#vile stunt

[yellowcry]

Ok but I find it so damn funny how some ppl complaining about Mercury getting mischaracterization because they thought he was a perfect little two-shoes guy who could do no wrong

Btw I need more of asshole Mercury❤️❤️

[teeth--king]

I think I should be done with stardew fanart, I’ve been drawing things for it for almost two years now(march marks 2 years), but despite me loving the game, the art side of it is currently only causing me grief. My art disgusts me, my farmer disgusts me, I disgust me, despite doing this for 2 years I feel like I still have no grasp on anything. I have one final piece for Valentine’s Day lined up but as of now, I don’t know if I want to continue on with this. Thanks and hope anyone seeing this has a good day.

[cupidsworstcrime]

simon riley x afab!reader

@lay-z ... i am unwell

im a freak... whos the dom? whos the brat? whos to say...

contains spitting , laundry stealing & mutual assholery

You’d been running your mouth all morning. Teasing jabs, cocky smiles, and just enough skill in the ring to keep Ghost from completely crushing you too early. You knew he was holding back—but you kept pushing. Testing limits. Baiting the wolf.

"Come on, Riley," you taunted, breathless and smug as you ducked another swing. "You getting old or just slow?"

His eyes narrowed behind the mask, and that was the only warning you got.

In less than a blink, he surged forward and swept your legs out from under you. The mat cracked against your spine. A grunt ripped from your throat before his weight bore down, pinning you flat. One arm pinned at the bicep with a rough hand, the other trapped beneath his knee.

"Fucking hell—" you wheezed, trying to twist free, but he was iron.

"You’re mouthy today," Ghost muttered low, the words almost conversational. Almost. His hand curled under your jaw, rough fingers prying your face up, his thumb pressing into your cheek to force your lips apart.

You tried to jerk away—he only gripped tighter.

"You wanted to act hard?" he growled, pulling up his mask.

Then he spat.

Right into your mouth.

Warm, abrupt, vile.

You gagged instinctively, choked, bucked beneath him, but his palm slammed over your mouth to shut you up.

"Swallow it," he hissed.

Your body stilled. Not out of obedience—out of sheer shock.

"You play games, you get reminded who owns the ring," he muttered darkly, still over you, still heavy, still calm in that terrifying, calculated way. "Get up when you’re done gagging."

Then he stood, leaving you there with your pride cracked open and a mouthful of humiliation.

He didn’t look back.

You wore the mask this time.

Not required for sparring, but you pulled it on with quiet satisfaction. Just a simple balaclava, nothing fancy—just enough to keep Ghost from pulling the same stunt again. No more spit. No more open-mouth degradation.

He clocked it the second you stepped into the ring. Tilted his head. Said nothing.

But you saw the twitch at the corner of his eye.

“You scared of my germs now?” he drawled as you stretched. “Or just tired of tasting defeat?”

You flipped him off and grinned under the cloth. “Just playing smart.”

That was your first mistake.

You fought dirty this round. Quick jabs, feints, a heel to his shin just to hear the grunt you weren’t supposed to notice. You had him working for it—until you didn’t.

The takedown came brutal and fast.

Your back hit the mat again, air punched from your lungs as he straddled your hips, thighs locking around you like a trap. Your wrists pinned overhead by one gloved hand.

And this time… he leaned in. Pressed down. His weight shifted, hips grinding against yours slowly, deliberately.

Not sexual—not really—but god, it felt offensive.

“You think the mask would save you?” he murmured, breath hot against your temple. “Thought I’d lose the upper hand?”

His hips rolled again. Not obscene. Not tender. Just dominant. Like he was stamping his presence on you.

You squirmed. Your mask hid the flush in your cheeks but not the ragged breath in your throat.

He chuckled, low and smug. “Still cocky?” he asked, voice syrupy and cruel.

You didn’t answer.

“You’ve got nowhere to run,” he went on, grinding once more before pulling back just enough to let your arms go. “And nothing to hide behind that mask but your pride.”

Then he stood, gaze raking down your sprawled form.

“You done pretending you’re not mine in this ring?”

You didn’t answer.

You were an idiot.

Laundry day slipped your mind, your gear was all still damp, and the only clothes left were some old ones from before you put on muscle—back when you were leaner, softer. Now they clung too snug around your arms, your thighs, your ass. The shirt stretched across your chest every time you moved, and the pants… well. They didn’t leave much to the imagination.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was just sparring. Ghost had seen you bloodied, bruised, half-dead and limping—this wouldn’t even register.

Except… it did.

You caught it the moment you stepped onto the mat.

That flick of his gaze. Down, then back up. Quick, but not quick enough.

He didn’t say anything. But his posture shifted. Looser. Lazier. That strange, looming confidence that said he was either planning something... or distracted.

So you poked.

“Problem, Lieutenant?” you asked, tilting your head, letting your shirt ride up just slightly with the motion. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Shut up,” he muttered, then lunged.

The match started rough. He was faster—too fast. Almost like he was trying to shake something off. His usual precision faltered. Not much, but enough for you to notice. Enough for you to press the advantage.

You twisted under him. Rolled to the side. Shoved him back and grinned when he landed on one knee.

“What’s the matter?” you goaded. “Not used to losing when I’ve got my thighs out?”

His stare snapped to your legs. You felt it more than saw it. And then he moved—grabbed your ankle mid-pose and yanked hard, dragging you under him again.

Pinned. Again. Of course.

But this time, his hands lingered.

One on your hip. One at your jaw.

The breath between you was tight.

“You wear this on purpose?” he asked, voice low, not angry—curious.

Your heart kicked in your chest.

“Laundry day,” you managed, a little too casual.

His thumb brushed the hem of your shirt. Pulled it down with a slow, deliberate tug, like he was correcting your uniform—but his hand didn’t move away after.

“Next time,” he murmured, “don’t give me ideas you’re not ready for.”

And then he stood. No grinding. No spitting. Just that voice, thick and dark and full of unspoken threat—or promise.

You stayed down a second longer than you needed to.

You noticed it about a week after tight-clothes-gate.

At first, it was just one pair. Then two. Then your favorite black briefs—the ones that hugged just right, breathable, comfortable, slightly worn in the way that made them perfect. Gone. No sign. Vanished like smoke.

You chalked it up to the machine. Maybe someone else on base snagged them by mistake. Maybe you left them in the dryer. Maybe the laundry gremlins were hungry this month.

Totally plausible.

But then you noticed something else.

Simon was… different.

Not dramatically. He didn’t start baking cookies or hugging people or anything psychotic like that. But he was definitely less growly. Less murderous. He even joked once, with someone other than Tav. Asked you how laundry day went—with a little tilt to his head and a voice so innocent it made your skin crawl.

“Still losin’ clothes?” he asked, flipping a knife in his hand like he wasn’t watching your every microexpression.

“Couple things missing,” you said slowly. “Weird, right?”

He hummed. “Real strange.”

Then walked off.

Whistling.

Whistling.

You stood there in the hallway, towel slung over your shoulder, bare feet cold on the tile, and your stomach dropped.

Because Simon Riley was not a man who whistled without reason.

And there was definitely no damn reason to be happy about your missing underwear… unless he was the reason.

But that would be insane. Deranged. A violation of—

The next day, one of your old shirts—stretched out and obviously worn recently—was neatly folded on your bunk.

No note. No explanation.

You didn’t say a word.

But you looked at Ghost differently after that.

And he looked like he knew it.

You weren’t dressed for much of anything.

Sweaty, pacing, post-workout, and stripped down to a sports bra and compression shorts that barely passed regulation. You’d just finished your circuit and were cooling off when Simon appeared in the doorway of the gym, mask on, arms folded, watching you with that usual unreadable stillness.

“Spar?”

You paused mid-step. Blinked at him.

“I’m not dressed for that.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said, already stepping onto the mat. “You look... ready.”

You frowned. Something about his voice was off—too casual. Too interested. But your blood was still pumping, and maybe a part of you wanted to wipe that smug tone off his face for good.

So you agreed.

The match started slow. He didn’t come at you like he normally did. No bone-rattling tackles, no brutal takedown attempts. It was like he was holding back again—really holding back. Letting you take the lead. You grappled, twisted, and finally, with a sharp maneuver, you hooked his leg and slammed him onto the mat, hard.

You straddled his waist, thighs locked around his hips, pinning his wrists with your hands.

His mask tilted up. “I yeild.”

Too easy.

Way too easy.

Your breath hitched just slightly as you realized how little he resisted.

Then you felt it.

The bulge.

Firm. Heavy. Pressed up perfectly between your thighs, under you, pulsing with heat even through both layers of fabric. You froze.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t say a word.

Just laid there, pinned, staring up at you.

You shifted your hips slightly, experimentally.

His breath caught.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Oh,” you muttered. “That’s why it was easy.”

Still no denial. Just the faintest twitch of his fingers beneath your grip. Like he was daring you to let go. Like this wasn’t sparring anymore—it was something else entirely.

You leaned down, face inches from his mask.

“You’re sick.”

“I’m patient,” he murmured back, voice like a growl. “And you’re on my cock.”

You sat back up. Stared down at him.

You could get off him.

You should.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t move at first.

Just stared down at him, your fingers still wrapped around his wrists, your thighs still clamped tight around his hips. His chest rose and fell beneath you, steady but deep—controlled in a way that made your own breathing feel ragged.

