#then it becomes an anthem to her almost

[poptrashh]

making a saira playlist, having some thoughts. this is how i think saira first listens to (and loves) mitski

yes, in my mind saira is a mitski fan because i love them both.

Saira's at the records shop when she hears it for the first time.

This is the only place within 5 km that still sells old cassettes, the kind her sister used to listen to. Saira pops by sometimes to look through the stacks and see if she can find something that Roxy might like. Sometimes she'll play a cassette to her sister on her birthday, sitting in the grass, the familiar NME issue next to her.

The song starts playing with the jarring sound of an organ that catches her off guard. Then she hears a crystal clear, lyrical voice: "you're my number one, you're the one i want..."

Saira stops browsing, considers the song. It's not her kind of music. It's very theatrical, swelling at every juncture, and urgent lyrics full of desperation. The singer's voice is really strong and clear though, and the song keeps building to an almost unbearable crescendo.

It's not the stuff she usually listens to, but something about how powerful it is won't leave her.

"Ronnie, what's this?" she points in the vicinity of the speakers when she's at the counter.

"Something by Mitski, let me see which song." The store manager, who's become grudgingly fond of Saira since she's the only person who buys the old cassettes off him, peeks at the record sleeve that's next to him. "It's called geyser."

He looks up at Saira as the song eases out. "Not your usual scene but it's a good record. You want? I'll give you a solid discount."

Saira hesitates for a second. "Nah, i'm good. Thanks though."

She leaves the store with one Bikini Kill album on cassette and doesn't think anything about it.

Later that evening though, she finds herself humming the song. The music was undeniable, the artist definitely talented.

She looks up 'geyser mitski' on her phone and plays the music video. It begins with the same jarring organ and features a woman, mitski, at a very grey and stormy looking beach. Saira's eyes widen over the course of the video. The song is as powerful as she remembers it, and in the video, Mitski is throwing herself onto the muddy beach, thrashing around, digging as if to reach something. It's...visceral and raw and, Saira can't believe she's thinking it, kind of punk.

She looks up the lyrics of the song, which are presumably about a person. A quote at the bottom of the lyrics catches her attention. It's a snippet from an interview with Mitski: "I hesitate to say what the song is about because people may find it unromantic. I wrote it about music, or maybe a music career or just the ability to make music."

Saira blinks in suprise and stops short. Wait, she needs to go back and listen to the song again.

This time, the song hits saira squarely in her her heart. She gets it. There's goosebumps all over her arms as the song plays through its highest swell. Someone else feels the same way about making music like she does - like she may not be good enough but it's the only thing she can do and she will give up so many, many things for it. Saira gets it. She's also a geyser - pouring out words that thrash around in her head till they become lyrics, setting them to music, yelling them out loud for anyone who will listen. It's the only thing for her. She wishes she could tell Mitski that it's not unromantic at all. It's the most romantic thing she's ever heard. Music is their calling and they answered it.

As Saira loops the song to play once again, she thinks, 'I need to get that record tomorrow.'

xxxxxxxxxxx

just some ramblings about my favourite artist and my favourite fictional artist while i was in my 'thinking about saira' mode.

[endless-ineffabilities]

Diet Mountain Dew

chapter 2 of the National Anthem series

President Aemond Targaryen x f!reporter reader

synopsis: a reporter finds herself entangled in an affair with Aemond Targaryen, the President of Westeros.

in this chapter: In her new assignment, the reader has to immerse herself in political affairs. But will she get caught up in another kind of affair altogether?

word count: 6.5k

themes/warnings: smut! (18+), tension!, language, pining, power imbalance, infidelity, a bit of a slow burn then a decisive unravelling

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

How did you get yourself into this?

You’ve been asking yourself that question a lot lately.

You’re not sure when your job as a reporter became quite so complicated. But you had prepared yourself for hard work, for late nights and challenging deadlines. Highgarden News granted you this assignment—a high-profile, career-defining opportunity to shadow President Aemond Targaryen, as he campaigned from city to city. It was the type of assignment that could make a career, a ticket to bigger stories, bigger roles, maybe even a permanent spot in King’s Landing.

Yet here you are, two weeks into the campaign trail, and you already feel yourself slipping.

What started as an assignment became something else, something you’re almost afraid to name.

Only one news team is granted access for each region, with yours being the one assigned from The Reach. The reporters from the other regions had arrived in droves in Lannisport weeks earlier, and then now in Riverrun, trailing Aemond’s every public appearance. In each city, his campaign team organised luxurious setups, from lavish hotel suites to VIP access at his events. It was a calculated display of power and promise—a future where the country could have all the sophistication and glamour it desired, all thanks to the Targaryen name.

And you are always closest to him. You.

As you move from one city to another, you can feel it growing, that silent speculation from your colleagues. You’re special, they whisper. His favourite. His go-to for the tough questions, the tough days. 

At first, it was easy to ignore. But when Aemond singles you out in every briefing, when his publicist Margaery—almost maternal in her role as his chief handler—asks if you need anything on behalf of “the President’s office,” it gets harder to deny that connection lingering between you and him.

Every day, it’s something else: a small smile sent in your direction, a private nod, a comment to you and only you when a question gets a little too personal. It’s like he’s let you into his inner circle, and even your best friend Theon, who kindly volunteered to assist you throughout this assignment, has become more insistent in his insinuations.

And, as much as you tell yourself otherwise, you find it impossible not to watch him just as closely.

Aemond is, without a doubt, relentless. It’s as if he’s constantly at war, a one-man show of steely-eyed ambition and razor-sharp wit. He doesn’t just address his audience; he commands them. His campaign team circles him like hawks, eager to please, but he always keeps them at arm’s length, rarely indulging in their advice.

His grandfather and campaign manager, Otto Hightower, is the only one who gets close, hovering, guiding Aemond’s every move with a careful hand, though it’s clear they clash. Otto wants a puppet, someone to execute his carefully curated, well-worn tactics to keep the Targaryens in power, and Aemond… Aemond wants something else entirely.

He’s made it clear—he will not be controlled.

“I’m the one they’ll listen to,” he snaps in a rare, private argument you overhear in the hotel corridor one evening. You can almost feel the electric charge in his voice, the tightly controlled anger that lingers beneath the surface. He’s too smart, too keenly aware of his image to lash out publicly, but in these quiet moments, the crack in his polished exterior shows.

“And you’ll destroy your own campaign if you keep refusing to listen,” Otto fires back, with a ferocity that is reserved for his grandson, not the President. “You think they care about you? They want to see power preserved, to see someone they can trust and control—”

“They trust me,” Aemond interrupts, his voice a low, cutting whisper. “And I won’t be controlled by you, or anyone else.”

There’s a silence after that, and you find yourself stepping back, pressing against the hallway wall, your heartbeat spiking as you try to blend into the shadows.

Otto’s voice drops to a chilling calm. “You’d do well to remember, Aemond, that being president means knowing when to bend.”

But Aemond doesn’t bend. Not for anyone.

He finds you, always. In each press briefing, his attention always seems to land on you, pulling you into his orbit whether you want it or not. Because no matter how you deem it to be—inappropriate, overwhelming, distracting—he’s simply too intoxicating.

He relies on you—most of the time only you—when he’s tired, frustrated, or just seeking a confidante. With each private moment, each conversation, the promise you made to yourself of keeping things professional grows weaker and weaker. 

The occasional brush of his hand on your hips or on the small of your back as if letting you know that he’s got you, that he’s there, is nearly enough to get you to break.

And then, there’s the pen incident.

In an afternoon meeting, a few people from his inner circle gathered around, including Margaery, Theon, and Aemond’s loyal security guards, Steve and James. You’re taking notes, barely listening to the endless back-and-forth about strategic points in the city that will “swing the voters,” when Aemond turns to you, breaking the hum of conversation.

“Could you grab that pen from my pocket?” he says, his voice low and casual, as if it’s the most natural request in the world.

Your hand falters, and you glance at him, wondering if you misheard. But no—he’s watching you intently, with that strange, intense expression that you can never quite read. There’s a faint curve to his mouth, a glint of challenge in his eyes. He knows you can’t refuse without drawing attention, yet his request feels deeply, absurdly personal. It feels like a dare.

Aware of the eyes on you, you slip your fingers into the front pocket of his suit jacket, which haphazardly rests on the small table beside you. You begin to suspect that he placed it there deliberately, just for this moment, and this suspicion is confirmed when your fingers brush against something unexpected—something soft, delicate, and unmistakably familiar.

Lace. Your lace panties.

Your breath catches, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks as you realise exactly what he’s done. Those were the same ones you had been missing since that night—the same night you made out in his car, crossing a line you’d sworn you’d never approach.

His gaze doesn’t waver, a flicker of satisfaction flashing across his face as he watches your reaction. It’s a possessive look, a reminder of that moment, of the way he had drawn you in, breaking every rule you’d set for yourself. You quickly pull your hand back, clenching the pen and clearing your throat, avoiding his gaze.

“Something wrong, angel?” he asks smoothly as he retrieves the pen from your outstretched, near-trembling hand. Oh shit. Not here, not now.

Margaery raises an eyebrow at the name, her lips twitching in amusement, and Theon, standing off to the side, looks like he’s holding back a loud, theatrical laugh. But Aemond doesn’t break, doesn’t show even a hint of embarrassment. If anything, he seems pleased, his eyes glinting with amusement as he seamlessly segues into the discussion at hand.

After the meeting, Theon doesn’t waste a second before sidling up to you, eyes glinting with barely concealed amusement. 

“Angel, huh?” He draws out the word, savouring each syllable. “Didn’t realise we’d upgraded to pet names with the Commander-in-Chief. That’s new.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Theon, don’t start.”

“Oh, but I’ve already started,” he says, all faux seriousness. “I mean, what’s next? Is he going to give you a little heart emoji in his messages? Add a winky face?”

“Don’t you have something better to do than dissect my life?”

“Normally, yes,” he replies, feigning deep thought. “But in this case? Absolutely not.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “In fact, I think I owe him a thank you for giving me endless material. And you know Margaery caught it too—she’ll have that eyebrow arched for weeks.”

“Are you done?” you sigh, but he’s relentless, clearly enjoying himself.

“Oh, honey, I’ve barely begun,” he says, leaning in as he glances around to make sure no one’s listening. “Because let’s be real. You’re not getting called angel for, what? Your groundbreaking, objective reporting?”

“Theon, what the fu—”

“Yeah, I bet he’s covering you too… literally...”

“You’re gross.”

“...with his tight body, and his thick c—”

“Okay! Okay, I get the picture!”

The next day, it becomes ever clearer that Riverrun—a critical, symbolic region—has remained steadfastly out of reach.

The Tullys, who are influential in Riverrun, have held a deep-seated mistrust toward Aemond’s family for generations. Once allies, the Tullys and Targaryens grew increasingly distant over the years, tensions flaring over each slight, each perceived grab for power by either family. Riverrun is deeply traditional, loyal to old values and wary of Aemond’s ambitious plans, which feel to them like unwelcome interference. And with Cregan Stark—Aemond’s primary rival—making calculated moves to win over the Tullys, Aemond’s approval ratings in Riverrun are slipping even further.

Cregan Stark is as adept at appealing to people’s hearts as Aemond is at appealing to their logic. With his easy smile and steady presence, Stark has positioned himself as the family man, the man who values every corner of the country and pledges to protect its heritage.

Aemond, on the other hand, is seen as a firebrand—a Targaryen not content to merely lead but determined to change, to push, to innovate. Stark’s connection to the Tullys is not just strategic; he has endeared himself to them, winning over not only the common people but Governor Edmure Tully himself, the unyielding leader who holds significant sway over Riverrun’s political landscape.

Still, Aemond persists, though his methods grow sharper and less forgiving by the day.

The morning in Riverrun is bitterly cold, as if the city itself has turned on Aemond. After his latest speech, which was met with only a polite smattering of applause, he retreats with his team to a private conference room in the hotel, his jaw clenched, his demeanour taut as he listens to Margaery brief him on the polling numbers.

“Riverrun isn’t budging,” she says, her voice hesitant but steady. “They’re not warm to us—and to be honest, Cregan Stark’s campaign is winning them over. He’s made a point to connect with the locals, attend Tully family events, visit their memorials. His team’s doing an incredible job of selling him as someone who’s part of their world.”

“Their world?” Aemond repeats, his voice laced with disdain as he leans back in his chair. “Is that supposed to mean something to me? I don’t run campaigns based on sentiment.”

“Sentiment isn’t useless,” she counters, glancing around at the team with a knowing look. “Especially not here. Riverrun values its heritage, its ties to old families. Stark’s giving them exactly what they want—a friendly face who promises stability.”

You observe him from the far side of the room, notebook in hand. You’ve been watching him closely, taking mental notes, seeing just how he ticks under pressure. And right now, his restraint is paper-thin.

Theon nudges your arm, leaning close enough to whisper, “You know he’s never going to win them over with these tactics, right? Riverrun doesn’t want what he’s selling.”

You nod slightly, acknowledging Theon’s point, but say nothing. It’s true: there’s no sense of warmth or nostalgia in Aemond’s approach. Instead, he comes off as cold and unyielding, refusing to play the game of familiarity and tradition that Riverrun adores. Stark, on the other hand, seems to step right into that world effortlessly, casting himself as the everyman with a steady hand and the charm that disarms even the most sceptical locals.

Aemond’s voice breaks your thoughts. “The Tullys can have their nostalgia, their small-minded ways. But it’s a relic of the past,” he says, a sharp edge in his tone. “I’m not here to coddle them. I’m here to bring Riverrun—and the entire country—into the future, not keep them mired in their ancestral grudges.”

