#you are so brave for taking a debate course

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Controversial opinion among Dune book fans maybe, but I loved the changes they made to Chani's character. Making her a fedaykin who is already an experienced fighter before Paul arrives was a brilliant choice. Dune Part Two is a war movie, and this puts her at the center of the action, side by side with Paul, and gives her a much more active role than she has in the book.

We got a hint of where things were going in the beginning of Dune Part One. The first thing we ever know about movie Chani is that she's a fighter. She serves as a voice for the Fremen, telling us the story of their struggle from her point of view. I wrote here about the difference this change makes compared to other adaptations of Dune, what a perspective shift it is to have the world of Arrakis introduced not by an outsider, describing it as a dangerous but valuable colonial prize, but by one of its native inhabitants, who tells us before all else that it's beautiful, her home that she's fighting to liberate. I am so, so glad that the second movie followed up on this characterization.

I never found Chani and Paul's love story in the book particularly convincing, because why would this woman, who already has a prominent and respected place in Fremen society, even give the time of day to her deposed would-be colonizer, let alone fall in love and have children with him? Without a compelling reason for Chani to love Paul, she ends up feeling like a prize to be won, and "indigenous culture personified as a woman to be wooed (or conquered) by the colonizing man" is a trope we've seen and don't need to repeat.

But as soon as you tell me it's a barricade romance I get it. Cool cool cool, I know exactly what this relationship is now and it makes sense. Movie Chani doesn't respect or even particularly like Paul when she first meets him, and she doesn't think he's the fulfillment of any prophecy. She comes to respect him, and eventually love him, through his actions. He's brave--sometimes recklessly so. He fights well. He's willing to stick his neck out on the front lines with the other Fremen fighters. He can (after a little help) hack surviving in the harsh desert environment. He's not too proud to learn from others. He seems to genuinely want to be her equal in a common political struggle. All these qualities make sense as things she values.

Fighting side by side as equals is just about the only way I can see movie Chani falling for Paul. And it fits perfectly with the film's pattern of reversals that Paul's capacity for violence would initially be one of the things Chani likes about him, only for her to be repelled later when she sees what he becomes.

And as for Paul, well, he's had people deferring to him his entire life. Someone who doesn't take any shit from him is probably refreshing. He seems to like people (Duncan, Gurney) who challenge him and engage in a little friendly teasing--and aren't afraid to go a few rounds in the sparring ring.

It's easy to speedrun a romance when you're spending all your time together in mortal danger fighting for a shared political cause. Especially if you then start winning in a war your people have been fighting for decades. Are you kidding me? That is the perfect environment for intense battle camaraderie to turn into romantic love, and lust.

It makes sense that this version of Chani never believes Paul is any kind of messiah. Of course a character like movie Chani wouldn't believe in or trust some outside savior to liberate them. She's been working to liberate her own people for years. The more Paul invokes the messianic myth, the more he starts sounding once again like someone who plans to rule over them, and the more uncomfortable Chani becomes. In this way she becomes a foil to Jessica, the two of them representing the choices Paul is pulled between. It's a great way of externalizing the political and philosophical debates that often happen within characters' heads in the book.

And of course this version of Chani would leave Paul at the end of the film. It's not just the personal, emotional betrayal--although that stings. What common cause does she have with someone who just declared himself emperor and is sending her own people off in a war of conquest against others? Given the important role she plays in Dune Messiah, I am super curious to see how they get her back into the story, but girl was so valid for being willing to just gtfo. Given that she has the last shot of the whole movie, I'm sure she'll be back somehow, and I can't wait to see what they do with her character in any future installments.

[the-winter-spider]

What I Have | B. Barnes

Word Count: 2.5k

Warning: Probably the fluffiest piece ive written lol

A/N: I was listening to What I Have by Kelsea Ballerini and well here we are lol

—-

The year was 2024, over one hundred years since you were born—105, to be exact. Your life hadn’t turned out at all like you had dreamed or hoped it would.

You were supposed to marry the boy next door once the war was done. You’d picked out your wedding dress while window shopping with your best friend, even before he proposed. You made a scrapbook, meticulously curating hairstyles and makeup looks, debating over the choices as if they were the most pressing decisions in the world.

You sketched out your dream house, selecting the colors, the flowers for the front garden, and the vegetables you would surely grow in the back. You even chose the font for your new last name on the mailbox.

You had each of your children’s names picked out—three, to be exact. Two boys and one girl, you had hoped. Everything was a dream, but it seemed so close, so possible, as if it should have been a reality. You should be dead by now, having lived a full life, with your children who should have been walking the earth with their children, your grandchildren.

But everything went wrong. Literally, everything possible went wrong.

Bucky fell off a train and died. He actually fell off a train, and they declared him dead. In reality, he had lost his arm, survived the fall because Hydra had already experimented on him. They brainwashed him, like something out of a twisted fairy tale, turning him into a deadly assassin. Your beautiful, blue-eyed Bucky, your sweet Bucky, became a killer. A Bucky you would never see again, because even though he was still here, and you were so thankful for that, he would never be your Bucky again.

And then there was Steve. Of course, Steve found him, because of course! And let’s not forget that your best friend, Steve, who was once smaller than you, was injected with a serum that not only tripled his size but turned him into a superhero because, yes, apparently those needed to exist. Of course, he went off to war, driven by a need for revenge for his best friend, your fiancé Bucky. And of course, he had to be noble, going down for the cause, leading everyone to believe he was dead. But of course, he wasn’t. They found him, frozen but alive, because he was Captain America, and that’s just what happens.

And then there was you, consumed by grief, first losing the love of your life and then your best friend. You begged, on your knees, begged Howard Stark to use you as his test subject for cryogenic testing. You couldn’t bear to be here without your boys. He hesitated because he loved Steve, and he knew Steve wouldn’t want this for you. But when you threatened that if he didn’t, you would take your own life, he relented. So, of course, it worked because it was Howard, and he was a Stark. But decades passed, and the year he was supposed to wake you up, The Winter Soldier murdered him. So, as usual, you stayed frozen, but alive, until Howard’s son, Tony, found you in his father’s hidden lab.

You woke up to a world that was not your own, a century too late for the life you were supposed to live. The world had moved on, but you hadn’t. Your friends were legends now, mythologized beyond recognition. And you, well, you were the ghost of what could have been.

The years that followed were a blur of new faces, new battles, and new griefs. You tried to adapt, to find a place in this future that had no room for you. But every corner of this brave new world reminded you of the past, of the life that slipped through your fingers.

And then one day, while sifting through old boxes in Tony’s lab, you found something. It was an old, faded book, as soon as you saw the brown cover you heart dropped you knew what it was, it waa your scrapbook. The cover had an old faded photo of you, Bucky, and Steve, taken on a sunny day before the world went mad. You barely recognized the girl in the photo, with her bright smile and unbroken heart. But there she was, a relic of a time that now felt like a dream.

You realised then that maybe you didn’t belong in this world. Maybe you never did. But as long as you were here, you could try—try to make sense of the pieces left behind, to find some small measure of peace in the chaos.

And that’s exactly what you did. Even though you didn’t have the life you had once dreamed of, you still had them. And in what world does all that trauma happen, and you still end up alive with your boys?

You picked up the dusty book, holding it close to your heart, as you navigated through the compound, following the sound of laughter coming from the living room. You paused just outside the doorway, soaking in the warmth of his laugh—a sound you feared you might never hear again after Bucky began recovering from his trauma. But here it was, filling the room, and even though it wasn’t the same Bucky you knew decades ago, his laugh was unchanged, and it made your heart swell.

Rounding the corner, you saw Steve clutching his chest in joy, playfully shoving Sam, who was grinning widely.

Bucky’s eyes immediately found yours; he could always find you in any room. “Hi, doll,” he said, getting up to kiss your cheek and taking your hand to lead you to the couch.

“Hi, Buck. Hi, Stevie, Sammy,” you greeted them, settling in beside Bucky.

Sam rolled his eyes at the nickname. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Bucky glanced down at the book in your arms. “What’s that?”

Steve’s smile faded into something more serious as he noticed the book, instantly recognizing it. “Is that what I think it is?”

You nodded, feeling tears well up in your eyes. “Stark… he kept it. I haven’t opened it yet. I thought… I thought we could do it together.”

“What is it?” Sam asked, his curiosity piqued.

“It’s my life,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “There are a few pages of what I thought it would turn out to be… but after everything happened…” You paused, taking a steadying breath. The memories of losing Bucky and Steve were still fresh, no matter how much time had passed. “I never planned or dreamed of anything else. It just felt silly without you boys. So, I just filled it with photographs.”

“Photographs of who?” Sam asked, leaning forward.

“Everyone,” you replied softly, glancing between Bucky and Steve. “Peggy and Mrs. Rogers,” you said, meeting Steve’s gaze. You saw the emotion in his eyes at the mention of his mother. “Becca and Winnie, Mr. Barnes,” you continued, feeling Bucky tense slightly at the mention of his mother and sister, their faces now distant memories. “I even have Howard and the Commandos.” You smiled a little. “But mostly, it’s us—all of us.”

Bucky reached out, gently taking the book from your hands. His fingers brushed the worn cover, the room fell silent as the weight of the past settled around you all.

“Let’s open it together,” Steve suggested, his voice thick with emotion. He moved closer, his presence a steady anchor as you all gathered around the book. Sam stayed distant, letting the three of you have your moment but still staying there.

Bucky opened the cover, and the first page revealed a photograph of you, Bucky, and Steve, taken in a simpler time. The three of you looked so young, so hopeful. You felt Bucky’s hand tighten around yours as he stared at the image, memories rushing back. It was a photo from your 16th birthday, the day he had gifted you the book.

“I gave this to you,” Bucky said quietly, the realization settling over him.

You nodded. “For my birthday. You wrote…” You trailed off, pointing to the top left corner of the front of the book.

He read the words aloud, his voice filled with emotion. “Happy 16th birthday to my best girl. I hope you fill these pages with your hopes and dreams. I can only hope that somewhere in amongst them, I’ll be a part of it. With all the love, Bucky.”

Sam smiled, leaning back in his seat. “Who knew you were such a romantic, Buck?”

You watched as Bucky’s cheeks flushed a light shade of red at the comment, and you gave his knee a gentle squeeze, feeling the warmth of the old affection between you.

“For y/n, he was crazy,” Steve chimed in, grinning. “You should have seen him—head over heels is an understatement. Try obses—”

Before Steve could finish, Bucky reached behind you and gave him a playful shove. “Can it, Rogers,” he muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Steve just laughed, catching himself before he toppled over. “You know it’s true.”

You chuckled, resting your head against Bucky’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

Bucky’s hand found yours again, his thumb tracing circles on your skin. “Neither would I.”

As you all shared a quiet moment, the weight of the years seemed to lift, replaced by the warmth of old memories and the comfort of the present. Bucky turned the page, revealing more photographs—snapshots of moments that had once seemed so ordinary but now felt like treasures.

The pages turned slowly, revealing a life that could have been—a wedding dress sketched out, a house with a picket fence, names of children that never came to be. And then, the photographs—snapshots of moments frozen in time. Peggy’s bright smile, Mrs. Rogers’ kind eyes, the mischievous grins of Becca and Winnie, Howard’s confident stance, the Commandos’ camaraderie. But the most frequent faces were your own, Bucky’s, and Steve’s, from a time when the world was both simpler and infinitely more complex.

Each image told a story. There was one of you and Steve dancing at a neighbourhood block party, both of you laughing so hard you could barely stand. Another showed Bucky in his military uniform, giving you a wink as he prepared to head off to basic training. Then there were pictures of Steve and Bucky goofing around, each trying to outdo the other in some silly stunt, and you caught in the middle, rolling your eyes but smiling all the same.

There were pictures of Bucky and you around the campfire on the night before everything changed—before he fell off the train. Bucky paused on that photo, his eyes lingering on it. “That was the night before…” he said softly.

You nodded, squeezing his hand, understanding the weight of those words.

“Night before what?” Sam asked, his voice gentle.

“Before I fell,” Bucky replied, those three words carrying a lifetime of pain and loss. The room grew still, the significance of that moment hanging heavy in the air. Sam didn’t say anything more, sensing the depth of emotion in Bucky’s words.

Bucky’s gaze remained fixed on the photo, his voice quiet as he continued. “It was the last time I felt so much joy… I feel it now, but it was different then.”

Steve nodded in agreement, his expression solemn. “I get it, Buck.”

“Me too,” you added, your voice trembling slightly. “I keep thinking about what was supposed to be, what should have been.” You paused, wiping a tear from your eye. “I don’t understand why it all happened the way it did—why I didn’t get the life I thought I was going to.”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky whispered, his hand gently reaching out to wipe away your tears, his touch as tender as it had always been.

The room fell into a reverent silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts, the weight of your shared history settling over you like a heavy blanket. Finally, Sam spoke, his voice soft and full of understanding. “You’ve lived a hell of a life.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath as you wiped away a stray tear. “It wasn’t what I planned,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion. “But I wouldn’t trade it. Not if it meant losing this—losing you… both of you.”

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “We didn’t get the life we dreamed of, but we got each other. And that’s enough.”

Steve leaned back, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “We’ve been through so much, but we’re still here. Together.”

Sam smiled, the warmth in his expression offering a quiet reassurance. “That’s what matters in the end. Not what you lost, but what you’ve kept.”

“Till the end of the line,” Steve spoke, the words heavy with emotion and depth.

“Till the end of the line,” Bucky echoed, pulling you closer to his side.

You glanced around the room at the faces of the people who had become your family—the ones who had stood by you through the darkest of times.

As the pages of the scrapbook turned, the photographs shifted from black-and-white to colour, reflecting the passage of time. The images grew fewer as the years became harder, but each one was more precious because of it.

Finally, you reached the last page, where an empty space awaited a new photograph. You looked up at Bucky and Steve, both of them gazing at the book with a mix of nostalgia and gratitude.

“You should take a new photo,” Sam suggested, his voice soft but certain. “One to mark this moment.”

Bucky nodded, his eyes meeting yours with a warmth that melted away the years. “Yeah, we should.”

Steve grinned. “I’ll get the camera.”

As Steve stood to retrieve a camera, you leaned into Bucky, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your hand. This was the life you had, and it was more than enough. The empty space in the book was no longer a reminder of what was lost, but a promise of what was yet to come—a new chapter, filled with love, laughter, and the people who mattered most.

Sam took the camera from Steve, ready to take the picture. But just as he was about to snap the shot, you paused. “Wait!”

“What? You don’t have food in your teeth, but your hair…” Sam teased with a smirk.

“Well, I was going to say I want you in the picture too, but…” You trailed off

“No, no! I’m sorry, you’re beautiful… perfect—”

“Sam, watch it, that’s my girl,” Bucky warned, a protective edge to his voice.

Sam rolled his eyes, chuckling. “The whole world knows that, Buck.” He placed the camera on the tripod and took a seat beside Steve. “You sure you want me in this?”

“Of course, Sammy! You’re one of us now,” you insisted, smiling warmly at him.

Sam’s expression softened, and he nodded, touched by your words. As the camera clicked, capturing the four of you together, you knew that this was the memory that would fill that final page—the proof that even after everything, you still had your boys, old and new, and they still had you.

The book might never hold the life you once dreamed of, but it would hold the life you had lived—the one you had fought for, the one you had loved.

And that was more than enough.

[alonetimelover]

i was wondering if you could write something about harry and famous!reader where they’ve been dating for a while and reader makes cameos in harry’s music videos (sometimes big parts and sometimes small parts in the background) and it’s just a cute thing that harry and reader love and so do their fans💕

pairing: Harry Styles x famous!reader

a/n: Thank you so much for requesting, I hope you like it!

masterlist taglist

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2017

yourinstagram

liked by harrystyles, annetwist and 3 492 492 others

yourinstagram don't let the video fool you, he was terrified to fly two metres above the ground

view all 103 392 comments

harrystyles Lies, lies, lies. I am very brave.

⤷ yourinstagram of course you were. of course.

annetwist He was afraid of heights when he was younger!

gemmastyles You should just write that you are better than him.

⤷ yourinstagram I should, shouldn't I?

⤷ gemmastyles That's my sister (from another kister)!

harryupdates ohhh, yn was behind the scenes!!!

hArrysbtch i love how she's been supporting him from the very beginning

⤷ harryoftimes hi, im quite new to fandom. can you tell me how long have they been together?

⤷ hArrysbtch oh, they've been together since like 2013! right after YN got famous for her voice acting in Tangled!

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harrystyles

liked by yourinstagram, annetwist and 5 302 592 others

harrystyles // KIWI // MUSIC VIDEO // OUT NOW // starring Lily YSN //

view all 203 392 comments

yourinstagram The star is here!!!!

⤷ harrystyles Thank you, love.

⤷ yourinstagram I was talking about Lily, my little star.

annetwist Adorable!

harryupdates yn's sister in the video???

harrysmoustache YSN family is just THAT famoly: talented, beautiful, unproblematic

hArrysbtch i can't believe that he filmed a video with children to the song about faking the big 'o' and all that

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2019

harryupdates

liked by hArrysbtch, harrysmoustache and 44 302 others

harryupdates HARRY and YN for LIGHTS UP music video!!!

view all 4 302 comments

hArrysbtch WTFJSIW

hArrysbtch he mistook the 'tube' app. it wasn't meant for YouTube. no way.

harrysmoustache well... I've never thought I would see a video of THE yn and THE harry grinding against each other. especially in a video that was APPROVED by both of them

stylesbabie it's a great day to be bi 🏳️‍🌈

harrysmylife but but but, the scene were suddenly all other people disappear and they are alone just 'brushing'??? CINEMA

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yourinstagram

liked by harrystyles and 6 308 492 others

yourinstagram there is no land quite like it... written by yours truly, starring my man and my beautiful baby boy

view all 410 201 comments

harrystyles The smile that brightens the world.

⤷ yourinstagram all yours.

⤷ harrystyles Debatable.

annetwist My beautiful grandson is already a star! 🥰

gemmastyles petition to release the 'baby' cut!!!

harryupdates THEY HAVE A SON???

hArrysbtch those bitches grew the whole baby while being gone from the media and all

harrysmoustache it doesn't surprise him that the most cinematic music video was written by yn

stylesbabie i still hope he's releasing the mv for watermelon sugar

⤷ gemmastyles Please, don't.

⤷ harrystyles :))

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2020

hArrysbtch

liked by harryupdates and 68 301 others

hArrysbtch just my fav stills from watermelon sugar mv...

view all 5 301 comments

harryupdates I still can't believe he did it

harrysmoustache all of the moments of yn are just majestic. it feels wrong to watch it, but I can't take my eyes off the screen!!!

harrysmylife it's even better when you see that all harry's individual shots are right after yn's.

stylesbabie oh he enjoyed that watermelon sugar, oh he did

harrysmylove im just happy for her, she's in good hands. really good hands from what I saw in this video

harrysfan56 no wonder they have a whole child now

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2021

harrystyles

liked by yourinstagram, annetwist and 6 391 493 others

harrystyles // Happy New Year, from The Styles to You // TPWK music video is out now //

view all 492 301 comments

yourinstagram I'm the Styles.

⤷ harrystyles Yes, you are. ❤️

gemmastyles My girl leading the dance because of his two left feet.

⤷ harrystyles Didn't you see our Dirty Dancing moves?

annetwist The Styles production!

harryupdates they are married. woah.

harryupdates it really should stop making me all surprised that this man is announcing something huge so casually.

hArrysbtch MY FAVOURITE COUPLE IS MARRIED !!!

harrysmoustache that's what I'm talking about

harrysfan84 finally the tpwk video!!!!!

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2022

ynandharryupdates

liked by yourinstagram, harryupdates and 45 392 others

ynandharryupdates HARRY with his and YN'S second baby in the BTS for As It Was... they have another child...

view all 6 390 comments

yourinstagram she's a mommy's daughter

⤷ harrystyles Nope. Daddy's daughter.