It was past 10pm. The gym lights were dim, humming faintly overhead. No one came in this late. Not unless they wanted to be alone.

Which meant you had time.

So, slowly—deliberately—you rolled your hips.

Just once.

A slow drag of fabric against fabric, the heat of him pressing up between your legs like a warning. Or a reward.

You felt the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. Not resisting. Just… bracing.

Your breath ghosted out in a quiet laugh.

“So this was your plan?” you murmured. “Let me win, get me on top of you, then lie there and act innocent while you’re fucking hard under me?”

Simon didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

You ground down again—sharper this time, less teasing. His hips bucked once, unthinking, chasing friction. A sound slipped from under the mask, half-growl, half-exhale.

Your thighs clenched around him.

“This doesn’t count as losing, does it?” you asked, leaning down until your chest brushed his.

He tilted his head, mask brushing your cheek. “I haven’t lost anything.”

You rolled again, dragging a needy sound from deep in his throat.

“Feels like you’re losing control.”

“No,” he rasped. “You are.”

His hands twitched in your grip, but you didn’t let go. You pressed your hips down harder, rocking slow and mean now, feeling his cock throb through his pants beneath you.

It was intoxicating. The power. The way he stayed still—not because he couldn’t move, but because he was letting you do this. Letting you win in the most twisted way.

And yet… the second you slipped, let your grip falter, forgot who you were straddling—

You knew he’d take it back.

But for now?

You ground again, slower this time, a wicked smile on your lips.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Say I won.”

He growled behind the mask.

And didn’t say a fucking word.

You leaned forward again, mouth by his ear, the damp heat of your breath making his muscles twitch under you.

“Say I won…” you murmured, rolling your hips slow and cruel, “and I’ll lose the shorts.”

His hands clenched in your grip, tension crackling through every inch of him like a live wire. You could practically hear his pride dying behind the mask. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight back—it’s that he didn’t want to ruin the moment. Not when your voice was like that. Not when your body was grinding down with every syllable.

And not when you dangled the promise of more right in front of him.

He hesitated for maybe two seconds.

Then:

“You won.”

A whisper. Gritted. Choked out like it cost him blood.

You arched a brow. “Say it proper.”

Simon’s jaw tensed.

“You won,” he said again, louder this time. “You beat me.”

You smirked. “Good boy.”

And in one smooth movement, you rocked your hips forward and lifted yourself just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts. You shimmied them down your thighs slowly, revealing the rest of your sweat-slick skin, your underwear clinging from earlier friction—barely staying on.

Simon stared.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

You let the shorts pool around your knees and settled back on his hips, straddling him in just your bra and those stretched-thin briefs. His cock twitched hard beneath you.

“Still think you didn’t lose anything?” you asked sweetly.

He was quiet.

Then, under his breath:

“Fuckin’ tragic defeat, this.”

You grinned.

And started to grind again.

You moved slow.

Cruel.

Your hips rocked in a steady rhythm, pressing down just right. Not enough to let him finish—never that—but enough to make his eyes roll behind the mask, enough to make his hips twitch upward every time your soaked underwear dragged across the thick bulge in his cargos.

And then you saw it.

The dark spot.

A little wet patch blooming at the tip of his cock, staining the front of his pants. Your slick mixing with the precum soaking through the fabric. You paused for a moment, admiring the mess you were making of him, the flush crawling up his neck.

Simon didn’t move. Just breathed hard through his nose, fists clenched tight, straining like he was trying not to rut up into you and completely lose his shit.

You ground in a circle, watching his stomach twitch.

“You’re leaking,” you said softly. “All that just from this?”

He made a noise behind the mask—somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

You grinned.

“Didn’t even take your pants off,” you murmured, dragging your core along him again, slow and deliberate, leaving another stripe of wet in your wake. “Look at you.”

He bucked up once—then stilled, as if ashamed.

And then:

“Don’t stop.”

You blinked. “What was that?”

His voice cracked just enough.

“Don’t—don’t stop. Please.”

The breathy desperation in his tone made your whole body tighten. That sharp, dangerous man beneath you? Begging. Not with a loud cry, not a dramatic collapse—just quiet, strained submission leaking out of him as easily as the wet spot in his cargos.

You leaned down, dragging your mouth to his ear.

“You’re pathetic.”

His cock twitched violently under you.

“Keep begging,” you whispered. “Maybe I’ll let you cum in your pants like a fucking teenager.”

And oh, the way he gasped.

You kept your pace—grinding down in tight, smooth circles, just a little harder now. Just enough to chase the slick sounds building between your body and his ruined cargos.

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this every time we spar,” you whispered, smirking against his jaw. “Hard in the locker room. Jerking off to the thought of me pinning you like this.”

His breath hitched.

“You close just from this?” you laughed, cruel and low. “Didn’t even take your cock out.”

And that’s when it happened.

His head fell back against the mat with a soft thump, a strained, helpless whimper escaping his throat like he didn’t even mean to let it out. His hands twitched, grip faltering, and then he arched—just slightly—hips stuttering up into you.

You felt the warmth bloom beneath you.

Saw the dark patch on his cargos spread fast, thick and soaking, his whole body locked up under yours as he came hard in his pants like some pent-up teen who’d never been touched.

You froze for a second, shocked into stillness—then sat back on his hips, eyes wide, laughing breathlessly.

“Oh my god.”

He didn’t say a word.

Just breathed hard, chest rising and falling, sweat beading at his temples beneath the mask.

You reached back, dragging your fingers over the mess he’d made. Warm, wet, and so much.

“Fucking hell, Riley,” you muttered. “You really just—”

He groaned, low and wrecked, tossing an arm over his face like he could hide from you. Like you hadn’t just ridden him to the saddest, hottest orgasm of his life.

“You done?” you asked sweetly, still sitting on him.

“Shut up.”

You grinned.

“You’re gonna spar like that next time? Or you want me to bring a towel?”

His answer was just a guttural noise—half threat, half mortified plea.

You stood up slow, dragging your shorts back over your hips with deliberate cruelty. His cum-stained cargos were still tented, still twitching, and you knew—you knew—he wasn’t anywhere close to done.

You adjusted your waistband, then glanced down at him with a smirk, like he was nothing more than a workout you barely broke a sweat over.

“If you decide you have more in you…” you said, voice smooth and smug as silk, “I’ll leave my room unlocked.”

And then you turned on your heel and walked out—hips swaying, head held high, not even sparing him a glance over your shoulder.

Simon lay there, still panting, sweat-slick and soaked through, staring at the ceiling like he’d just seen God—and then got laughed at by Her.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

The scramble.

He sat up like something had snapped inside him, ripped off his mask, and wiped his face with the back of his arm. His hair was a mess. His cargos were worse. And he did not give a single fuck.

He was on his feet and halfway to your room before the gym door finished swinging shut behind you.

He didn’t even bother to knock.

Just burst through your door, still flushed and unhinged, and found you halfway through pulling your sports bra off.

Your brows lifted.

“That was fast.”

He shut the door behind him.

“Not as fast as you’re gonna be beggin’,” he growled, stalking toward you.

You only grinned.

i would do awful things to mr riley and he can do them back to me

[baileyartblog]

I have so many versions of the Scarecrow but I wanted to try and do a more original take on him! Big ol info dump about him under the cut :3c

Born Josephine Keeny, Yonatan Crane uses his knowledge of chemistry and biology to keep his lycanthropy at bay, lest he go hog wild and start eating people.

When completely in control he is a court-ordered psychiatrist, truly believing that even the most vile criminal can be rehabilitated. Unfortunately for those who refuse change, he resorts to various ways of training them to fear their own crimes. Failed experimentation gives him the ingredients needed to stay human, so he gets over failure quickly. He's highly intelligent, softly spoken, and can be extremely passive-aggressive. He WILL hold a grudge. Despite having studied psychology and knowing it well, he has very poor social skills.

If he fails to prevent a transformation he turns into the Scarebeast, a wild and powerful animal capable of self-awareness but not of speech. The Scarebeast is akin to that of a wild animal and so is harmless if it doesn't feel threatened. You could even pat, brush, and ride the Scarebeast if it sees you as a friend. Transforming back into a human puts great strain on Yonatan's body and mind, meaning that he can be left in an altered state for days to weeks afterwards- This state is the Scarecrow, who is between animal and human. The Scarecrow will run at you on all fours unprovoked and is in fact more dangerous than the Scarebeast in terms of rage and vindictiveness.

The scars covering Yonatan's body are from medical experimentation and strain from transformation, but a majority of them are from the abuse inflicted by his great-grandmother growing up. He was born out of wedlock and was noticeably not white, so the woman treated him as less than human. His condition became obvious and so he was seen as being from the devil, suffering failed exorcisms and various abuse. Growing into a socially stunted but physically beautiful young girl, his guardian felt that he would use his looks for evil and so poisoned his mind into believing he was hideous - Something that he never stopped believing. Ironically she never injured his face as that would then make the abuse too obvious.

His first-ever transformation caused his guardian to suffer a fatal heart attack, and he lived off her corpse for several days before fleeing. He never knew his parents, but he knew about them from photos and journals kept hidden in the house he grew up in; Choosing to change his first name to reflect his half-Jewish mother and taking his surname from his Native American father. He feels entirely disconnected from those cultures and has only recently been studying to learn more.