Otto clears his throat, his gaze calculating as he turns toward Aemond. “If you ignore the Tullys, you risk alienating a significant power base. And frankly, this region is one you can’t afford to lose. Stark may look like an innocuous threat, but don’t underestimate him, Aemond. He’s winning because he’s using tactics that work, that make him appear… sympathetic.”

Aemond’s mouth twists, barely masking his contempt. “Sympathetic isn’t the same as capable,” he says icily, his gaze flicking to you. “But maybe the press has some insights they’d like to share?”

You feel the weight of his gaze and everyone else’s as the team shifts their attention toward you. For a moment, you hesitate, caught off guard. You meet Aemond’s intense stare and try to keep your response measured. “Cregan Stark’s strategy here seems to be focusing on shared values,” you say slowly, choosing each word with care. “He’s connecting with people on a personal level. He’s convincing them that he’s one of them, someone who understands them. And while you’re pushing for change, they may not feel ready for it… or see the need.”

Aemond’s eyes narrow, his expression unreadable as he takes in your words. “So you’re saying I should be more like Stark?” he asks, his voice carrying an edge that raises goosebumps along your arms.

“No, not exactly. But it might help if you met them where they are before asking them to follow you somewhere else. Sometimes, people need to feel seen before they’re willing to listen.”

His expression tightens, and for a second, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he lets out a low, humourless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do nostalgia tours,” he says finally, his voice low. “I’ve already won once before, that’s why I’m sitting here. They still don’t know who I really am? Fine. I’ll show them. But I’m not going to beg them to like me.” 

It doesn’t take long before he dismisses the team, instructing them to meet later in the evening for the next round of campaign preparations. Everyone files out of the room in a silence that feels heavier than it should, but you’ve only just stood from your seat when he commands, “Stay.”

You look around, and it is only Margaery and Theon left in the room, but they barely pause on their way to the doors, communicating their understanding that Aemond pertains to you. They’re used to it by now. 

“So,” he says, his voice smoother and more level than mere moments ago, “we’re here, angel. Riverrun.” He’s perched on the front edge of his desk—his usual spot, whenever he calls you in for a word.

You only emit a noncommittal hum, legs crossed as you sit on the chair in front of him. A small act of defiance because he continues to ignore your request for him to stop calling you angel. Never mind that there is no one else within earshot at the moment, save for Steve and James patrolling the hallway outside. 

“Nothing to say…” he posits the question, and you quickly jump into a response.

“Well, there is—”

But then he adds, purposefully cutting through at that moment to catch you off guard, with the slyest of smirks gracing his lips. “...angel?”

You sigh in defeat. “I told you—”

“Not to call you angel, I know, I know.” He waves a hand dismissively, and you know he’s just going to disregard the repetition of your plea. “But it’s the only name that feels right. That or… I don’t know… Baby? Sweetheart?”

Mortified, you look away from him, scanning the view outside the windows and ignoring the warmth you felt from hearing baby roll smoothly off his tongue. “None of those, Aemond, please. You know what, nevermind.”

He carries on, laughter still evident in his voice. “Tell me, are the people here in Riverrun right to be sceptical of me?”

“They’re wary, yes,” you admit, choosing your words carefully. “You’re a Targaryen; the older generation still remembers your family’s history. Frankly, many of them are wondering if you’re actually here for them or if you’re just trying to settle old scores. It also doesn’t help that Cregan Stark has endeared himself to the Tullys, and if he has their endorsement—”

“Then I’ve lost Riverrun,” Aemond states, his eyes darkening at the possibility, but he doesn’t lose his composure. Or if he feels the slightest hint of worry, he doesn’t let it show. If anything, he’s much calmer now, with just the two of you in the room, as opposed to when he was surrounded by his team. “And what do you think?”

“Well, the Tullys—”

“No,” he clarifies sharply. “What do you think of me?”

He stands perfectly still, all of his focus directed at you. Your stomach twists with the sudden intimacy of his question, but you meet his gaze, refusing to back down. 

“I think you’re ambitious. Smart, ruthless when you need to be. But I also think you haven’t shown enough respect to the values of tradition and ancestral heritage. It’s clear in how you talk about the opposition, how you dismiss their concerns. People feel that.”

His jaw clenches, a flash of anger in his eyes. “I dismiss what doesn’t matter,” he says coldly. “I’m not here to appease everyone, nor to waste time on people who aren’t willing to listen. I’m here to make real changes.”

“You’re here to secure your legacy, Aemond,” you counter, unable to hold back the accusation. “It’s about power as much as it is about the people. Maybe more.”

The air becomes charged, and his stony mask almost falls to give way to surprise. You’re willing to wager that no one in your position has ever spoken so directly to him before. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve crossed a line. But then his lips curl into a smirk, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“Perhaps it’s both, angel,” he concedes, surprising you. “But ambition isn’t a sin, you know. Everyone in this room wants something out of this campaign.” He gives you a pointed look, as if daring you to argue.

You’re unsure whether to feel guilty of the truth he’s pertaining to. You did accept this position because of the prestige that it offers, the way it can doubtlessly do wonders for the trajectory of your career. And only that… right?

Aemond can’t have been a motivation, no matter how strong his pull is. No matter how often you have imagined that it were his fingers, in the place of yours, stroking your wet folds before you fall asleep.  

You cross your arms, standing your ground. “There’s ambition, and then there’s ruthlessness. People don’t trust a man who’ll do whatever it takes to win. They need to believe you’ll put them first.”

His expression shifts, something flickering in his eyes that you can’t quite read. He crosses the space between you with slow, measured steps until he’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, and he plants his hands on the armrest of your seat, caging you in.

“And what about you, my angel?” he asks, voice low, his gaze intense. “Do you trust me?”

Your breath catches, his proximity affecting you more than you’d care to admit. His hand brushes against your arm, featherlike and tantalising, and you feel your resolve hanging on by a thread. How soon until you surrender another pair of your lace panties to be his salacious keepsake?

“I trust you to be who you are,” you say quietly. “The question is whether that’s enough.”

He lets out a long sigh, his gaze softening, and for a moment, you  see a glimpse of something more—a vulnerability hidden beneath the polished veneer of the aspiring president. He watches you with a strange intensity, as though he’s trying to read your every thought.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “We both know how to play the game.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you force yourself to look away, breaking the spell. You know the price of getting too close, of letting yourself get sucked into his orbit. It would be so easy to lean into him, to let yourself be caught up in his ambition, but you can’t afford to lose yourself.

“I’m just here for the story,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel. But even as you say it, you know it’s a lie.

“Go ahead then, say it,” he murmurs, coaxing you. His gaze is trained on you, hard yet unmistakably interested. “Tell me how I’m arrogant, tell me how you don’t need this job, don’t need me,” he taunts, but his eyes betray him—they’re daring you, almost pleading, though he’d never admit it.

You hold your ground, refusing to let his words twist your resolve. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” you retort, but the bite in your voice only seems to amuse him. The corner of his mouth curves, barely a smile, yet somehow even more alluring than a full one. 

He leans closer, his scent enveloping you—something fresh and faintly musky, muddled by the thick aroma of premium-grade cigars. “Then why don’t you walk away?” he asks, as though he already knows the answer. “Are you still here because of your job?” he murmurs, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Or maybe… you enjoy this.”

Your words falter, caught in your throat. Because you don’t want to lie. Not here, not with his gaze stripping away every pretense, every defense you’ve carefully held between you.

He reads it on your face before you can speak, and it emboldens him. His fingers trail up your arm, over the thin material of your white blouse, and his touch is maddening. His hand moves to cup your face, and the tenderness in the gesture is an almost unbearable contrast to the edge in his voice.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers, daring you.

You can’t. And in the silence, he makes his move.

Without warning, his mouth is on yours, fierce and unyielding, a kiss that speaks volumes about everything you’ve both left unsaid. The world blurs, narrows down to the way his hands move against your back, the press of his lips on yours. Every nerve, every inch of you feels ignited, drawn helplessly toward him.

Aemond pulls you from your seat, carrying you to his expansive desk without much effort. He sweeps an arm across the desk, papers and official documents scattering to the floor, pens clattering with a reckless abandon he rarely lets show. For once, the President’s carefully curated world is disrupted—by you.

Your ass slides along the smooth surface, his arms bracing at your sides. And even as you resist, pressing your palms against his chest in some futile attempt at defiance, he only pulls you closer, responding with a hunger that’s every bit as intense as his usual restraint. 

Aemond steps back just enough to tug his tie loose, letting it fall to the desk before undoing the buttons of his shirt, each one revealing more of the hard lines of his chest. When he finally shrugs the shirt off, he returns to you, his hands trailing down your thighs, his touch firm, almost searing.

“You don’t want to leave,” he breathes against your lips, his voice roughened by need. His mouth traces a path along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Tell me you do, angel, and I’ll let you go.”

Your lips part, but no words come, just a breath that’s half sigh, half surrender. And the truth is, you don’t want to. Not even close.

He pulls back to catch your gaze, the weight of his stare laden with desire. “You understand what this means, don’t you?” he asks, his voice thick with urgency. 

“Wh-what does it mean?”

His mouth curls into a sly smile, one that’s both playful and predatory. “It means you’re all mine, angel,” he declares. 

Before you can respond, he lowers his mouth to your neck, trailing soft, heated kisses along the sensitive skin. 

“Do you know how much I’ve craved this?” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve fought every part of myself to keep this professional, as you wished. But every time you look at me, I can’t help but want more.”

His fingers trace along the zipper of your pencil skirt, and as he slowly pulls it off, his eyes stay locked on yours. When the skirt falls away, followed by your blouse, and finally, your undergarments, he leans back, taking in the sight of you with unabashed greed. For a brief second, his gaze softens, a look of admiration flashing across his face, before his jaw tightens and he regains his control. 

He tugs at your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist, and as you obey, your body instinctively pulls him closer, pressing against him. You can feel the hard length of him against your core, and a soft moan escapes your lips as he grinds against you.

His fingers dig into your flesh as he rocks his hips into yours, so firmly that his signet ring is sure to make its marking. You arch your back, pushing against him, craving the friction, the connection, the release that feels just within reach. “Aemond,” you manage to gasp, the sound barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Oh yeah, baby? Shouldn’t… Or wouldn’t?” He knows exactly how to push you, and he revels in it, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Shouldn’t,” you decide, feeling emboldened.

“Good,” he growls, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. He captures your lips once again, and you can taste the desperation in his kiss, a hunger that ignites something primal inside you.

In a sudden movement, he grips your waist and lifts you off the desk, his strength almost overwhelming. He turns you around, pressing you down against the cool surface, your cheek brushing against the scattered papers and pens, the remnants of his work now a forgotten afterthought. He holds you there, his body cocooning you, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, the way he’s anchored in the moment, unyielding in his intent.

You hear the rattling of his belt buckle as he hurriedly shimmies off his suit trousers, until he’s left as naked as the day he was born. The fucking President, in all his glory, his glistening cock fully erect as if saluting the bastard it belongs to. 

You can’t help but gasp as he positions himself behind you, his tip propped against your ass. His hands roam your body, gliding over the curves of your hips, the swell of your thighs, and you shudder when he trails his index finger along your slick folds, prepping your hole for entry. The thrill of being so exposed, so completely vulnerable before him, only makes you feel hotter.

Aemond leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Are you ready for me, angel?” he asks, the question hanging heavy in the air, thick with implication.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, feeling the undeniable chemistry that crackles between you. “Yes,” you whisper, and the admission feels like a declaration.

And with that, he pushes himself inside you, entering you with a powerful thrust that steals the breath from your lungs. You gasp at the sensation, a mix of pain and pleasure that ignites every nerve ending in your body. The desk creaks beneath you as he moves, holding you tightly, anchoring you against him as he finds a rhythm that’s both unforgiving and intoxicating.

You push back against him, matching his rhythm, letting the heat and pleasure wash over you in waves. Every thrust sends sparks racing through your body, and you can’t help but moan, the sound echoing off the walls, mingling with the soft, urgent sounds of skin against skin.

“Uhh, yeah, baby, just like that,” he growls. “Let me take you—”

Your body responds instinctively, tightening around him, drawing him deeper, and you feel the rush of euphoria just within reach.

“Aghhh… please, please!” you gasp, your words bordering on desperate, a testament to the need coursing through you.

He grips your hips, urging you to meet him, to give in to the wild abandon of the moment. “Not yet,” he snaps harshly, but the smirk on his lips betrays the pleasure he finds in your desperation.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to change positions, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he lifts you up, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist. In a fluid motion, he shifts you both, and he climbs atop the desk so that he has you in missionary, your body flat against the cool surface. 

He thrusts into you again, even deeper this time, the sensation overwhelming as he fills you completely.

As he looks down at you, the image of your flushed cheeks, beautifully fucked expression, and the way his name rolls off your tongue in sensual mewls loops in his mind, each time with a sharper pang of satisfaction.

“Look at me,” he growls, gripping your jaw when your head flops to the side. He demands your eyes—he wants to peer into your soul when you finally crumble. “Look at me when you fall apart, baby. I want to see you unravel.”

“Aemond, fuck yes—” He sees you give in, eyelids fluttering as you obey. He likes being in control, but having you like this might be enough to make this part of him fray. Just say the word and he’s yours. You’ll be the only one who can command the Commander-in-Chief.

“Oh, my angel,” he purrs, a sensual melody that is soft and rough all the same, as he stretches you with his girth and brings you to ecstasy with every roll of his hips. “My beautiful, beautiful angel. You like this, don’t you? You like when I take your body like this? You’re so fucking hot, baby…”

“Yeah, yeah… I fucking love it—”

“You’re gonna love me,” he murmurs, his tone dropping to an intimate hush. “I’ll make sure of it.” 