⤷ ynandharryupdates HELLO YOU TWO

harryupdates THEIR LITTLE FAMILY OF FOUR...

hArrysbtch they are not stopping with those babies and good, share those good genes

stylesbabie the way she was so happy in harry's arms and then heard yn's voice nad immediately started looking for her

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yourinstagram

liked by harrystyles, annetwist and 12 201 402 others

yourinstagram 📣announcment📣 somehow I have fallen pregnant. If you know the possible reason for it, please send it my way, we need to talk.

view all 594 302 comments

harrystyles I may know it, but it's conidential.

⤷ yourinstagram im on the couch in need of answers, pickles and cuddles

⤷ harrystyles Happy to provide.

annetwist You're making me the happiest grandma on earth

gemmastyles I don't want to know. BUT I will spoil this little wonder as much as I can

harryupdates she was like 'fine, have it' and I love her for it

hArrysbtch YN you know how babies are made, don't you? it beginning with s and ends with x...

⤷ yourinstagram SIX??? no way. what's next, NINE?

⤷ stylesbabie NASTY

⤷ hArrysbtch yn you little tease

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harrystyles

liked by yourinstagram, hArrysbtch and 5 402 492 others

harrystyles LATE NIGHT TALKING. OUT NOW. with YN YSN-STYLES.

view all 493 393 comments

yourinstagram you meanie. i have tickles.

harryupdates she's in his every video, i love it

hArrysbtch if I ever have a partner im gonna show them off just the way harry does with yn

harrysmylife ohhhh

harrysmoustache the video was so sweet and wholesome!

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yourinstagram

liked by harrystyles and 16 392 392 others

yourinstagram 10 years together. 3 years sharing the last name. I couldn't ask for a better partner to go through life with.

comments to this post have been limited

harrystyles There could be no better person to share children with. You being their mother is the best that could meet them.

⤷ yourinstagram im still emotional. stop.

annetwist There could be no one better for my son.

gemmastyles I'm still mad you aren't with me, but that way I wouldn't be an aunt. So okay, have it, little brother.

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a/n: i enjoyed so much writing for this pair. should i write some more?

[iamgonnagetyouback]

remus lupin x reader where a push from peter might just be what remus needed to hold your hand

You’re squinting down at your Potions textbook, trying to explain the intricacies of Veritaserum to Peter while Remus sits beside you. Remus’ hand rests close to yours, fingers tapping the edge of the book as if he’s debating something, but he just can’t bring himself to move those final inches.

Peter’s watching with barely concealed frustration. It’s been weeks now, and he’s spent nearly every study session watching Remus try and fail to make a move.

“Y/N,” Peter says suddenly, his tone oddly serious, “you look… really pale.”

You look at him, brows drawn. “What? I don’t feel sick.”

But Peter leans in, reaching for your hand and placing his own against it with a dramatically furrowed brow. “Hmm. Are you feeling hot?”

Your face heats up, and you snatch your hand away with a laugh. “Isn’t it usually done with a hand to the forehead or arm?”

Peter’s eyes narrow with a devilish glint. “My mum checks for fevers like this. Are you saying my mum is wrong? My mum, Y/N?”

You stammer, cheeks warming further. “Of course not, Pete. I— I’m just saying…”

“Hmm,” Peter hums, his grin widening, “Moony, maybe you could check her fever for me. I’d do it myself, but I’m cold, so I might not feel it right.”

Remus, caught off guard, coughs and nods, glancing from you to Peter with a soft “Sure, if you…um, if you don’t mind, Y/N.”

He reaches out, taking your hand in his own, and the second your fingers connect, he freezes. His eyes are wide, his words gone somewhere into the far reaches of his mind. Remus Lupin, the man with a response for every situation, is utterly, hopelessly silent.

“Well? Am I sick?” you ask, trying to suppress a smile, though your own heart’s racing faster than you’d care to admit.

Peter gives you both an exaggerated look of concern. “Blimey, Y/N, you must be very ill. Moony can’t even speak!”

Remus snaps out of his daze, shooting Peter a look that could only be described as a death glare, but Peter’s grinning mischievously. “I think you ought to rest, Y/N. Moony, you should probably take her back to her dorm… just to make sure she gets there safe, of course.”

Remus grits his teeth at Peter, but he hasn’t let go of your hand. “Oh, really, Pete? You sure you don’t need more help with Potions?”

“Nah,” Peter says with a mock salute, winking as he gestures to the door. “You two go ahead. I’m fine.”

The walk to your dorm is filled with an awkward, sweet silence, neither of you quite brave enough to break the spell. Every so often, you glance down at your joined hands, wondering if you should pull away, but you don’t. And neither does he.

Meanwhile, from behind a nearby bookshelf, James and Sirius burst out, clapping their hands and howling with glee. “Agent Peter, job well done!” Sirius exclaims, ruffling Peter’s hair. “But why did it take so long? Do you know how painful it is to sit through hours of Potions talk?”

and the award for the best wingman goes to.....

[pathetic-gamer]

Can you say more on The Burning Wheel? The information on the site doesn’t distinguish it much from other TTRPGs that I can tell, aside from being a D6 system. What makes it unique and worth playing? (You don’t have to provide a huge rundown haha I’m just curious!)

Sure! I tried to keep this short and failed miserably, but I'd be happy to expound even more upon specific things later, if people want more :)

(Please note that, as with any ttrpg, it would be hard to claim any of the things mentioned here are wholly original to The Burning Wheel. It would be even harder to claim that no other systems have used these mechanics or philosophies in the 20 years since The Burning Wheel came out. I am not going to claim either of those things - its the combination of them and the play experience they have resulted in for me that make it unique, so that's the angle from which I'm writing this post.)

So. why is it worth playing? How is it different?

I could talk about the skill learning system, the war rules codex, the whole concept of versus tests vs bloody versus tests. But to me, there are two main ways that it stands out from other systems: its treatment of role-play as a mechanism, and the overall philosophy behind the game's design, including the concept of setting clear expectations.

(using section headers to break up the text lol)

How it uses role-play:

The most obvious thing to point out is that there's a whole set of encounter mechanics for social situations or debates (Circles checks, Duel of Wits, etc.) - sort of the epitome of crunchy role play. But thats not what I'm getting at! What I'm getting is the fact that good role play is integral to the way the game functions.

Let's go back, all the way to character creation: When you're burning a character, you selecting life paths (page to squire to knight, etc.) with their associated skills and traits, then tie them in a pretty bow with beliefs and instincts to guide the character's actions. All of these things feed into each other to make a complete character. Easy! Familiar! We all know how to make a character, even if the numbers and labels are different!

What really matters to this engine once you're playing is whether the character you're acting as matches what you built. If it doesn't, the rules nudge you to redefine your character until it does through systems of rewards, penalties, and consequences. You are rewarded for sticking to and acting on your traits, beliefs, and instincts through different types of points distributed and voted on by fellow players, which can be used to alter the course of events or turn the tide of a bad situation later on. If you're not living up to a trait, on the other hand, you can lose it and all its benefits. (Took the fortitude trait, but ran from trouble one too many times? tough luck! the other players voted to take away that trait and now you can't call on it in moments of peril.) The beliefs and traits of a single character can end up at odds with each other, resulting in characters having to make choices that in other systems might seem insignificant or carry few lasting consequences, but here may alter the function of your character.

It's not all punitive measures, btw! One of my characters caused problems for everyone else by refusing to put away a weapon when someone else was in danger, playing off of an instinct that states he draws his weapon whenever his master does. After the session, another player suggested everyone consider nominating the Brave trait for him the next time we update them. As a character-type trait, it has no effect when rolling dice but does mean that henceforth and forevermore, anyone who interacts with him will notice a sense of bravery. Delightful!!

Also, the beliefs of different characters are practically guaranteed to stray from one another at some point, which is the primary source of inter-PC conflict. Because the mechanics of the game encourage and reward sticking to your beliefs or following your stated instincts even when it makes things significantly harder or causes problems, you're much more inclined to do it. As someone who is terrible at not slipping back into the same kind of character over and over again, I think this fucking rules.

I'm playing with a group of people I've been gaming with for almost five years, and this has opened the way for much richer dynamics between our characters than any of the other systems we've played, in part because as players we're less interested in acting on concensus to drive the plot forward. Working as one unit simply isn't the goal, and if it was, we would play a different system that encourages and rewards that.

the game's philosophy, aka setting intentions and also reading rules:

Now we're starting to get at the philosophy behind the game's design: It believes you have to know why you're playing burning wheel instead of literally any other game. This isn't a system you play on accident. It's admittedly a complicated game with a LOT of rules. It asks for a huge amount of engagement from all of the players, not just the GM - something like inter-PC conflict can only work well if everyone is on the same page (figuratively, but also literally lol) and ready to help adjudicate rules, ask for tests, discuss intentions, etc. Dream scenario for a chronic rules lawyer lol.

Obviously any game will be more fun if everyone has actually learned the rules before they start playing, but this is one where it's extremely difficult (if not impossible) to play if most players haven't learned them, and deeply rewarding if they have. It really operates on the expectation that everyone is putting in work, and everyone has respect for the time and effort the others are bringing to the table.

It's hard to put a finger on how this all impacts play other than the obvious elegence of People Knowing What Theyre Doing, but on a purely emotional and meta level, knowing that everyone is investing so much time and effort to play a game with you is just.. idk, it feels special and makes the time itself feel even more valuable. In that sense, the satisfaction of playing the game isn't coming from the game itself, but is still shaped by it.

(In my mind, this is the #1 reason to try the game, but as @thydungeongal alluded to yesterday, finding people willing and able to do it is also the #1 hurdle to, like, actually having a good time. it would be completely miserable otherwise.)

Also, for a game that does not boast a collaborative nature the way some others do, it is honestly pretty fuckin collaborative lol. I don't know that this was Luke Crane's intention in designing the game, but closing out sessions by going through and grading everyone's work and giving each other glorified gold stars, you will inevitably end up discussing and dissecting things, learning from people's character work, and seeing where and how you can improve individually and as a group. It creates a table culture that values honest expressions of discomfort or dissatisfaction, and also of appreciation and celebration. It's after-care. It leads naturally into setting intentions and expectations for the next session. It just feels really nice!!!

That's obviously a table culture that can be cultivated anyway, and it's a practice my group has learned to be very intentional about facilitating, but it's just interesting how The Burning Wheel of all systems manages to support that. I think that's what the website means when it says playing this changes how you play other rpgs lol

So yeah, idk how much more to say and also I'm sooooooo so eepy and was like an hour late for work, so its a weird brain day. but there you go lol

[wri0thesley]

legally binding - neuvillette x reader (8.4k)

monsieur neuvillette will ensure that he finds your brother not guilty at trial. for a price.

cw: not sfw, minors dni. DARK CONTENT. extremely dubious consent/non-consent. clothed neuvillette, naked reader. cunnilingus, threats of caning, blackmail, fingering, piv sex, coming inside. neuvillette refers to reader as "little one". reader is afab and is described using language such as 'breasts' and 'cunt'.

“If the terms of our arrangement are not agreeable to you,” the honorary Iudex says to you, his gloved hands steepled before him as he sits calmly behind his desk, “you do, of course, have the right to say ‘no’ at any time. I shan’t hold it against you. It merely means that the particulars of our little entente need not be fulfilled on my end, either.” 

You press your lips together as frustration and anger war within you. You would like to explode at him; you would like to pull the books lining his office walls down and use them as projectiles to hit him straight in his infuriatingly calm and peaceful face. 

That he has the nerve to keep talking to you like this - his voice perfectly even, almost calm, his tone soothing and bordering on paternal (like you’re a little child who he’s telling the ways of the world to), when his proffered ‘agreement’ is so heinous . . .

“You’re utterly abhorrent,” you seethe to him, but the Iudex does not react to being called such a thing - merely tilts his head to one side.

“So you’ve said,” he agrees mildly. “But it does not change your position, does it?”

He is right in that. You stand there awkwardly for one moment more, debating if this is really the hill you are willing to die on; if you are indeed ready to trade away your dignity for the price of your brother’s freedom.

He seems to take pity on your floundering. 

“You agreed to this,” he reminds you, his tone unerringly gentle and patient. “But it does not mean you have to go through with it. I will keep the terms of our pact, my dear, as long as you uphold your own - but I will not hold it against you if you decide you are not . . . brave enough to follow through.”

You wince despite yourself at the deliberate emphasis of the word. You know that this is not bravery; you know, too, that what Monsieur Neuvillette is asking you to do is nothing short of corruption of the highest order. 

And too you know that the only person ranked higher than him you could conceivably go to is Lady Furina herself. 

“I’m sure that a guilty verdict for your brother would not be so bad,” Monsieur Neuvillette continues, and despite the mild tone he uses he must know that he is hitting you exactly where it hurts. “Incarceration is not the be-all and end-all, nowadays - why, many enjoy the Fortress so much they choose not to leave even once their sentence has been finished--”

“Don’t,” you squeak out, and Neuvillette stops speaking. You take a slow breath to steady yourself, and when your voice comes out this time it sounds far more certain than before. You’re proud of yourself, even, for the way that it quavers for only an instant at the end of your next sentence. “I’ll follow through on our agreement.”

“Lovely,” Neuvillette lowers his chin so that it rests atop of the steeple of his gloved fingertips. “I’m glad that you understand the position we’re both in. Well, then, shall we begin?”

You give him a jerky little nod, and he smiles at you like an Archon receiving a prayer of benediction. You stand there awkwardly for a moment more, before Neuvillette lets out a soft chuckle.

“Oh, you poor thing,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “You really haven’t done any of this before, have you? Let me make it easier for you. Why don’t you disrobe and show me what you have on under your clothing, hmm?” 

You take a slow, calming breath. This is not so bad; you had known you would have to take off your clothes for this bargain. You suppose, if you had been a different kind of person, you might even have felt a thrill at the thought that it would be Monsieur Neuvillette who would be the first man to see you bared - but instead, there is just a cold thumping terror as you work at the buttons and catches of your outfit. 

You are dressed smartly but not prettily. You have never had much time for the fripperies that many Fontaine citizens prefer to indulge in - and especially for your meetings as a desperate petitioner with the Iudex, you had thought sombre was the way to go. This has carried through even to your undergarments - the chemise you wear is plain, without even a trimming of lace. Your brassiere is equally simple, as are the plain cotton bloomers that hide your most intimate place from his inquisitive eyes. 

You swallow as your thumb and forefingers fasten about the hem of your chemise - and then, thinking it better to rip off the bandage from the wound rather than pussyfoot about it, you pull it off and drop it in an unruly pile with the rest of your outer clothes by the Iudex’s desk. 

He sits there in silence for a moment that seems to stretch out for an hour.

“Not much for decoration, hmm?” He asks, after what seems like forever. You shift there awkwardly from foot to foot. You have never been looked at before like this by a man - and though you do not want him to find you attractive, the idea that he’s disappointed in what’s before him is equally horrible. He chuckles softly beneath your breath at the expression that must flit across your face. “Ah, please don’t mistake me as unappreciative. There is very little as lovely as simplicity, I find.” Your cheeks heat. “On that note - I think we ought to lose this layer too. Let me see you as nature intended, my dear.” 

You had thought that once the first layer of your clothing had been stripped, it would get easier, but you find now that it is much the opposite. Your hands tremble as you reach behind you for the clasp of your brassiere. It is cool in his office, but a bead of sweat rolls down the nape of your neck and sets your palm sticky and wet, and it takes you three attempts to unclip. 

You have never been shy before - you had certainly not been shy when you had barrelled up to the Iudex in public and demanded an audience with him, much to the distaste of all around him - but this is enough to make you feel awkward. 

The fabric falls away from the swell of your chest, and Monsieur Neuvillette makes a pleased little noise almost like a purr in the back of his throat.

“Ah,” he says. “Very nice. The underwear too, if you please.” 

Your nipples stiffen in the cool air of his office, the buds puckering and hardening under the twin problems of the temperature and Neuvillette’s stare. It is even harder to convince yourself to hook your thumbs into your underwear, but eventually your body agrees to your demands and you find yourself rolling the plain cotton down past your thighs and your knees and down to your ankles--

You fuss for a moment, putting them with the rest of your clothes, if only to delay the inevitable for a moment longer - that time when you will have to stand and display yourself in your full nakedness for the Iudex. But there is only so long you can conceivably push his patience, and sooner than you like you straighten your spine and try and jut your chin out and pretend that there isn’t a wash of humiliation drowning you as you wait for his next pronouncement. 

You’re surprised when he stands, leaving his cane leaning against his desk, and strides towards you with purpose writ clear in his eyes. Surprised enough that a soft, startled noise falls from your mouth as he reaches for you, and suddenly his gloved hands are palming the weight of your breasts. He lets out a slow, measured breath as his fingertips dig into the soft flesh there. You squeak again as his thumbs brush over the hard nubs of your nipples, and this time he laughs.

“Don’t be so surprised,” he murmurs. “Our agreement involved touching, did it not?”

“I-it involved more than touching,” you whisper, as poisonously as you can manage - but his thumbs are still slowly swirling about your nipples and the sensation of it is making you feel dizzy, little electric shocks of surprise zapping through your synapses. 

“Mm,” Neuvillette agrees. “But I am not so much of a villain that I would simply have my way with you without ensuring you were properly prepared, my dear.” 

You don’t know if this is worse, actually. If he had chosen the latter option, perhaps it would have been easier to close your eyes and grit your teeth and pretend to be somewhere else. But the way he is looking at you, the way he is touching you . . . those things make it far more difficult to separate what is going on from yourself. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” Neuvillette says to you - and you almost protest, until you remember the terms of the agreement once more. 

(“You will give yourself to me intimately,” Neuvillette had said. “I will have my fill of your body, and in return I will find your brother not guilty in court. Is this agreeable to you, little one?”

You had wanted to scream and shout and spit. It was certainly not agreeable to you; Neuvillette was a corrupt pervert, taking advantage of his position. How many other desperate petitioners had done this for him? 

“Oh,” Neuvillette had said, when you’d been unable to stop yourself biting out the last thing. “None at all. I’ve never been quite so intrigued by any of them or wanted to have any of them bent over my desk quite so much. I suppose that makes you special - and isn’t that nice?”)

You feel at his mercy like this, bare in his office, when he hasn’t so much as taken off his gloves - and indeed, the cool silk of those gloves against your heated cheek as he pulls you up into a kiss reminds you of who exactly has the power. He sighs softly into your mouth, teeth nipping at your lower lip. They’re sharp, and you gasp in surprise and win a low growl from Neuvillette himself. His kiss is wet and messy, and he seems almost disappointed when he pulls back from you with his eyes half-lidded. 

“Mm,” he says, “How many others have kissed you like that, little one?”

You press your lips together in a show of defiance, and he chuckles.

“As I thought,” he murmurs, lowering his head again - this time, the kiss he gives you is pressed to the top of your cheekbone. Slowly, carefully, peppered down your jawline. “Ah, don’t worry - you did perfectly well.”

You let out a noise of wordless disbelief and embarrassment that he could tell, which is quickly cut off when he tugs at your earlobe with his teeth instead. It is his canines that are sharp; you give a hot intake of breath at the scratch of them on your sensitive lobe that in turn makes him shudder. 

You hate the shivery feeling of pleasure that the bite sends zipping down your spine; a heat that settles firmly between your thighs, that mixes with the pounding of your heart. 

“Give in,” Neuvillette says softly. “You have no choice if you want me to uphold my word; you may as well enjoy it. I have no wish to be cruel to you, little one. If you like it too, so much the better.”

“I--I won’t--”

Your voice is reedy; it wobbles and shakes in the air. Both you and Neuvillette know that it is a stubborn and hopeless task, when his kisses and his tugging at your nipples and his soft nipping bites against your most vulnerable parts have already made a slick drip between your thighs you do not want to admit to. 

“A pity.” Neuvillette pulls back, and your body misses him - you find yourself making a soft noise of displeasure as his weight moves from in front of you and beside you, before he goes to stand beside his desk and takes his cane back into his hands, leaning on it almost casually. “Come here, little one. Bend over my desk.”