[backonrepeat]

Given how Sceleritas Fel prompts Durge to kill their lover in the game, most posts and fics I've read feature him being against Durge getting involved with Gortash, romantic or otherwise, because they need to focus on their mission. Totally makes sense, probably what happened given what we see in game.

But. What about wingman Sceleritas Fel? Just for the hilarity of it all. Maybe he deems the Chosen of Bane worthy enough of his master's attention, maybe he just views the whole thing as a chance to further enhance Bhaal's power. In any case he's determined to help his master bang Gortash, cue murderous socially stunted Durge taking romantic advice from their psycho, even more socially maladjusted butler in order to seduce Gortash.

"You should shower in some blood before meeting with Lord Gortash, dear master, it does wonders for your skin and brings out your eyes"

"Why, yes, I do think Bane's chosen will appreciate your thoughtful gift, my dark master. Nothing quite says romance like a dozen bloody hearts in a box"

"I'm sure Lord Gortash enjoyed your date together, oh vile master, who doesn't love a bit of ritualistic slaughter? Why, the way you disemboweled your last victim was simply sublime! If that didn't prompt him to make a move it may just be he's a bit of a prude..."

[qingxin-dream]

“The Afterparty”

summary | lyney is the face of fontaine’s entertainment industry, stealing hearts with every flourish of his magic. however, in the night, lyney tends to entertain a different kind of crowd.

warnings | written pre-4.0, ooc lyney, light yandere themes (stalking/manipulation/obsession), a sprinkle of smut (creampie/implied dubcon) [18+, MDNI], brief mention of drugs/alcohol, reader is neutral but wears a dress, lyney uses a little french

genre | yandere, slight smut

word count | 1.6k

pairing | lyney x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

It’s no mystery that the Great Magician of Fontaine is a man of many talents. His shows are famous across Teyvat for their grandeur and flare. Beautiful venues draped in red curtains frame the scene before a sea of velvety theater seats, skilled acrobats maneuver themselves among rings suspended in the air. Blazes of fire erupt from the stage dramatically. A master of misdirection, the audience falls for his tricks every time as he effortlessly makes the impossible possible.

Lyney is incredibly perceptive. He knows how to read people, as a showman can read his audience, a small smug smile crinkling the corner of his eyes if you’re paying attention. It’s an art form—the way he flips through the pages of your soul, licking his fingers to reveal the next juicy detail with ease. Rarely ever does anyone truly surprise someone as cynical as him, who has been personally privy to the vile nature of the Fatui.

A life of fame is never kind to anyone. The planning and training for shows is incredibly rigorous. Executing the stunts in front of a live audience is equally thrilling and terrifying. Without fail, the crowd is mesmerized and the show ends in a shower of roses and marriage proposals. Rinse and repeat. Though, this is only what Lyney allows the public to know of him.

It’s after hours, when the theater is empty and the stage is dim, when the mask begins to slip.

Lyney is the lead, the star, and as such he maintains his appearance by rubbing elbows with the elite of Fontaine. You’d never catch him amid the nightlife of the city, no. You wouldn’t believe the sheer grandeur of the dazzling, flamboyant parties thrown every night at the country’s largest mansions.

It was Arlecchino who insisted that he attends these lavish parties, rampant with the city’s darkest vices between drugs, alcohol, and sex. But Lyney is a cynical man, so this much is to be expected of wealthy aristocrats.

It was all a façade, couldn’t they see? It sickened him, how gullible people were and how obsessed they were with status. Not to mention the inevitable hordes of women who threw themselves at him.

Nevertheless, Lyney played the game well and with a bewitching, handsome smile. Eventually he had learned to take pleasure in this little game.

As fate would have it, you let your friend convince you to crash one of these extravagant parties with them. You had heard whispers of what takes place at night behind the golden gates of Fontaine’s richest residences. Why wouldn’t you want to have a taste of the finest wine, dressed in designer, getting lost in the magnificent corridors of a packed mansion of partygoers?

It’s something straight from the movies.

You emerged from the bushes to sneak inside, which wasn’t that difficult surprisingly. You wore your best dress, not knowing what to expect. It was a floor length, silky black dress with a sexy slit that traveled all the way up to your mid-thigh. You had a lovely string of pearls dangling from your pretty neck. A classic choice.

Unfortunately for you, Lyney is a man who is extremely attentive to his surroundings. After all, an illusionist must be a master of his environment as well. The moment he spots you, a mere reflection of something new and fascinating for him to discover, he gravitates to you smoothly.

“Mm, I don’t believe we’ve met,” his voice is an alluring, a well-practiced approach. Before you could even answer, Lyney had already taken note of your little mannerisms and nuances just in these few passing moments. He had already adjusted the figurative mirrors of misdirection in this little trick, assuring your undivided attention.

You glance to your friend, who isn’t there. Oh. You had been cornered without even the opportunity to explore the party.

More of a wallflower type, you found yourself struggling to conjure up a confident answer. You were acutely aware of who this gentleman is, and his egotistical demeanor was already a huge turn off.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know who I am,” he chuckled lightheartedly, yet there was a peculiar undertone hidden beneath. It was hard to place. He kisses your hand. “Lyney, the Great Magician.”

You withdrew your hand, unable to hide the way your eyebrows crinkled together with disinterest. Perhaps you should’ve been more prepared for these guests to be more brazen and unapologetic when they see something—or someone—they want.

Taking no for an answer is not even in the realm of possibility for these people.

The party continued on, gorgeous partygoers dancing and drinking to their heart’s content. All the while, Lyney kept his eyes trained on you. It wasn’t necessarily out of admiration; rather, it was curiosity. Why didn’t you bat your eyelashes at him like a good girl? Bite your lip when he kissed your hand?

He followed you like a ghost, slinking through the crowd tactfully to observe you. You were a rare creature indeed. None of the other women could hold a candle to you. Archons, he felt this unsettling churning in his stomach everyone your glimmering irises met his. His heart would tense instantaneously, threatening to explode within his chest.

You saw through Lyney from the moment he kissed your hand, and he hated it.

Through the night, you both danced this delicate tango around the massive mansion, a palpable tension tethering him to you. He was equally appalled and fascinated by you, never wasting any opportunity to slip in an innocent question or two to learn about you.

“A beautiful lady like you in a place like this… Do you feel lost in Wonderland yet, Alice?” Lyney had persuaded you to follow him to an unoccupied balcony, closing the French doors behind him.

He stalks toward you, his soft lavender irises cool and calculated. In an ashy flourish of embers, a deck of onyx cards materialized in his gloved hands. It had taken all evening, but just enough wine had passed beyond your lips to give Lyney the opportunity to disarm you.

“Not scared of a little fire, are you, love?” His voice was warm and inviting as a hearth, though it held a hint of mischief like that of a crackling inferno. Each mysterious card in his hand is shuffled with a distinct flick.

You were much more susceptible to his charm now more than ever, allowing him to weave glittering silk strands of harmless sweet nothings to entice you. Had you taken a step back, you would’ve seen the web for what it is. The grand reveal was imminent.

“Now, now, don’t fret. I won’t let anything harm you, chérie,” Lyney chuckles lightheartedly, as if he hadn’t been playing and pawing at you like a cat ready to pounce all night.

Your poor little breath hitched at every whisper and touch he gifted you. It started by fatefully picking the Queen of Hearts from his custom deck of cards. You should’ve known better. Maybe you should’ve picked the one next to it. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered.

Lyney’s lilac eyes spark with intrigue at your choice. How fitting. Had you paid any attention to the magician’s sneaky maneuvers, you would have seen that every card in the deck was from the suite of Hearts.

The illusion of choice.

He takes this as an opportunity to step closer, his hands reaching forward. Your chest is beating wildly, begging for relief from how he intoxicates you with just a flutter of his long lashes.

Lyney rests his hands on the marble railing on either side of your hips, drinking in your anticipation, your fear, and your desire. A small, smug smirk pulls at the corner of his pretty lips. He takes the liberty of helping you meet his gaze by bringing his wrist to his mouth, white teeth tugging to remove his glove. Your body feels weightless when he lifts your chin with his bare index finger and thumb.

The Great Magician would argue that he took extreme precautions to ensure the success of this escapade. It was all carefully calculated and orchestrated according to his whim. He had you exactly where he wanted you, blissfully unaware of how deep these exhilarating feelings for you had rooted themselves into his guarded heart.

“Do you feel the magic in my fingertips? Hehe, tonight’s show will be a private event for only for you, mon trésor.”

The night was a blur. Fading in and out of consciousness, one moment you were dancing with him in empty halls and the next you were enveloped in his embrace against a wall. Lyney would pin your hands above your head before pushing you onto the bed, catapulting you into his next breathtaking trick like one of the acrobats in his show.

The silhouettes of your frames were shadowed in the moonlight that bathed the sheets in silver. Lyney skillfully unzipped your dress. Clothes fell to the wayside, vanishing in a flourish of passion. There was no denying it. He had to have you, and you were such a willing participant in his performance.

Of course, the wealthy partygoers were none the wiser, the echoes of pleasure the Great Magician was able to rip from your lungs were easily deafened by the music of their own opulent fantasies.

What is a magician if not an artist who must mark what is rightfully his—painting your womb with a decadent display, a growl escaping his throat.

However, Lyney is a perfectionist. When he catches a glimpse of his seed spilling out of you, he is quick to stuff his slender fingers into your overstimulated hole and seal the masterpiece with a final kiss on your bruised lips.