You’re gonna love him. Whatever the president wants, the president gets. 

“Yes, yes, yes—”

Aemond thinks of making you swear it. To promise that you will love him. Perhaps, if you say it in an official capacity—under oath, for instance—you’d actually fall in love with him for fear of perjury. It’s a childish thought, but he considers it, and mulls it over with as much seriousness as he does the labour policy frameworks Criston is proposing.

He can make you do it. He wants to. 

Please, please, angel. 

“You mean it, baby?” Aemond asks you, not minding that your pupils are blown out from sheer pleasure and your mind is probably going haywire. “You swear you’ll love me?”

Your lips quiver around a gasp as the swollen mushroom tip of his cock drives roughly into your g-spot, the whites of your eyes visible as they roll to the back of your head. “Whatever you want, Aemond.”

You said it. So he has you now. No takebacks.

He sits back, eyes glued to your writhing figure from above, lording over you like you’re his most prized possession. He takes one hand and uses it to lift your hips, raising your pelvis a few inches off the mattress, while his other hand comes to rest firmly on your lower belly, pressing on your flesh as if sensing his cock buried within. He feels it all—from the outside, the outline of his pulsating length sliding in and out of your core, and inside, your walls clenching on instinct when he slams deep. 

The ruthlessness in his gaze spurs you on, as well as how he handles your body, positioning you right where he wants you. His angel, in the perfect angle, a vision as he hits the right spot with every wet-sounding squelch. Your glistening juices coat his cock, and he has to keep himself from bending down and drinking them all up from you. It’s an exercise of willpower to resist sucking your folds and licking every bit of the sticky, tangy moisture. All his, just as you’re all his to eat, to devour.

But that’s for afterward. Now he has to cum in you first, and decorate your insides with his seed. May the gods bless Westeros, his constituents all recite. 

But nothing compares to you. The gods don’t hold a candle to your light.

There is only his angel, taking his cock so well like a good girl, like a good little slut.

“I’ll fill you up, angel,” he murmurs, his voice rough and dripping with lust. “Give you everything I have. Bless you with every bit of my fucking… patriotism.”

“Fuck yes, Sir,” you whine helplessly. He is so gone.

“Oh, my angel is so needy, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Sir… need you so much…”

“So mouthy, baby,” he says proudly, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. “Are you going to sound this pornographic in the morning? Ask me… ask me how I like my pussy in an interview?”

You reach for him as you sweetly giggle at his words, your fingers curling at the back of his neck as you pull him down for a kiss that’s hot, messy, and all-consuming. He moans in your mouth, looking at you all cunt-drunk with heavy-lidded eyes. 

You trace his jaw as you attempt to come up with something coherent. “That’s—” Slam. He slows his pace, punctuating your words with rough thrusts that take your breath away. “—a good question—” Pound. “—Sir.” Plunge. “So… how do you like your pussy, Mr. President?”

He laughs. Now that’s one question he could get used to hearing more often. But only if it’s from you.

“Hmm.” He curls his lips, pretending to consider while caressing your face. “Let me see… I like my pussy… wet, tight, and completely fucking yours.”

“Good answer.”

“Warm around my cock… just like this.” His aforementioned member twitches as it massages your inner walls, and it feels so good when you tighten around him, that he has to bite his lip to restrain from letting out a feral growl.

“—s’that so?”

“Yeah, angel,” he smirks, reaching down to flick your aching bud. “You see, it’s gotta be on this body right here.”

“Sure,” you say in mock defiance. “Bet you tell that to all your women.”

“No,” he breathes, his roguish smirk in place, “only the journalists.”

With an indignant whine, you slap his chest. “You ass!” Your voice is light, full of warmth, and it prompts him to make a face at you, pulling the corners of his lips downward. Your laughter echoes freely, and something in him switches, as if he’s been disarmed. 

He lets his forehead rest against yours. He knows he’s teetering on a precipice of something he won’t be able to pull back from, but he feels like jumping into the void if it means being with you. “Are you calling your president an ass? My, my, angel, that could be a felony,” he teases, his brows quirking. 

“What, are you going to send me away?”

Aemond’s expression hardens for a moment. “Not a chance.”

He increases his pace again, his hips blurring in the motion. The two of you desperately chase your climax, settling in an unforgiving rhythm—your ankles suspended in the air with your legs spread wide, him ducking down to suck your tit or bite along your jawline, his balls grazing the flesh of your ass. 

When the moment overtakes you, his grip tightens, an unspoken command, and you give in, your whole body quivering underneath him. He follows you over the edge, groaning deeply as he reaches his own release, warmth spilling into you as he involuntarily shudders. His breathing is heavy against your skin when he finally collapses beside you, his arm slipping around your shoulders, holding you close as the last ripples of pleasure fade.

“You know, if I’d known what it would take to get that fire out of you,” he murmurs with a smirk, “we’d have done this sooner.”

You raise a brow, playfully challenging. “Assuming, of course, I’m even coming back after this.”

Aemond rolls his eyes, drawing you even closer, but there’s a hint of vulnerability lingering there.

His forehead presses against yours, and his pulse steadies as he allows himself a moment of closeness, a silent confession. "Stay with me," he whispers, and he is suddenly stripped bare, because the words slipped out without his permission.

“Aemond—”

“I don’t want you going anywhere, okay?” Though his words are possessive, there’s a plea just beneath the surface.

You don’t answer with words; instead, you let your hand reach up to cradle his face, thumb brushing the faint scar underneath his ghost-white prosthetic.

And he deems it more than enough.

The next morning dawns bright and unyielding, the weight of Aemond’s words lingering in your mind, but you’re determined to focus on the task at hand, burying yourself in notes and strategies for the day’s events.

But your sense of composure shatters, when you’re met with the imposing figure of Floris Baratheon, the First Lady herself. She glides toward you under the harsh lighting of the hotel lobby, impeccably dressed in a tailored fuschia suit that speaks of authority and sophistication, her presence commanding the room’s attention. 

“So, you’re the flavour of the month,” she says, a mocking lilt colouring her voice. “I’ve… heard about you. Honestly, I was expecting more.”

You straighten, feigning confidence despite the nervous flutter in your stomach. “I’m here for the campaign coverage, ma'am,” you reply, keeping your tone professional, but she’s not having any of it.

Her eyes dance with cruel amusement. “How quaint. Must be quite the thrill, getting special treatment from the President himself. Access like that must mean you’re more than just another reporter. Just a passing phase, I’m sure. A little distraction to help him cope with all this pressure.”

You bristle at her insinuation, indignation rising within you, along with the inevitable shame. “I’m just doing my job.”

She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let me give you a word of advice—don’t get too comfortable. My dearest husband has a habit of moving on when the novelty wears off.”

The venom in her words strikes a nerve, and you’re struck speechless, searching for a retort that won’t come off as surprised or defensive—and finding none.

Floris laughs at your expression, a cold, biting sound that sends a chill down your spine. “You know, you’re not the first ‘angel’ Aemond has forcibly inserted into our marriage, and I assume you certainly won’t be the last.”

With that, she flicks her hair over her shoulder and walks away, but she glances back one last time, adding, “Enjoy your little fling, angel.”

a/n: and so it officially begins! It's going to be tough out here for our girl, getting involved with a married man. The fucking President, at that! Oh well. As long as she doesn't fall in love. Let me know what yous anticipate from the story (apart from even more filth that's sure to come) 🤍🤍🤍

Vhagar taglist

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[b14augrana]

The Death Of You

The pursuit to being the greatest of all time comes above everything, including your health

Barça Femení x reader

masterlist

Warnings: slight overshadowing of injury

A/N: edited this author’s note way too many times buttttttt im not making a pt 2 of this because its just a silly little blurb that’s been rotting in my drafts and thats i wanna say okay thanks enjooooyyyyy

“When you think of passion, you think of someone that does anything for their club, and that’s (Y/N). The blaugrana is everything to her, and it is a part of her. She puts the badge before herself, and all she emits, all they admire of her, everything she represents, is Barça.

(Y/N) is Barça, Barça is (Y/N)” — Mapi León.

For Barça, you would give your life. You have put your body on the line and taken the hits until your skin turns the colours of the jersey you truly believe you’ll die in.

It’s what your mother says will eventually kill you. Going down with the jersey, for the jersey, your love for the greatest club in the world coming before all. It’s proof, almost, that Barcelona is so great, it’s worth dying for.

But, the funny thing is, you hadn’t loved living in Barcelona growing up. In fact, you hated everything about it. It felt like an asylum or some sort of confinement where the only things left to stare at are the four walls you’re enclosed by, except, those four walls were littered with posters of men you constantly watched play at the stadium of your dreams, and the only thing that made staring at those four walls so much of a punishment is the fact you were a girl and there was no such thing as a woman footballer.

You had shitty friends to remind you of that every single time they caught you stopping in the street (though you don’t even stop, your foot just drags along the ground a bit slower than usual) just to take a closer look at a mural of some Barça legend.

You hated living in Barcelona because you had nobody on your side that believed there was a place for you or any other woman behind the huge, towering walls of Camp Nou.

Barcelona went from being an asylum to a garden that was nurtured with every match played and goal scored, a title or medal sprouting from the buds of every stem and bush.

You would die for Barcelona. Hell was worth living through, for Barcelona, just to feel whatever emotion devoured you when you step out to a full stadium in the famous blue and garnet.

You want to be the best. That comes above everything — there is no point in devoting your life to something if you’re not going to be the best at it, and you had given more than what was required for Barça.

What you also want is to create a legacy not only for yourself, but the club as well, one title at a time. A legacy associated with winning, and being the greatest of all time. The last thing you need to implement this reputation? The Champions League.

You take in the stadium, the raindrop-covered grass, the noise. That headache inducing noise, caused by the record attendance in the stadium. The headache inducing noise that, when you focus on it, begins to become coherent and recognisable as the Barcelona anthem. With every step closer to the pitch, you find it harder to pay attention to anything around you, and the anxiety in your stomach is more apparent than ever before.

You kill the period of time between exiting the tunnel and finding your place on the field by warming up (or in other words, doing whatever you can to shake the nerves). You step out onto the pitch and feel the pinch of the cold wind which, for some reason, elicits an epiphany; the only thing separating you and that trophy is these 90 minutes.

Those 90 minutes drag on. Pass after pass, unsuccessful dribble after unsuccessful dribble, you’re not getting any closer to the goal but you can’t feel disheartened or unmotivated because all you have is 90 minutes. Everything can change in 90 minutes.

Everything does change. You don’t know how it happened, or who passed you the ball, or whether you even called for it, but you had it and you were moving quickly with it. Managing to glide past Renard, leaving her behind you to grapple at your jersey hopelessly, you find yourself up against Endler on your own.

Although there are 20 other players on the pitch, discarded behind you, it feels like it’s just you and Endler in an empty stadium. The goal looks bigger than it should be as your foot swings down onto the ball, and the raucous noise of the stadium can only intensify when the ball just misses the tip of Endler’s glove and meets the back of the net.

It is hard to ignore the unfamiliar discomfort in your knee, but you do it anyways. You run off to celebrate and don’t pay it another thought. You don’t mention it to anyone amidst the celebrations because how could you possibly ruin this moment, and it’s basically gone by the time you return to the midfield.

For a moment, there's hope. Your goal sparks new light into the eyes of your teammates. One golden boot shines brighter than a golden glove and there's a connection between your foot and the ball that just makes sense, and it's put away in the back of the net.

But when the ball starts rolling again and it meets the feet of Van de Donk, you realise 1 goal isn't enough.

No, it's like hanging off the edge of a cliff, fingers clawing for whatever jagged edge of a rock they can reach, clinging onto the little thing you have keeping you up. But with every minute, every intercepted pass, missed or deflected shots, the cliffside is crumbling.

Lyon is an exceptional team. That's why they manage to put one past Sandra, and you're back to square one. Your mind, drunk on pride, pushes you to do more, to give more. Your body feels like it can't possibly give anything more, yet you still run up and down the pitch without slowing down once and you throw yourself at the ball every time you find the opportunity.

It’s what your mother says will eventually kill you.

So it does, internally. When the final whistle pierces your ears and the minority of Lyon fans in the crowd burst into cheers, it kills you, because you would die for this club and it hurts to come so close but fall short.

The winning legacy you were so close to completing, was now tainted by your failure to actually win.

Your knee also hurts. A lot.

You lie down on the pitch, its soggy and uneven surface being the only comfort you have in this place where everywhere you look, there are reminders that you’re not good enough. The more you think about all the sacrifices and things you put on the line for this title, you wonder, ‘When’s it gonna be my turn?’

Disappointed fans filing out of the exits, your teammates surrounding you trying to hold in their tears, the dancing and celebrating from Lyon.

The sound of sniffles can be heard from beside you, and you roll over to see Mapi, her eyes bloodshot and her cheeks dusted with patches of red.

As you line up to receive your medal, you don’t even want to wear it. Silver will never be better than gold, there’s nothing good about being second to best, being outperformed is nothing to be proud of. But you still keep the medal on.

You hang your head and look away from the winner’s stage, because your heart is too sore to take in the fact that would’ve, could’ve, should’ve been you.

‘When’s it gonna be my turn?’

[lvnleah]

opposite sides | lotte wubben-moy.

The goodbye was harder than you’d expected. Lotte’s arms were wrapped around your waist, her face buried in your shoulder as you stood in the doorway of your shared flat. It wasn’t unusual for you both to leave for international duty, but this time was different. This time, when you stepped onto the pitch, she wouldn’t be beside you—she’d be across from you.

“I’ll miss you,” she whispered, her voice quieter than usual, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. Nerves, maybe. Sadness.

