tag it with #Talk Shop Tuesday.)

[frownyalfred]

tips for starting out writing fics?

i honestly don’t have that much writing experience but am also a perfectionist unfortunately and know i'll criticize whatever I write. i know the only way to improve is to actually write so any tips for starting out are appreciated 🙏

Hey anon! I totally understand where you're coming from. Us writers can be so hard on ourselves when our writing doesn't come out perfect.

My usual tips for getting started with writing are below. Take them with a grain of salt, I am just a lowly fic writer, but I did complete a BA in a writing-intensive field and was a journalist for a few years, actually.

Write as frequently as you can. Even if it's just short snippets or quotes. I like to write dialogue ideas down on the treadmill sometimes.

Let others engage with your writing. Ask friends to look over drafts (shoutout to my love @musicalgirl4474) and post your fics, even if they're not perfect! Letting things sit unseen does your writing a disservice, even if it feels better.

Read as much as you can. Read fics in your fandom, and from authors whose writing style you enjoy. Figure out what they're doing that you like -- is it the pacing? The humor?

Write what you want to read. This is the best motivation, in my opinion. If you can write a summary for your fic that you would click on instantly as a reader, you're doing something right.

Don't let perfect be the enemy of good. Spelling mistakes happen, even in published novels. So do characterization errors or plot holes. Even if you spent 40 hours on a single fic, it still won't be perfect. But it can definitely be good, or even great!

Engage with other writers. Join some discord groups with other authors! Reply to tumblr posts about writing. Discuss your fic ideas with fellow writers.

Remember: You do this for free. Improving your writing can often be a full time job. Hell, actual writing is a full-time job. If you need to take a break, or step back, that's okay! Comments, kudos, praise and criticism are all optional. You don't have to agree with anyone, or change anything about your writing if you don't want to.

Comparison is the theft of joy. Don't spend time looking at ratios, or comparing yourself to bigger authors/blogs. Everyone's situation is different, and so is their writing approach.

I hope these help, anon! I am by no mean the end all, be all of writing. If anyone else wants to chime in, it's much appreciated! I'm also happy to offer any insight on what I personally do, but as I said, everyone's approach is different.