“Magnifique…” ❤️

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist.

[watchmegetobsessed]

ON REPEAT

A/N: we all saw the vid of him tongueing his guitar... yeah... the devil works hard but i work harder

WORD COUNT: 2.4k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: As his personal assistant, you definitely shouldn't be havin dirty thoughts of Harry, especially not about the way his tongue on his guitar. But it's hard to resist and you need relief, but you never thought your boss would be more than willing to help you out.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

You watch it happen and in a third of a second you are no different than the screaming girls out there in the pit and the stands, only that you can’t scream from the top of your lungs when Harry mimics to be playing his guitar with his tongue.

It’s vile. It’s maddening and it should definitely not turn you on the way it does, because he is your boss. He is not just a rock star for you, a person far out of your reach, he is your job, you manage his everyday life for a living so you surely should not be having dirty thoughts at the sight of his tongue on a guitar’s neck.

But you do. You very much do and the fantasies are so bad you can actually feel your panties getting wet in an instant as you stand by the stage and watch him carry his performance on as if he didn’t just destroy all ovaries in the arena and because there’s probably hundreds of videos now of his little stunt, you know it will continue to sweep through the whole world by the morning.

The after show period is the same as always. Harry runs off stage, he changes faster than lightning and before the first people could step out of the arena the two of you are in the backseat of a car, heading out to avoid the traffic his own show usually creates.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he comments.

You don’t dare to look at him, especially not because you can smell him from this close, locked up together in the car. The smell of his shower gel from before the show is still lingering on his skin but it is not mixed with his sweat, the smell of his own body that you spent two hours to stare at and have the most ravenous and lustful thoughts you’ve ever had since you’ve realized you have a crush on your boss.

This is what hell must be like.

“I’m good, just tired,” you shrug and continue staring out the window. You can feel his excruciating gaze on you, it’s burning your skin, but you keep your eyes on the outside world, hoping to survive this five minute car ride without moaning or whimpering in front of him.

You practically run to your room once you’ve parted ways in the hallway and when you throw yourself onto the perfectly made bed you scream into the pillow, letting out the pent up frustration you battled with all evening.

Out of all men in the world why did you have to fall for your boss? Why do you find him the best looking man to ever exist? Your body and mind has betrayed you and now you have to bear the consequences of it.

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip when you pull your phone out and go online, looking for a video of the guitar stunt. It takes about five seconds to stumble upon it and because it was taken by a fan, it was recorded from a lower point and it just adds to the weight of it.

You watch it over and over and over… and over again.

And before you could even realize what you’re doing, your hand is between your legs, applying pressure at the right spot over your shorts, your heart beat is picking up and an occasional swear word leaves your parted lips every once in a while.

What you don’t notice is that you did not close your room’s door fully when you rushed inside, so when Harry comes over to ask if he could grab your phone charger, because his just died, he can easily push the door open and step inside without making a sound when he hears your whimpers and the video playing over and over again.

He knows which part it is, he remembers it clearly, because he knew it would make his fans go crazy, but he did not expect to catch you watching it back… and enjoy it this much.

He stays hidden for a bit and selfishly listens to your sounds. Adrenaline boosts through his veins as he realizes that you’re playing with yourself while watching the video of him and well… it is definitely doing things to him.

Just like the shorts you were wearing tonight, all those silky skin you were showing, the curve of your ass peeking out from underneath, Harry had to take a second shower when he saw you bend down for something. And now he caught you playing with yourself while thinking about him.

He knows he has to make a decision. Walk out, close the door and pretend he never heard anything or walk in and do what he’s been fantasizing about probably since he hired you to be his assistant.

His legs move before the decision is processed in his mind.

He walks out from his hiding spot and it takes a moment for you to register his presence and realize that it’s not just a hallucination, he did in fact just walk into your room while you were masturbating to a video of him.

“Oh my God!” you scream and the phone goes flying out of your hands, dropping to the floor, but the video is still playing. Your heart is threatening to burst right out of your chest and jump to Harry’s feet and you’re trying to grab the sheets to cover yourself even though you’re not naked, but Harry is quick to climb onto the bed and stop you from doing it. To put some more distance between the two of you, you push up against the headboard and shut your legs closed tight, horror etched onto your face as your mind is racing, trying to find a way to explain yourself, but you know there’s nothing you could say that would get you out of this mess.

Harry, on the other hand, is enjoying this more than he should, probably. The shame on your face, the way your body is still in a state of lust but also in shock, this is thrilling, knowing he did this to you, the woman who is usually so laid back he can’t ever read your body language.

His eyes are glued to your face as he reaches out and places his hands on your trembling knees. Part of him is disappointed you’re not rambling, trying to talk yourself out of it, but it’s also hot that you are not denying what you’ve been just caught doing.

“Open your legs, Y/N,” he speaks up in a husky, gut wrenching voice and if you weren’t scared for your life (and job), you might have come just from that.

When you don’t move, just stare back at him, he applies the tiniest bit of pressure on your knees to push them apart and your body gives up resistance instantly.

The hunger that flashes through his eyes when he sees that you’ve drenched your panties and shorts good enough to have a visible spot on them, right in front of him now sends a shiver down your spine. And then when he reaches out and runs just one single finger, his middle finger down the seam, you fear your soul has left your body.

“I can leave you and finish on your own, Y/N. Or I can do it for you. Your choice.”

Fuck, your mind feels so heavy and fogged up, you are not in the state to make a decision, let alone one that could have an effect on your life, but it’s like there’s an emergency window has been broken and something else has taken over you, you find yourself speaking up.

“I want you to do it.”

The smirk that spreads across his face twists your inside and you don’t even have time to process it when he climbs over you like a hungry lion and claims your mouth in a deep, demanding kiss that has you seeing stars.

With his mouth still devouring your lips, one of his hands move to grab yours and brings it over to his head.

“If you want to grab onto something, it can only be my hair, understood?” he talks against your mouth and all you can do is nod and let out a whimper. He smirks, so pleased with himself before moving back down and sitting down between your now open legs. He hooks his fingers into your shorts and underwear at the same time and then tugs them down with a swift motion, baring you in front of him, revealing just how much he has turned you on.

“Fuck, baby. Look at you! So wet and ready for me. It’s not the first time I’ve turned you on, right?” His eyes snap up to meet you as he reaches out and runs two of his fingers down your cunt. The touch feels like electricity, your whole body reacts and your knees start shaking.

“No,” you breathe out.

“That’s what I thought,” he chuckles lowly. “Next time, Y/N, you’re coming straight to me. No toying, no touching yourself, I want to be the only one to make you come. Understood?”

You just nod again, but this time he doesn’t take it as an answer.

“I need you to use your pretty voice.”

“Understood,” you manage to speak out, but the word melts into a moan when his fingers start circling on your clit.

“Good girl.”

Fast and graciously, he gets onto his stomach and before you could even appreciate the sight of him between your legs, his mouth latches onto your pussy and it’s game over for you.

You vaguely remember his request to only hold onto his hair and that’s what you do, you grab his chocolate curls with so much force it stings his scalp, but it also sends waves of pleasure down is groin as well while.

It shouldn’t be a surprise to you that he is fucking amazing in it, that Harry Styles can eat pussy like he does it for a living, that his mouth and tongue know exactly what to do to have your eyes roll to the back of your head from the pleasure. It’s scandalous that he is so good at everything and deep down you already know you’ll never find a man who could eat you out like this ever again.

“Harry, of my God!” you groan out, your back arching when you feel his tongue pushing inside you before it’s replaced by his fingers again.

Harry has heard you say his name a million times in every possible way. Or so he thought. Because this lustful, begging, whiny way is a new way and it is easily his favorite now.

He would want nothing more than to have you some on his mouth, but he also want to selfishly eat up your moans as you orgasm, so right before you could reach your peak he pulls back. You’re just about to complain when he moves up your body and his mouth occupies yours, his hand remaining between your legs, two fingers curling inside you just as he kisses you again. You shake and squirm and his fingers are working their magic on you and you realize you should be giving back as well.

With your lips attached to his you manage to reach down and into his pants, Harry tries to protest, only wanting this to be about you but he is too late and when he feels your hand wrap around his cock, giving him a delicious squeeze, the words die down in his throat.

You both are one big mess. Hands between each other’s legs, mouths hungrily colliding, it’s a state that’s almost too much but you also don’t want this to ever end. When you can feel your orgasm threatening to tip over the edge you start to stroke him faster and harder which earns the most beautiful, torturous moan to bubble from his throat.

You come hard and long, gasping for air, his name rolling off your tongue and into his mouth and he swallows it already wanting more. Your hands fall out of rhythm for a bit, but as soon as you’re coming off your high you return to pleasuring him and when you hook a leg over his waist the position ending up with his tip pressing against your pussy he gives you a look that says he is just about to chase after you.

A few more strokes and he is coming over your stomach, spilling his pleasure onto your shirt and the bedsheet as well, but you couldn’t care less. You keep your hands moving until you know he has given you his all and then you both roll to your back and stare up at the ceiling in your post orgasm haze.

You have absolutely no idea how much time passes before Harry pushes himself up from the bed and disappears in the bathroom only to return with a damp towel. Climbing back next to you he gently cleans you up between your legs and also wipes your stomach before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss above your belly button. Throwing the towel beside the bed he moves closer and curls an arm around your waist as he holds himself up on his other arm, looking down at you with bright, gleaming eyes.