“I’ll miss you too,” you murmured, tightening your hold on her. You wanted to stay like this, to freeze this moment and avoid the inevitable. But the car waiting outside wasn’t going to wait forever, and the next time you’d see her, it would be at Wembley, in different kits, with thousands of fans screaming.

When she finally pulled back, “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“No matter what happens on Friday, we’re still us.”

Her words made your chest tighten, and you nodded, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. “Always.”

You and Lotte had been dating for just over a year, you’d met in college at UNC and had been best friends ever since. A year ago you decided to take the plunge and see what it would be like dating after you both confessed your feelings for each other. 

Lotte had been playing for the England squad for a while now whereas you’d only just started getting call-ups recently. You’d had a few call-ups here and there but it wasn’t until Emma Hayes took charge that they started to become regular. 

This international break you and Lotte were facing each other for the first time. You’d played together for a while at Arsenal but never against each other so it all felt new for you both. 

The days leading up to the match were tense. You’d agreed not to talk while you were in camp, not because you didn’t want to, but because it felt easier that way. No distractions, no awkward conversations about what was coming. But you couldn’t help it—every time you saw her name pop up in an article or her face in an interview, your heart ached.

By the time match day rolled around, the nerves had turned into a buzzing kind of energy. Wembley was packed, the atmosphere electric, and as you lined up for the anthem, your eyes couldn’t help but drift toward Lotte on the bench. She was focused, her gaze straight ahead, but you knew her well enough to see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curled and uncurled at her sides.

The match itself was a battle. Both teams were relentless, and despite the chances on both ends, neither side managed to find the back of the net. You found yourself looking for Lotte more often than you’d expected, and every time your eyes met hers, there was a flicker of something unspoken—an apology, maybe, or a reminder that this was just football, not personal. But in those ninety minutes, it was impossible to think of her as anything other than your opponent.

When the final whistle blew, signalling a 0-0 draw, you felt a mixture of relief and exhaustion wash over you. You stayed on the pitch for a moment, catching your breath, before making your way toward Lotte. She was already looking for you, her expression softening as you approached.

“You okay?�� she asked, her voice barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

You nodded, giving her a small smile. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The rest could wait.

Later that evening, after team dinners and post-match debriefs, you found yourself outside Lotte’s hotel room. You knocked quietly, glancing down the hallway to make sure no one saw you. The door opened almost immediately, and there she was, dressed in an oversized hoodie and joggers, her hair pulled into a loose bun.

She looked at you with that familiar smile, the one that always made your chest feel lighter. Before you could say a word, she reached out, pulling you into her arms.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmured against your hair, her voice thick with emotion.

You buried your face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. “I missed you too. So much.”

The hug lingered, neither of you moving, as if letting go would break the fragile peace you’d found in each other. Finally, she pulled back, her hands still resting on your waist.

“Come in,” she said softly, stepping aside to let you into the room.

The hotel room was small and cosy, dimly lit by the bedside lamp. A pizza box sat on the desk, next to two bottles of water and an open laptop paused on the Netflix homepage. You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“Pizza and movies? Rolling out the red carpet for me, huh?”

Lotte shrugged, her smile teasing. “Hey, I know what you like. Plus, I figured it’s the least I could do since I didn’t get to play.”

You felt a pang in your chest at her words, remembering how you’d looked for her on the pitch, only to see her sitting on the bench, her warm-up bib still on. “I’m sorry, Lot. I know how much you wanted to be out there.”

She waved it off, flopping onto the bed and patting the spot next to her. “It’s football. Sometimes you play, sometimes you don’t. But tonight, I’d rather focus on you.”

You kicked off your shoes and climbed onto the bed beside her, letting her drape the thick blanket over both of you. She opened the pizza box and handed you a slice, her knee brushing against yours as you settled in.

“So,” she said, leaning back against the headboard, “how does it feel to go ninety minutes and not score against us?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “I could ask the same thing about your team. But you wouldn’t know, would you? Since you didn’t play.”

Her mock gasp made you laugh, and she reached out to lightly shove your shoulder. “Rude.”

“Truthful,” you teased, taking a bite of your pizza.

For a while, the two of you just sat there, eating and watching some random rom-com she’d picked. Her hand found its way to your leg, resting there lightly, her thumb tracing absent patterns. The tension of the past week, the weight of the match, all of it faded away as you leaned into her side, your head resting against her shoulder.

“Did you think about me during the game?” she asked suddenly, her voice low and soft.

You glanced up at her, meeting her gaze. “Every second.”

Her lips curved into a small smile, and she pressed a kiss to your temple. “Me too. It was weird, watching you out there and not being with you. But I was so proud of you. You looked amazing.”

“Even when I almost tripped trying to block that cross?” you joked, trying to lighten the moment.

She laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “Especially then.”

The movie played on, but neither of you paid much attention to it anymore. You shifted slightly, turning to face her more fully. “Lot?”

“Yeah?”

“I hated not talking to you this week.”

Her expression softened, and she reached out to cup your cheek, her thumb brushing gently against your skin. “Me too. Let’s not do that again, okay? I don’t care who we’re playing or what’s at stake—I don’t want to go days without hearing your voice.”

You nodded, leaning into her touch. “Deal.”

She pulled you closer, her arms wrapping around you as you settled into her lap, the blanket draped over both of you like a shield from the rest of the world. The movie ended, but neither of you moved to turn off the screen.

For the first time in days, everything felt right again. You weren’t opponents or teammates—you were just Lotte and you, wrapped up in each other, where you were always meant to be.

[hvnlygrl]

hii! for your celebration (congrats!) wb a rafe cameron blurb based off no. 1 party anthem. maybe something where he meets a girl at a party and basically becomes enamored with her?

no. 1 party anthem. (AG epilogue)

pairing — rafe cameron x fem!reader

word count — 0.7k

synopsis — rafe sees you at a party and can’t help but be drawn to you

song — no. 1 party anthem by arctic monkeys

notes — but i love this request and i love ur blog aesthetic so much its so fire — tysm for sending in an ask!!

join my follower celebration — until feb. 3rd!

alaskan girl masterlist.

rafe was never the type to be obsessed, but here he was, letting his eyes follow you from spot to spot as you chatted and laughed with old friends. he was surprised at how many people you knew despite never having seen you around the island before.

you eluded confidence in every sense of the word, and he couldn’t help but be drawn to you instantly. there was just something about you that intrigued him, something that made him need to know you.

but rafe couldn’t make himself get up and go over to you, so he just opted to watch from a distance as he sipped on his drink.

you seemed to be totally unaware of the set of eyes that trailed you from group to group, that is, until you made eye contact with them.

you watched the boy’s eyes shoot away for a beat, his cheeks going flush with brief embarrassment. it made you wonder how long he’d been watching you for.

you tapped your friend, discreetly pointing in his direction, “who is that?”

she scanned the room, confused for a moment before realizing who you were talking about.

“oh no, y/n don’t even think about it,” she warned precariously.

“what?” you raised a curious brow at her, “why?”

“that’s rafe cameron,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “obx’s number one residing douchebag and womanizer.”

you laughed in response, “yea, and you have the best judge of character, right?”

with that reply, she knew there was nothing she could do to change your mind. “ugh. fine, just don’t say i didn’t warn you, babe.”

“yea, yea,” you wave her off, “what happened to not judging a book by it's cover?”

she shakes her head at you, watching you as you move to the other side of the room. you find a semi-secluded area on a large sectional that you can get comfy on, allowing your eyes to trail back up to rafe.

he looks back over to where you were originally standing, heart beating in his throat when he realizes you’re no longer there. he’s almost sure that your friend was telling you about how he’s the devil incarnate and probably much worse, and his confidence drops to an all-time low.

and then he sees you, alone on the couch, looking back at him with a sweet, almost angelic smile.

he chugs the rest of his drink, adjusts the backward hat on his head and makes his way over to you. “now or never,” he whispers to himself.

“hi,” he gives you a soft smile when he reaches the couch.

“hi there,” you smile back, “what’s up?”

“nothing much,” he shrugs nervously, “i’m rafe.”

“y/n,” you hum back, extending a hand out to him. he shakes it and then reverts back to standing awkwardly. “wanna sit down? you’re making me nervous, rafe.”

he chuckles at the statement, cheeks flushing red again as he finds a spot next to you. “are you new here?”

“yes and no,” you scrunch your nose up as you try and find the right words. “i grew up here when i was a kid, but my mom just moved back so this summer is kind of a trial run to see if i like it enough that i’m gonna stay for good.”

“and if you hate it?”

“then it’s back to alaska for me,” you take a sip of your drink before glancing at his reaction.

“alaska? that’s far away,” he gapes at you.

“yea, and cold as fuck.” he laughs at your blunt statement. “i’m really hoping i’ll like it here, though.”

rafe can tell by your tone that it’s meant to have a double meaning. he smirks, more sure of himself now, “i think you will.”

“oh yea? how so?”

“cause you’ll have the best tour guide in the obx,” he grins at you, hand raised in triumph.

“how could i hate it?” you grin back, raising your cup in toast, “to loving obx.”

“to loving obx,” rafe can’t help but feel as though he’s only fallen deeper for you in the span of the conversation and part of that scares him. but he also knows that this could be his chance to start over with someone that doesn’t know all the bad shit about him and his family.

patrons at the party watch in awe as the two of you sit for hours, just laughing and telling stories, all of them completely shocked at the lack of moves rafe tries to put on you.

-> back to masterlist

[lvsjuno]

NATIONAL ANTHEM

masterlist ━ wattpad version (spanish)

Content — angst, and usage of drugs, blood, toxic relationship, age gap (17-19 no smut just suggest comments)

The Porter family had always belonged to the island. Their last name had become synonymous with that place, as if it were a family tradition, neither had ever left that land that belonged to them.

The Porter couple's children, yn and Oliver, had grown up with their bare feet in the sand and salt on their skin, their home marked by sunny days and luxuries.

For as long as they could remember, the Porters had always been close to the Camerons. The friendship between the two families was as old as the island itself, woven with the strength of the bonds that only time can forge. Parties at sunset, dinners under the stars and shared laughter became something as common

The youngest daughters, Sarah and yn, had been inseparable since childhood, a bond as natural as breathing. While the two girls were playing with dolls and princesses, Oliver and Rafe formed their own alliance, sharing pranks and dreams of greatness. Dreams of one day going to college together and continuing with their family business, of maintaining their brotherhood until the end of their days.

The bonds that united the couples' children seemed unbreakable, as if the island itself had designed them to walk together, as if life had already planned their destiny.

Over the years, the island continued to be the home of the Porters and the Camerons, but time did not forgive. The laughter of childhood faded, transforming those children into teenagers, and what were once innocent friendships began to transform into something more.

With the time, the friendship grew unexpectedly between Rafe and yn, the age difference and the different stages of their lives seemed to separate them, but something between them began to flourish. Although Oliver noticed it, his bewilderment quickly turned into concern. His sister was still a child in many ways, and he knew Rafe well. He wasn't at all comfortable when, in a conversation, his lifelong friend confessed to him that he was dating his sister, who was only fifteen years old.

Over time, ym and Rafe's relationship was accepted, their parents didn't object, and although Oliver couldn't help but feel that something wasn't right, yn couldn't see beyond what she felt. Rafe fascinated her, not just because of his looks or how he was, but because of the way he made her feel special, as if she were the only person who mattered. He, by his part, seemed to adore her in an almost dangerous way, with an intensity that fueled her desire and the excitement of being close to him. Together, they created a connection that couldn't be ignored, a deep bond that grew every day. What for yn was a captivating and passionate romance, for Rafe was a silent possession and obsession that consumed him.

The island murmured, but she didn't listen. She was excited, intoxicated by her first great love, not knowing that what she felt was taking her to a dark place.

Poor, little, innocent girl, she didn't know what was waiting for her.

CHAPTERS

01 . 02 . 03 . 04 . 05

INFO

Oliver 19 (I imagined him look like Bill skasdgar idk choose whoever)

Rafe 19

yn 17

Sarah 16

if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know

[conkreetmonkey]

Splatoon 3 is wild because imagine if you were living in Japan due to a recent economic and cultural boom, and suddenly a space shuttle with a mutant house-sized T-rex riding it suddenly burst from the center of Mt. Fuji and disappeared into space without explanation, and all you ever find out about what the fuck that was about is that Zuckerburg mysteriously disappeared the same day and was never seen again, but still "officially" ran Meta through an open secret Queen-Elizabeth-being-in-good-health gaslighting campaign, and everybody kind of suspected he may have been connected but never figured out anything conclusive.

Also the T-rex is now orbiting the earth in the fetal position like the guy from Jojo, and there are rumors of a substance that, if touched, turns you into a half-dinosaur monster. Nobody understands any of this but Meta employees just keep going to work and pretending Zuck still exists. The same 12 prerecorded voicelines constantly squak from the PA system.

Oddly, the statue in front of Meta HQ of a T-rex eating a human changes overnight into one of a giant human eating a tiny T-rex. Nobody noticed the switch, despite the statue being in a constantly bustling area. It happened shortly after the shuttle incident.

Jack Black's tiny clone, Lil' Jack, now wears a headset at all times and has been acting really shady since the incident. Also they're both hyperintelligent, immortal velociraptors found in an ancient cryogenic chamber who spend their days judging college football and eating the legally harvested flesh of hillbillies. Lil' Jack is probably plotting to kill Big Jack, but Big Jack doesn't seem to care, growing fat and lazy, sleeping on public benches in a bed of throw pillows. Also, he's very open about the fact that, as a velociraptor, humans look delicious, but he hasn't actually eaten anybody aside from the aforementioned hillbillies because he's civil.