You flounder there, unsure now if you really are willing to go through with things the way that you had agreed to. Your throat feels dry. Disrobing had all been very well, letting him touch your chest had all been very well, but . . .

He taps his cane gently on the ground and makes a soft chiding noise with his tongue. 

“Come now, little one,” he murmurs, his voice perfectly agreeable. “It’s not so large a thing, is it? For the price of your brother’s reputation?”

You shake your head and take a slow, nervous step towards his desk - a large, terrifying presence in the room. How many people has he held the fates of in his hand as he sat here in the Palais Mermonia and read their files?

The reminder that you are indeed in the Palais Mermonia - that only down a hallway is a whole group of gestionnaires utterly unknowing of what their honourable Iudex is doing with the young citizen he has an appointment with - makes your heart beat faster, nervousness rise up in your throat like a tidal wave. One foot in front of the other.

You wish the walk to his desk was shorter at the same time as you wish that you would never make it to the end. 

It is not to be. Your bare hip bumps against the desk’s edge and you let out a slow, steadying breath. 

“That’s it,” Neuvillette says agreeably, and his cane taps on the ground as he comes to stand behind you. “Brace yourself on the table now; palms down. I’m not going to hurt you. Bend over and show me what I shall have the pleasure of conquering, hmm?”

You burn with humiliation as you do exactly what he asks; place your hot palms down directly upon the table and bend at the waist. Neuvillette sighs as if he’s terribly pleased with what he’s seeing. You start as you feel a gentle nudge against your bare ankle, and you realise that he’s touching you with his cane.

“Spread these apart a bit further,” he murmurs, and you comply despite the way you feel utterly debased by the treatment. “Ah. Very nice. Lovely, in fact.”

If you have one thing to be grateful for, it is that he does not mention what you both know; you are wet. The way he had touched and palmed at your chest, the kisses . . . you can feel the beads of slick on your inner thighs, the dampness of the folds of your cunt. The position he has put you in means, too, that you can feel the cool air on your exposed clit - the little button swollen and standing to attention. 

Neuvillette’s gloved hand gently comes to rest upon the back of your thigh. Slowly, slowly, he maps a path over your bared skin; the round curve of your ass where it’s presented to him, down and--

A hiccup of surprise escapes you and you almost rock back into him, but manage to stop yourself at the last moment, as those silken gloved fingers brush feather-light over the soft mound of your cunt. He does not press down yet; merely lets himself get accustomed to the shape of you. Your hips cant forward against your will as his fingertip brushes against the sensitive bud of your clit, a whimpering gasp falling from your lips. 

You have never been touched by anyone before - and the fact it is Monsieur Neuvillette doing it, under these circumstances--

You squeeze your eyes closed, willing yourself not to cry. You are grateful at least that he cannot see you; in fact, he seems rather preoccupied now, those long silken fingers spreading the plump lips of your labia further apart so that he can see your entrance.

“My,” he says, a smile apparent in his voice. “We’re going to have to do rather a lot of preparation, aren’t we? Sweet little thing, you look tight as a vice.” 

“I don’t . . .” You don’t understand quite what he means by preparation, but the soft rustle of his clothing still sets your teeth on edge. You’d known that he would disrobe too, of course you had, but it somehow all seems to be happening so quickly--

A strangled gasp escapes you.

The rustling was not him disrobing. Instead, he has knelt down - and his mouth is hot when he presses it to the sensitive places on the backs of your knees, his tongue wet as he trails it up the back of your thighs.

“Th-this isn’t what we agreed!” You say, panicked, as his mouth inches ever closer to the place between your thighs. Despite the heat of his tongue, the puffs of breath that escape him with his dry little laugh are cool. 

“Isn’t it, little one?” He murmurs, in between the wet kisses; you keen softly as he digs teeth into sensitive flesh of your inner thighs, fangs sending confused shockwaves of both pain and pleasure directly to your sex. “Let me see . . . Did I not use the terms ‘have my fill’? Why, little one - whyever did you think that would begin and end with my cock?” 

It’s too intimate. You have to be too present for it all, and the tears that have been threatening to spill out do so at the same time as his tongue oh-so-gently prods against your folds in interest. If Neuvillette notices that you’re crying, he doesn’t say anything - and you are grateful for that, as he presses his mouth fully against your cunt with a horrifically wanton wet noise and you realise that you are crying in no small part because his mouth against your heated core feels good. 

He merely mouths against you for a moment, his tongue delicate as it travels across your folds and drinks in your wetness. You shudder as he finds your clit, and his tongue flicks against it playfully. Despite what he had said about not having done this to any other desperate citizens, the way he works his mouth against you belies that he has at least some experience--

You know absolutely nothing about the Iudex’s private life, much like the rest of Fontaine. 

He pulls back from you to murmur against your thigh.

“You’re so wet, little one. It’s very charming. I think I shall use my mouth on you until you are glad to have the desk to keep you standing. It would be a hard-hearted creature indeed who would not want to feel you come on his face, under his tongue--”

You whimper out some kind of horribly embarrassing noise, as he returns hungrily to his former task; he licks at you and suckles at you like a man starved, and your body reacts with hot little shivers and shudders and jolts of pleasure. You make an attempt to curtail the pleasure - try to tell your body that it ought not to be enjoying this - but pure animal instinct wins out, and you are bent double over the desk whimpering helplessly, tilting your ass up to give him more room, and grinding your cunt into Neuvillette’s face despite all of it.

Neuvillette does not seem to mind at all. He groans into you instead, using the flat of his tongue to stroke as much of your cunt as possible, to work through your folds and suckle on your clit until your entire body feels aflame with strange new feelings. Every so often, he teases his tongue over your entrance, the tip circling the ring of muscle - but he does not push into it yet. 

His grip on your thighs is iron-tight. You don’t know when he let go of his cane, but both hands dig into the soft pudge of your inner thighs now, keeping you spread for him despite how the twists of pleasure make you want to squeeze your thighs together. 

You don’t know how you’re still breathing, as Neuvillette’s tongue continues to lay claim to you. You can feel your inner muscles clenching around nothing; slick accumulating around your entrance, just begging for something to be inside of you (though, in truth, you’ve never had anything more than your own finger and even then had felt hot and unsure of it). He growls, tongue flicking out against your clit in a rhythmic drumming that makes you whine.

“O-oh,” you manage, through the lump in your throat. “Archons--”

He gives your inner thigh a warning pinch, just enough to make you stutter, as he pulls his soaking wet mouth away from you and murmurs;

“No, little one. No archons here. Remember who it is, who's here with you.”

You are almost tempted to throw his own words back into his face; to tell him that you’d made no such bargain that you had to acknowledge that he was there. That, according to the legalities of the agreement you’d both made, you only had to let him use your body - not your voice, not your head, not your heart. But the lack of his mouth on you now feels like a peculiar kind of torture. You want him to stop. You want him to carry on. The whimper falls out of your mouth to a groaning purr of satisfaction from Neuvillette himself;

“M-monsieur--”

“That’s better.”

His mouth is back on you, hungrily working his tongue between your folds. Hungrily suckling and stroking and working you over until you feel hot and boneless, trembling on the edge of something - your entire body is a taut string, pulled to the point of snapping. Your cunt is wet and messy with drool and fluid and slick, sliding down your thighs - you cannot see Monsieur Neuvillette, but you’d wager that his cheeks are wet and shiny with the same, if only due to the utter eagerness he was still displaying. 

It’s too much. 

With a whine and pitiful jerk of your hips, you feel yourself slide down into some dark abyss; the thread that’s been threatening to snap finally does exactly as it was always going to do, and a wash of shameful pleasure crashes over you like a stormy sea. Neuvillette lets out a pleased groan as you feel yourself let another gush of arousal out, hungrily drinking you in with lewd, wet noises that have your face as hot as any Natlan springs. 

He carries on using his tongue on you; licking, sucking, lapping like a man parched for water - just to the point where your over-sensitive body begins to complain that you are still too raw for such hunger, and then he pulls his mouth off of you. You stay there, bent double over his table, wheezing softly as you hear him dust off his clothes and the click of his reclaimed cane as he comes around to the other side of the desk so that he can look you in the eye. 

He really hasn’t disrobed at all. 

It’s a callback to the power imbalance between you both; a reminder that, no matter what, you are entirely at Neuvillette’s mercy. You are glad, at least, that he has a reputation for being honourable in his agreements - you have only the very vaguest flutter of a fear that giving him your body will be for naught and he will go back on his word. Everybody knows that the Chief Justice values that same standard he is entitled to embody. 

“You were crying,” he says, leaning forward and cupping his hand about your cheek, a thumb sliding over the apple of your cheek. “It suits you. I’ve never quite understood this human urge not to cry - you look terribly pretty with those diamonds on your cheeks.”

He leans in closer and closer, closing his eyes - and you go stock-still as he kisses the tears from your cheeks and pulls back, licking his lips as if he is savouring the taste of something special. 

“I-is that all?” You ask, a hopeful tone to your voice - but Neuvillette simply smiles at you kindly, as if you’re silly for even asking. 

“Of course not, little one,” he murmurs. “That was merely a precursor to the main event, to ensure you’re . . . sufficiently ready. As I have already said; I am no villain, and I have no desire to hurt you physically. I want to ensure your body is primed to accept me, for the sake of both of our pleasure. And it was pleasurable, wasn’t it?” 

You press your lips together, hot shame rising up your neck.

“No need to get shy,” he says to you, that soft, kind smile not leaving his face. “By the way you were grinding against my face, and how prettily you came for me . . . Mm, I’d wager you enjoyed it very much. But it’s alright if you are not ready to admit it; your body doesn’t lie, sweet one, and I know it will accept my fingers and my cock far more readily than you’d like it to.”

. . . You had enjoyed it. You had felt that pleasure that he was so willing to give to you, and the thought that you were actually deriving some enjoyment from this thing that was supposed to merely be about procuring assistance for your brother . . . You don’t quite know how to feel, as Neuvillette presses a paternal kiss to your forehead and you hear the slow click of his footsteps as he returns to the other side of the desk, where your nakedness and your readiness for him are far more pronounced.

“You really are quite lovely, you know,” he murmurs, letting his gloved fingers slide down the arch of your back, from the nape of your neck and down your spine. “Ordinarily, I’m not too fond of ostentation - but ah, you . . . You could benefit from a little more ornamentation.”

A palm, cupping your ass - giving it a slow, considering squeeze, almost too hard to be painful but not quite. 

“This, for example,” he murmurs, “would be lovely with some discipline. Imagine; how pretty you would be with welts from my cane.”

“Monsieur Neuvillette--!” It comes out in a panicked little gasp, but Neuvillette merely chuckles.

“Now, now, little one - settle down. As sweet as it would be - I am still aware of the legal terms of our arrangement. I won’t force you to give me any extra - and whilst caning you would be terribly satisfying for me . . . it doesn’t count as satiating my desire in that legal sense that is so important to us both.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t known you’d been holding. Somewhere inside of you, your heart pounds at the thought of letting him do as he wishes with you - but you squash it down, holding to the comforting lie that you are getting absolutely nothing out of the arrangement you had made with Neuvillette. 

His hand curves over your ass and slips between your thighs.

“A-aren’t you even going to take your gloves off?” You seethe at him, through clenched teeth, as a fingertip slides between the plump lips of your sex once more, to find the wet mess that he had left there earlier. 

“I fear it would be most unprofessional of me to undress in my office,” he says, and you hear the smile in his voice. “Forgive me, little one. I think I will stay as entirely clothed as I am able.”

His tone does not broker any argument, and you bite your tongue as he - slowly, maddeningly slowly - slides his finger through the valley of your cunt, approaching your clit with a near-torturous pace. Your breath stutters in your chest as his silk-gloved finger finally brushes over the delicate nub, and he increases his pressure from feather-light to something firmer as he begins to make slow, small circles on the pleasure point.

Your hips don’t know whether to shy away from the certainty of his manipulations or to lean into them, so you do the only thing you can think of and let loose a soft whine into the charged air of his office. 

After he has played with your swollen clit for a few more agonising moments, his fingers drag back through the soaking wet valley to toy with your entrance. You feel yourself flex as he comes near, as if your cunt is begging him to finally put something inside of you - and though he gives a soft chuckle, he does not tease you any further.

“I’m going to put a finger inside of you now,” he murmurs - again, you are not sure if it would be worse if he had not told you. With this knowledge, you have just enough time to catch your breath before he slides his finger into you with one quick movement.

It punches the air out of you. If you had not been bent over the desk already, you’re sure you would have lost your footing - but as it is, Neuvillette goes about opening you up with a kind of determined certainty. The finger inside of you gives a few lone pumps, working your tight insides open - you are wet and pliable enough that it does not hurt near as much as you had thought it would. 

“Good,” Neuvillette murmurs, “Are you ready for me to add another?”

Again, you want to whimper and scream and bite - but as he continues to pump his finger in and out of you, you realise with that same shame that the feeling of him inside of you is good and could only be improved if he filled you more thoroughly.

“Yes, please,” you whisper, your throat dry - and you are rewarded with another low murmur of praise, and the feel of a finger joining the first at your entrance. You take another steady breath, but you do not need to; two fingers fit inside of you with only the barest modicum of resistance, your body silky wet and tight and welcoming. The silk of his gloves rubs against your inner walls curiously, making you feel utterly dizzy with sensation. 

There is a purpose to this that there hadn’t seemed to be when he was using his mouth on you. When he was using his mouth, though he had said it was in order to make the final result easier on you both, you had gotten the distinct impression he had rather enjoyed the process - the sucking, the wet noises, the lewd sound of his tongue against your soaking cunt. But here, Neuvillette crooks his fingers inside of you and pumps them in and out and scissors them slightly in a way that leaves no doubt that he is ensuring you will be able to take something even bigger and wider than his fingers when we have done. 

He still does it all with a trademark thoroughness; he rests his other hand on the small of your back to keep you still as those digits plunge in and out of you. You dread to think how soaked through with your slick his gloves will be when he is done--

But he does not use his fingers upon you to completion. 

You feel it building up inside of you with the way he curls them just so, rubbing against a spongy spot inside of you that makes your thighs tremble - but he doesn’t follow through on the promise that begins to build, dizzying, between your legs. 

He pulls out his fingers with a slick pop and a wet clicking noise, giving your cunt a gentle pat on his way out.

“There, my dear,” he says. “It will still be a tight fit, of course . . . but I should cause you no undue pain. And, if I may be so bold, little one - I’m absolutely certain you’ll feel exquisite.”

This time, there is no question that the rustling noise you hear behind you is him partly undressing; that the soft pop is the sound of buttons being freed from the confines of his placket. He lets out a pleased sigh - you assume at the feel of his hand on his own cock. 

“I’ve been longing to touch you,” he murmurs, as he slots himself between your hips. “I had to prepare you, naturally - oh, but little one, I’ve been hard since the moment you walked all trembling and righteous into my office.” 

“D-do you say that to all of the poor hopeful people who come into your office hoping you’ll grant them justice, Monsieur?” You manage, and he chuckles. His hips fit neatly in between your own spread thighs, and you feel the heavy, silky, hot weight of something as it slaps against the meat of your inner thigh and leaves a sticky wet trail upon the skin there. His cock. His pre-come, on you--

“As I’ve said before, little one,” he murmurs, and he readjusts himself and you hiss yourself as his cock presses softly against the pudge of your outer lips. He doesn’t move it yet; merely lets it rest there, letting you get used to the size of him and the knowledge that he is going to put it inside you. “I have never been so intrigued by any of them to want to. But you . . . ah, this human quality of resilience! You’re utterly darling. There’s even still fire in you now, when I have you naked and at my mercy. Tell me, little one . . . what would you do if I went back on our agreement now and still fucked you?”

You half rear up, and the way your body moves has his cock nudging at your clit, against you - you find yourself half-enveloping the thick shaft of his cock with your labia. It makes you breathless that it doesn’t even come close to disappearing inside you; indeed, the stretch of it reminds you of just how big he is.

“You wouldn’t!” You say, a tone of petulant fury edging your words - Neuvillette makes a hum of agreement even as his gloved hands travel up, over the curve of your hips and then your waist, until he is cupping the weight of your breasts in them and your nipples are once more trapped between the silken pinch of of his thumbs.

“You’re right,” he says, calmly. “I value justice too much for that - but oh, you’re quite something when you’re full of moral fury, aren’t you? Justice . . . a funny thing, isn’t it? One might say that having you right here, in my office, naked and hot and wet and exactly where I want you is a just reward for my years of service, wouldn’t they?”

You don’t respond, and he chuckles; nips a bite into the sensitive part of your throat where the curve of shoulder and neck meet that sends another electric zip down your spine.

“I’m going to put it inside of you now,” he says, still as calm as a placid lake. “And then I’m going to fuck you, little one. Are you quite ready?”

He tilts his hips forward as an urge for you to do the same; to lower yourself back down over the desk. You hiss as his cock slips and slides between the folds of your cunt, but it is nothing compared to how it feels when he pulls back and the wet head of his cock nudges almost impatiently against your entrance. He does not let go of where he is still pinching and rolling at the buds of your nipples, sending light-headed little thrills right down to between your legs - your sex clenching at the emptiness, missing his fingers.

“As ready as I think I’ll be, Monsieur,” you manage, hoping the title comes out as barbed as you want it to - but then he is pressing inside of you, his cock opening you up, and you bump against the table and go utterly blank of thought at the sensation of being claimed.

It feels like all of the air inside of you deflates as Neuvillette pushes himself into you. He had been correct on one count - he had prepared you well enough that there is only a light sting, the feeling that is to be expected when something large fits itself into a tight hole. You wheeze over his desk, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, as he seems to keep pushing and pushing and pushing--

You don’t think you’ll possibly take all of him, and then he stops and you feel his pelvis pressing against your ass, and you realise he is fully inside of you now.

“There,” even Neuvillette sounds a touch breathless. “Didn’t you do well, little one? Are you ready for me to begin moving?”

His only answer from you is a huff, as he pinches your nipples again and you feel yourself clench around the cock buried inside of you. He laughs softly, and with a wet drag you feel him pull out of you - and then drive back inside again with a wet pap, the sound indecently loud in the quiet office. Neuvillette had already established when he had made it clear he expected you to fulfil this arrangement in his work chambers that the walls were thick enough no gestionnaires would come running no matter what, but you still have a vision of it happening.

Some poor underpaid Palais Mermonia worker, coming in to ask the Honourable Chief Justice some question or another, only to find him bent over a shivering whining citizen, naked on his desk. The thought of someone seeing you, at such a powerful man’s mercy--

You clench around Neuvillette again, whining softly into the polished wood of the desk, your body wanting to welcome his cock inside and keep it for yourself. It feels so good - you can barely stand knowing how right and full and warm you feel, how you know that if Neuvillette stopped fucking you that you would have no choice but to beg him to carry on and let you come. 

“Good,” he murmurs, as he finds himself a rhythm that makes you quake. Every drag of his hips sets your body aflame, every twitch of his cock makes you huff and whimper. You’re moaning, you realise, as if you are somewhere very far away. “There now, little one - doesn’t that feel good?”

You don’t reply, but you do not need to. The sound of him fucking in and out of you - the wet sticky slap of his cock as his hips bounce against your spread thighs, the obscene feeling of your own arousal drooling out of you, and the noises that keep escaping your mouth unbidden all do that for you. Your body does not even try to push him out; merely pull him in tighter. 

He stops pinching your nipple with one hand, dragging it back down the curve of your body to curl around your thigh, sneaking between you and the wooden drawers of his desk - and you keen a high-pitched little noise as instead of your nipple, he roughly pinches at your clit instead.

The sensation of that silken fabric, sodden already with your slick, and the mean little pinch pushes you over a precipice that you didn’t realise you’d been hovering on. You cry out this time, a moan that you feel certain that everyone in the whole building must hear - but that doesn’t matter, as you spasm helplessly on Neuvillette’s cock and you give him your second orgasm of the night. 

He fucks you through it, even as you feel your cunt flex and flutter around him. You feel dizzy, panting, whining - but Neuvillette’s thrusts have more purpose now, and a low groan that sounds almost inhuman comes out of him as you weakly try and push your body back at him to hurry it along. 