“What?” you ask when he just keeps staring at you.

“I know I shouldn’t be talking about work right now, but I need you to do something.”

For a moment you fear that the aftermath of it all will be a disaster and he is bringing up work because he wants this to be just a one time thing and might be already regretting it.

“Okay,” you breathe out with wide eyes, which makes Harry laugh.

“I need you to cancel your rooms for the rest of the tour.”

“What?” Terror flashes through your body for a moment, thinking that he is about to fire you.

“You’re gonna sleep in my room, because I want to do this every night. On repeat. And even more.”

This fucker.

Smacking his chest you groan in relief as he just keeps laughing at your reaction.

“You couldn’t have possibly thought I would kick you out after this. Y/N, what kind of man do you think I am?” he pretends to be hurt.

“An asshole! That’s what you are!”

“But you want this asshole, right? In your bed.” He leans down and kisses you. “Between your legs.” Another kiss. “All the time. Right?”

“Fuck off,” you mumble, but pull his face down anyway, kissing away your frustration with how much you truly want and how cocky he will be about this for probably the longest time ever.

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[blessedbyahuntress]

Hello! I've recently become interested in your work and would like to experiment with your wonderful performance!

If to Percy Jackson and the reader|Hecate's daughter? The girl is constantly immersed in rituals and exploration of her capabilities. And the case is based on the fact that the reader has learned to take on a male form and flaunts this ability to her boyfriend. Like, she becomes just a guy and leaves all her features and appearance.

It would be interesting to use any explanations like: «well, I'm a witch» or «you're asking the daughter of the goddess of magic…»

I apologize if any of this is not clear. English is not my native language, so I relied on a translator....🦝

Boyfriend or Girlfriend?

Pairing: Percy Jackson x Daughter!of!Hecate!Reader

Warnings: A teeny bit of cursing

Word count: 575

“Ah, ha!” 

You were stooped over a cauldron in your cabin, bottling what was possibly the hardest potion you’d ever made. The blue-green liquid sloshing around inside reminded you of your boyfriend’s, Percy Jackson’s, eyes. Oh, how little patience you had; you could hardly contain your nervous energy as you continued pouring in the potion, a small smile playing across your lips.

You licked your lips, trying to prepare yourself for downing the liquid. You put down the ladle you’d been holding and took a deep breath. 

Just as you trickled about half of the potion down your throat, the door burst open.

“Y/N!” Your sister, Lou Ellen, called as she walked into the Hecate cabin. Then she froze, eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Who are you?” She asked, eyes flickering from you, to the potion in your hand, and back to you.

“Y/N,” you answered. You frowned. Your voice was different- deeper, louder. 

Lou raised her eyebrows. “Nice try,” she scoffed. “Who do you think you're playing at? You’re literally a male.”

You gasped softly, holding your hands out in front of you- large hands, probably large enough to fit around a volleyball. “It worked,” you murmured. 

“Yes!” You shouted after the shock wore off. “I did it! After several days, I did it!”

Lou pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh, gods,” she muttered. “It really is you.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, sticking your tongue out. Once you were done with your antics, you straightened. “Would you, by any chance, know where Percy is?”

~

Lou did know, but it took you two more hours to arrive at the lake; you had to get help from your siblings to make another potion that would turn you back into a girl. 

Percy was sitting on the shore, legs crossed as he studied the water with his sea-green eyes. He turned his head slightly as he heard your approach. 

“Hey, Seaweed brain,” you said, sitting down beside him.

Percy smiled at the use of your favorite nickname for him. “How’s it going, Princess?” He greeted.

You shrugged casually, even though pulling this stunt on your boyfriend had your nerves on end. “Nothing much. You?”

Percy picked up a stone, twirling it in between his fingers. “Jason beat me at sparring again,” he sighed. 

His gaze was pulled away from you, back onto the rocking waves of the lake. You smirked, uncorking the potion. The smell that hit you was unexpected, but it traveled on the wind quickly; you had to do this fast. 

You chugged about a quarter of it down, holding back a wince as the horrible taste caught up with you.

Percy looked over, his eyes widening. “Holy fuck!” He yelped, leaping away from you. “Where did you come from?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “My mother,” you answered. “Where else?”

Percy opened and closed his mouth for what seemed like forever. “Uh… bring my girlfriend back, please.”

You snorted. “Gladly.”

Exchanging another vile for the one in your hand, you brought it up to your lips, giving Percy teasing salute with it. You gulped it down, thanking the gods above that this one tasted sweet instead of bitter. 

Percy raised his eyebrows at you. “That was not funny. How did you even do that?”

“Well, my beloved Seaweed Brain, I’m a witch.” You started giggling. “And c’mon! It was at least a little bit funny.”

[tomorrowusa]

Trump probably can't win the presidential election without North Carolina. 🤔💡

It would be difficult though not out of the question for Kamala Harris to win without Pennsylvania. But it would be close to impossible for Donald Trump to win without taking North Carolina.

If Trump loses North Carolina, it could be an early night — and curtains for GOP

Democrats hope that momentum determines the presidential winner and even changes the contours of election night. North Carolina polls close early, at 7:30 p.m. Moreover, state law allows processing of mail-in votes well before Election Day, making an early count possible. (Some states, including Pennsylvania and Wisconsin, cannot start processing until Election Day, which could result in delays of several days before a winner is determined.) Should Harris win North Carolina’s 16 electoral votes, Trump’s chances of victory diminish greatly. He would need a virtual sweep of other battleground states (and likely all of the blue-wall states).

A quick reminder that North Carolina was the state which gave Trump his narrowest victory in 2020. It was won in 2008 by Barack Obama. So we're not exactly talking Tennessee or Idaho here.

An early-evening victory in a state Democrats have not won for 16 years would reverberate through the country, potentially depressing GOP turnout in Western states and diminishing the appetite for stunts to refuse certification of results in states such as Arizona and Georgia (which would not be determinative if Harris holds the blue wall and wins North Carolina).

Republicans are more likely to vote on Election Day than Democrats who have adopted early voting in greater numbers than Republicans. So an early call for Harris-Walz in North Carolina on the night of the election would more likely depress Republican votes in the Western US.

One thing which may negatively affect Trump in the state is the awful Republican candidate for governor of North Carolina.

[T]he North Carolina governor’s race might have a “reverse coattails” effect. The Republican nominee, Lt. Gov. Mark Robinson, is an extremist conspiracy nut, a “fount of social media conspiracy theories and vile proclamations about the LGBT community, Jews, and other minority group,” the Daily Beast noted this year. From Holocaust denial to thundering that “some folks need killing” to his support for an abortion ban from “zero weeks,” he symbolizes everything wrong with today’s MAGA Republican Party. Robinson’s Democratic opponent, Josh Stein, the state attorney general, has opened a 10-point lead. If Democrats tie Robinson (a Trump favorite) to Trump, voters might run from both. At the very least, Republicans could suffer a drop in turnout as disgusted North Carolinians simply stay home.

A better than average turnout of Dems in NC would help flip the state. If you live just over the border in deep red South Carolina or Tennessee then consider doing some volunteer work in North Carolina. It could have an impact which extends far beyond the Tar Heel State.

[myonlyangel28]

i’m ab to go on a rant. sorry in advance for how long this is gonna be. i have so much to say.

i’m so sick and tired of seeing the harry slander all over my feed. all over twitter and tiktok, people are blaming harry for one direction splitting up, calling him a “mean girl” and “standoffish” bc for the first time in his career he implemented boundaries, calling him arrogant bc you don’t see him interact w the boys publicly and overall just mocking him, like it is absolutely vile the way people treat him. harry deserves so much better. he is such a kind and amazing person. the worst part is when harry nicely says “can we not” to fans they make it into a meme when all he’s asking for is for people to show him basic human decency. the lack of respect fans have shown him absolutely sickens me.

i will never forgive those who were cruel to him during the holivia era. none of that was harry’s fault. i’m sure harry didn’t want to do that bs and he was forced into it. his management destroyed him so much. he was mentally and physically drained. the way people turned on him and bullied him is absolutely unforgivable. and don’t get me started on the 2023 grammy’s. on the most monumental moment of his entire solo career, people heckled him and made him cry bc people thought beyoncé was more deserving. i love beyonce but that was harry’s year. that was the best year of his career. and btw beyoncé fans, she really likes harry. she was very happy for him when he won.

y’all made him basically run away and become more private. i’m not faulting him for living a more private life at all. that is his right! i’m upset that people gave him no other choice bc people can’t show him any fucking respect or human decency. he has creepy stalker fans who act like they have no proper home training. he can’t even do basic things without fearing people are after him. i hate that for him.

i hate the way the industry has treated him. he has horrendous greedy people on his management who constantly sabotage him. they have alienated him from the boys publicly. they have alienated him from louis publicly which will forever make me mad bc all harry wants to do is be with the love of his life. those four boys are the only people in the industry who truly loved and cared about harry, as they had his best interest at heart.

they have closeted harry since he was 16. they have closeted louis since he was 18. they ruined harry’s reputation and went with the womanizer persona bc harry is closeted. they closeted him bc he’s in love with louis tomlinson. this industry is so homophobic. they ruined those boys’ public relationship bc the industry wants to live in this 1950’s mindset and it’s despicable.