Everyone is just expected to move on with their lives after this. This is normal to you.

The local art school was recently attacked by giant sea serpents, which were actually hideously bioengineered hillbillies, fulfilling a biblical doomsday prophecy, and they were driven back by Meta's army of minimum wage, part time child soldiers armed with warcrimey jury-rigged weaponry. The sea serpents had giant frying pans grafted into their mouths, which launched primitive tactical nukes made by filling garbage bags with their explosive blood. They still exist, and occasionally defend their comrades, but spend most of their time in the deep sea.

The local homeless emo twink everyone's attracted to is a closet millionaire who sells bootleg clothing in exchange for live rats, which he messily devours behind closed doors. He's also 8 feet tall and British and only has one eye.

North Korean refugees now flood the western world, after a greasy 14 year old hipster, under the guidance of Ariana Grande and Taylor Swift, beat Kim Jong Un in a mech battle, and the EDM remix of the Japanese national anthem they performed caused like half the soldiers to immediately realize North Korea sucks ass and defect. One of these individuals, 7 foot tall hypergenius, becomes a newscaster alongside a nepo baby rapper with dwarfism who likes to eat entire jars of mayo, and also they're a popular band. Also also, they may or may not be gay. Almost the entire population is gay, so this isn't a huge deal.

The new local newscasters are a famous Japanese lion tamer, an Indian girl with a bloodline trait allowing her to control snakes, and a Brazillian man the size of a smart car who exclusively communicates via grunts.

Gods, souls and zombies are objectively real, and you're effectively immortal because real-life respawning was invented a while ago. It works like a Keurig, but with mucus instead of coffee. Submersion in water kills you.

A good deal of the population is a hivemind. They pretend to be individuals for no reason.

Almost all men are now femboys.

Despite all this, you still have to go to work at 9 tomorrow.

[peachhcs]

Can you write emma and gabe celebrating the gold !!! Love your fics:))

literallyyyy knew they were gonna win it all again 😽 if this is bad i’m so sorry but i wanted to write a request about this before it got too late for me to be writing about it LOL

first day of classes tmr for spring semester, wish me luck y’all :))

au masterlist

the girls were on their feet as teddy got ahold of the puck. he skated down the ice, the goal becoming close and closer. everyone was on their edge of their seats, even the boys on the bench as they leaned over the railing to get a closer eye on what was about to happen.

as soon as teddy shot it into the back of the net, everyone was on their feet and a slew of cheers broke out in the arena. the usa boys bombarded the ice, tackling teddy as he celebrated the victory.

emma, samy, julianne, and olivia jumped on top of one another in excitement as they watched the boys celebrate down on the ice. the blonde’s smile was wide seeing her boyfriend’s happiness down there. their gear went everywhere and the fans were going crazy that the us just won back to back. phones were out and parents around them were trying to get photos of the celebration while the medals and hats started coming out.

things were a bit of a blur as the boys were awarded their medals, were presented with the trophy and sang the national anthem. somewhere in between all of that when samy had pulled the girls down to the glass to catch the boys before they headed back down the tunnel, emma caught gabe’s eye. he excitedly skated towards her, eyes wide and smile big. she shared the glow on his features.

“i’m so proud of you!” emma exclaimed when gabe showed her the medal up close.

he took the hat off his head and tossed it over to her. she giggled, fitting it onto her head. “i love you. i’ll see you really soon after!” she nodded and let him go to be with his teammates.

the girls waited around the lobby of the arena knowing the boys had a lot of celebrating and media to do before they could leave. a few of them caught up with some fans who recognized them. samy excitedly called will to tell him the happy news. there was so much happiness in that lobby it was something emma’s never experienced before, but she could definitely get used to it.

gabe finally came out almost an hour later, freshly showered but in his jersey still with the gold medal hanging from his neck. he immediately rushed to emma where he lifted her into his arms and spun her around in a bear hug.

“i knew you could do it, i’m so happy for you,” she grinned.

“can you believe this? i’ve got 3 of these now,” gabe put her down to show her the medal up close. the blonde slid her finger down it in disbelief.

“better hang them proudly,” she kissed his cheek, but gabe took her face in his hand to kiss her properly, not caring about the others around because he was still on his high.

“i’m so glad you came. couldn’t have done it without you,” he mumbled when they pulled apart. emma blushed.

“i love you so much,” she smiled and gabe kissed her again. this time a few whistles broke them apart and hot blushes spread across their cheeks when they saw the others grinning at them.

ryan roughed up his friend’s shoulders while samy stepped in for a quick hug. “you’ve got two wins tonight,” ryan teased gabe.

“so proud of you, gp. you deserve it,” samy smiled.

“hey, i want a photo!” ryan’s mom quickly cut in.

everyone squeezed themselves together, smiling wide for the photo that mrs. leonard got.

“alright, we gotta get back, but we’ll catch you all at the celebration back at the hotel!” the boys had some last minute things to do before leaving.

gabe looked at emma again before he let her go, “i’ll see you back at the hotel. i love you,” he mumbled, pressing another kiss to her lips.

“i love you. congrats again, amour,” the boy flushed and forced himself to pull away so catch up with the others.

the girls were teasing emma when he was gone, a large flush coating her cheeks as they left the arena together to get ready for the post-win celebration.

like last year, the team booked out one of the large conference rooms in the hotel for the party. the hotel catered the drinks and food and the room was full in minutes as families poured in waiting for the boys to get there with their trophy.

a few minutes later, ryan pushed the door open holding the trophy high in his hands. the families clapped again for them, parents going to their sons again to give more congratulations. emma tried looking for gabe, but the room become chaotic and crowded fairly quickly. she wasn’t a huge fan of crowds, so the amount of people overwhelmed her.

the blonde hung back, hoping she could see her boyfriend over the taller people in front of her, but he got lost in the crowd somewhere and emma was not about to push her away through. julianne and samy braved the crowds and olivia went too, so the girl was left on one of the sides by herself trying to find an out before it got too crowded and panicked.

however, she saw a flash of dark hair and then gabe came through a moment later and a wave of relief washed over her. she quickly smiled when he snaked his arms around her waist.

“hey, sorry. i lost you for a second there. you okay?” he wondered when he saw her slightly panicked state.

“yeah, just a lot of people but i’m fine,” emma nodded.

“yeah, it’s crazy in here, sorry. wanna go somewhere else?” the boy wondered and the blonde quickly shook her head.

“no, no i don’t wanna pull you away from all of this. i’ll be fine.”

“are you sure? i wanna make sure you’re okay,” he searched her gaze and emma was stunned for a moment because no one’s ever said something like that to her before. they always told her to get over it or that she’d get used to the crowds.

she stared at the mass amount of people behind gabe and he seemed to read her look, so he took her hand and tried finding the easiest and quickest way out of the room. she trusted him as he pulled her through, making sure not to lose his hand as they miraculously made it out of the conference room and into the much quieter hallway.

gabe pulled them to a bench a little ways down, “better?” he asked.

“yeah, actually. a lot. thank you,” emma smiled a little.

“it always get so crazy. i should’ve warned you,” he said and she chuckled.

“it’s okay. i know i already said this, but i’m really happy for you. you did so good,” she tugged on his jersey he was still wearing and the boy flushed.

“i’m really glad you came. it meant a lot having you here with me this time,” he pushed a strand of hair away from her face.

“thanks for bringing me. it was a lot of fun. i think i really like hockey now,” the girl laughed and gabe grinned.

“that makes me happy to hear. i’m still trying to wrap my head around it,” he leaned back against the wall, memories of the game winning goal still replaying in his head.

“i have your hat in my room still. you can come get it whenever,” emma smiled, leaning back as well as the boy wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to his chest.

“keep it. it looks good on you,” he hummed making her giggle.

the couple sat there in silence for a few minutes taking everything in and finally catching their breaths after the last few hours. gabe’s rapid heartbeat finally started slowing from the feeling of emma’s head on his chest. emma’s own racing heart finally slowed hearing her boyfriend’s beat against her ear and the anxiety she felt a few minutes ago eased being in his arms.

“do you wanna go back in? i don’t wanna keep you from the celebration,” the blonde mumbled knowing gabe would probably wanna keep celebrating with his teammates.

“we don’t have to if it’s too much for you,” gabe said and emma sat up. she met his gaze, “i’ll be fine. i want you to celebrate.”

“i’ll be celebrating with them for the rest of the year. i wanna be with you,” his words caught her off guard and emma flushed a bit.

“wow, you’re charming,” she poked his shoulder and the look he gave her made her stomach do a little somersault.

“plus, i can think of some other ways i can celebrate,” he mumbled and let his eyes wander. emma blushed a deep red.

“i see winning a 3rd gold medal’s started getting to your head,” she teased a bit, but pulled the boy closer so she could kiss him again.

gabe happily obliged and after a few minutes, the couple were walking away from the party to one of their hotel rooms for the night.

[s-awturn]

Karma Is A Bitch | MV1

summary: S/N and Max invented hate at first sight, they hate each other from the first moment they met and never tried to make things better. The hatred between the two is real and almost palpable to the point of becoming karma... In the dirtiest sense of the word.

cw: Conflict, verbal fighting, insults and name calling, suggestive, mild smut (very little), mention of accidents, and what else? Somewhat based on the discussion between Max and Esteban (no explanation needed). No real events will be taken into consideration here, so everything was taken from my head (duh)

a/n: I wrote this based on Max's headcanon in "Pilots and their romantic tropes", because it stuck in my head and I needed to develop it. It's my first time with Max (⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°) heheheh so he's gonna be a little OC, don't take it too seriously pls. I just saw that I reached 101 followers, I'm going to shout it out (I'll think of something to celebrate, suggestions?)

Melbourne, 2023

"You're doing great, kiddo," Hugh said into the headphones. "We're down to the last ten laps, keep doing that and we could have a double podium today."

"Cool," she said through gritted teeth, focused on keeping Lando where he was: on her tail. "How's the car? Can we fight Verstappen for first place?"

Y/N heard Hugh's heavy sigh, and if she knew Hugh, she knew the engineer was rubbing his beard, as he always did when he was nervous.

The season was still in its early stages, it was only the third race of the year and the rivalry between Max and Y/N had already reached a dangerous peak, they competed more with each other than with other drivers. Luckily for the team, both Max and Y/N managed to keep the competition alive both among themselves and with the other teams — even if the two always took their internal rivalry more seriously.

"The wear on the tires has not yet reached a precarious level, so you can compete, but you need to be careful, there may be rubber debris on the track," he advised, hearing her click her tongue in agreement, Hugh knew he was stirring the hunger of a beast, and for all intents and purposes, Max had the prey she wanted. "God help us," he muttered, closing the communication channel.

Y/N smiled at the free pass Hugh had given her, she shifted gears, hearing the engine roar loudly and she smiled, there was a DRS zone. She was a few seconds behind Max, three maybe four seconds and with the possibility of overtaking in front of her, Y/N did what her instincts told her: she opened the rear wing and put her foot down on the accelerator, breaking the distance between her and Max and consequently stealing first place from the Dutch driver. She not only passed Max, but managed to establish the four-second gap between them again, with herself in the lead. Her smile under her helmet was wide enough for her to feel pain in the cheeks.

The rest of the race was fast and intense, she and Max fought aggressively for first place, Y/N didn't let Max take advantage of any opening, she broke all chances of Max regaining first place. Not even with DRS active was Verstappen able to retake the lead.

As the two entered the last lap, Christian, Hugh and the entire Red Bull team began to think they would have an accident, because the two were, literally, playing cat and mouse.

"Keep it up, girl" Hugh suddenly appeared on the comms, making Y/N laugh "you're going to win your first F1 race, keep it up"

She laughed with victory, feeling as light as a balloon as her car passed the checkered flag in first place. Everyone in the garage heard her happy screams, when Y/N parked the car in the spot reserved for the winner, she could barely see because of her tears. The girl didn't even have time to take off her helmet before she was engulfed in the team's hug.

"You did it, girl!" Hugh lifted her into the air, celebrating the victory. It all went through her mind like a torpedo, but she remembers well when her country's anthem played, Y/N cried. She couldn't even explain how light she felt without the weight on her shoulders.Being the only woman among drivers in the top category of motorsport was heavier than she thought and winning was not a dream, it was an obligation.

She greeted the champagne shower as if it were a blessing, laughing as she doused the other riders. If it were possible, she would be exploding like fireworks.

Victory tasted sweet, and she got addicted.

After Melbourne, what was already tense got even worse. Y/N discovered what victory tasted like and Max wasn't about to let her taste it again. But what he didn't know was that his teammate was just as stubborn as he was and was willing to commit atrocities if it guaranteed her a podium finish — just like Max himself.

The races became increasingly fierce, the other teams instructed their drivers to stay away from the fight between Max and Y/N. The possibility of the two RBR drivers putting a third person in an accident was immense, and no one wanted to risk it.

"You" Christian pointed at S/N, watching the girl play with the zipper of her jumpsuit, as if she wasn't being reprimanded "don't tease, I know how much of a brat you can be when you want and you" he turned to Max "calm your nerves, you'll end up causing an accident, and no one here needs any more punishment"

The team leader scratched the back of his neck, all his efforts to convert the hatred between the two into anything but... Harmful, but nothing worked. Frustrated because neither of them seemed willing to give in, so if neither of them would make the first move, Christian would.

"You two are going to stay here until you sort it out, I don't care how, if you want to be treated like children, I will treat you like children" he scolded, putting his hands on his hips "You have plenty of time to sort things out and when you leave here, I expect you to respect each other, at the very least!"

Christian left the room, locking them in there, Y/N snorted, aware that Horner wasn't joking and the sound of the doorknob locking made that obvious. From her corner of the couch, she glanced sideways at Max, making a disgusted face, which he scoffed at.