“I’ll come when I’m ready,” he practically growls, and you whine as his teeth fasten into the meat of your shoulder so that he is utterly bent over you - the rasp of his silken clothes against you, fine fabrics and adornments. The satiny brush of his hair over your heated skin. “And you will take every drop, little one - as you agreed to do--”

You nod helplessly, and he groans - and then his cock is twitching inside of you wildly, and he’s biting at you again and huffing and groaning and the plunge of his hips seems to hit deeper inside of you with every thrust.

You had never imagined the Chief Justice like this in all of your life, but there is something animal to him now; some latent kind of primal instinct you had never realised that the kind, fatherly Monsieur Neuvillette possessed. You know now he is not as kind as you had once supposed, but it is still something else entirely to see him and feel him fuck you like a man possessed.

He snaps, his hips wildly gyrating into you, slapping against your ass so hard you fear you will bruise - and then you feel his cock jump and he comes inside of you, thick ropes of his release shooting directly into your insides and coating you, viscous and full of him.

He gives another almost animalistic growl against your skin, letting his cock judder and shoot out a few final spurts of his own seed - and then, there is a brief moment of quiet. You can hear yourself and your own shuddering breaths, your heart pounding in your ears - and then, the slick, wet noise of him pulling out of you. He catches hold of his own breath, and when he speaks again his voice is smooth and kind as ever as if nothing more has transpired here than a meeting of minds.

“Marvellous, little one. You did so terribly well. Of course,” Neuvillette murmurs against your ear, his breath a cool brush against your heated skin. There’s the faintest scent of saltwater in it; you shiver despite yourself. “You do realise that the final decision does not lie with me, do you not?”

“Wh-what do you mean?” You’re too breathless to speak, still - laid out across Monsieur Neuvillette’s desk, on display like the most wanton of creatures. You can still feel his come rolling down your thighs, spilling out of you with every pant of your breath - you were so utterly filled and claimed by him that you fancy you can feel his come inside of you even now, in thick ropes and dripping pearls. 

“Well,” Neuvillette moves away, and you  turn your head, cheek cold on the desk, to watch as he re-fastens the placket of his trousers, the tails of his coat swishing about him. You remain utterly debased; your clothes still in a haphazard pile to the side of his desk. You do not yet think your trembling legs could even hold you up, and you have no choice but to let Neuvillette continue to drink in the sight of you akimbo over his office furniture. “Surely you understand it is the Oratrice who will make the final decision, my dear?”

Your heart beats double time in your chest. Your breath comes out in a panicked little gasp, and you rear up before you’re quite ready for it, staggering towards him to clutch at his lapels.

“But it always sides with you,” you say to him, hating that your voice rises in pitch pathetically. “You’re always in agreement--”

“Yes,” Neuvillette agrees with a low hum, and you hate him as one of his thumbs gently comes up to caress your cheek like a lover. “It will be greatly novel for Lady Furina to witness the disagreement, I’m sure. Still - the Oratrice does have the final word, as it always has.”

“But you promised!” You don’t care about dignity now, as you feel the hot splash of tears across your cheeks. Neuvillette takes in a shuddering breath, far too reminiscent of the noise he’d made when he’d pressed himself inside of you. His thumb slides under a tear now, to catch it upon the pad; you watch in mute agonies as he lifts it to his mouth and his tongue flicks out to taste you.

“Really, my dear,” Neuvillette says, with a sigh of satisfaction. “I thought you were better educated than this; you were so very charmingly certain when you first came to see me after accosting me in public. All of those carefully laid out little plans and charts as to why your criminal brother couldn’t possibly have committed the felony that everybody knows he did--”

“But you agreed!” You’re desperate now. He hums again, and one of his arms settles around your waist, keeping you pinned against him. “You said you would find him not guilty! You said he’d be freed!”

“I said one of those things,” he corrects you - and then he sees that you’re very much hovering on the edge of hysteria, and he sighs. “You poor little creature. When I asked you if you were certain and that you’d thought everything through properly . . . you hadn’t really, had you?”

“I . . . I thought . . .” You sniffle desperately, trying to grasp onto the threads of your righteous anger as the cool sting of foresight settles over you once more. Monsieur Neuvillette is correct; he promised that he would find your brother not guilty, and you had taken it for granted that the ruling of the mighty Iudex would be enough to see your brother free.

Not a word about the Oratrice had passed his lips.  

You’re shaking. It is only Monsieur Neuvillette’s arm around your waist that stops you from falling to the ground. You fear if that grounding limb left, you would drop to your knees and hug at his legs and rub your sobbing face against his knee and beg. The fact that you had . . . that you’d given yourself to him, and he must have known that he could not truly give what you were asking for . . .

“And what then?” You whisper, your throat dry. Neuvillette makes a considering noise in the back of his throat; a throaty hum. A hand gently scoops your chin up to force you to look him in the eyes.

Neuvillette’s eyes are blue-grey-violet, boring down into you. There is something ancient and terrifying that lies behind them, but as they look into your own they seem to almost flash possessive. 

“I happen to know the administrator of the Fortress of Meropide,” he says, after a long moment. “Of course, I’m sure you understand that it is not the most . . . welcoming of places. Your brother’s confinement will lack creature comforts. But . . . it doesn’t have to be quite so dreary.”

Against your will, hope rises like a soft flame in your chest. 

“You would do that?” You ask the Iudex. “Make sure that he’s . . . that it’s not so bad?”

“You misunderstand,” Neuvillette tells you, with a small smile. “I have fulfilled my end of our agreement now. I will find your brother not guilty. Legally, there’s nothing else that you need of me.”

“I could tell someone--” You start to say, but Neuvillette only lets out a soft little huff of laughter.

“Poor thing,” he says, “do you truly believe that anybody would take your word - the sibling of some no-good criminal, desperate to save him - over mine? You must understand that I have, as Iudex, a long history of doing only the best for Fontaine.” He lets go of your waist, and you are thankful that you manage to keep your balance even as he turns and sweeps away towards his desk. “I am also aware that I’m the subject of some . . . romantic fantasy, in the hearts of the ever-theatrical people of our homeland.” He seats himself in the great chair behind his desk, and looks back up at you with that damnable smile playing around his lips - small enough you could not call it mocking, soft enough you could argue it was an attempt at sympathy. “Why would I give that up, just to tumble some know-nothing worth-nothing young upstart in my office?”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times in speechless anger, before that cool foresight settles over you once more.

Because he’s right.

Why would he? Why would anyone believe you? 

“. . . How can I ask for your aid again?” You manage to grit out, through clenched teeth.

“You could fill out a form from the Palais Mermonia,” he says, rifling through the paperwork on his desk as if you have already left the room. “Talk to one of the gestionnaires about aid for those incarcerated, once your brother has officially been sentenced. The working time for a response is currently . . .” He tilts his head to the side again, as if thinking. “Ah, yes. Only a year and six months. I’m sure nothing untoward could befall your poor brother in that time--”

“Monsieur,” you step towards him imploringly. “Please--”

You remember your nakedness only when Neuvillette looks up from his desk and lets his eyes critically sweep you again. Your nipples, stiff and sore from his pinching fingers. Your thighs, wet with his release and your own slick. The bite marks from his fangs that litter your bared skin. 

His eyes narrow; the face of a man taking in something that already belongs to him. A dragon considering his latest addition to the hoard. 

You realise exactly what he is going to ask you for, in return for his continued aid, before he opens his mouth. 

“Well,” he says, with a small smile upon his generous mouth. It is a mouth many would describe as kind; at this moment in time, you cannot think of it as anything other than dangerous. “You did such a good job of convincing me to aid you today . . . why, we could make these little meetings more regular, don’t you think?”

You swallow thickly. 

The Fortress of Meropide. Under the sea, with no sunlight, for who knows how long. Who knows where he would sleep, or what he would eat, or what other comforts would be denied to him in his imprisonment? 

“Yes, Monsieur,” you whisper, your throat bone dry. 

“Excellent,” he smiles at you in clear dismissal. You feel . . . used. Cheated. Hollow. Utterly owned and laid claim to and conquered, your spirit deadened inside as you look at the corrupt official you had once held in such high regard. “Next week, then. Wear something prettier, please. I’m partial to blue. Now - you don’t mind, do you? I have cases to review.”

[babbushka]

Death At The Dive Bar

Flip Zimmerman X F!Reader

Inspired by this request, some weird twilight-zone occult occurrences happen to happen to our favorite detective. 3.4k, NSFW

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It’s always the same -- a scream, a crash, broken glass bloodied on the floor. A gunshot maybe, or maybe not. In the dead of night, acts of violence hiding beneath a cloak of darkness. 

It’s always the same -- a 911 call, frantic panicked voices demanding someone come down from the station, someone please help, before it’s too late, even though the very act of them picking up the phone means it’s already done. 

It’s always the same -- until it isn't. And on a dark and stormy summer night in the thick of the Rocky Mountains, a tiny dive bar calls the nearest police dispatcher, and calmly requests to speak to one Detective Flip Zimmerman of Colorado Springs. 

Flip had been in the area when he got the call over the radio, wandering around, scoping out the woods. He knew at once where it was, had heard stories of the place of course, way back in the day when he still wore the weight of the war like a thick leather jacket around his shoulders. When he pulls up in his Chevy it looks exactly the same as it always had been described: run down, small, with a buzzing neon sign proudly proclaiming The Mile High Tavern as the best place to grab a Coors within 50 miles. Nevermind that it was the only place. 

He sits in his truck and glares at the bar. Popular with passers-through along winding scenic roads and most frequented by motorcyclists seeking shelter from the rain, he wonders (not for the first time this week) what the hell he’s getting himself into. The note from the dispatcher had been vague -- a lady was askin’ for him specifically, and he was supposed to find out why. Things like this didn’t bode well for him, usually. 

Especially not lately, not with the way his last relationship flopped. He had tried to explain to the nice woman that his job took up a lot of his time -- had hoped that her big city job had given her a different perspective, but she didn’t seem to think his work hours applied to her. That had been three months ago that she left him, and he was still sore from it. 

No, a woman asking for him directly was the last thing Flip wanted to get himself tangled up in, regardless of the reason. 

Despite the rain, there isn’t the usual line of motorcycles out front. In fact, there was only one car to be seen, an oldie -- something chrome plated and pink, but he can’t really tell in the rainy darkness. The Mile High Tavern appeared for all intents and purposes to be empty, and so Flip takes one last drag of his cigarette, makes sure his gun is loaded and in its holster, and with a sigh of resignation steps into the downpour. 

“Let me get you something nice and warm,” A friendly voice calls over to him from the counter when Flip steps over the threshold, your back turned to him. All at once, Flip’s heart begins to pound. Something about this place felt odd to him, an uneasy feeling that shifted his stomach around. He took another step closer and you continued, “I’m afraid the only hot thing we’ve got tonight is coffee.” 

“Coffee’d be just fine, thank you.” Flip nods with gratitude, before sitting at the bar. Looking around, he notes how quaint the little place is. It’s neat and clean and warm, and he confirms that you are the only person in here. He wonders if you’ve been alone long, and frowns. “I’m sorry - I’m Detective Zimmerman, someone here rang for me?” 

“I’d be that someone, yes.” You slide him a cup of black coffee down the counter that you lean against with a smile. It is dazzling, bright in the dark light of the dive bar. “Thank you for coming out here, I appreciate how quick you were.” 

Well shit, Flip grimaces into his mug, now he feels like an asshole for sitting in the truck debating when, or if, he should brave the rain to head inside. 

You smile at him like you knew he was out there biding his time, a teasing smile that lets him know you’re not mad, even though you could be. It wasn’t professional for a law officer to keep someone waiting like that. 

“What seems to be the trouble?” He doesn’t bring up the fact that they’re alone. 

It was dangerous these days, with all the murders in the woods lately. Women being slaughtered left and right by what Flip is certain is a serial killer, but no one will take him seriously enough about it to do anything. Not without more evidence. 

“Do you..” You pause, as if you’re trying to find the words. No, that’s not it, as if you’re having a hard time spitting them out, like something is preventing you. “May I sit next to you?” 

You look at him with expectation and hope, and he stares into your eyes, searching for what the hell brought him all the way out here on his night shift. The clock strikes three in the morning. 

He doesn’t notice himself nodding with allowance, until you’re walking around the counter and getting close to him. Even though it’s warm in the bar, your hands are cold. 

“Thank you,” You breathe, getting close to him. Not so close that you’re touching, but close enough that he could brush against your shoulder with his own. “I don’t usually work alone, but tonight the other server is sick, and with the storm we aren’t expecting too many people, so here I am. There was something out there.” 

You stare directly into his eyes, and he’s almost taken aback by the seriousness and bluntness of your voice. Your voice is hypnotic almost, the edges of your words fuzzy and sharp at the same time, an impossible combination that has his palms sweating. He wonders for a brief moment if you slipped something into his coffee, but the thought leaves him as soon as it arrives.

“What sort of something?” He finds himself asking quietly, not wanting whatever it is to overhear. He thinks back to the past few weeks, the broken in-houses, the tape on the floor, the screams of agony. Flip sets his jaw and leans in close, looks deep into your wide open eyes, pupils huge in the dark. 

“A figure, on the other side of the window. I saw it in the lightning, I saw its eyes. I think it’s a man. I’m scared.” You whisper, lowering your voice to match his pitch. 

“I can escort you home -- ” He goes to get up, a rush of protective energy flowing through him, scraping the bar stool against the wooden floor, the sound so so so loud in the quiet of the bar, but your hand is gripping his arm the second he gets up.

“No!” Your voice is too sharp again, dark around the edges, and Flip looks down and sees panic in your eyes. He softens immediately, and even though he’s not supposed to, even though it’s unprofessional, even though you’re a stranger, he pulls you into a hug for some comfort. You throw your arms around him in return, and he’s not certain who is comforting whom. “No -- I -- I don’t want it to know where I live, if it follows us. I was hoping you could keep me company.” 

Your face is pressed into his chest, and for the first time in a long time, he feels complete, he feels like he’s never ever going to let go. He feels like you were made to fit into his arms, against his chest. He grows hot, his throat clearing as he immediately steps back to give you some space. 

You’re a stranger. 

He doesn’t even know your name. 

The rain pounds outside and lightning flashes, and Flip snaps back to reality. 

“I don’t think I can stay all night, I would have brought backup.” He grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck, offering, “I can do a search of the premises, if that would make you feel better.” 

“You shouldn’t go outside.” You shake your head, and Flip lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, glad that you have relieved him from what would have been one bitch of a job. Especially when you look up at him through your lashes and bite your lip and say, “I would prefer it if you stayed in here. With me.” 

“Alright.” He smiles, throwing all caution to the wind because what the hell else is he going to do on a Monday night? “If you’d feel safer with me staying here with you, I’ll stay. But in the morning, I’ll escort you either home or to another safe location, or hell even to the station and you can give a statement, and we’ll have someone out here searching the woods.” 

“That sounds like a plan, thank you.” Your hand rests on the bar counter close to his, so close, he nudges his pinky against yours. There’s no rings on your finger, he notices. 

“In the meantime, what should we do?” He licks his lips, knowing that it’s wrong, it’s an abuse of power -- but who has power over whom? He’s getting lost in your eyes, in the pretty smile you give him as you reach over the bar counter and grab a small rectangular pack of -- 

“I have a deck of cards.” You brandish them at him, looking over your shoulder with a grin. The way you’re bent over the bartop has Flip’s mind doing awful things, things like picturing you without any of those clothes on. “You any good at poker?” 

Flip was not good at poker. 

He’s lost the past two games and you’re already shuffling for a third. The energy in the bar has relaxed significantly, and Flip is starting to forget why he’s there. 

“Let’s up the ante.” You say, in an attempt to discourage or motivate him, he isn’t sure, as you shuffle and shuffle and shuffle the cards. “Each hand someone loses, they take something off.” 

“I don’t see how this ends any other way than me naked.” Flip grunts, not entirely displeased by the prospect. 

“You could win, and then I’d be the naked one.” You point out, and he laughs, a snort through his nose that exhales blue wispy smoke from his cigarette. 

On the first hand, Flip loses -- but that’s all it takes. He unbuttons his shirt and you’re hot on him, pinching his cigarette out and flicking it into the ashtray for him, your lips searing onto his. No one can ever find out about this, can ever know he’s about to fuck this stranger on the job, fuck you silly over the bar counter while on a call, and you don’t seem like the type to tell. Not with the way you’re pulling your blouse up over your head.

He hadn’t really paid any attention to what you’re wearing until it’s off, in a heap on the floor around him. The undergarments you wear are old fashioned, a bullet bra and girdle that hold up a pair of stockings. The clothes on the floor are old fashioned too, almost like the same exact uniform that a waitress might have worn at the Tavern twenty years ago. 

But they look new, and maybe the tavern never updated their uniforms,Flip doesn’t care, not with the way your hands are on his belt, pulling his hard dick out of his pants and spitting down onto it, spreading the spit around, his tip leaking and joining the mix. 

With ragged breath, he pushes you down face first onto the bartop again, pops the straps of your bra, your garter, pushes down your stockings. They rip under his rough treatment, and he feels bad for a moment, just a moment, until his cock is rubbing at the soft wet folds of you and you let out a moan that fills the tavern with warmth. 

“I don’t have a -- ” He starts, pulling away, trying to remember that he’s almost forty for fuck’s sake, he needs to be responsible, he needs to -- 

“It’s alright.”  You reach behind him and grab at his hand, leading him to drape his body over yours, giving him permission to fuck you anyway. 

With a sharp breath he pushes in all the way, bottoms out so that his cock is completely enveloped inside of you, his hips pressed against the smooth skin of your ass, and he almost can’t move he’s so blinded by the feeling. You’re so tight, and so wet, the bar smells like musk and sweat and rain, the sweet salty combination making his mind go dizzy. 

He’s never talked much during sex, and this is no different, but in the back of his mind he wishes he had something good enough to say to you, something impressive. Instead, he thrusts in a steady harsh rhythm that has your knees buckling, your hands gripping the far edge of the bar counter, your cheek pressed against the polished wood, mouth dropped open and eyes shut tight in pleasure. 

Flip’s hands on your waist are tight enough that he could dig them into you if he wasn’t careful, he could leave marks. He almost wants to, wants you to remember him when this is over and he’ll have to go back to the station, have to write a report about all of this. Not this, not you, not the way your sweet cunt clenches around him as you take his force, take his length, hot and pulsing inside of you. 

He needs to see you, all of a sudden, he needs to. Grabbing your arms, he pulls out only long enough for you to whine in protest for a few short seconds, and then he’s taking you to a booth, taking you somewhere padded that he can lie you down and brace himself on top of you. 

You lick your lips as your head rolls back, legs spreading for him to nestle between them as he bends over you, those same legs hooking around his waist. You’re completely naked, your perky breasts begging to be sucked on, and so he does. He wonders if the rasp of his clothes on your skin feels nice, if you like it. If you like him. 

It’s too hot in here, Flip thinks, his eyes shut as he pants against your body. Too hot and bright, bright behind his eyelids as he groans and moans. He’s sweating, and it’s loud, the sound of rain too loud, its wooshing a roar that deafens his ears. He almost can’t think about anything else, can’t think about the way you feel under him, why is it so bright why is it so hot -- 

It hits you first, and you’re squirming, panting and moaning as you come. Flip can feel it squelching between your thighs, his cock pulling out shiny and glistening with your orgasm. It makes him go over the edge, his come filling you up, the hot white spread of it. He tries not to worry about fucking you raw, but it’s been a long time since he hasn’t used a rubber. 

You give him a big grin, stretching out beneath him, your legs falling to the sides where they can. It’s still raining. 

Wordlessly, he gathers you up from underneath him and settles you down on the floor, kissing all over your face, your neck, your breasts. Your stomach chuckles underneath him as you hold him close, breathing in the smell of him. He doesn’t want you to ever let go. 

“Then don’t.” You sigh into his hair there on the floor, and Flip closes his eyes, tired from the events of the day. 