when we first met louis, he was this carefree, kind hearted, caring bubbly and funny guy. he was very aloof and always was extremely affectionate towards harry. he loved harry so openly. he is still all of those amazing qualities however this industry broke him down. after cake gate, he changed his persona into someone so jaded and defensive at times, and also a little insecure. they made louis question who he was and made him change his entire persona bc they made him believe the industry would never accept him. HE WAS AN 18/19 YEAR OLD BOY SIMON COWELL!! HOW FUCKING DARE YOU DO THIS TO HIM!! YOU BASTARD I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT KNOWING THE DAMAGE YOU CAUSED THIS SWEET BEAUTIFUL ANGEL!!

i have seen videos saying or alluding to the boys were allegedly being forced into conversion therapy, mainly louis. i hope that that’s not true but nothing would surprise me. if i know simon cowell like i think i do i wouldn’t put it past him. louis is such a wonderful person who has the purest of intentions. he is a way better person than simon cowell could ever be. forcing louis in the closet is absolutely despicable. i know he wants to come out. i know he hates every minute of having to stunt, harry as well. i know he hates having to deny his love for harry. i know they hate being apart from each other. boys please know you are so loved. louis you are an amazing person. you are one of the purest souls.

lou, we see you. we see you. we are standing by you. i love you so much.

harry is the furthest thing from a womanizer. he is someone who respects women immensely and always goes out of his way to be kind to them. he has never said anything disrespectful or derogatory to anyone, ESPECIALLY WOMEN!!

the thing is i know harry wants to come out. he’s been fighting to come out since day 1 but his horrendous management team wants to closet him bc they think it will be detrimental to his career. they consider louis to be a liability to harry for some fucked up reason and it’s absolutely disgusting. harry if you ever see this please know you are so loved. we see you. we hear you. we will always stand by you. i will always love and support you.

louis i’m so sorry this industry failed you, honey. i am so proud of you. everything you have achieved in your career has all been your doing and no one else’s. everything you accomplished has been solely bc of you. no label, simon or anyone could ever take that away from you. please don’t forget that.

this industry has a lot to answer to. the day those boys are free i hope they expose every single one of those demons. simon cowell, syco, modest management, jeff azoff, simon jones and co, i don’t know how you sleep at night knowing the harm you have caused these boys. they were two young boys who just wanted to make music and love each other freely. you robbed them of their innocence and freedom. i will never forgive you. especially simon cowell who knew how young and green these boys were to the business yet still forced them into tiring tour schedules and constant press without ever allowing them to sleep, eat and breathe. these people caused immense mental anguish to them. i will never forgive them for that.

i know these boys are incredibly tenacious and will persevere. i feel so helpless sitting by feeling like i can’t do anything to save them. i hate that they have had to go through this for so long. i know they must be so tired.

[mymarifae]

yesterday someone on strawpage asked me what made me go from a dr. ratio hater to a dr. ratio enjoyer and that response took me. four hours . to put together. so you know what i'm going to share my thoughts here too. here's why i like this ⬇️ jackass a lot now!!!!!!!!!!!

he's a tricky character! the first interactions we get with him are so off-putting and unpleasant that i feel like a lot of people are like "wow, this guy is a self-absorbed dick, i don't respect him at all. can he go away" - i know that was my reaction! and he IS a dick. but like. listen.

it's really, really, REALLY easy to misconstrue 90% of his words and actions. it doesn't help that he has the speech patterns of a haughty asshole. and it alsooooooo doesn't help that aventurine's stunt in penacony required orchestrating a "betrayal" between himself and ratio. i think some of the things ratio said during All That constitutes the bulk of most people's persisting dislike of him. So:

1. everything ratio did and said was exactly what aventurine asked him to. this was all pre-negotiated. i think aventurine's insecurities acting up and the way he started doubting whether ratio was truly just acting threw some people off as well, but there is plentyyyyyy of evidence that no, ratio does not hate him and was not waiting for the perfect opportunity to stab him in the back and rid himself of this "damned gambler" but i'll get more into that in a sec ok? i have another bullet point to make first. and it's important so read it carefully ok? promise?

2. any comments from ratio pertaining to aventurine's race were said to fuel the narrative SUNDAY was building in his head probably from the second he learned which ipc executive would be coming to penacony.

aventurine's plan hinged on sunday's prejudice. he needed sunday to think of him as a liar, a cheat, a silver-tongued honeypot - basically, every avgin stereotype floating around in the universe. he needed to invoke a sense of insult. how could someone so... despicable invade the family's sweet dream? he needed sunday to be so wound up over his presence in penacony that he couldn't resist the urge to put The Vile Avgin back in his place. idk THIS ("this" being the real world parallels of how the catholic church ethnically cleansed the rroma during the 16th and 17th centuries) is a whooooole issue in itself that i don't have the time to go into rn because we're supposed to be talking about dr. ratio. oops

anyway the important thing to understand is that ratio absolutely does not look down upon aventurine's heritage. he was acting, with aventurine's blessing, to feed into sunday's biases. and he wasn't even good at it 😭... like look at this exchange from 2.0:

one snarky comment from aventurine and his ass is immediately Apologizing. his ass that's supposed to be acting like he doesn't respect or like aventurine At All. in fact, aventurine's "even under the watchful eye of the harmony..." comment feels a liiiiittle pointed lol. it's a subtle warning to ratio! like, "hey, dumbass, did you forget we're being monitored at all times?? knock it off."

and like this isn't even the only time ratio breaks character and puts aventurine's plan in jeopardy. he learns nothing from this interaction because it's worse next time. lmao:

this stupid fuckignb note. is extremely significant in manyyyy ways so we have to talk about it. first of all, stopping to check on aventurine's condition and to say "tell me if you can't hold on any longer" RIGHT IN FRONT OF SUNDAY (basically, since the family was monitoring everything and a few minutes later we see one of gopher wood's birds hanging out in that general area)?? BRO

if he wanted to, this brief interaction would have been enough for sunday to call their bluff. and aventurine knew that; many of his lines here feel like attempts to redirect ratio into picking the act back up and to stop trying to help him.

next, the stupid fuckignb note's contents. yes yes the second half is very sweet and it's all anyone ever wants to talk about and i understand because it probably meant the world to aventurine especially in that moment but i need you to look at the first half

ratio gave aventurine the answer..? he. gave him the answer. you might be wondering why this matters at all and i'll just have to redirect you to his actions in 1.6, wherein he notably refused to give any answers and let asta, stelle, and like everyone else on the space station flounder, learn from their floundering, and - ultimately - Grow

ratio is a teacher through and through. if someone isn't one of those "geniuses" he wants nothing to do with, they're a potential student in his eyes. and everything that happened in mundane troubles was the space station's final exam, so to speak. his inaction wasn't out of cruelty or because he didn't care about the fate of all the people on the station - obviously he did, because he was the one using the phase flame to teleport the missing researchers to safety...

he posited himself as a safety net in case things went horribly terribly wrong, but he left most of it up to stelle and asta, because he believed in them. they had all the information they needed; they just needed to figure out how to utilize it. and if they failed, well... they had their safety net, and failure is a learning experience too. like, ratio wants people to learn. he wants them to have all the skills and knowledge they could possibly need to take charge of their lives.

the "geniuses" of the world, the head honchos, the impossibly rich 0.0001%? whatever you want to call them, there's always this Upper Level in society that can do things "ordinary" people can never dream of doing. their way of life is simply unattainable. ratio disagrees. he believes that anyone can do anything, if someone would only take the time to teach them. and he's chosen to be one of those teachers! instead of sitting on his ass and just theorizing about a better, fairer society, he's doing what he can to make a difference.

(not so self-centered after all, huh?)

so like. when you remember how much of a teacher ratio is, like this is a philosophy ingrained in his very bone marrow, it's a pretty big fucking deal that he just GAVE aventurine the answer he needed. it shows how concerned he was! and how guilty he felt about the part he had to play!!!! his words and actions were so far removed from his actual thoughts and feelings that he literally HAD to put the whole operation at risk to remind aventurine that he doesn't view him the same way sunday did, give him a safety net, AND let him know it's there. because at this point he felt that the plan was too risky and he cared too much

like honestly i think he hoped aventurine would read the note before putting on his "performance" and readjust accordingly. but then he didn't <3 and acheron had to remind him that it was still sitting in his pocket <3 if she hadn't said anything about it i don't think he would have opened it adgsmbfdndhfbkjjbg <3 oh i love a mess <3 anyway i think this serves as a suitable refute for the "dr. ratio was racist towards aventurine" sentiment that continues to fly around in some parts of the fandom, so? MOVING ON

i ended up talking about this already, but looking more closely at how ratio looks at the world was a biiiiiig part of why he grew on me So Much. it's all actually really noble and worth admiring. again, he just talks like a dick so it's easy to get confused LMFAO

he never received nous' recognition not just because he "cares too much" (as you'll see some people vaguely claim and then not elaborate), but because he fundamentally disagrees with the ideology that allows the genius society, the path of erudition, and even nous themself to exist.

there's like... a certain "threshold" of intelligence and knowledge that nous operates off of. the unknown, the near-or-actually-impossible to comprehend, things that the average person would never be able to grasp and would never care to try because it's simply beyond them - that's all nous cares about. but ratio doesn't believe this threshold exists. he doesn't believe in knowledge that cannot be taught. just to reiterate: he believes anyone can learn anything if someone teaches them, and they will care if they know someone will be there to teach them.