"If we're here it's your fault" he said, pointing his finger in her direction, S/N frowned in confusion and stood up.

"My fault?! You're the idiot who thinks everyone has to give you back the position! Do you know how to lose a race without crying in the team's lap?!" She yelled back, stopping just a few steps away from him. Both of them radiated pure rage.

"I wouldn't need to ask for the positions back if you weren't a treacherous snake!"

"And you're a crybaby!" She said angrily and soon a wicked smile appeared on her face "You hate knowing that there's someone really competing with you, threatening your title"

Max scoffed, stepping away from her as he adjusted his hat. "As if you were enough competition to threaten me with, cutie."

“You wouldn’t be so mad if I wasn’t,” she retorted, balancing on his ankles, being petulant enough to prick Max’s short temper. “It’s okay to admit you’re afraid of me, Verstappen.”

“As if I would fear someone who still smells of milk”

Y/N laughed, leaning closer to him. “Should I be worried about your nose being so close to my neck?” He clicked his tongue again, increasing the level of mockery, making Max even more irritated.

“I would never get close to you, under any circumstances,” he replied, with nothing less than raw disgust in his voice and Y/N would never be able to explain why that was such a hard blow to her ego.

“As if you had any chance,” she said, composing herself with dignity.

“Anyway, fuck you, stay out of my way, girl,” he warned, pointing his index finger at her, “or I’ll throw you in the gravel.”

“Do that and I’ll be your worst nightmare, kid.”

The two went to opposite corners of the room, leaving the entire place filled with animosity. They remained in the office for almost two hours until the public relations manager took them out, scolding them because they were late for their interviews.

When Christian saw them leave the office, he couldn't tell if his attempts had yielded any results, but from the way they existed near each other, he was afraid. Whatever would come after this conversation, he had the entire team ready, whether it was for a fight or, maybe, the apocalypse.

Spielberg, 2023.

The Austrian GP was an important circuit for RBR and S/N was excited, she really wanted to win at the team's home ground, it would be an important victory and she wanted first place as much as she wanted oxygen, perhaps victory was more important.

Since Christian's intervention, instead of her and Max strengthening their rivalry, it seemed to increase, which was great for the fans, the races became more exciting and fun to watch, but for the team, the atmosphere was unbearable. The fear of an accident between the two happening was real and increasingly possible; and the race at Red Bull Ring gave an extra weight to the competitiveness of the RBR drivers,

"Keep your head cool, girl." Hugh ruffled her hair as Y/N sat in the cockpit, reading the information on the monitor. "Do your race, stay calm and everything will be fine, you have a good score in the drivers' championship, don't let your problems with Max get in the way of the race, It's important for the team"

"Relax Hugh, we'll win the race and increase the points gap with the second team"

"You're in second, so try to preserve your tires until the pitstop, our strategy will come into play after the first stop, understand?"

"Yep Hugh, I understand."

"In other words, no pointless fights with Max." He said, giving her a stern look, Y/N giggled and held up her crossed fingers. "Y/N..."

"I'll try, I promise"

The minutes until the start of the race were spent fine-tuning the details of the strategy, meditating and listening to encouragement from the family. And as always, the moments until she positioned herself on the grid passed as if she were on autopilot, without realizing where she was or what she was doing until her engines roared. It wasn't until the lights came on that Y/N blinked back to the real world and she smiled, gripping the sides of the steering wheel. She glanced quickly in the rearview mirror, seeing her purple helmet gleam in the faint light of the weak sun. The forecast was for rain for the second half of the circuit, which made her anxious, she loved racing in the rain just like one of her greatest examples in motorsport, Ayrton Senna.

When the lights went out, she let her instincts take over and her focus was on one thing, the highest place on the podium.

In the second half of the race, the rain fell like a torrent, nothing that S/N wasn't used to and with this new obstacle, she held on, trying to have a safe race, even though he was still competing for victory with his teammate. She stepped on the brakes several times, trying to avoid any collision and as they were entering the forty-fifth lap, exactly at the Schlossgold Curve, in a fierce dispute with Max, where she tried to overtake him when a collision with the two front wings made S/N spin on the track until she was pushed against the barrier. The shock was strong enough to make her hit her head against the steering wheel; S/N was disoriented for a few seconds and shook her head, but the act made her grunt in pain and hearing Hugh's desperate calls in the dot in her ear only made her more nervous. She didn't even know when she was pulled out of the cockpit or when she was taken to the circuit hospital, but she knew exactly the moment the rage exploded in her chest.

Max threw her off the track, in a dirty move, Max took her out of the race.

"I'm going to kill him," she said as the nurse bandaged her forehead. The poor nurse gave S/N's companion a frightened look, who signaled for her to ignore it. "He threw me off the track, mom, I hit the barrier!"

"Honey, don't worry about it, you're fine, luckily the accident wasn't more serious" she tried to calm her daughter down and asked the nurse to leave, which she did in a hurry.

The driver's time in the hospital was spent hurling abuse and homicidal thoughts at Max Verstappen. So it was no surprise when she arrived at the Red Bull garage screaming and swearing. She shook off Hugh's grip on her, marched straight to Max, and pressed her finger against his chest.

"You scream that I'm a treacherous snake, but you're the most dishonest son of a bitch that ever walked this fucking earth!" She yelled, seeing Max's eyes widen until he understood what was happening.

"What? Did you really think I was going to give you my position? Wake up girl."

"Are you an idiot? That was a clean maneuver, I didn't attack you to get thrown off the fucking track"

"You wouldn't have gone off the track if you were a good driver, or an honest one" Jos Verstappen interjected into the conversation, pulling Max away from it.

"Maybe it's time for you to rethink your career, this profession isn't for everyone, including cute and delicate little things like you" Max said, and that made something burn deep inside her before it completely faded away.

She licked her lips and pulled away, playing with the zipper of her jumpsuit, a habit she did whenever she was nervous, she took a deep breath and said "You know what? Fuck it, from today you died to me"

And with that, Y/N retreated to her room, feeling her whole body tremble, since she was four years old, she never questioned herself, She always knew that she would race in F1. This was always a certainty in her life and she had the unconditional support of her parents; thinking about anything else for her life never crossed her mind, Y/N knew she would be the first girl in the highest category of motorsport.

However, being discredited in that way, especially after an accident, shook her convictions.

And for the first time in many years, she cried in fear that she would not be able to do it anymore.

São Paulo, 2023

After Spielberg, things in the RBR pit changed drastically, Y/N didn't just avoid Max, she literally pretended he didn't exist, of course the Dutchman didn't take it seriously in the first few weeks, he thought Y/N was just making a fuss to get attention, but he realized things were serious when Hugh started relaying her decisions to him. Of course, the PR team did best to keep things away from the general public, It was necessary for the pilots to maintain good relations, even if just a little, for the good of the team.

She did what she promised and it was as if Max didn't even exist.

And shit, that really bothered Max, because Y/N looked past him, she never spoke to him again, she never stayed in the same place as him again, even the races had changed, Y/N hadn't lost the will to win, but something had really lost its essence.

It was Saturday, almost eleven o'clock at night when Max's discomfort about Y/N became unbearable.

He didn't know why, but it was boring, really bad not having someone to fight with, to make things more exciting. There was a piece missing and he knew where it was.

Y/N was the karma in his life, to torment him, to make his life hell, but fuck it, Y/N was still his karma and he would deal with her.

He put on his slippers and got the room key, he didn't need to ask, he knew which room she was staying in, Max crossed the hotel like a caged lion that had found freedom and it was with all that frantic energy that he almost broke down the door to her room.

Max hoped that this would get some reaction from his teammate, but Y/N opened the door and remained silent, looking at him standing in the hallway.

"You can't fucking ignore me forever!" He yelled, expecting her to retaliate, but Y/N just prepared to close the door, but Max stopped her. "Talk to me, damn it."

"Well, what do you want me to say?" She said, too calm, too soft, and Max didn't like it.

"Fight, scream, do anything, but don't ignore me"

She reached out, checking her cuticles, a clear sign of disinterest that increased Max's disgust, she couldn't act like that.

"I can't ignore what's dead to me," she said dryly, "was that all?"

Max swallowed the lump in his throat, her indifference made him uncomfortable in his own skin, it was impossible to deal with it calmly. He took a deep breath, letting the act clear his mind, he let all his arrogance and pride fall away and allowed himself to be vulnerable; Max admitted to himself that he missed her, Y/N was a constant in his life, chaotic, disturbing and restless, but a constant, he knew she would be there to stick his ass in the races, to take everything he had and without it, things would get monotonous.

But still, he wanted a reaction, he wanted the white-hot, overwhelming anger that was always in her.

"Yes! I want you to stop ignoring me, acting like I'm nothing in front of you."

"I don't care what you want, Verstappen," she said, crossing her arms. "I couldn't care less about your desires."

"You think that makes you better than me? You're always saying how arrogant I am and what do you think that swagger is? Niceness?"

Y/N gave an exhausted sigh and pulled Max into her room, because in a little while longer, he would be causing a ruckus in the hallway.

"Why is this important to you, Verstappen? Unfortunately for you and your father I didn't change careers, but to your delight, as your father once said...?" she paused, resting her index finger on her lips as she pretended to think, "Oh yes, a hindrance to your brilliant career."

"And you gave in? Did you accept it so easily?!" He exclaimed and she pressed her temples, already exhausted from that conversation, feeling her patience drain away very quickly.

"Do you have some personality problem? You have to! Why the hell are you so bothered by this, damn it?!" She finally screamed, stressed out by the whole thing.

"I don't like it! I hate that you're distant, damn it!" He took over, making her posture break, Y/N looked at him in surprise, what was Max talking about?"

"What? What the fuck are you talking about?!"

"I hate you, I hate the fact that you are hard-working and intelligent, that you work on your strategies, the way you drive, the way you laugh" he spoke quickly, not giving her a chance to respond "I hate how you fill every space with your presence, I hate how nice you are to Charles, how you idolize Hamilton, I hate you for flirting with Lando because..."

Y/N's eyes were wide as she watched Max's monologue in his suite.

In return, Max found his breath — and the courage to finish what he had started, because hell, Y/N was more challenging than any race he had faced.

"Because I get jealous, I hate that they have your attention, I hate that they have any part of you while I have nothing"

Y/N rested her hands on her hips, absorbing Max's confession, God knows she never expected to hear that, not even in that circumstance.

"Fuck, that's something," she said, wanting to break the silence, seeing Max twist his fingers in pure nervousness. But nothing more was said for long minutes until she looked him in the eyes, peering into whatever he was trying to keep hidden. "Have you ever thought about talking about this in therapy?"

Max gasped, this was fucking not what he was expecting.

"Well, damn, that caught me off guard, you know?" She said, sitting on the bed. "That doesn't justify your shitty behavior towards me this whole year."

"I know, but you were a bitch to me too."

"And I ignored you"

"And I hated that shit, keep being a bitch to me, it's better than being treated like nothing"

"You deserved every second, you still do"

Max sat next to her, both of them staring at the huge black and white photograph of the capital of São Paulo.

"I'm sorry, you're a great driver, I never meant to make you doubt your potential and the sport would be a lot more boring without you in my rear view mirror" he said sincerely "You make a difference in racing and I wouldn't forgive myself if I ruined that... None of what I said was true, it was a bit of spite"

"You need to work on being forgiven... And if your father talks to me like that again, I'll throw my helmet at him."

"Okay, fair enough."

"And you need to learn to declare yourself, that was completely unromantic"

"Was that all you paid attention to?"

"And you're judging me for that?"

"Obviously, because I opened my heart here, "go fuck yourself, damn it"

"Why don't you come do it, you coward"

Before the two could process what was happening, Max and S/N were kissing, rolling around on the mattress. Grunts and curses were uttered in a confused manner and before long, the clothes were scattered around the suite and before long, the girl was riding the Dutchman, moaning insults as he bit her breasts and neck, leaving fingerprints on her hips, her thighs and ass. He swore in Dutch — and it made Y/N clench around him.

Maybe it was the euphoria, or the repressed feelings that led them both to orgasm in a violent way.

"Fuck," they said together.

The sky above her was so blue and bright it hurt to look at and behind her, Max was on her tail, nudging for any chance to retake the lead of the pack, but Y/N increased the gap, from four seconds to six. She knew he was cursing and that it would be harder to close the gap between them.

The fans screamed, fired up by the competition for first place, suddenly that fight, the anger had arisen again, making things interesting again.

"One more quarter of a lap and you'll win the race, firecracker." Hugh said into the headset, making Y/N laugh in excitement. "Things are in place again, that is great"

"I know you missed me, I missed you too," she admitted, changing gears at once, making the engine roar. "I love my job."

The podium featured Red Bull Racing twice and the last time anyone saw such a bright smile on S/N's face was in Melbourne, months before.

"You should make it easier sometimes" he said as they both waited for her anthem to start, Y/N giggled.

"As if you liked that," he retorted ironically and Max shrugged, yeah, he didn't.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED TO S-AWTURN™ 🪐. I do not allow copying or republication. Any unauthorized publication will be reported.

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[thoughtsbysofi]

The Truth About Power and the Maneater Myth

When the maneater gets eaten by men

I think we’ve all fantasized about her at some point. The maneater: wild, confident, unapologetic. She’s the woman who seems untouchable, the one with beauty so sharp it’s almost dangerous. She moves through life effortlessly, holding men—and the world—in the palm of her hand.

She’s been immortalized in songs, from Daryl Hall and John Oates’ iconic anthem to Nelly Furtado’s unforgettable beat. (Only God knows how many times I’ve danced to that one in front of the mirror, lip-syncing like I had the world at my feet too.) She represents something intoxicating: power, allure, freedom. Or so we’re told.