He doesn’t realize that you’ve responded to his thoughts, until he’s in a deep sleep. 

In the morning, he’s alone. 

In the morning, the dive bar isn’t just old, it’s run down. The windows are smashed like kids had been playing pranks here, tossing bottles and rocks through the glass. The shelves are all empty, no liquor, nothing. 

Flip feels like he is frozen as he looks around him. Where were you? Where were the cards that had scattered all over the floor? He is fully dressed, asleep in a booth that is covered in dust and cobwebs -- it wasn’t that dirty yesterday, was it? 

He’s sick, his stomach lurching as he sits up. He doesn’t even know your name to shout it out into the bar. In the light of morning, the rain has stopped, and Flip gathers himself up on uncertain legs. He looks around, trying to find any trace of you, but there isn’t one. There’s only one set of boot prints in the dust on the floor, his own.

Confusion continues to wash over him, which slowly morphs into panic. These windows weren’t broken last night, the floor wasn’t dusty, where the fuck were you? He stumbles to his truck, his mind working double time trying to piece together what happened. Surely he hadn’t dreamt this, what was he doing last night? He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t stoned he -- 

“Come in, Flip, come in!” A panicked voice crackles from his car, and making sure his gun is still in the holster, Flip runs right to his truck, hopping in and turning the engine over. 

“Ron?” Flip grasps the radio tightly in his hand, tuning the frequency to hear better. “Ron is that you? What’s going in?” 

“Flip! Where are you?” Ron asks, direct to the point. 

“I’m up by the fork in the mountain pass, just off the scenic highway.” 

“What?! Are you safe?” 

“Of course I’m safe, why wouldn’t I be? Ron what the fuck is happening?” Flip’s eyes are hard on the tavern, and even from the outside, something is wrong. This place was not open last night, it couldn’t have been. The walls are blackened with soot, the doors are boarded shut. How did he get in -- how did he get out?

“There was flash flooding, down the scenic road. It brought rocks down with it from all the rain. Search and rescue found a couple cars down the cliffside.” Ron rushes to explain, and Flip feels like he’s going to be sick. 

“They’re dead?” He pinches the bridge of his nose -- people were getting caught up in a flash flood while he was getting laid last night. 

“Yeah. You need to get back here, where did you say you were at again?” Ron asks, and Flip can hear that he’s pulling out a pen and paper from his desk. 

“Mile High Tavern. I spent the night here” Flip responds, and then there’s silence. “Ron? Did you hear me? I said I’m at -- ”

“I heard you, but that’s not possible.” Ron’s voice is shaken, “That bar burned down back in ‘57.” 

All at once, everything stops. 

He blinks, and he’s in the roar of the inferno as he comes into your body.

He blinks again, and the bar is gone entirely. 

Nothing remaining but a patch of scorched earth in its place. 

No neon sign. 

No motorcycles

No single car out front. 

Ron is saying something on the radio, but Flip can’t hear. He is reversing out of there so quickly that he almost misses the flash of something behind him -- almost. Flip looks back in his rearview mirror at the bar and sees something, a shape, a young woman in old fashioned clothing far away, through the trees. 

A hand waves, and Flip knows that whatever you were, you saved him, protected him from the flash flood that killed. You saved him, and he fucked you, and he’s sick to his stomach about that, not sure what was real and what isn’t, not sure of anything anymore except that he wants to find you and do it all over again. 

But he blinks, and you’re gone. 

[writershapeholeonthedoor]

Tattooed heart

Pairing: Elizabeth Olsen x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have tattoos everywhere and your girlfriend suffers from severe anxiety. You learned to walk around with Sharpies to help her out.

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. TW for anxiety attacks.

MASTERLIST

The room was crowded to the point where you couldn’t even see the exit doors in the back.

That always made you a bit nervous, of course, but mostly because it usually meant your interview would go on forever until people were satisfied by it. Those types of venues were always endless, but it was even worse when there were so many people attending the panels. Don’t get it wrong, you love attending the coms and meeting the fans to debate the characters and movies, and just the entire MCU universe as a whole, but you were only human and, after spending so long being a part of this, you got a bit tired.

Although the interview was going on forever, you weren’t surprised by the amount of people reunited to see you guys talking. It was hard to have most of the Marvel actors in one single interview, after all, so you were already expecting people to crowd the room and want to ask everyone a million questions. The new Avengers movie was coming up, the trailer had dropped just the day prior, and people were excited to know more. You couldn’t blame them.

You had been listening to Evans give out an overly complex reply to a question someone made him for a while now when you noticed Elizabeth squirming in her chair beside you. She was sitting to your right at the large table where you all were and she had answered a few questions as well, although that was the first time you noticed that she wasn’t moving out of boredom or to adjust in her chair again. She was restless, you noticed by the way she looked down at her legs and by the way her fingers pulled at her dress as if she was trying to get rid of a crinkle that didn’t exist.

Over the years, you learned to read her.

When you first met, three years ago, you were immediately drawn to Elizabeth. At the time, she had red hair thanks to her Marvel character, she was wearing black clothes and she had a fake scar above her eyebrow since you met between takes of the new movie you were both going to be a part of. That wasn’t your first Marvel movie, neither was hers, but that was the first time you were going to share the screen. You had heard about her before, obviously, but nothing had prepared you for how it would feel to meet Elizabeth Olsen in person.

You felt attracted to her since the first day, but you weren’t brave enough to make a move, so you spent the next two months of shooting crushing on her in silence - at least to her because you sang like a canary to all of your castmates to the point where they had to make an intervention because no one could take more of your daydreaming about Elizabeth without doing anything about it. That worked, though, and you found yourself sweating like crazy just a week before the movie wrapped while you waited for Elizabeth to finish her scenes for the day.

You had been nervous for no reason, as your castmates predicted, because Elizabeth said ‘yes’ after you managed to spit out your question and you both went for your first date two days later. That night, Elizabeth admitted she wanted to ask you out since the first day too, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“I’m glad you’re more brave than I am,” she whispered shyly when you were holding hands on top of the table. “I’m too anxious to have managed to actually ask you out.”

But that had been it.

You have been inseparable ever since.

Well, besides when you were both working, of course. You hadn’t made any more movies together since your characters took different turns, but you and Elizabeth were able to move heaven and Earth to make your relationship work no matter what.

As the years went by, you learned to read Elizabeth as easily as an open book. You knew when she was stressed and needed to spend some time in her garden to relax. You knew when Elizabeth was cooking because she wanted to, when she was doing it because she had to eat and when she was stress-cooking. You knew when she liked the movie you were watching by the way she bit her lip and when she couldn’t care less about what was on the TV by the way she kept sighing. There were many little things about Elizabeth that you took notice of over the years, things that you carefully stocked in your memories because they were all details that made you love her more and more every day.

However, there was one thing you made a bigger effort to keep track of.

Her anxiety.

Elizabeth has been suffering from severe anxiety for many years now. She had talked about it in interviews and other things, but no one could understand the magnitude of her anxiety attacks unless they experienced it in person. You had been there to a fair share of them since you met, from the smaller ones where she would complain about feeling like a small weight in her chest to the bigger ones where you had to rush her to the hospital because you honestly thought she was about to have a heart attack. Since that day, you had vowed to always be attuned to the signals of her crisis so you could help Elizabeth get out of them before things got too hard for her to handle.

Elizabeth used to apologize every single time about it, about how she sometimes wouldn’t want to leave the house, how sometimes she would ask you to leave the restaurant that took you both so long to get a table at, how sometimes she needed to sit in complete silence to get herself together, but you always made sure to tell her it wasn’t her fault. Elizabeth had struggled with anxiety, panic attacks and social anxiety for many years now not because she wanted to, but because the media had chased her since she was young and she had grown in fear. That was something she struggled with and something you could help her with.

Or try your best, at the very least.

Since you knew about all of this, you easily realized Elizabeth’s anxiety was making an appearance, slipping through her very strong grip. You could see by the way her green eyes started moving around without focusing on anything, how her jaw clenched, how her breath became heavier and how her fingers kept picking at her dress. Evans was still talking and there was a microphone in front of you, not to mention how there were literally hundreds of eyes and cameras staring at you at that moment, so you couldn’t take her hands and ask her to breathe with you like you usually did.

You had to think fast, however, because Elizabeth’s anxiety escalates quickly and you wouldn’t want that to happen in a room filled with strangers since that was probably the reason why it was happening anyway. Elizabeth had gotten better at dealing with attending those events, giving interviews and talking with fans, but that didn’t mean she didn’t struggle every once in a while. It was still something that wasn’t easy for her, something that made her natural instincts ask her to run away as fast as she could.

Those long interviews made you tired, but they absolutely terrified Elizabeth. She hated the crowded room because she couldn’t spot the exit and her brain would play little tricks at her saying that, if something bad happened, there weren’t enough emergency doors to take everyone out safely. The cameras pointed at her made her overly conscious of every move she made, afraid of what people might capture to spread around. The screams and yells that the fans let go every once in a while made her ears hurt and her insides churn. It was awful.

Averting your eyes so people wouldn’t notice you had been watching her, you placed a gentle hand on her thigh under the table to offer her some comfort. That made Elizabeth jump in surprise, though, since she hadn’t been expecting it, so you quickly removed your hand and offered her a small smile in apology when she glanced at you. You felt bad about it, especially when you noticed the fear in her eyes, but you still tried to calm her down by offering her a smile.

Some of her tension washed away and her shoulders relaxed enough for you to feel safe to touch her again. When your hand touched her thigh this time around, Elizabeth was expecting it and she allowed the touch with a sigh. She threw you a thankful look before turning her head to the side to pay attention to what was being said in case anyone decided to pull her into the conversation, something you also tried to do.

Luckily - so damn luck, indeed - the interview ended just a few minutes after that. You played your part waving at the fans and offering them smiles, but you still held Elizabeth’s hand to pull her away from there as fast as you could without actually running. You were both sitting in the middle of the large table so it wasn’t an easy task. However, your eyes met Zendaya’s eyes for a moment and the girl wasted no time trying to discreetly move everyone out of the way so you could walk past with Elizabeth.

You took your girlfriend backstage and avoided everyone who tried to talk with you on the way until you found a quiet corner to sit down with her. You sat her down on top of a large technical equipment box and you jumped up to sit beside her, already shoving your hand inside your pocket to remove the three Sharpies you had taken with you that day. Green, blue and lilac were the colors you took from the case before leaving the hotel room that afternoon, and you didn’t think twice before handing them to her.

“Come on, I’m your canvas,” you told her lightly while reaching out your arm to her.

Your right arm was filled with tattoos from your shoulders to your wrist. That was something that made many casting directors frown to, but you loved it. That’s the way you find to express yourself and something you cherish. The tattoos were all blackwork, which means they didn’t have any colors added to them, and they were all different drawings that entwined between them thanks to the amazing work of your tattoo artist.

The first time Elizabeth ever drew on your skin was when you took her to the hospital that fateful day. You had seen your girlfriend looking so sad and scared lying down in a hospital bed after the doctor left saying it had been an anxiety attack that you just had to do something. You knew Elizabeth liked to use her hands to help herself calm down because she would run to her garden and spend hours there tending to the plants, putting her hands in the dirt and delicately touching every leaf. That’s why you took the pen that the doctor left behind without noticing and started to look for something she could write on, but there was nothing.

So, you just handed her the pen and told her to write something on your arm.

Elizabeth had looked at you like you were insane for even suggesting it and it took you a while to convince her to give it a try, however, it played out perfectly in the end. Elizabeth spent hours using the blue pen to color your tattoos and it did wonderful things to her anxiety. When the doctor returned, he was happy to say she was good to go and you were just glad that Elizabeth was back to her usual self asking you if you could stop somewhere to eat.

It wasn’t a perfect solution. It was temporary since it usually just calmed her down enough to keep going for a few more hours, but Elizabeth still needed to fully relax in silence, go to her garden or take a warm bath to avoid any real crisis. But that didn’t stop you from buying several Sharpies from different colors to have them around anytime she might need them. You made a habit out of walking around with them inside your pockets and Elizabeth stopped resisting using them to draw on you.

Sure, Elizabeth suggested she buy a notepad to carry with her, but you told her you didn’t mind being her personal canvas. You liked how she touched your skin gently with one hand while she used the other one to color your tattoos. You found it mesmerizing how she managed to make different details every time she drew on you. And you were just glad to be able to help her. Of course, you told Elizabeth it was okay if she preferred to have some paper to draw on, but luckily she didn’t argue against painting your arm instead.

It worked.

And that would have to do because you couldn’t take her to the hotel room you were sharing yet and it was clear that Elizabeth wasn’t feeling great.

“No,” your girlfriend said without taking the Sharpies from you. “We still have more interviews today.”

“Exactly,” you argued. “That’s fine. You know I don’t mind it.”

“People will make questions,” Elizabeth insisted, but it held no real resistance behind her words anymore. She was already taking the pens from you and you smiled happily at that.

“Let them,” was your reply.

A second later, Elizabeth took the green Sharpie to start painting one of the tattoos on the back of your arm.

When your castmates found you both, your skin was a mix of green, blue and lilac already, and Elizabeth's full attention was on the task in her hands. She didn’t look about to lose her mind anymore, her breathing was normal again, her hands weren’t shaking and her frown was purely because she was trying to keep the colors inside the line and not because she was in panic. Your friends gave you space because they didn’t want her to feel crowded again, but Holland lent you his jacket while you were all walking to the next interview to avoid questions and Elizabeth kissed your lips just before going on stage.

“You’re the best girlfriend in the world,” Elizabeth whispered against your skin.

You shrugged it off and leaned to kiss her forehead. “I love you,” you reminded her gently aware that you would climb every mountain and swim every ocean to make her happy.

[worseforwords]

Danger

(Alessia Russo x Reader)

Chapter IV of Marshmallow

Four minutes. That’s how long it took for Alessia to say something that made your head spin when you saw each other again for the first time after Paris. You were in the changing room, unable to stop yourself from eavesdropping on the conversation on the other side of the room after Beth asked Alessia about the weekend you spent together in the city of love. “Yeah, it was really romantic. It almost felt real in a way.”

Her words caused you to perk up in an instant, and you could hear big, dramatic gasps emanating from Beth, Vic, and Kyra. “No, not like that, you idiots,” she quickly added. Of course not. Of course, it wasn’t like that.

The next few weeks once again revolved around finding the right balance between you and Alessia which was tougher than it seemed at first. You consciously distanced yourself from Alessia, even though you valued the friendship and connection the two of you had built over the past two months.

About three weeks in, you started feeling like you finally had things under control. You saw each other in training, talked and laughed together, but you always kept it light and casual. Both of you mostly fell back into your usual friend groups, so avoiding her outside of football wasn’t that hard, although you had to come up with excuses a few times in the process.

You were really feeling more confident in your own defences, so when Leah begged you to finally join a team night out again, you said yes. After all, you had started to run out of reasons not to, and obviously, you couldn’t tell her the real one.

The night out at the bar with your teammates was exactly what you needed after a long week of training. As you entered the lively bar, the sounds of laughter and music welcomed you. The atmosphere was electric, and you could tell it was going to be a memorable evening.

Leah wasted no time in rounding everyone up for a round of drinks. “First round’s on me!” she exclaimed with a mischievous grin, already heading towards the bar as you followed closely behind.

Meanwhile, Beth and Viv found a cozy corner booth for all of you to sit. Katie, true to form, was already causing a scene, engaging in animated conversation with the bartender as she ordered a round of shots for the table. “Make ‘em strong, mate!” she called out, earning a chuckle from the rest of the group.

“Katie, you’re going to get us kicked out before we’ve even had a chance to sit down,” Beth teased, rolling her eyes playfully.

“Relax! I’m just trying to spice things up a bit,” Katie retorted with a wink, earning another round of laughter from the group.

As the night progressed and the drinks kept flowing, Katie’s suggestion of playing a drinking game was met with enthusiastic approval from the group. The game started innocently enough, with rounds of laughter and playful banter filling the air. Laura was the first to lose a round, and she accepted her fate with a grin, downing a shot with flair.

Next up was Vic, who groaned dramatically when she lost. “Alright, no more shots for me. Hit me with your best dare,” she declared, rolling her eyes playfully. After a brief debate the group decided she had to do a TikTok dance all by herself on the empty dance floor. Brave as she was she did so without much hesitation, before sprinting back to the booth and falling into a fit of giggles in embarrassment.

After a couple of rounds, the alcohol had clearly taken its effect, and the laughter grew louder with each passing moment. The first few rounds you were on top of your game, and admittedly also a bit lucky. Luck wasn’t on your side forever though, and as the alcohol started taking its effect on you too, you eventually found yourself making more mistakes and losing a round.

Having had plenty of alcohol by now, you too decided on doing a dare instead of a shot. As everyone started discussing what they could have you do, Katie’s voice cut through the chatter, “How about you tell us how good of a kisser Alessia is!”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you shot a startled, somewhat angry glance at Alessia, who met your gaze with an apologetic expression. You hadn’t realised anyone beyond the two of you knew about your intimate moment in Paris. 

Alessia’s eyes then darted to Vic, who was busy shooting daggers across the table at Katie, who remained grinning, awaiting your response. It dawned on you how naive you had been to think such a juicy secret could remain between just the two of you in this team, but you couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed in Alessia. Though you now realised she likely saw the kiss as nothing more than a funny anecdote, and you couldn’t blame her for that. Unlike you, one sloppy kiss hadn’t left her longing for more, wanting to do it again every time you moved your lips to speak. She didn’t think about the feeling of your hands caressing the back of her neck every time she caught a whiff of your perfume, and she sure as hell didn’t imagine being trapped against a wall anytime you leaned into her before a corner. She wasn't pathetic like that. And neither were you, of course.

“I’ll take the shot instead,” you declared, tossing it back before excusing yourself and swiftly heading towards the toilet. You splashed some water on your face, and waited a while, hoping the topic of conversation would change whilst you were gone. Stepping back out after a minute, you found Alessia waiting in the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, her expression apologetic as she placed a hand on your arm, indicating her sincerity. “I was stupid enough to think that would spread this quickly.”

“It’s fine, really,” you replied as you turned away, intending to rejoin the team, but Alessia’s grip on your wrist stopped you. “Wait—” she said and you turned around expectantly just as she tripped over her own feet and stumbled towards you, letting herself be caught by you. 

“Oh hi,” she said, her face now mere centimetres away from yours, and the familiar smell of her breath mixed with the smell of alcohol messed with your brain. “Maybe we should… you know— practice being girlfriends again, in case your parents show up or whatever,” she suggested with a grin, prompting you to steady her on her feet. She was clearly very intoxicated, more so than you and you realised there was no use in explaining to her again that your fake relationship was over. “Let’s head back inside shall we?” You suggested, avoiding her gaze as you turned away from her once more. 

“Yes! Let’s dance,” she exclaimed excitedly, following behind you.  By the time you arrived, your teammates were already dancing the night away, and you quickly made your way over to Leah, distancing yourself from Alessia.

“Mate, are you okay?” Leah asked, concern evident in her voice as she observed your expression. “You look proper floored.”

“Yeah, all good,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Nothing to worry about,” you tried to reassure her. Leah remained quiet for a bit, looking you up and down then scanning your face, seemingly unconvinced. “Well, great,” she replied finally, crossing her arms. “Now why the hell didn’t you tell me the two of you kissed?”

“Oh, that,” you began, trying to sound casual. “It didn’t mean anything, okay? So just drop it, please.” The annoyance in your voice caught yourself off guard and you quickly shifted your gaze to the floor, in fear of Leah’s reaction. “Jesus, all right,” she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes, mate.”

“Sorry Lee,” you groaned with an apologetic smile, although you knew she wasn’t really mad at you. She knew you were upset but she also knew you were as stubborn as a mule when it came to being vulnerable and talking about your feelings. She rolled her eyes dramatically and said, “Yeah, whatever. Let’s just have a good time and forget about it, alright?” 

You danced with Leah and some other teammates for a while before some of them headed to the bar with the promise of yet another round of drinks. Alessia seized the moment, pulling you into the centre of the lively crowd. The atmosphere was charged with energy, and Alessia, unburdened by inhibitions, twirled you around with an infectious grin.