but if anyone can follow the footsteps of geniuses, then Genius is no longer a superior echelon of society. the end goal the erudition seeks is no longer "beyond the limits of mortal wisdom."

nous rejected ratio because he rejected them - long before he fully understood that he did so.

i think he only ever tried to seek their recognition because it was expected so highly of him. like, he was a prodigy child, absorbing new information and collecting phds at the speed of light. of course every adult around him was like, "oh yeah this kid's a future genius society member" and then they told him this. over and over. and he was like, Okay, so this is the path i'm supposed to embark on, and i must do it and i must succeed (or i'll let them down; i'll be a disappointment, a failure, a waste of resources and all the hopes and dreams everyone's pinned onto me.)

he spent a good few years trying and failing to conform to nous' surprisingly (ironically?) boxed-in mindset. but they ignored him, probably because they predicted that even IF they recognized him while he seemingly ascribed more closely to the erudition's beliefs, he would ultimately wander off and "waste" time trying to nurture the achievements of "mere" mortals instead. and then he had to sit there and be like ok i apparently fucking failed at the one thing i thought i was supposed to do with my life, What Now

and this results in the dr ratio we meet in game. still haughty, still has an attitude problem and a bad temper, still has a tendency to talk down to people (i think though at this point his condescending tone is more of a defense mechanism and a way of isolating himself from others before he is once again rejected from a "part" of society after trying, trying, and then Failing to conform to a box), but! considerably more humble and far more focused on others than himself. he cares, ok. he cares an awful fucking lot. he believes in the good of humanity. humanity's ability to do good, to grow... to find the answers to its problems, implement them, and save itself.

plus, "character that's very admirable and very kind and loving IN THEIR OWN WAY (<- this is important because ratio isn't any of these things in a traditional sense and that's another part of why i've come to like him; it's interesting) but is cursed to just sort of talk like a total jackass forever" is an extremely entertaining concept

one other thing that's less significant than realizing ^^^^^^^ALL OF THAT. GOD .but still played a big part in my warming up to him, is how fond he is of those stupid rubber ducks and the goofy poses his statues are in. and also how his very first introductory cutscene is him playing chess BADLY (😭😭😭😭) against himself. that speaks to a sense of whimsy and playfulness that he doesn't have much of an outlet for. which i find... cute. and an aspect of his character that's a ton of fun to play around with

IN CONCLUSION: i mean he's okay i guess

[yanverse]

i would let ilya do illegal things to my cervix, that man is so hot.

oh? :)

(cws: DDNE, gn!darling, noncon, hate sex, blood as lube, knives, impact play, choking, biting, degradation)

"Shut up, just shut up," he huffs in your ear. he says it like he's not half the problem; like the squeaking of the dense bedframe and the sloppy shluck shluck shluck shluck of his hips wetly kissing your ass isn't as noisy as you are. your plump lips swollen from hungry kisses and nips that aren't playful anymore, but possessive--they quiver between Ilya's fingers as his grip loosens somewhat, but when he forces his hand back hard over your mouth the cycle repeats all over again.

his eyes are redder than usual today. a rosy scarlet dyed to a crimson hue. they're dark and angry and they scare you but only a little bit, just a little, cause that pinprick of fear makes you clench harder around him when he bears down on you with that solemn glare. you're a pain in his ass.

so he wants to be a pain in yours.

"you're going to lick it when I'm done here," a growl rumbles through his pale throat, doused in scratches and bite marks. not from you, not today, but from the last inmate on death row who gave him more problems than satisfaction at execution. some of them can be wily, but few ever really manage to retaliate. "no teeth this time."

maybe he had his mind occupied by the stunt you'd pulled the night before. pretending to orgasm, in the hopes he wouldn't drag it out as long as usual? it was a new low for you. it pissed him off. but not quite as much as you biting his finger when he tries to grab your jaw open.

"ah-!" a gasp rips out of him, secondary only to the harsh, echoing smack of his open palm coming down on your cheek. you can barely get a squeak of breath out as his other hand clamps around your throat, which makes the sound of his next slap with a backhand ring torturously in your ears. "don't you ever pull that again!" Ilya yanks you up by the throat no more than an inch from his nose, seething. "you little shit."

still buried within you, he can no doubt feel the distant pulse of your heartbeat through his groin. it gets thicker when he sees blood, tastes it--there's beads of it bubbling at the teeth marks on his finger. Ilya sighs, groans quietly in the interim of silence. the blood smudges his lips as he sucks on the pulsing wound. something twitches inside you. when his smirk stretches wide and slow across his face, it's obvious that you're in for an even rougher time.

Ilya throws you over on your stomach, cock swollen and aching when he drags it out with a vile squelch. you can't quite see what he's doing from over your shoulder, you're so tuckered out, but you can hear it. the gradual slice of a blade across flesh, the soft hah, ah of pain as Ilya grits his teeth. the wet sliding of flesh on flesh when he brings his hand down and it's sticky, warm with fresh blood that he soaks his stiff length in before fingering into you as if he's performing some kind of demonic sacrifice. the knife clatters to the floor behind him like a ritualistic drumbeat.

"use your teeth if you want." he mutters against your ear as his lithe body slots up against your back, knees poised by your thighs for him to settle his weight down on top of you. no escape. his toned arm comes around and his bicep halts in front of your face--but the grip of his long fingers tightening in your hair is in no way comforting. it isn't a cushion, his body, but a barrier. a wall between you and escape. "you'll want more lube in a little bit anyways."

how ominous. but you couldn't be serene with the elf's dark smirk curving against your ear, and the confidence with which he presses your legs apart to slide in--because you don't get a break, and he doesn't care if you can't take it all. that's not an option for his little sex doll, despite you believing you seriously deserve any rights, which is just laughable. this is what you were made for, so you just have to shut up and take him like a good, obedient pet.

[latinotiktok]

con todo eso del stunt publicitario de Rrump/Tiktok, y la amenaza de más gringos llenando tumblr (AÚN MÁS), me puse a pensar y llegué a la conclusión

en cuanto a gente de fandom, tiktokers de LatAm que leen en WattPad tienen más oportunidad de sobrevivir y florecer tras migrar a tumblr

pero a tiktokers gringos que igualmente leen en WattPad se les revientaría una vena al llegar aquí

our glorious "Te parecen bien 47 centimetros" vs their vile "you can't ship them, they aren't canon"

yo digo que nos traigamos a la Tocino para acá

Necesitamos más análisis así

[whorediaries-09]

shameless;

pairing- rockstar!sirius black x reader warning(s)- substances, 18+ content, hurt/comfort. (let me know if i should add more) a/n- absolutely hate this one ❗

masterlist of 'the seven lives;' series

the slut club

now that you have me, do you want me still?

your throat was raw from shouting the lyrics of the songs you’d penned on a drunk night. but as the line between pretence and reality ended, his kisses became history, hidden behind cigarettes or the occasional puff of weed that painted your skin backstage. his fingers wrapped around your throat, you turned putty into his hold, craving him carnally. the weariness engulfed both of your bodies; the feelings consumed the both of you. his touch was like electricity shooting through every inch of your body as he delicately stripped away every piece of clothing on your skin that restricted him to touch your skin. it always began like this, in the cold echo substances and weariness.

his hands wrapped around your throat, pushing his tongue deeper into your mouth as he ravaged you. he swallowed your moans and whimpers, wrapping your legs around his waist. the beads on his jeans which resembled a star poked the skin of your bare thighs. his fingers dug into your waist as he cradled you, pushing you against the cold metal of your vanity trailer. your fingers numb and shaky, the buttons on his sheer black vest popped open. his lips attached onto your neck, his sharp canine finding home onto the warmth of the blood that ran through your veins.

the pants fell on the floor, the metal of his ridiculous thick belt falling with a muffled clank on the soft carpet. his fingers gathered your arousal against his rough padded fingers, causing a soft moan from your lips. he pushed his fingers into your mouth, letting your taste melt into your taste buds.

‘you’re so pretty stargirl, with my fingers down your throat like that,’ he gasped, pushing himself into you. you pulled him closer at the nickname, as he slowly thrusted into you.

*-

you hated it. you hated the fact that even though it was supposed to be just a public stunt, to prevent his fangirls or groupies, to jump on his bones every time he took a step outside. you hated the fact the public stunt continued into the haze of privacy, leaving you breathless with lip bruising kisses and marks on your neck you had to feed the paparazzi. you hated the fact your heart echoed into deep faltering emotions every second when he was with you, every time he kissed you, every time he felt you. you hated the fact that you were nothing but a pawn in the game for his security.

you had to step out to buy groceries in his jacket. again, a ploy, for flashes or clicks of cameras. it was as if you could feel his hands on your body. the leather jacket around your body smelled like worn leather and parchment, infused with the scent of his musk cologne and cigarettes. you could hear the nicknames that elicited out his throat as he rammed into you, pinning you down to the hard mattress in your trailer. and even though you were drunk, high and hot, the image of his melting eye makeup and his touches melted into you.

sure enough, it ended up on a celeb gossip instagram page. it wasn’t a rumour, it was true- an eye candy for people to feed on. the self-made artist dating a nepo baby who ran away from the clutches of his abusive parents. a classic cliched move that worked every time.

curious, you scrolled through the comments. while most of them were positive, beaming or gushing about the relationship, and how the playboy rockstar had finally settled down for somebody who’d control him, some were…rather rude. none of them about sirius, but you. calling you unimaginable slurs, pathetic inhumane words. it was disgusting, how they narrowed you down to someone based on who you dated, and not your talent. when he was the one with successful parents in the industry, the one who had his name signed with any record in the book even before he was born.

it was vile, cruel, and pathetic. walking into the room of your hotel. you threw the packet of groceries on the floor. you could feel a lump form in your throat, tears threatening to spill from your waterline. a few fruits rolled on the cold ceramic, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. your heart thumped against your ribcage.

a seemingly indistinguishable heat spread in your chest as you broke down, sliding down on the cold wall. you clutched your knees to your chest, resting your head on them as you cried, letting out the fury and melancholy.

did it matter to him? the name calling, the slurs you got called by random people on the internet who didn’t know how much hard work you put into your career? did he care? or were you truly just a pawn in the game?