Over time, I’ve come to see cracks in the image we’ve painted of her, and they’re hard to look away from.

Her shine, that magnetic confidence, feels... muted. Almost as if the very force that made her so untouchable has been swallowed whole by the same system she’s supposed to rise above.

Here’s the thing about the maneater: her power has always been a performance. What we believed was control was always a false sense of empowerment—a game that looked like it was hers but was actually rigged from the start.

Think about her name. "Maneater." She’s defined by men before she’s even had a chance to define herself. Her power—her entire identity—is grounded in the very gaze she thought she had mastered. How far can she really distance herself from the male gaze when her existence revolves around it?

This was easier to ignore in the past, back when the maneater existed in songs, movies, or whispered stories. But now, in the age of social media, her shadow looms larger than ever. Platforms like TikTok are littered with guides on how to “become a maneater.” Entire accounts are dedicated to teaching women how to embody the aesthetic—what to wear, how to act, what to believe. There are even courses for sale promising to turn you into a siren-like figure who commands attention and leaves men in pieces.

But let’s be honest with ourselves. What’s behind all these trends? What’s at the heart of this obsession with being a maneater?

Fear.

Fear of being overlooked. Fear of not being enough. Fear of being powerless in a world that demands we center men in every aspect of our lives. And so, we create a persona—a character to play—because if we’re going to be consumed by this system, we might as well act like it’s on our terms.

Except it never is.

And here’s the truth: the maneater doesn’t exist. She never has.

The real woman behind the fantasy doesn’t care about men, let alone eating them alive. She’s not plotting or strategizing, and she definitely isn’t wasting her energy learning how to manipulate others for validation. In fact, the maneater isn’t devouring men—she’s too busy living her life, building something real, something meaningful, for herself.

So where did this idea even come from? Why are we still clinging to it?

Because it’s convenient. The idea of the maneater allows men to dismiss women they can’t control. “Oh, she’s just like that with everyone,” they say, as if their failure to win her affection isn’t personal. And for women, the maneater becomes a shield—something to hide behind when the vulnerability of simply being feels too much to bear.

But what would happen if we let go of the need to perform and focused on ourselves instead?

The women who are truly powerful aren’t trying to fit into a mold. They don’t need labels like “maneater” to justify their independence, their choices, their lives. They’re not chasing some aesthetic or performing for the male gaze. They’re simply existing—fully, authentically, and without apology.

Real power isn’t found in manipulation, control, or detachment. It’s not about who you can conquer or how many people fall at your feet. It’s about connection. It’s about seeing others—not as pawns or opponents, but as equals.

The true maneater isn’t eating anyone. She’s not interested in games, roles, or power plays. She knows who she is, and that’s enough.

Real strength, real wildness, isn’t about becoming her, someone for someone else—it’s about stepping away from the illusion, leaving the fantasy behind, and finding power in being unapologetically yourself.

Because the real power we’re looking for has nothing to do with men. It’s been in us all along.

-xoxo

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

December 5, 2024

Heather Cox Richardson

Dec 06, 2024

Yesterday a gunman assassinated the chief executive officer of UnitedHealthcare, Brian Thompson, as he arrived at a meeting of investors in New York City. While authorities are still investigating, officials have released the information that the casings of the bullets that killed Thompson bore the words “deny,” “defend,” “depose,” all words associated with companies’ denial of health insurance, taken from the longer phrases “deny the claim,” “defend the lawsuit,” “depose the patient.”

While those clues could simply be a red herring, posters on social media have cheered what they seem to see as revenge against an abusive system in which people’s lives are at the mercy of executives who prioritize profits.

Health insurance companies have long been under scrutiny for their practices. For the past two years, ProPublica has run a long series exploring the different ways in which companies have developed systems to deny healthcare coverage to their policyholders.

UnitedHealthcare has been no exception either to such practices or to scrutiny. Its parent group UnitedHealth has a market valuation of $560 billion and was the eighth largest corporation in the world last year as measured by revenue. This year, UnitedHealthcare—Thompson’s unit—is expected to bring in $280 billion in revenue.

UnitedHealth is embroiled in a number of lawsuits. Andrew Stanton of Newsweek reported that on November 14, 2023, families of two now-deceased patients sued UnitedHealthcare over denial of coverage for Medicare Advantage patients for nursing home stays prescribed by their doctors. Medicare Advantage is the private insurance alternative to Medicare that receives a flat fee from the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services. It’s an enormously profitable industry, and UnitedHealth controls almost a third of it.

The lawsuit alleges that UnitedHealthcare uses artificial intelligence to deny claims from Medicare Advantage policyholders. The lawsuit claims that the company knowingly uses an algorithm that makes errors 90% of the time because it also knows that only about 0.2% of policy holders will appeal the decision to deny their claims. Last month the Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations hammered UnitedHealth for dramatic increases in their denial rates for post-acute care between 2019 and 2022 as it switched to AI authorizations.

On the same day as the shooting, Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield insurance covering Connecticut, New York, and Missouri announced it would cover anesthesia during surgery or procedures only for a specific time period in order to make insurance more affordable by reducing overbilling.

After an outcry both from anesthesiologists and the public, the company today retracted its policy change, saying it had never intended to avoid “medically necessary anesthesia,” but meant simply to “clarify the appropriateness of anesthesia consistent with well-established clinical guidelines.” Their explanation might have calmed the news cycle, but its suggestion that the insurance officials rather than doctors should determine what anesthesia is appropriate for a patient during surgery echoed the argument in the UnitedHealthcare lawsuit.

Thompson’s murder seems to be a cultural moment in which popular fury over the power big business has over ordinary Americans’ lives exploded. Maureen Tkacik of The American Prospect noted, “Only about 50 million customers of America’s reigning medical monopoly might have a motive to exact revenge upon the UnitedHealthcare CEO.” The shooter, whose actual motive remains unknown, is fast becoming a folk hero.

Social media has exploded with users writing things like “[t]his claim for sympathy has been denied”; songs featuring the words “deny, “defend,” and “depose”; and recorded commentary condemning the healthcare insurance industry. UnitedHealth Group posted its sadness about Thompson’s death on Facebook yesterday about 1:00 p.m.; 36 hours later the post had 65,000 laughing emojis under it.

Security expert Charlie Carroll expressed surprise to Josh Fiallo of the Daily Beast that Thompson did not have a security detail. “We’re living in a world where people are extremely disgruntled,” Carroll said. “When people lose trust in the system, you start seeing more kidnappings and assassinations because they feel like they have to take matters into their own hands.”

In the wake of the shooting, UnitedHealthcare and several other insurance companies took down from their websites the names and photographs of their officials.

Billionaires Elon Musk and Vivek Ramaswamy were on Capitol Hill today where they met with lawmakers to explain their vision for the Department of Government Efficiency, the group designed to cut the U.S. budget. Neither they nor the lawmakers shared much with the press, although Fox Business played a video of Representative Ralph Norman (R-SC) saying that that “nothing is sacrosanct,” and that “they're going to put everything on the table,” including Social Security, Medicare, and Medicaid.

Representative Tom Tiffany (R-WI) told Just The News that cuts to the budget “don’t have to be just the discretionary spending. We can get at some of the mandatory spending also…food stamps, some of those things.” He continued: “There may be more bang for the buck in terms of growing our economy…making regulatory changes, get the impediments out of the way, let those job creators and entrepreneurs really be able to go to work.”

In view of today’s news about healthcare, it’s probably worth remembering that Musk has called for the elimination of the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau, and that Project 2025 has called for making Medicare Advantage—the privatized Medicare in which UnitedHealth specializes—the default enrollment option for Medicare. This would essentially privatize Medicare for the 66 million people who use it, but since Medicare Advantage costs taxpayers about 6% more than Medicare, this would not create the savings Musk is supposed to be finding.

Andrew Perez of RollingStone reported today that election financial disclosures filed yesterday revealed that Elon Musk was the secret funder of the “RBG PAC,” a Super PAC created just before the election that claimed Trump had the same position on abortion as the late Supreme Court justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg. Although Trump has bragged about overturning the 1973 Roe v. Wade decision recognizing the constitutional right to abortion and the 2024 Republican platform supported the far-right idea of “fetal personhood”—which would apply all the rights protected by the Fourteenth Amendment from the moment a human egg is fertilized—the RBG PAC ran ads promising that Trump would not support a national abortion ban.

Ginsburg’s granddaughter called the comparison of Trump and her grandmother “nothing short of appalling.”

The super PAC was created so late that it avoided disclosure before November 5. It was funded entirely by Musk with an injection of $20.5 million.

Bridget Bowman, Ben Kamisar, and Scott Bland of NBC News reported tonight that Musk spent at least $250 million to get Trump elected. In addition to the $20.5 million to the RBG PAC, he put $238 million into the America PAC. Musk also supported Trump through free advertising and commentary on his social media platform X.

Today provided a snapshot of American society that echoed a similar moment on January 6, 1872, when Edward D. Stokes shot railroad baron James Fisk Jr. as he descended the staircase of New York’s Grand Central Hotel. The quarrel was over Fisk’s mistress, Josie, who had taken up with the handsome Stokes, but the murder instantly provoked a popular condemnation of the ties between big business and government.

Fisk was a rich, flamboyant, and unscrupulous man-about-town, who was deeply entwined both with railroad barons like Jay Gould, Daniel Drew, and Cornelius Vanderbilt and with New York’s Tammany Hall political machine and its infamous leader, William Marcy Tweed. Tweed made sure the laws benefited the railroads and, the papers noted, snuck into the hotel to say goodbye to his friend in the hours it took for him to perish.

After the Civil War, most Americans applauded the nation’s businessmen for the support their growing industries had provided to the Union, but by 1872 the enormous fortunes the railroad men had amassed had tarnished their reputation. At the same time, big operators were starting to squeeze smaller enterprises out of business in order to control the markets, and popular anger simmered over their increasing control of the economy.

Stokes’s shooting was the event that sparked a popular rebellion. Newspapers covered every minute of the event and Fisk’s demise, while sensational books about the murder rolled off the presses.

Together, they redefined late nineteenth-century industrialists, with one painting Fisk as a representative businessman who with just “an hour’s effort,” could “gather into his clutches a score of millions of other people’s property, impoverish a thousand wealthy men, or derange the values and the traffic of a vast empire.”

Both those covering the murder and those reading about it rejoiced in Fisk’s misfortune.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[madlificent]

Reach Clip Studio Paint Pro - 6 hours Throughout the past year, I have become entranced by the band glass beach ever since my friend recommended "plastic death" to me. "the first glass beach album" (where the line in this piece is from) is a trans anthem from a band with multiple queer members including their trans gal lead. It resonates so deeply with me and I sing along with it quite often. And as my transition continues along and I jam out to glass beach for the millionth time, I often end up reflecting back on my journey and the emotions held within it, both recent and long past. I'll admit that, despite how comforting it initially was to say the words "I think I'm trans" to my partner almost two years ago now, it was also terrifying and worrisome. I didn't know what that meant, I didn't know what that would look like for me, how family and friends would react. I was stepping into a void, an abyss if you will, and I was more than a little scared. But a part of my self, my true self, pleaded for me to take her hand and join her in diving into that abyss. Because even though the unknown was scary, with time it would grow comfortable, I'd adjust and find my footing in it and it was a whole hell of a lot better in time than the lie I was living for so long. And that's what this piece is about. It features Sorochi instead of myself as I have always found portraying my gender and mental health struggles to be more comfortable for me when they are channeled through her. Her true self bears the wings of the abyss angel, a critter of glass beach's making. I wanted to play with the “savior” concept, but angel wings felt far far too cliche and ill-fitting. The amorphous, “ugly” design of the abyss angel’s wings and its name felt much more in line with the vision I had. Because I wasn’t fully sure who I would become or what form I would take when I first jumped in. And I’m honestly still finding that out as time marches ever onward. I also wanted to spin the savior concept on its head a little and make the savior another version of one’s self. Because that’s really what happened for me. Yeah I talked about my identity with friends, yeah I sought my partner for support and a therapist for counseling, but ultimately the only one that really made the first step in all of that process was me. And that’s not to say I don’t appreciate the support and the love my friends, family, and peers have given me, I cherish it more than they all know. But I also recognize that only I could make the final decisions, call the final shots, take the first step into the abyss.

I think also that "into the abyss again" stands out in particular to me for this piece. Because, as depicted in a sort of twisted "black and white, x is absolutely y" fashion, I was already in an abyss. One I had slowly sank into over time and constructed by expectations, lack of knowledge, and fear of digging too deep lest I uncover something horrific. But that abyss was leeching me, I didn't know how lifeless, how drained I was until two years into this journey where I am finally joyous and bouncy and comfortable in my skin. Sorochi is my own OC. Lyrics and abyss angel wings belong to @glass--beach

[desmon1995]

The Warriors and their Odyssey of misogyny

I can’t stop thinking about how The Warriors is more relevant now than ever, especially in the wake of the 2024 election. This isn’t just a story about gang conflicts and survival—it's a brutally honest reflection of the world that marginalized people have to navigate every day. At its core, it’s about fighting through a sea of misogyny and toxic masculinity to survive in a system that’s dead set on crushing those who don’t fit its narrative.

Let’s start with Luther. He’s a white incel in every sense—angry, destructive, and, above all, ready to deflect blame the moment he’s caught in his own violence. After killing a black female activist, he immediately accuses the Warriors. Cleon, a character who knows what it means to fight for your community, begs for reason, for justice. But it’s hopeless—Luther’s lie spreads through his gang the Rouges, and every gang believes him. They want to believe the white man’s narrative. This is how the Warriors become outcasts, hunted by everyone.