As the music intensified, Alessia’s movements grew bolder. In the dim light and pulsating music, she closed the distance between you, her hand lingering on yours, and her body moving in sync with yours. You swallowed hard as you realised your intoxicated state inhibited you from doing anything but enjoy this moment.

At one point, the music slowed, and Alessia’s hand found its way to the small of your back, her gaze locking onto yours. She leaned in, a hint of mischief in her eyes, and you tensed, any questions you had getting stuck in your throat as you anticipated her next move.

Alessia’s lips brushed against your cheek, dangerously close to a kiss, but as you looked over her shoulder, you noticed Leah raising an eyebrow at you from where she stood across the bar. The realisation of what was happening hit you like a jolt, and you instinctively pulled back, breaking the intimate moment. A wave of conflicting emotions surged within you—temptation, confusion, and the desperate need to regain control. And you ran.

Leah caught up with you after a few minutes. “Hey! Wait, Y/N,” she called, grabbing your shoulder to slow you down from behind. “I don’t want to talk about it, Lee,” you groaned.

“Fine, don’t talk. But you’re not going home alone. I’m calling us an Uber,” she declared, and you knew there was no changing her mind. “Fine,” you sighed.

As you and Leah settled into the Uber, the ride was uncomfortably quiet. Each passing streetlight cast fleeting shadows across Leah's face, highlighting the concern etched into her features and her clenched jaw. You couldn’t bring yourself to meet her gaze, opting instead to stare out of the window as the city blurred past.

When the Uber pulled up outside Leah’s apartment, you braced yourself for the inevitable confrontation. Following your friend inside, you sank into the welcoming embrace of her sofa, feeling the weight of her gaze like a physical pressure.

Leah wasted no time, her voice cutting through the silence with unwavering determination. “Alright, out with it,” she demanded, her tone firm and uncompromising. “You’re not getting any sleep before you tell me what’s going on.”

At first, you scoffed at her blunt approach, your defences rising instinctively as you crossed your arms and stared at the wall. But beneath Leah’s steely exterior, you could sense the genuine concern and care in her words, and a part of you longed to unburden yourself to someone who truly understood. “I don’t know what to tell you, Lee. Nothing’s going on.” You briefly paused before quietly adding, “That’s the problem…”

“This is about Alessia,” Leah stated. Clearly, it didn’t matter how vague and distant you acted; she would always see right through you. “Y/N… that didn’t look like nothing to me.” Her voice was softer now, as she took a seat next to you.

“Well, it was,” you stated, and with a heavy sigh, you relented, the floodgates opening as you poured out anything and everything that had happened between you and Alessia in the past two months and how you felt about it. How you felt about her.

Leah listened intently, her expression softening as she absorbed your words, offering no judgment, only support. As you spoke, if only slightly, you felt a flicker of relief wash over you. And as the tears flowed freely, Leah remained by your side.

When you were done speaking, she held you as you shed a few more tears, until you felt your eyelids grow heavy. “Let’s get you to bed,” Leah softly stated as she took you to her guest bedroom.

The next morning, you woke up feeling a bit groggy but grateful for Leah’s help and care. When you entered the kitchen, she was still nowhere to be seen, so you decided to cook up a nice breakfast to thank her. You knew her kitchen like your own, as you always had to cook for her when you visited, not trusting her with it one bit. By the time Leah walked into the kitchen, you noticed her eyeing the food on the table with a mixture of surprise and amusement.

“I made breakfast,” you offered with a chuckle, knowing all too well Leah’s lack of culinary skills. “Figured I’d return the favour. I can’t handle feelings without you, and you won’t have anything to eat without me.”

Leah raised an eyebrow in mock indignation. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to take cooking lessons,” she retorted, grabbing a slice of toast and taking a bite.

You both shared a laugh as you sat down to enjoy the delicious breakfast you had made. You ate in silence, and despite the weight of yesterday’s conversation still lingering in the air, there was a sense of peace and understanding between you.

Eventually, Leah broke the comfortable silence, her tone serious yet gentle. “Listen. I know there’s no way in hell you’re taking my advice on this,” she began, “but just for the record, I think you should tell her how you feel.”

You couldn’t help but shake your head, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “I can’t, Leah,” you admitted, the weight of your words heavy in the air. “She’s happy with Dan, and it wouldn’t be fair to her. Besides, I’d rather be friends than nothing at all.”

Leah sighed, her expression softening with understanding. “I get that, I really do, but you’re torturing yourself by letting things go on like this,” she said, her voice laced with concern.

Leah’s words stuck with you the rest of the day as you replayed the events of last night in your mind. She wasn’t wrong; this was torture for you.

By the end of the day, the solution seemed clear to you: avoid Alessia altogether. Confessing your feelings to her was not an option, and being around her hurt you. So, really, avoiding her was the only sensible thing to do.

The following week, you did everything in your power to make your plan work. You sat opposite to wherever she was in the changing room and in meetings, and left immediately after every training session. You stopped hanging out with teammates altogether, fearing she might join in. When Lotte mentioned she was coming over to your shared apartment, you quickly made up an excuse and left for the rest of the day.

It wasn’t easy, and frankly, it was painful when you felt her trying to reach out to you. She would attempt to start a conversation, and you would suddenly make a beeline for Leah or pretend you didn’t hear her. One time, she even sent you a photo of a new type of chocolate pretzels she had found, which you ignored. When she asked if you wanted to talk, you ignored that too, and it hurt.

Nevertheless, you knew in your heart this was the only way to keep the both of you from getting hurt, and so you persevered. That was until after two more weeks of avoidance, the inevitable finally happened.

Your alarm went off early that morning after not having had much sleep. The night before, Alessia had suddenly shown up at your apartment, stating she was there to meet Lotte. She had asked if you wanted to join them for dinner, and you made up an excuse and left. You didn’t return until much later, when the only light visible through the curtains was the little nightlight in the living room, and you knew the coast was clear. You stirred for a long time before finally falling asleep, having spotted Alessia’s coat and shoes in the hallway and knowing she was lying on the other side of the wall you were staring at.

You didn’t have training until later that day, but you decided on an early alarm so you could escape the apartment before anyone else would wake up. You quickly threw on some joggers and a sweatshirt and kept your morning talk in the mirror short and to the point. You felt a sense of confidence wash over you as you realised you’d managed to prevent yet another encounter with the person you had been avoiding for weeks. 

All that confidence left your body in an instant however, when you opened your bedroom door to be met with a pair of widened blue eyes already staring at you. “Hi,” said Alessia, a shy smile on her face.

“Morning,” you said dryly, “you’re up early.” You didn’t really want a conversation with her, but at this point, small talk seemed unavoidable. “I, uh, couldn’t sleep anymore,” she replied. You brushed past her to grab your shoes and sat down on the edge of the sofa to tie the laces.

“Hey, Y/N?” She started hesitantly, causing you to look up at her, dreading whatever she was about to ask you. “Do you want some coffee? I just made some.” 

“Oh, no thank you. I was just about to go for a walk actually,” you answered, avoiding her gaze by focusing on your shoelaces again. “Oh right, of course,” she said quietly. The discomfort she felt was clear in the way she moved, the tension in the room palpable. You felt your eyes starting to water as your emotions overwhelmed you. The disappointment written on Alessia’s face, the way your body tensed up with every word she said, and the fact that you still had to fight the urge to kiss her right then and there, it was all too much.

“Enjoy your walk,” she said softly as you disappeared into the hallway. You grabbed your coat and keys and finally left the house. 

As you were trying your best to fight the tears now brimming your eyelids from falling down your cheeks until you had at least rounded the corner, you heard a different voice calling your name from behind you: Lotte. And she didn’t sound happy. “What are you doing?” Her tone was like a shout but her volume that of a whisper, given how early it was.

“Taking a morning stroll,” you replied quietly without turning around hoping to leave it at that. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m talking about Less. She really wants to talk to you but you’ve been avoiding her, ignoring her. I have no idea what’s going on with you but I can tell this is hurting her, and after all she’s done for you—” she stopped abruptly when you turned around to face her and she noticed the tears now rolling down your face. You saw the hesitation in her eyes. Lotte was not an angry person. In fact, this was the angriest you had ever seen her, so you knew you had really messed up. She scanned your face for a little longer before asking, “Can you please just tell me what’s going on?”

“I— I really can’t, I’m sorry.” You felt an immense sense of guilt wash over you. These past few weeks you had hardly given it any thought how your actions were affecting others. You had decided this was the best thing to do for everyone involved, but of course Alessia did not know that and she had had no say in the matter.

“Okay,” Lotte mumbled hesitantly, “okay, but will you at least talk to her later? You can’t avoid her forever, Y/N,” she stated, and you knew she was right. You took a deep breath before accepting your fate and telling her, “Yeah, okay. You’re right.”

You opted to save the talk for after training, giving both of you some time to prepare. Lotte relayed the news to Alessia and assured to spend the night at her boyfriend’s place, granting the two of you some privacy. 

You spent your morning trying to figure out how to tell her what was going on, struggling to come up with the right words. The day went by fast and training, albeit awkward and tense, also flew by. Before you knew it, you were back home, bracing for the dreaded conversation.

Alessia seemed unusually uncomfortable, fidgeting with her hands as you walked into the familiar living room in silence. “Tea?” You asked and she nodded as she got settled.

Returning with two cups of tea minutes later, you took a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. You sat in silence, both of you playing with your teabags for a while, contemplating how to initiate the conversation.

Finally, she broke the silence, her voice hesitant. “I, uh, have been wanting to talk about the other night, you know, at the bar” she began, her words coming out slowly and anxiously. Weeks had gone by since that night, but you had not given her a single chance to talk about it since. “I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable or crossed any boundaries.” 

You waved off her apology with a small smile. “It’s fine,” you reassured her, not really wanting to think or talk about that night anymore, since you knew it was just a drunken mistake to her, and so much more than that to you. “Just... caught me off guard, is all.”

Alessia’s expression softened, like she somehow knew exactly what you meant by that. She took a deep breath before blurting out three words you had never expected to hear her say.

“Dan is gay,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “His parents are... well, they’re really homophobic.” As she spoke, you could see a mixture of pain and embarrassment etched in her features, the weight of her words heavy on her shoulders.

Your confusion must have shown on your face, prompting Alessia to continue, her words tumbling out in a rush. “And, well, my parents were like yours. They kept asking when I’m going to settle down with a boyfriend,”

As Alessia spoke, the pieces started to fall into place, and you listened intently as she unraveled the complex web of her relationship with Dan. “We were really good friends, Dan and I," she explained, “And we get along well, so we came up with this... arrangement.”

She paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts before continuing. “We decided to pretend to be together,” she admitted, pausing again to finally look at you. “To make everyone around us happy.”

“We just get each other so well, you know?” she added, her voice small. “And we already spent so much time together, so it wasn’t hard to pretend.”

You thought about what she said. Somehow, suddenly everything made sense but at the same time nothing did. After a moment of silence, you finally found the words to break through the heaviness in the air. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” you asked, your voice gentle yet curious.

Alessia hesitated for a moment before responding, her gaze fixed on the floor. “I was embarrassed, I guess,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “And all I wanted was to focus on my career, so this seemed like an easy way to get everyone to stay off my case too.”

She paused briefly before continuing. “I love the friendship I have with him,” she explained, a hint of sadness in her voice as she looked at you. “And I never really felt the need to be more than friends with anyone anyway, so this has just always felt like it was enough for me. Well, until—” she stopped speaking abruptly, her words trailing off into silence.

“Until what?” you pressed, your curiosity piqued by her sudden pause. But Alessia shook her head, her expression guarded. “Nothing, never mind,” she replied, avoiding your gaze.

The conversation lapsed into silence again, the unanswered question hanging between you like a heavy fog. “Okay… so why are you telling me this now?” you asked, breaking the silence once more, your voice soft.

Alessia shrugged, her eyes flickering up to meet yours. “I don’t know, I guess I felt really bad about lying to you all this time,” she confessed, her voice tinged with regret. “Since we’ve gotten so close. Not many people know. In our team, it’s just Lotte actually. I really value our friendship, Y/N.”

As you sat there, letting everything she had just confessed sink in and trying to make sense of what it all meant, you suddenly noticed how uncomfortable Alessia looked. You quickly scooted over to her side of the sofa, prompting her to look up at you.

Reaching out, you placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me, Less,” you said gently, offering her a reassuring smile. “You know you have nothing to be embarrassed about, right? Especially since I did the same thing with you.”

A small laugh escaped her lips, a hint of relief flickering in her eyes. “Guess we’re both experts at this fake relationship thing, huh?” she remarked, the tension in the room easing slightly.

You chuckled softly. “Yeah, now it does make a lot of sense why you came up with the idea in the first place,” you teased, a playful glint in your eye.

Alessia smiled, the embarrassment slowly fading from her features. “Well, it seems to have worked for both of us,” she quipped, her tone lightening.

Taking a sip of her tea, Alessia seemed lost in thought for a moment before meeting your gaze once more. “Thanks, though,” she said sincerely, her eyes softening. “For understanding, and for not judging me.”

You returned her smile with a soft one of your own. “There’s nothing to judge. I think it's really nice of you to do this for Dan,” you added.

Alessia’s smile widened, a touch of warmth in her eyes. “Thanks, Y/N. Means a lot.” She paused, clearly wanting to add something else, her smile fading into a frown. “So… are we okay?” she asked hesitantly.

“Yeah, we’re okay,” you said genuinely. You didn’t exactly know why yet, but somehow you felt a sense of peace about the whole situation after the conversation you had just had.

“Good, I’m glad,” she said, a relieved sigh escaping her lips. “Cause I’ve missed hanging out with you. I was really glad we had become such good friends, and I was afraid I had ruined it all by not being honest.”

“You didn’t,” you reassured her. “I was just a little… confused,” you added, hoping to leave it at that.

She nodded. “Yeah, I get that. I hope this cleared some stuff up then.” She sent you a warm smile. As the conversation wound down, Alessia glanced at the clock, realising the lateness of the hour. “I should probably get going,” she said, rising from the sofa with a small sigh.

You nodded in understanding, standing up as well. “Yeah, no problem,” you replied, walking her to the door. Before she left, Alessia turned to. “Good night,” she whispered with a grateful smile on her face as she pulled you in for a warm hug.

“Good night, Less.”

[laneywrld]

satisfied | jude bellingham royal AU

chapter one

summary : juliana windsor is the future queen of edendale, she hasn't met many people that have intrigued her enough to capture her attention, that is of course until she meets the duke of ashworth, jude Bellingham, and grows fond of his unusual manner of behaving, he isn't an ordinary nobleman, is he?

wordcount: 5.7k

warnings: none

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Julian's firstborn was expected to be a son, as tradition dictated in the royal circles of their time. Julian, the eldest son himself, had two younger brothers. His wife Celeste, the only daughter among her parents' five children, was preparing for the arrival of their first child, fingers crossed, a healthy boy.

The nursery had been prepared in grand style, fit for a future king, completely overlooking the possibility of a princess gracing their lives.

Imagine their astonishment when the newborn emerged with a head full of hair, a girl entering the world with quiet grace, her eyes already sparkling with a mysterious depth. The room fell silent for a moment, unsure of what to make of the unexpected turn of events.

The silence lasted only a few moments before Julian stepped forward and eagerly dipped his arms into the cradle and retrieved his freshly cleaned baby.

"We must name her."

For hours the couple take turns shooting out names, fit for a queen, all of Julian's remaining on the border of traditional king names.

"Julian, I am not naming my daughter, Henry, Julius, or Michael, she will grow into a lady one day!"

"Julian The Second," Julian proclaimed proudly, holding the infant as if she were a royal decree. Celeste, still recovering in bed, immediately interjected, "No! And you must not hold her that way!"

"She is my junior!" Julian argues, lowering the baby from his boastful high arms and pressing the tiny girl closer to his chest.

The pout on her husband's face, has Celeste shaking her head. "We said we'd name our first child after me, my love. So that I may live on with them, even when I am no longer with them."

"She is not your son, Julian," Celeste retorted with a laugh, finally ending their playful debate over their child's name, "Let's go with Juliana."

His eyes ignite like the flame of a candle, "Juliana." He croons, moving towards his wife and settling beside her, their daughter nestled in his embrace.

"Our little princess," Celeste hums, and Julian corrects her, a soft, loving smile adorning his features, "our future queen."  

Celeste smiles softly but her eyes hold a knowing look, "We'll have to have a boy, make a king. A boy will be the son of the land, but Juliana will be ours, our sweet, sweet, girl."

"Although you were not what was desired, you are no less dear to me, my beautiful, beautiful, princess."

"Juliana Charlotte Windsor," Celeste announces into the room.

"But we'll call her Charlie short for Charlotte."

"Julian!"

Julian was the perfect king.

He was a natural-born leader full of charisma and compassion. He was dutiful, he worked hard, he was brave and he had a great deal of responsibility.

He respected tradition and legacy.

For the most part.

Julian began to face a troublesome subject when his firstborn turned out to be a girl.

Julian was a man of morals, he believed in rights. And although the world around him may not be prepared for such vast changes so soon, he's almost certain that he couldn't find it in himself to care much.

Julian could keep having kids until his wife delivers a boy, or, he could give his poor wife relief and give his daughter her rightful place on the throne.

If you asked Julian, even if his wife was fortunate enough to deliver a son, he'd still rewrite the rules, his Juliana would rule the land, and she would be the rightful heir to the throne and she would continue his family's bloodline.

If you asked him why, he'd tell you.

As he sits and writes his first address since the birth of his final child, another daughter. His eyes roam the lands through his grand view and he has no choice but to admire his lush and thriving fatherland. One he'd hope is full of acceptance and love, as he watches his eldest, Juliana run through the royal garden, her gleeful shouts, loud enough for him to hear from the top floor as he addresses his kingdom from his office.  

Julian knows that a parent must not pick favorites, and he believes he hasn't, but his heart swells at another level of pride anytime he is in dear Juliana's presence.

But, he doesn't have a favorite he swears. Juliana is just his firstborn, she's just his daughter destined for something greater than the rest of the ton, than the rest of the world. Juliana just so happens to be named after him and carries almost exactly the same, well everything as Julian including every aspect of her name.

Coincidence, one would think not.

Julian must admit, it's a tough pill to swallow for most parents, but you can have a favorite child, the only issue is, that you must be a father enough to not love one more than the others. That is why Julian Charles Windsor is the perfect man and the perfect father.

He was aware of how strong one woman could be, he was okay with a woman ruling the land, and he was fine with giving control to a woman. It just so happens that the woman he believes in the most to turn the world in the right direction is his daughter.

His prized daughter, Juliana.

Juliana, who although is a proper lady, is currently digging a hole in her mother's garden to retrieve a worm, doesn't even know that she is the catapult that has shot the world in a new direction. She is going to make history, and as she shovels her bare hands into the dirt, her father watches with a filled heart and eyes sparkling with hope. He can only hope that the world accepts his child with open arms and love just like he had. It'd be selfish of them to keep Juliana to themselves when she was the rightful first child of this new nation. Juliana his for a while, the nations, forever.

𝓗𝓲𝓼 𝓜𝓪𝓳𝓮𝓼𝓽𝔂'𝓼 𝓜𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓐𝓭𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼

To the Beloved Land, I Julian Charles Windsor, ruler of this great, noble kingdom, humbly address you, the very foundation of our existence and prosperity, with a heart overflowing with love and determination for the future of our realm

As I gaze upon your vast landscapes, rich soils, and majestic mountains, I am filled with a sense of reverence and gratitude. It is upon your fertile grounds that our people have toiled for generations, reaping the bountiful harvests that sustain us through times of plenty and times of scarcity.

Your rivers flow like lifeblood through our lands, quenching the thirst of man and beast alike. Your forests teem with diverse flora and fauna, providing shelter and sustenance to all who dwell within your embrace.