*-

sirius could feel it. that something was wrong. he could feel it when you shuddered under his touch. he could feel it when you skin was unusually cold under his lips. he could feel it when your heart thumped irregularly fast as his touch wandered over your waist. he knew something was wrong.

but you had your strong suite on as you continued to sing, arching your hips against his crotch as you did so. he turned you around, dipping you then curling an arm on your back. he tried to meet your eyes as he sang his part of the song, but you were determined to not meet his gaze. it made him worry. had he done something?

he turned you around again, carefully missing the step where you had to kiss his neck while he sang. he didn’t want you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. he wrapped his arms around your chest, just below your breasts, breathing onto your neck as you ended the song with the final lyrics. it was last song, that got the crowd clapping and cheering.

bidding them goodbye, the band went off stage with a sirius reeling into his thoughts. he wondered whether the things between the both of you got complicated because of the fake dating agreement. he knew it was an asshole move, just because he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth, just because he couldn’t admit his feelings about you, he held you hostage, telling you he was tired of his random fangirls that jumped on his bones every time he let him have a piece of himself. he held you for himself, just so you he could love you silently. it wasn’t fair to you, because you deserved the love without thinking it was feigned or a ploy. but was troubled.

he hated to hurt you and tell you he was yours. but he did it anyway.

*-

he found you in the vanity van, wiping off your makeup. it wasn’t a part of your usual routine. usually, you’d smoke rolls of weed or take pictures yourself post-concert. sometimes his lips and touch carried you backstage. but never this. for the first time in the night, you locked your eyes with his. through your mirror.

he was wearing the costume he wore on the stage. several earrings hanging of his ears, silver chains intertwined with each other which peeked through the half buttoned up sheer shirt. the tattoos were inked all over his body. the boot flared jeans hung low on his narrow waist. his combat boots hid beneath the denim.

‘hi stargirl,’ he said. his voice was heavy and raw.

‘drink some fucking water,’ you ordered. even though you hated how he made you feel at the moment, you couldn’t help but care for him. you watched as he took the water bottle from your dresser, gulping it down.

‘hi, stargirl,’ he said again, now much closer to you. his eyes were unusually dark and you wondered whether that was the play of the lights.

‘what are you here for? speak up, black,’

‘i can’t come and check up on my girlfriend?’ he countered. while you tried to keep your voice playful and chill, he caught up on the bitterness of your voice. neither did he miss the way you furiously tightened the hold on the tissue in your hand.

‘right. listen black, you’re not getting another fuck play from me. the pda we do is for the public eye only,’ you said, a sternness in your voice.

‘i’m not here for another fuck- what the heck do you mean?’ he asked, nearing you. you tore your eyes away from him as his hot breath fanned over your neck. he turned your chair around, sitting on his knees. he took your hands into his.

‘have I done something?’ he asked, trying to meet your eyes. your gaze burned through the metal wall of the van. he could feel the heat radiate off you as he watched your expression soften, your stony barrier melt. in a cruel haze, you elicited out a cry that made his heart bruise. but it was good, he thought. it meant you were letting him in, communicating your thoughts and feelings with him.

‘yes, you fucking have! you’ve bound me to something i- i- never wanted to do. i just agreed to it because i fucking love you. because you fucking mean so much to me, but you- you’re just using me as a pawn to protect yourself. the world isn’t as easy for me as it is for you! all people have done is now burden me into a slut that has no other personality than her playboy rockstar boyfriend. all of this just to fucking protect you. all of this because i’m stupid, because i love you. fuck you sirius!’  you sobbed.

‘i- i’m sorry.’ he whispered as you sobbed, letting the tears soak into his pale skin.

‘a sorry? a fucking sorry fixes shit up?’

‘i didn’t want this for you. i- i love you. i did this just to bind you to me. it was an asshole, selfish move, but i cannot string words to express my love for you.’

you sniffled, setting your forehead on his. your stomach churned as the realization crept onto you. the tension grew thicker and thicker, the inches between you grew smaller and smaller and the heart beats palpitated faster and faster. neither of you said anything, but it was as if your souls spoke to each other.

‘you can’t love me,’ you finally spoke. he squeezed your hand.

‘i do. you can’t decide or judge how i feel about you,’ you took in a long breath.

‘you’re not playing with me right now, are you?’

‘no.’ he confirmed, his voice strong and confident. breathing heavy, you lowered your nose to touch with is.

‘then show me. show me that you’ll want me when you’ll have me. show me you’ll me screaming out your lungs for me. show me you’ll need me more than you want to.’

‘anything for you, my stargirl,’

the emotions were naked. in a shameless haze when you spread apart you legs for him, he ripped apart your tights. in the raw spiral of love and lust, he trailed his fingers on your bare thighs. the cold metal of his rings contrasted against your warm skin. you felt yourself getting needy by every second, and for the first time, you weren’t afraid to face his need more than you wanted to. for the first time, you weren’t afraid to live your dreams.

for the first time, you were loving someone that was yours.

he pressed his tongue onto your clit, his tongue piercing cold on your warm folds. delving two fingers into you, he sucked on your clit. he drew out an unholy moan, raw from the depths of your throat, as you convulsed around his fingers. rubbing his calloused, rough fingers on your clit, you felt him ravage into you like a starved man. his stubble rubbed against your inner thighs, scratching them raw. you wrapped your legs around his head, bringing your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. he lapped up on you like a dog. your lungs screamed out for him as you felt yourself clench around his curling fingers, your orgasm coiling in your stomach. you felt it explode out of your body and paint his tongue when his voice melted into your eardrums.

‘cum for me, stargirl,’

the stars were white behind your irises, the kisses on your thighs hot and naked. he trailed his lips onto your shaking thighs, promising you his kisses won’t be history ever again.

***************************************

taglist - @reggieisfit @siriuslycaptainofthedawntreader @jamespottergf @eternallybipanicking @fictional-magic @alexaduke (if you want to be tagged please reply under this post!)

[wenosgf]

PUBLICITY STUNT

synopsis: nicholas is an old friend of yours from back when you were a trainee under hybe. however, due to a grudge you’re stubbornly holding onto years later, your relationship as fellow idols is strained. what happens when a video is leaked of you and nicholas bickering backstage, and your company wants you to fake date him to dispel the backlash from his fans?

chapter 2: you can’t be serious

wc: 465

your ceo scared you a little bit. she was a middle-aged, stern woman who you addressed as mrs park, and she had you fixed with a withering glare through her narrowed eyes as she sat across from you at the meeting table.

“i’m sure you’re aware why i’ve called you to this meeting.” she said to you plainly, tapping her manicured fingers on the table surface.

“i am.” you said, hoping your voice wasn’t quivering in fear.

“first of all, i feel i don’t need to lecture you about how inappropriate your behaviour was to perform in a public space, because you’re already facing the consequences of it. &team fans are demanding you be cancelled. they want you to hand-write a formal apology to nicholas and never show your face around him again.”

the mere idea of writing nicholas a handwritten apology made you want to barf. you could perfectly picture the way he’d triumphantly smirk as he read it. he would have the time of his life making you grovel for his forgiveness.

“it shouldn’t be too hard to say we were just bickering as close friends…” you suggested gingerly.

“that would be the ideal resolution, but, i’ve been in contact with &team’s management and they want something else,”

“what do they want?”

your manager, daehyun, who sat beside you, shifted in his seat uncomfortably. he looked tense, as if he were anticipating the room to explode. it made you anxious.

“essentially, they want to perform a publicity stunt, in the form of a dating scandal. you’re lucky you’re as famous as you are, because they’re eager to attach nicholas’s name to yours in order to gain more fame themselves,”

you sat still, waiting for her to take it back. waiting for her to break character and laugh, saying ‘i’d never make you do something so vile, y/n, don’t worry!’. but it never came. instead, sickening silence graced the room, only pierced by the creaking of daehyun’s chair as he continued to shuffle around uncomfortably.

“now, y/n, it’s important to note that &team’s team has been very gracious here. they could easily use this situation to make you look like a villain and nicholas like a victim. but they haven’t,” daehyun said hurriedly, trying to deescalate as you were getting angrier the more the your brain processed what had just been said.

you buried your face in your hands, squeezing your eyes shut,“this can’t be fucking real,”

“tomorrow morning you’ll go on a date with nicholas and we’ll take photos and then leak them to dispatch. after, both companies will confirm your relationship. it will last six months, giving enough time for this scandal to be forgotten before the news of your breakup,”

you literally couldn’t think of anything worse than the situation you were in right now.

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