What’s chilling, though, is how The Warriors dives deep into the nuances of toxic masculinity, showing it in forms we recognize all too well.

First, we have the Turnbull ACs—the poster boys of hyper-masculine violence. They’re the first to pursue the Warriors, and they’re more than willing to turn their hunt into something brutal. The ACs don't just want revenge; they want to dominate, to assert their power over the Warriors in every violent way possible. All in the name of Cyrus, no less—a symbol of a leader they’ll never understand. And they’re acting this way because of a lie, blindly following a dangerous white man’s narrative without question. It’s the rawest depiction of machismo and rage—almost an anthem of how Men of Color end up perpetuating harmful Eurocentric viewpoints just be a part of a society that hates them too.

Then come the Orphans. The Orphans are all talk, acting like the typical online "alpha males" we see on Reddit or Twitter. They talk big about their strength and what they’d do to women, but they’re nothing but insecure. The moment a more feminine-presenting Warrior flirts with them, they back down, only to puff up again when Mercy questions their manhood. It’s pathetic, really, but also painfully real. As soon as the Warriors fight back, the Orphans crumble, showing us exactly how performative their masculinity truly is.

Then there’s the Hurricanes—the only group to stand with the Warriors. They’re queer, and they know what it’s like to be outcast, to run because society sees you as something to be destroyed. The Hurricanes offer a quiet, resilient kind of mentorship, showing the Warriors that they don’t have to run—that they can fight. The solidarity here is beautiful, and historically resonant. Queer rights and women’s rights are so deeply intertwined because they’ve both faced the brutal crush of patriarchy, especially from those determined to keep the world “pure” and “safe” for white, conservative ideals. The Hurricanes help the Warriors see their own power, and it’s their influence that eventually allows them to survive.

But the most frightening group? The Bizzies. They’re the “nice guys,” the false allies who sing about being there to help. In their song “We Got You,” they say everything marginalized people want to hear. They’re supportive, kind, and reassuring—until they get you in a dark place, where your screams can’t be heard. Cowgirl lets her guard down with them, only to find out that their support was a façade. The Bizzies are insidious because this happens all the time in real life. Fake allies talk about helping marginalized people but vanish or even turn hostile the moment things get difficult. In 2024, we’re reminded every day that this kind of allyship is hollow.

A recent Vulture review questioned why most of the male characters in The Warriors are “bad” and argued that this one-sided view “limits” the story. But here’s the thing: this isn’t one-sided for those of us who are marginalized. For women, queer folks, and people of color, this is our reality. The Warriors reveals what’s true for many of us: that we have to rely on each other, and that the fight for our own freedom is in our hands because no one else will fight it for us without diluting or dismissing it.

In a way, The Warriors is the sequel to Hamilton we need in 2024. It’s a call to action, a piece that understands what it means to exist on the fringes of a world that was never designed for you. For those who think this story isn’t “realistic,” I urge you to think about what it means to live without the privilege of being heard, of being believed. This is the life marginalized communities face every day—the struggle of knowing that no matter how loud we shout, society might never listen.

We’re the ones who have to make our voices heard. And The Warriors reminds us that we’re not alone in this fight.

[solanasreality]

Ⳋ᧙ — SONGS THAT REM͟I͟N͟D͟ 𝕸E 𝔬𝔣 MY DR.

nymphs finding the head of orpheus ✹ nicole dollanganger — it definitely feels like an introduction, that’s for sure. it reminds me of myself, and a betrayal i had never saw coming. sealed with a knife, a promise, a kiss.

“i used to think, you must be the water i drink.

holding me down in these waters, down beneath,

singing to the sound of my screaming.”

anthems for a seventeen year-old ✹ yuele — this song is really bittersweet to me, it reminds me of the girl that looks up to me like an older sister, and despite seeing my flaws, still do. i hope i never get too much for her, and i hope she always knows she has a place where she belongs, even if i’d never tell it to her face.

“used to be one of the rotten ones and i liked you for that.”

angel ✹ massive attack — it’s me and him. it’s the devotion and the worship that becomes almost unbearable, saving each other like it’ll kill us if we don’t. he SHOULD hate my guts but yk

“you are my angel, come from way above,

to bring me love.”

like him ✹ tyler the creator — SO. little backstory for this song and why it correlates specifically. my dr is based off of a book i’m writing here, and there’s a ton of parallels to diplomatic leaders and gods, the biggest parallels are in my own friend group, but it relates the MOST to my lover (i shall make a post on him laterrr 🤭)

“i’ve decided to anything that lives inside of you, i would never ever lie to you, yeah,

you ain’t ever gotta lie to me, i’m everything that i strive to be,

so, do i look like him?”

i hope you find your way home ✹ tyler the creator — there’s a lot of loyalty shifting, most of my friends have abandoned their home because they believed in the idea of freedom, and it’s never a good idea to bring up what life could be after the war.

“i hope you find your way home..”

fable ✹ gigi perez — since there’s a ton of gods and goddesses, there’s a lot of religious imagery, the main two gods are yin and yang inspired, and there’s christianity imagery with both. well, what happens when you’re striving for the throne with your enemy as your right-hand-man? (zhan is a TERRIBLE example of this song—besides myself—because he has deep internalized homophobia)

“i fear when i question, my skin starts to burn,

why does my skin start to burn?”

slow dance ✹ kehlani — me and my man actually have a slow dance at some point after he’s crowned emperor so there’s the obvious. . he can also create plants and flowers, which is what blossomed beneath the concrete floor in amidst of the dance, i was SO oblivious because i had no idea he grew those because he was happy to dance with me :,)

“i want you open like a flower in the sun,

and heaven knows what i like and baby, you’re the one.”

army dreamers ✹ kate bush — military academy that turns into a battlefield after a betrayal is unleashed, this song was GOING on here.

“what could he do? should’ve been a rockstar.

but he didn’t have the money for a guitar.”

┊

echolalia ✹ yves tumor — him when me. AGAIN. but it’s just vibes honestly, i love the way he worships me.

can’t breathe ✹ 9th wonder — our communication was HORRIBLE. we were treading around each other too much oh my god 😓 (it’s my fault)

luther ✹ kendrick lamar — i’m so in love i’m sorry y’all. this post is TOOOO long already.

[tojiscrack]

sumaya x malakai

…

oh okay… 🙂

so that’s how you wanna play this?

okay.

🔥📄✍️

enjoy 😇

edit: the culprit has been found, and thought it was funny to MOCK me in the comments 🌝 changing ‘anon’ to her name now, goodnight

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・

she laid sprawled on her bed, one arm draped over her eyes as if shielding herself from the weight of her own thoughts.

the faint glow of her laptop screen bathed the dark room in pale light, a mess of notes and half-finished homework scattered around her, and the air felt heavy, thick. her eyelids had drooped, her mind sinking into the comfort of restless solitude—until it hit her like a storm crashing through still waters.

WAKE ME UP INSIDE!

the unmistakable, tortured wail of bring me to life by evanescence burst through the air, thundering from outside her window with unapologetic, dramatic force.

ana’s eyes had snapped open, the pulse of the bass reverberating through the walls, shaking the very core of her sanctuary.

a groan escaped her lips as she sat up, her senses now assaulted by the blaring anthem of teenage angst, drowning out her own silent brooding.

barefoot and bleary-eyed, ana slipped through the front door, her fingers tightening around the edge of her sweatshirt. the crisp autumn air wrapped around her like a cold embrace, biting at her skin and sending shivers down her spine. despite the cold weather, the sunlight from above beat down on her and the leaves that had been skittered across the driveway, caught in the fury of the soundwaves as she followed the source of the chaos.

her breath clouded in the night, her heart thudding in her chest as the cacophony grew louder with each step...

rounding the corner of the house, her gaze landed on a figure standing defiantly in the middle of the street, his silhouette illuminated by the glow of the sunlight.

malakai mortimer...

there he stood—malakai mortimer—hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket, his head tipped back in dramatic flair as if commanding the morning itself. the hood of his car had been propped open, a massive speaker perched precariously on top, blaring the anthem at an ear-splitting volume.

his jet-black hair, tousled and untamed, framed his sharp features in a halo of rebellion.

and a crooked grin played on his lips, the kind that could melt her heart or the constant war she found it to he in whenever she saw him.

but he was twitching... visibly twitching, dark eyes glinting with restrained pain.

she opened her mouth to speak, but he let out a wild hiss.

"i..." he began slowly, "am standing in the light for you, ana!"

anon shook her head before sputtering out her words, her voice a velvet dagger slicing through the noise. "n-no, kai —"

"i —" malakai hissed, the vein on his forehead threatening to pop. the music continued to blare on loudly around them both. "would you like... to become... a mate of mine... *hiss!* and run off... where... *hiss!* the darkness may consume us!"

ana averted her gaze. she had not expected such a thing this early in the morning.

malakai only ever showed up at night.

"HALT!" his booming voice cut across hers. "i will not take no as an answer..."

ana’s breath hitched, her heart hammering against her ribcage as the chaotic melody of evanescence swirled around them like a tempest. she stared at malakai, his eyes burning with a feral, almost otherworldly intensity, every twitch and hiss a symphony of barely contained madness.

her fingers had clenched into fists at her sides as the world seemed to tilt on its axis, the air crackling with something wild and electric. a part of her—sensible, sane—screamed to turn away, to deny him and retreat into the calm of her room...

but there was a pull, deep and undeniable, as if gravity itself had shifted, tethering her to him.

her lips parted slowly, her voice low and breathless, trembling with something dark and daring.

"fine... take me," she whispered, her eyes never leaving his (it was hard to meet, though, for he kept twitching and tweaking beneath the sunlight).

she stepped forwards, the morning light framing her in a golden haze as if she had crossed some unseen boundary. a wind whipped between them, scattering leaves as she raised her chin defiantly.

"let the darkness consume us, m-malakai," she murmured, surrendering to the inevitable with a dramatic flare that could only be matched by the tragedy blaring from his speaker.

at the sound of his full government name, he had dropped the resistance and began shaking on the floor, twisting and turning.

"WE — *HISS!* — ARE NOT — *HISS!* — AT THE STAGE — *HISS!* — WHERE THE DARKNESS — *HISS!* — WILL REFRAIN — *HISS!* — FROM CONSUMING US WHEN — *HISS!* — THAT WRETCHED NAME — *HISS* — IS UTTERED —"

"oh!" ana gasped, her arms extended, unsure of how to help him. "right! kai!"

he stopped.

their lives together had only just begun.

—————

epilogue:

several years later, ana stood at the edge of a crumbling skate park at night, her black combat boots scuffed and caked with dirt as she surveyed the chaos around her.

the air reeked of spray paint, rebellion, and the bittersweet tang of children and their destruction. a ragtag band of emo kids, draped in fishnet gloves, tattered band tees, and every conceivable shade of black, gathered in a half-circle like cultists awaiting a prophecy.

their eyeliner had been smudged with dramatic purpose, and their dyed hair hung in artful disarray, defying gravity with the help of questionable hairspray. the blaring anthem of little lion man by mumford & sons thundered from a portable speaker, a battered relic that had seen countless nights of midnight chaos.

at the centre of it all stood malakai mortimer, still wrapped in the same leather jacket, though now covered in patches of obscure band logos and the occasional tear that whispered of battles long fought. his wild hair had only grown more untamed, a dark crown of defiance, and his ever-present grin still carried that dangerous edge of playful madness. he balanced himself precariously on the lip of a half-pipe, his arms raised as if conducting the storm of angst.

"let… the light… perish!" he howled, his voice cutting through the night as a dozen of his emo children, with anon, screeched their agreement. "we ride… or die… into the dark shadows!"

ana sighed, pushing her now-darkened bangs from her eyes with the same exasperated fondness that had kept her tethered to this madness for far too long. she felt a tug on her fishnet-clad sleeve—one of the oldest recruits, wide-eyed and full of tragic poetry, whispered reverently, "is… father… your mate?"

ana smirked. "till the end of darkness."

which also translated to…

forever.

[theshippirate22]

listen when i say eddie and corroded coffin made it and they get super rich and famous, i do in fact know they are the metalist, ozzy-esque, headbangy metal band ever. that being said, i also wholeheartedly believe he’s like the taylor swift of metal okay every song is about a real person he knew and he is name dropping and DRAGGING people through the mud.

new song becomes the anthem to fighting haters? yeah it’s about jason carver

that one deep cut on the album that’s about being horribly afraid of dying young? who the hell is chrissy and why does he name drop her every chorus?

ex- boyfriends (and maybe girlfriends?? the fandom isn’t sure but the names are blurring together), wayne, “robbie and nance” make the bridge of Badass Bitches, and Dustin, who we know isn’t an ex because Eddie calls him a kid almost every time he makes an appearance in a song.

And then there’s Sagittarius. This faceless, nameless entity that Eddie ALWAYS sings about. nobody knows anything about them. are they a real person or eddie’s personal god? man or woman? friend or lover? nobody’s got a clue.

all anyone knows about Sagittarius is that they’ve got “skin like sun,” they “taste like nectar,” there’s “power coming straight from their fingers” and their name- Sagittarius- comes from a dotting of moles and freckles on their shoulder that make out the constellation.

in interviews, eddie’s answers are always vague. “they’re my muse,” he says in response to any question regarding Sagittarius’ identity. sometimes he gets asked why he doesn’t name drop them if they’re so important. “i don’t want anybody to take ‘em from me.” eddie answers, grinning coyly.

super fans have tried to piece it together. tried to see if one of the people he’s always with actually is a Sagittarius and the moles are metaphorical or something

(it’s not going to work. steve’s a libra)