I recognize the sacred duty bestowed upon me as your steward, to protect and preserve you for future generations. I have vowed to govern with wisdom and foresight, ensuring that your resources are managed responsibly and that your beauty remains unspoiled.

May your fields be ever fruitful, your waters ever pure, and your skies ever clear. As long as I sit upon the throne, I pledge to honor and respect you, dear Land, for you are the true source of our strength and prosperity. May your families remain loved and you continue to have our nation's best interest at heart.

As your king, I have always believed in the power of love and family as the bedrock of our society. It is through the bonds of kinship and the warmth of affection that our land has bloomed and flourished. From the humblest peasant to the noblest lord, each of you contributes to the woven silk of our kingdom with your love, care, and dedication to one another.

I have been privileged to witness firsthand the transformative power of love within my own family. My dear wife, the queen, has been my steadfast companion and support through all the triumphs and trials of our reign. Her love has been a beacon of light in my darkest hours, and her wisdom has guided me in times of uncertainty.

Our children, especially my beloved daughter Juliana, have brought immeasurable joy and meaning to our lives. Their laughter echoes through the halls of our palace, reminding me of the importance of cherishing the moments we have with those we hold dear.

It is with this spirit of love and family that our kingdom has thrived. Through compassion, empathy, and mutual respect, we have built a society where every voice is heard, every heart is valued, and every soul is nurtured.

As your king, I implore you to hold fast to the bonds of love and family that unite us. Let us continue to care for one another, to support one another, and to uplift one another in times of need. For it is through our collective love and affection that our land will continue to bloom and prosper for generations to come.

As you are all aware, our gracious queen has brought forth our third and final offspring, and to your noble surprise, she is a girl, brimming with happiness and vitality. To our great delight, she is a cherished and beautiful princess. Regrettably, the aspiration for a Windsor king among you shall remain unfulfilled.

Though I must pen these words to you all, heavy with both responsibility and hope for the future, the rules must change and we must change with them.

For too long, our kingdom's laws and traditions have favored the male line of succession, passing the crown from father to son in an unbroken chain of kings. However, as I look upon my three daughters, particularly my eldest, Juliana, I see a light that shines brighter than any that has graced our land before.

My beloved daughter, Juliana, is the light of my life and the hope of our kingdom. Her spirit shines with a radiance that eclipses all others, and her presence fills my heart with a love that knows no bounds. From her earliest days, she has shown wisdom, compassion, and a sense of duty far beyond her years.

I know that she will grow into a woman of remarkable strength and grace, and I am filled with pride at the thought of her one day leading our people. Leading you.

I have made the difficult decision to change the rules of succession so that Juliana, my beloved daughter, may inherit the throne. She deserves her rightful claim, not hindered by outdated traditions that do not recognize her worth. Any man who wishes to marry her shall be welcomed into our royal family as a consort, taking on the Windsor name and pledging to support and serve alongside her.

The decision to change the rules of succession in favor of Juliana was not made lightly. It is born out of a deep conviction in her abilities and a love for her that surpasses all else. My dear wife, the queen, has endured great hardships in childbirth, and I will not subject her to further pain and risk in pursuit of an heir of a specific gender. I have witnessed her struggles and sacrifices, and I cannot bear to see her suffer any longer for the sake of tradition.

Juliana's worth as a leader and as a human being far exceeds any arbitrary rules or expectations. She is kind, compassionate, and morally upright in every way. Her love for our land and our people knows no bounds, and I am certain that under her reign, our kingdom will flourish like never before.

I understand that this change may be met with fear and uncertainty by some, as it challenges long-held beliefs and practices. I have no doubt that some may question or resist this change, but I stand firm in my decision. It is a necessary change, one that acknowledges the value and capabilities of women in leadership roles. It is time for our kingdom to show its appreciation for women and to elevate them to the regard they have always deserved.

My love for Juliana and my belief in her abilities compel me to ensure that she receives the recognition and respect she deserves as the rightful heir to the throne.

Dear Land, I entrust to you the future of our kingdom under Queen Juliana's reign. May she lead with grace, wisdom, and compassion, and may our people thrive under her rule as they never have before.

May her reign be marked by prosperity, unity, and justice for all.

With deepest respect, unwavering love, and, admiration,

𝒥𝓊𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝒲𝒾𝓃𝒹𝓈𝑜𝓇

𝒦𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝐸𝒹𝑒𝓃𝒹𝒶𝓁𝑒.

In the grand, opulent chambers of the palace, King Julian sat at his ornate desk, a sense of victory brimming his bones as he neatly signed off on his announcement.

"Ledger," the king called out, his voice resounding with authority yet still very much filled with warmth.

"Yes, your Majesty?" Ledger responded, his expression alert and obedient.

King Julian leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Can I entrust you to ensure that this address to the kingdom will be in every hand by tomorrow evening?" he inquired, a sense of urgency underlying his words.

With a deep bow, Ledger replied, "Yes, sire, you can rest assured that it shall be done."

A smile of satisfaction played on the king's lips as he praised, "Amazing. Your dedication to the kingdom does not go unnoticed, Ledger."

"Your Majesty," Ledger Nods with a smile, bidding his way.

King Julian turned his gaze towards his loyal servant, his eyes alight with joy, catching him just before he exited the grand office. "Juliana turns six in four days," he began, his voice filled with paternal love and pridefulness. "Will your children be able to make it for the party?" he inquired.

"Thank you, your Majesty. My children will be honored to attend Princess Juliana's birthday celebration," he replied, a sense of warmth and gratitude in his voice.

King Julian nodded, a smile lighting up his features, "She'll be excited to see them again, thank you. Can we extend the invitation to the cities and the villages? I'm sure there are plenty who would love to celebrate their future queen."

"Yes, Sir. I'll get right to it."

Juliana remembers her sixth birthday like it was yesterday.

The hushed anticipation that draped the air like a silken cloak as she made her entrance, hand delicately clasped in her father's. It is a scene she replays often in the theater of her mind. It was a moment of revelation. The realization that the power and prestige woven by her lineage, where every courtier and attendant bowed in deference to her family's authority, would follow her forever.

The weight of that authority, the gravity of respect that enveloped her family, was a mantle she had never quite grown accustomed to. Even now, fourteen years hence, as the gates of the castle swung open once more in honor of her birthday, Juliana found herself wistfully yearning for simpler times.

It's not like she didn't enjoy opening the gates for her land, sometimes Juliana just wished it could be only them.

Her father, mother, and sisters. And they'd eat cake and she could be an improper lady as she tossed the delicacy at Eloise. And she could cackle as her father swiped his caked fingers against her mother's face.

A gathering where cakes would fly like confetti, where propriety would take a backseat to playful revelry.

Yet, duty beckoned. Juliana was not merely a princess but the future queen, and the eyes of her people sought glimpses of the monarch she would one day become.

As Madam Laurent, her faithful confidante, and seamstress, meticulously fastened the regal gown around her, Juliana pondered the significance of the crimson hue that adorned her form.

Madam Laurent stands behind Juliana, her gaze tight in focus as she pulls at the already tight dress.

Juliana breathes in, holding her breath as the dress cages her ribs closer and closer together.

When Madam Laurent announces that the gown is tied she lets out a breath of relief and turns to gaze at herself in the grand mirror.

"Madam?" Juliana inquires, "Why red?"

"Your Grace," the seamstress intoned, her voice thick with age-old wisdom, "red signifies authority, power, passion, and strength. It is a proclamation of your status, a declaration that you are not to be trifled with. And, above all, it bleeds the love that flows within you. Does it not resonate with you, Princess?"

"I adore it," Juliana admits, "though I cannot help but wonder if our power need always be showcased as a spectacle."

"Would you rather your strength remain veiled, hidden from the world?" Madam Laurent countered gently. "Do you not want the world to know how powerful you are?"

"Those who wield power often lack grace," Juliana mused, her gaze meeting the seamstress's with a glint of dissatisfaction, "Madam Laurent."

The dressmaker hums, her eyes turning down inquisitively.

"Princess, you exude grace in every step you take," Madam Laurent remarked, her eyes alight with a spark of inspiration. "Perhaps it's time we consider a new color palette for your future ensembles. However, I must confess, your father and mother may not readily embrace such a change."

Juliana snickers with her seamstress, "Indeed, Madam, I suspect they would cling to the color red even on their final day."

"Cream," a gasp elicits from Madam Laurent, "We'll do cream." Her eyes widened in delight. "Cream," she breathed as if unveiling a hidden treasure. "Yes, cream it shall be."

Curious to understand the significance of this sudden choice, Juliana inquired, "And what symbolism does cream carry with it?"

"Purity, innocence—" began Madam Laurent, only to be swiftly interrupted by Juliana's irreverent snort of amusement. "Oh, spare me the innocence madness," the princess quipped, her voice laced with playful skepticism. "Men seldom don pristine whites without harboring some deceitful intent. Imagine that, adorned in white and still lying whores!"

A burst of laughter escaped Madam Laurent, her hand instinctively seeking refuge over her smiling lips. "Princess," she playfully chided, "such words are hardly fitting for a royal maiden, that is no way for a girl to speak."

Juliana's response was laden with a hint of defiance as she shrugged nonchalantly. "Fortunately, I am more than just a maiden. And good thing I'm a woman.

Madam smiles proudly at the younger girl, "You did not let me finish, Princess. Cream is also comfort. It is welcoming and friendly and calms the eyes. It shows humility a modest view of your own importance, not starch white, so bright it burns your eyes, not dark enough to be impure or intimidating, just warm enough to show your warmth, welcomeness, humbleness, your simplicity."

"I like that."

"I believed you would, my grace. There's a depth of character that lies within the color, a modesty that resonates with your essence."

"Now that, Madam, I resonate with, I find solace in that," Juliana admitted, her gaze meeting Madam Laurent's with fondness.

"Then it is settled," declared the seamstress with a smile of approval. "I shall craft a cream ensemble for you to wear amongst the people as you grace them with your presence tomorrow, Your Grace."

Just as Madam Laurent gathers her equipment and stuffs them into her basket, the door is swung open and Juliana's sisters rush in.

The weight of being the future ruler of the kingdom weighed down on Juliana's shoulders, but not as much as being a big sister

Juliana the oldest of three, had two younger sisters that she's taken under her wing.

Eloise, the older of her younger sisters, only eighteen, was sweeter than any delicacy in the land.

She wasn't the smartest by any means, but Juliana could say that because she was her sister. Where she lacked knowledge, she made up for it with her kindness. Which worried Juliana more than she'd like to admit, kindness without knowledge is a recipe for being fooled, and sometimes her sister is absolutely helpless without her.

Lorelai was the opposite, she was smarter than most, probably had the sanest mind out of her entire family, if you asked Juliana, the only thing holding Lorelai back was well, her lack of kindness. She was broody and blunt, and her honesty knew no bounds. Secretly Juliana loved it, especially at the dinner table when she had someone to feed into her well-kept thoughts.

But the point is that her sisters rely on her heavily, for almost everything.

And she loved them more than, well everything.

Juliana was destined to be many things, there were so many things she planned to be or just wanted to be. But for right now, she was content with just being their sister.

That was truly her greatest accomplishment.

Juliana can't remember her life before Eloise, her wheezy girl. But she imagines that if she did, she would only remember waiting for her. As if being a big sister was her true calling.

Besides being the future queen, there was only one title Juliana would rather bear, and that was a sister.

So when her sisters the royal princesses bustle into her room like they have no proper manners almost knocking over the family's seamstress she can only frown at them disappointingly.

"Girls!" she demands, "Manners, apologize to Madam Laurent."

"We're sorry, Madam Laurent." They apologize in sync, only briefly looking toward the older woman before they dramatically continue their march toward their sister.

"What is troubling you now?" Juliana chuckles, stepping down from the step riser.

"Lorelai is being cruel again!" Eloise stomps, her arms coming up to cross over her chest.

"I was not! I was being truthful!"

"About?"

"She said that it'd take a miracle for me to marry a smart man of status with how clueless I am. Said I'd be better off with a stable boy!"

Juliana turns to look at Lorelai, her face set in a stern pout, "You mustn’t speak to her or about her that way, we are sisters, we love each other and we treat each other with respect, always."

Lorelai sighs dramatically, "But-"

"But nothing." Juliana commands, "Apologize and never fix your lips to speak about her that way again, it is not kind."

"Well, I'm not kind." Lorelai protests.

"Trust, I know, you're a little demon, but you're my sister and she's too, so you mustn’t treat us with that same devilish behavior." Juliana teases, her fingers coming up to pinch at her cheeks.

"I'm sorry Eloise," Lorelai grumbles, and Juliana gasps.

"See how easy that was little angel, lai!"

A blush creeps onto her youngest sister's face and Juliana raises her brows at Eloise, "Are you going to accept her apology?”

"Yes," Eloise smiles, "I am. Thank you for that, I love to hear you accept defeat."

Lorelai lunges at the girl and they fall back onto Juliana's perfectly made bed, tussling with each other like sisters do.

Juliana only laughs at the pair, egging them on until she sees her mother enter her room.

"Girls," Juliana commands.

The three daughters stand before their mother, who eyes them knowingly.

"You girls, are going to make a mess of yourselves if you keep up with the horseplaying. You've finished getting pampered." She scolds.

"Yes, mother. Sorry mother." They apologize, scampering out of the room.

"Oh, my sweet Juliana." Celeste coos, when they are the only two left.

"You look absolutely beautiful."

"Thank you, mother."

"You're twenty today, officially a woman." Celeste raises her brows, "One is left to wonder when perhaps you'll take on a prince, to reign with you. Perhaps a grandchild or two for your parents?"

"Mother!" Juliana gasps, turning away from her mother and plopping down onto her bed. "Please!"

Celeste laughs, "I'm joking. But you are a woman today, so tomorrow you must step up."

"I am aware, I understand what I must do."

Celeste comes to sit beside Juliana, she almost looks troubled.

She reached over and pulled her daughter's hand into her lap, encompassing it with her own.

"I've got a soft spot for you, Juliana. I really tried to keep you from this fate. I swear it, I did. I tried and I tried to give your father the boy he needed. I never wanted this for you."

"Mother I am content with my role."

"Because you have to be, lovie. There is no male heir to the crown, and there will not be, your father lacked patience, I could have given him another, it could have been a boy."

"Yes, my father isn't the most patient," Juliana begins, "Yet you aren't the most accepting. You could have had another, yet you would’ve likely died, or the baby. And if the baby didn't, what if it was another girl, father has four daughters and no wife?"

"I know." Celeste sighs, "It's just that, the world has its eyes on you, that is a lot of world for a little girl."

Juliana laughs quietly, "I thought you said I was a woman."

"You are," Celeste smiles, her eyes brimming with tears, her hand comes up to cup her daughter's cheek, "but you were always supposed to be my little girl, you'll always be, even if you belong to the entire kingdom."

"I'll make a fine Queen."

"I know you will, sometimes I just worry that it'll be too much-"

"If it is, rest assured, Eloise is next in succession." Juliana cackles.

"Dear God!" Celeste grumbles, her hand coming up to palm at her forehead, "The kingdom would probably burn in pink flames."

"Penny!" Celeste calls out, and her lady-in-waiting creeps in, her hands outstretched holding what appears to be a soft pillowy case adorning a gold, diamond-encrusted tiara, decorated in red rubies.

Juliana smiles and lowers her head as her mother places it on her head.

"Another tiara?"

"Happy birthday, princess."

Hours later Juliana hides in the shadows, peeking over the banister at the many people gracing her home.

She'd grown accustomed to people-watching with age.

You could learn a lot about a person when they are unaware of prying eyes. In her quiet observations, Juliana had uncovered some interesting tidbits about the guests.

She's learned a few things so far, Lady Caroline, for instance, appeared to be quite the polished drinker, a very well-put-together drunk, but still a drunk nonetheless.

How could a lady that small put away so many glasses of the best wine?

Sir Watson is in love with Sir Hamilton, unrequited, if she could tell anything from the longing looks Sir Hamilton shot at her maid.

She lets out a hum at this one. She always loved a good drama.

Lastly, her father was terrible at surprises, she gathers this as she watches him order his staff around in hushed yet rushed whispers.

She lets out a chuckle, shaking her head as her mother pulls her stressed father out of the grand hall.

"Up here all alone at your own celebration?" The playful remark broke the silence and Juliana only turned her head briefly, eyes scanning the stranger from head to toe, when she concluded that he appeared to be no threat she faced her guest again.

He lets out a deep chuckle, one that rumbles from his chest and flows into her ears, it has her turning to face him once more, taking in his appearance.

He was handsome, beautiful even, with perfectly managed hair and well-shaved facial hair, he seemed too put together to be anyone from the outskirts of the city, and she was sure she'd recognize him if he was from any noble house within the city.

Despite the interruption, she remained composed, acknowledging his presence with a smile. "I enjoy people-watching," she replied nonchalantly, her gaze lingering on his handsome features.

Jude hums in acknowledgment, his hands unfolding from behind his back and grasping onto the banister as he mimics her previous position.

She stares at his side profile briefly, before she returns to her stance.

Jude chuckled, moving closer until their arms brushed against each other as they watched the festivities below. "Not creepy at all, princess," he teased, his light-hearted banter catching her slightly off-guard.

"You know who I am-"

"Yes, everyone knows who you are, Princess."

"Yet," Juliana continues, "I haven't a clue who you are, that's a bit rude, isn't it?"

Jude smirks, his head turning to peer down at the curious princess, "I guess you are right, I am Jude Bellingham, Duke of Ashworth, your grace, a pleasure to finally meet you."

He lifts her hand from the banister, bringing her knuckles up to his lips in a quaint kiss.

Juliana pulls her hand away with a slight grimace. "I've never met you before, why?"

"I am a busy man."

"Too busy for your future Queen?"

Jude chuckles again and Juliana is almost sure that it's all he's good for.

"Never too busy, always seemed to be misplaced when your time comes around."

Juliana hums, her eyes still roaming over the stranger, Jude finds it amusing, allowing her to examine him with curious cat-like eyes, he allows it, his own eyes never leaving her face.

She lets out a quiet snicker, her lips turning into a tight smirk, an effort to hide the laughs that want to tumble from her lips.

"Are you laughing at me, your grace?" Jude muses.

"No- well yes, I'm laughing at your choice of color for tonight."

"I thought it'd be fitting to match the royals in red."

"Is that what they're calling us?" Juliana shakes her head.

"Well, the red royals, it rolls better off the tongue, you shake your head, but you are wearing the color as well."

"Not for long," Juliana replies, as a matter of fact. "I think I'll retire the red."

"For what color?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Actually yes, I've been taught that color holds hidden meaning, I'd love to know who our future queen is."

Jude is different, and he surprises Juliana. He's easy to talk to and the banter flows naturally between them.

She hums, "If you ever have the chance to see me again, Jude, Duke of Ashworth, you'll know who I am."

Jude only chuckles, his eyes remaining on the crowd below, yet her eyes linger on his frame, still very much curious about the sudden appearance of this stranger.

"Why are you here tonight? My mother trying to marry me off to you?"

It wouldn't be the first time her mother has sent a handsome suitor her way tonight.

"Not your mother," Jude winks, "your father, wants me to marry you and be the loving husband of the future ruler of our kingdom."

Juliana feeds into his playful banter, "That's all you'd be, you know?" Though it comes out more meek than she intended.

"I'd be fine with that." Jude shrugs.

Juliana smacks her teeth, unconvinced. "You are a Duke, therefore I'm assuming the eldest brother? If you were to marry me, you would essentially be putting an end to your family's name, unless of course, you have a brother."

"You've assumed correctly, I've got a little brother."

"And you'd be okay with putting your title onto him?"

"I'd be king." Jude declares with a shrug, "Much cooler than a Duke-"

"Except," Juliana chides in, "I would have the power, the control, and the name, and you would just be my husband, you would be fine with that?"

"Not every man wants to be in charge, princess."

Juliana raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Jude's response. "You're quite different from the other nobles I've met. Most would jump at the chance to be in a position of power."

Jude chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on her. "Power and titles don't hold much appeal to me. I'd rather live a life of freedom and adventure, even if it means relinquishing my status."

Juliana studied him for a moment, a flicker of admiration in her eyes.

"You're a curious one, Jude Bellingham. I can't quite figure you out."

Jude grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Perhaps that's what makes me so intriguing, Your Grace."

"You're satisfied at least?" she inquires. She doesn't know why she asks, but she has a feeling that the man before her longed for something more.

"Not quite yet, and you, are you satisfied?"

"Not sure I ever will be."

"Then we might just be the same." Jude lowers his tone the words linger in the air between them as they watch the guest below dance and accept glass after glass.

Juliana found herself enjoying Jude's company more and more. His easy demeanor and genuine interest in her thoughts and opinions made her feel seen and understood in a way she hadn't experienced before.

Never had another person other than her own family allowed themselves to be so carefree around her, not even her staff when she begged them to.

As the night wore on and the festivities below began to wind down, Juliana felt a sense of reluctance at the thought of parting ways with Jude. She couldn't deny the spark of connection she felt with him, even if it was just feeling the burning of her cheeks as she felt his eyes occasionally studying her.

Minute after minute they took turns, sneakily glancing at the other. Occasionally breaking the silence with simple jokes about Lady Caroline and yet another glass of wine. He even laughed when she made jokes about her father, his king. No one had ever done that before.

"Princess." The gruff voice calls out from behind her.

"Sir Lewis." She smiles, stepping away from Jude, "everything alright?"

"Everything is just fine, your grace, your father would like to see you, he has some important people for you to meet."

Lewis eyes Jude, a sense of protectiveness entering his body as he steps forward to study the man.

"Jude, this is my footman, Sir Lewis, and Sir Lewis, Duke of Ashworth, Jude Bellingham."

She eyes Lewis with a warning glance as if to say tread carefully.

"Sir." Lewis drops his head politely. And Juliana smiles tenderly at Jude as she makes her way to her loyal and protective footman.

"Perhaps we'll meet again, Jude," Juliana said, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Until then princess, I'll be eagerly awaiting the day you reveal your true colors. Whatever color that may be."

idc idc, i love julian. i plan on possibly making this a long series just because I plan on doing so much with jude and juliana, so prepare for very much more of them very soon. 😌

[krisluxxee]

Astrology Observations | Mars in 9th House

You may have looked at this and immediately thought Mars in the 9th house means, traveling. WRONG! Having Mars in Sagittarius 1st house would indicate someone traveling. Nevertheless, Individuals with this placement are " ABOUT THAT LIFE" in regard to what they know, believe and have experienced. Due to the Mars influence, it would be in anyone's best interest to not challenge these Individuals about their TRUTH deriving from their experiences. The 9th house governs politics, intelligence, wisdom, education, in-laws. If you are brave enough to challenge these individuals- may the Lordt be with you. They will argue with you like they're lawyers, that crucify you on the stand. They will throw the books of FATCS at you. You cannot argue with the TRUTH and those stupid enough to try, will indeed get their FEELINGS HURT, fucking around with Mars in 9th house individuals. These people will kill you will the truth and that's worse than physical reinforcement. Have you ever argued with someone, and it was clear they lost- and so, they resort to pointing out your grammar, speech, physical features- just everything that doesn't matter? Yeah, these individuals will defeat you so bad in a debate or argument that all you have left is to bring up their appearance to salvage your ego. If you are in a relationship with these individuals, make sure you HAVE YOUR PARENTS IN CHECK. . . I have observed " In-laws" love to hate on Mars 9th house individuals. This can certainly create a " PARENTS VS. SPOUSE" dynamic. It's crazy. Though I'm happy to report that the "Spouse" usually wins. There may be religious factors " affecting your love life" Doreen Virtue vibes or cultural differences as well, having this placement.

This placement has potential to be extremely problematic for the ladies. " Men" will have time and energy to argue with you. You have the power to bring out their inner sassy. Even if "Men" do not argue with you, they'll be intimidated by you all the same.

In rare circumstances, "Men", will respect you for your beauty and brains. Women, however, will be intimidated by you. Of course, there will always be those few who will challenge you- out of insecurity. However, for the most part, other women will respect some shit and leave you alone. They'll either leave you alone because they know your intellect is unmatched and or, they'll want to be your friend for the same reason.

The sign Mars is in, will determine the nature of the challenges, arguments and debates others will try to bring to these individuals' life.

Example, a Mars in Aries 9th house, will experience people who like to challenge their spiritual, religious beliefs and or academic intelligence. Whenever, a Mars in Aries 9th house individuals says something, OTHERS JUST HAVE TO SAY THE OPPOSITE. Even if they secretly agree. People refuse to agree with Mars in 9th house individuals, just because.

People just like to have intellect battles with these individuals and usually, they're always wrong. Imagine how pathetic you have to be to KNOW someone is right but decide to argue with them anyway, JUST BECAUSE your ego can't stand their right?! What a waste of TIME and ENERGY that most don't even have to TAKE IT THERE with a Mars in 9th house individual.

[the-way-astray]

what is going on

let me take you back to half a week ago, when this first started.

it all starts with a simple notification. i click on it, thinking it's an innocent ask, or perhaps an anon wanting to pick a fight with me. i am a notorious keefe hater in this fandom, after all. let's see what the anons have to throw at me this time. if only that small, innocent, little me from four days ago had known. the notification was nothing short of a snake, hiding in the grass, waiting to strike.

it was alayda. she'd dared me to write something *horrified gasp* positive about keefe. she thought me, a notorious keefe hater, couldn't possibly have anything nice to say about my least favorite guy? well, i'd show her. i typed out a truly magnificent pro keefe essay, if i do say so myself. tumblr fought me the entire time, trying to delete half of it, but i persevered, and eventually posted it.

i had no idea what was coming for me. over the next few hours, i began to get truly heinous asks, questioning my commitment to my keefe hatred, and generally slandering my reputation. at the time, i'd thought this was as bad as it could get. but, oh. oh, no, no, no. as edaline ruewen said, "hindsight is a dangerous game". now i know that it could get worse than i could possibly even begin to imagine. and it did.

that same day, i got the ask. the one that changed everything. i responded in horrified horror, terrified terror, because i knew everything was about to change. and the next day, it appeared that other anons had followed in the first anon's footsteps. it was decided that me and keefe would be an enemies-to-lovers romance. our ship name was to be strieefe. an anon went to the official poll blog, @/do-you-ship-this-book-couple. i changed my ask box title to "KEEFE WOULD NOT LIKE ME" and got an anon about it. they started going to katie's ask box.

the debate ramped up. more people became aware. people, both anon and not, began to choose sides. i began offering badly drawn sketches to people who sided against this atrocious excuse for a ship. i should probably be making those instead of typing this out. whoopsie. i fought the anons that disagreed with me with a desperation akin to a rat caught in a trap, but my thrashing appeared to only attract more unhinged anons.

i then got my first anon that made a genuine attempt to explain why this horrible ship could theoretically work. they were wrong, of course, but i appreciate the effort. as i've explained countless times, the real relationship me and keefe would have if he were real would be one-sided hatred. i would hate him with a passion that can't be adequately described by the english language, and he'd be entirely unaware of my existence.

then! a miracle! an anon sent an ask to quil about strieefe, and i can only assume they wanted quil to analyze why we'd be good together. but quil, i never should've doubted quil. the response was a fantastically constructed analysis on why i was right about how i'd have one-sided rage toward keefe. but my delight dimmed significantly when i saw that fin, someone whom i'd previously trusted, had thrown his support behind this awful ship and even drawn fanart of me and keefe. i swiftly demoted him from the spot he had previously shared with max: "favorite fintanposter".

the anons got more unhinged. i began to be shipped with non-keefe main cast characters, sometimes monogamously, sometimes not. i bravely faced the assault, tearing the anons' arguments to shreds with my logical explanations as to why i would not be a good fit for any of them. this led to me posting a poll at the insistence of one anon, which is still open.

just as the waters were looking significantly less treacherous, just as it seemed i may make it to shore without drowning, a new development occurred. i got an ask from alayda, who as you may remember, is the one that started all this. this is entirely her fault. i'd expected maybe a heartfelt apology, perhaps a plea for forgiveness. but no. her ask was but an ominous warning, one i could not make sense of. i pondered the meaning as i stared at it. and then. horror upon horrors, it appeared in my inbox. i read through it in horrified horror, and my rickety little boat was once more swept out to sea.

it was a fanfic. a terribly written, horribly wattpad-ified, y/n-ish fanfic. i tore it to shreds thoroughly, taking pleasure as the scraps of the work of the one who had brought all this sorrow upon me fell in loose tatters all around me. i dusted off my hands and left it at that.

but it continued. even as i type this out, there is a part two to that horrific fanfic sitting in my inbox, which alayda is pestering me to post. there's also a part one to another anon fanfic, which is written relatively well, which arguably makes it even worse than alayda's. then there's yet another poem written about me and keefe by emelin, which also sits in my inbox, gathering dust as i attempt to piece the broken shards of my sanity back together.

all this to say, join the correct side of this debate. we have badly drawn sketches and braincells. be on the right side of history.

[prythiansfavoritefox]

For day 1 of @lucienweekofficial Gentleman

Lucien is tasked with bringing the Archeron family over safely to Feyre’s wedding- and warming them up to the Fae in the process.

It would’ve been a strange day by any other human’s standards, but the Archerons had had stranger. As it was, Nesta Archeron hardly blinked when the faerie lord showed up before their doors.

Lucien Vanserra stared at the woman who had to be Nesta from Feyre’s descriptions of her. He definitely saw the resemblance to Feyre, but Nesta’s features were stronger, sharper. She had siren eyes, her brows were thick and arched, and her full lips were pressed together as they appraised him. Her purple dress was surprisingly elegant, albeit dated: light fabric, a full high-waisted skirt, puffy elbow-length sleeves, and sparkly silver leaf embroidery throughout. It looked like a dress a lesser faerie might wear to sneak into an Autumn Court ball.

“What do you want,” Nesta asked flatly. Lucien flashed a practiced smile, sketching a bow. “Greetings, Lady Nesta. I am Lucien, courtier and emissary of the Spring Court. I come here on behalf of my High Lord, Tamlin Donnachaidh.”

Nesta’s eyes widened in recognition. “Feyre’s High Lord. What does he want with us?”

Lucien swallowed his laugh. “He wants nothing to do with you, but I’m afraid your sister insists.”

Nesta’s face remained unreadable. “And why is that?”

Lucien let his lips pull into a smirk. “She has invited you to her wedding, of course.”

                              ~~~~~~

After the Archerons had sat down in the carriage, Nesta turned to Lucien, who she had sat next to in order to keep an eye on. “What’s with the eyepatch?” she asked. Lucien flashed an arrogant smile that Nesta had quickly realized was his go-to. “Tamlin’s idea. Thought it would make me look less…threatening.”

“You can tell him it’s not working,” Nesta snapped. Her voice shook a little on the last word, and she clenched her fists in her lap. She was trying so hard to be brave for Elain, but she couldn’t deny her fear. Lucien could rip the three of them to shreds in seconds and not break a sweat. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath.

“Hey,” Lucien said, surprisingly gentle this time. “I’m not going to hurt you. Feyre is my friend, and she cares about you.”

“Sure she does,” Nesta choked. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. “It’s been months since we heard from her, not a note or fuck you or anything. And now we find out she’s getting married to a High Lord? Will she even be safe there, surrounded by so many enemies?”

Lucien bit his lip, seemingly debating something. “I should probably warn you about something.”

Nesta sniffed. “What?”

Lucien took a deep breath, bracing himself for their reactions. He knew it wouldn’t be good; these people had grown up fearing the Fae, and for good reason. It couldn’t be nice to find out their sister was one of them.

“Your sister…she died freeing us from our High Queen. The only way to save her was for every High Lord to give her a piece of themselves. So, when Feyre’s eyes opened once more, she was reborn as one of the High Fae.”

Elain gasped. Nesta went inhumanly still. Then she took a few deep breaths, as though trying to calm herself. “So she’s one of you now.”

“She’s still the same person, Nesta,” Lucien tried to explain. “Just…stronger.”

“She has become the very thing we fear. She is not the same.” Nesta began moving her thigh up and down. Lucien sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We’re not all so bad, Lady Nesta. Many Fae fought tooth and nail to free you from slavery. Tamlin was too young to do so, but I can assure you that he and I would’ve fought for the humans had we been able to. And with me, Alis, Tamlin, and now your sister, I can assure you that no one will dare lay a finger on you or your family during your stay,” he murmured.

Elain tilted her head, peering at Lucien. “You are not much like Feyre’s High Lord.”

It was amusing to hear the way Feyre’s sisters spoke of Tamlin. Tamlin was one of the most powerful High Lords ever born, but to these ladies, he was just Feyre’s High Lord. 

“No, I am not,” Lucien confirmed. Elain smiled slightly. “He was…odd.”

“You can say it, Elain. He was violent and beastly,” Nesta muttered. Lucien snickered. “You’re talking about his little entrance? Tamlin never was good at communication. That’s why I’m here.” Lucien pulled a knife out of his belt and began twirling it in his hands. Nesta continued to stare at him, as though trying to figure out his weakness.

“Are you missing an eye?”

Lucien raised a brow at Nesta’s bold question. “Not exactly,” he replied.

“Take off the mask,” Nesta ordered.

Lucien grinned. He could sense the woman’s fear, but she was not backing down. How brave. Lucien could respect that.

“I’m afraid I only take commands from my High Lord, and he gave me strict instructions to keep it on,” he drawled.

Nesta did not back down, holding his stare. “He said that under the assumption that we would be scared if we saw what was underneath. But I think we’d trust you more if you showed your true face. Right, Elain?”

Elain bowed her head softly. “You shouldn’t have to hide yourself for our convenience,” she said softly. The diplomatic one, then.

“Alright,” Lucien said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Lucien slipped his fingers underneath the eye patch and pulled it off.

[vilnmelling]

do you have any more richie tidbits :D

Trust me, I have a LOT to say about Richard Lipschitz. As he's my current hyperfixation character, I have made it my mission to find out everything there is to know about him, and of course also to make as many headcanons as possible about him. Now LET'S GO, ALL SORTS OF RICHIE STUFF!

Canon/half canon facts and trivia (AKA things said/done either in NPMD, in track commentaries or in streams)

As he says a couple of times in NPMD, he has overactive sweat glands, meaning he sweats more than the average person, and that he doesn't smell very good.

He also has asthma, as Bury the Bully confirms.

Shapiro asks the nerds if they're sure they didn't see Richie in their AP calculus class, so we can assume Richie's good at math.

Richie's quite skilled with a camera, and he knows how to photoshop (whether or not he's good at it is up for debate *glances at Ruth's playbill headshot*).

His favorite anime is Attack on Titan.

He would absolutely dye his hair blue.

He cosplays, and if he could afford to, he would make ELABORATE cosplays.

Richie's bedroom: his walls are absolutely decked out in anime posters, he has tons and tons of plushes, and he has a glass case of Funko Pops. Then he also has his anime love pillows, of course.

He did some Twitch streaming in 2020.

Once, he tried to organize a Pokemon Go meet-up, but no one showed up.

He's not as brave as he would like to be.

He doesn't seem to be a big fan of parties.

Out of the nerds, he was the one who felt the worst about what they did to Max.

My personal observations and headcanons

Richie's a shorts guy, all year around. He only has one or two pairs of long pants in his closet. It doesn't matter how cold it gets during the winter; he still wears shorts. He would've worn shorts to Homecoming. He'd be one questionable decision away from wearing shorts at his own wedding.

He and Trevor are identical twins, and Trevor is eleven minutes older. Even though Trevor's barely interested in anime and Richie's hardly at all interested in musicals, they watch them together. It's a weekly thing that they sit down in the living room, argue for five minutes about whether to watch an anime or a musical ("We watched Newsies last time." "Bullshit, that was like a month ago, we've watched anime the last two times at least!" "And what pray tell may those animes be, Trevor?"), then settle on one but talk over it the entire time. One of them always gets annoyed at the other for not keeping up with the storyline, but if you think they're gonna stop talking over them, you're wrong.

Daniel's their younger brother by five years. Neither of them know about Daniel's abilities nor about the fact that he's part of a magical fighting ring. (Their uncle, Gary, takes Daniel in secret, and they've told the rest of the family that Gary's taking Daniel to some sports practice. Trevor and Richie have ongoing bets about where Daniel keeps getting loads and loads of money from, and they constantly make deals with him to earn some money for themselves (doing Daniel's chores, watching stupid superhero movies with him, etc..))

His full name is Richard Jonathan _____ Lipschitz. Jonathan as a middle name is a family name for all the men in the Matthews-Goldstein-Lipschitz-McNeil family, and then they all have their own second middle name.

Trevor and Richie's birthday is somewhere in June. Richie was just so fucking clearly born in June.

When they were kids (8-12), they would make shitty movies and movie trailers on iMovie on their iPad. Most often, Richie would film and Trevor would play all the roles. Sometimes they'd involve Daniel and their cousins from their father's side of the family, then they'd force all the adults to watch their movies. Their greatest hit films include 'The Children in the Drawers', 'The Green Plant', 'The Murderer in the Barn' and 'The Boy Who Went to the Bathroom and Disappeared' (definitely not named after the shitty iMovie trailers and movies my sister, cousins and I made when we were kids).

Richie and Ruth met for the first time on a playground the summer before their first year of school. They played together for an hour or two before Ruth had to go home, and parted as typical six-year-old strangers who played pirates on a playground once. When they started school a month and a half later, they ended up in the same class, and they immediately recognized each other, and since then they've been besties. (Ruth met Pete at tap class, and that was how Pete completed the trio).

Based on a whole fuck ton of things in both the proshot and the digital ticket, I have no choice but to think Richie's down bad for Ruth, and that she's equally whipped. Richie's 110% oblivious to how he's feeling. He's not in denial or anything, he just has no idea. I'm talking, "Seeing her smile makes my stomach do cartwheels, but that doesn't mean anything." "That dress she wore once made me speechless, but that's just because she's such a good friend." "Yes, I could imagine myself kissing her, but that doesn't have to mean anything." He gives her an almost Paul-level heart-eyes look, she's fucking constantly looking at him, he fully checks her out in the digital ticket (involving nodding and hand gestures), she giggles at every lame joke he makes like it's the funniest thing she's heard, how angry he is that Pete wouldn't want to be with her, she beelines for him after "arguing" with Steph, he hypes her up when Max compliments her skeleton bit, and they're pretty much incapable of standing more than three millimeters away from each other. I mean, come on.

Analyses are on the way!

I've spent a lot of my time delving into story analysis, and I'm about to make an analysis video focusing mainly on Max and Richie (Richie's death, in particular). The script is done, I just have to film and edit it, but then it'll be up on Youtube!

Another analysis video idea I have is to make a video purely dedicated to breaking down each of the main characters and unearthing their internal conflicts, goals, desires, fears and misbeliefs. I've already got a pretty good idea of Richie's motivations and fears, so I'm quite excited about this one...

And there ya go, a bunch of Richie stuff!

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

I’ve Always Wondered If Your Glasses Would Look Good On Me

Bob Floyd x reader 1.5k

summary: It’s a slow Sunday morning and you get to live out a fantasy you’ve had for quite a while now.

fair warning: there’s no actual smut in here, but there may as well be. 

top gun masterlist

The sun was flooding through the windows when you woke up with a yawn, blinking heavily, slinging an arm across your forehead and breathing in deeply. The bed was warm, comfortable, the covers twisted and messed up, thrown over your legs but long since slipped from your chest, the pillow soft under your head, the smell of breakfast in the air. The door stood open and you could hear the faint clanging of pans in the kitchen, the sound of music playing. 

You had to smile. 

It was the absolute best to wake up like this. To wake up on a Sunday in early summer when it was warm, but not too hot outside - when neither you nor Bob had to be anywhere. When there was a whole day ahead of nothing. 

You stretched and slowly sat up, pushing the covers to the foot of the bed and setting your feet on the floor - barefoot on laminate, only taking a second to debate whether you would brave the cold or hurry to the closet and slip on a pair of fuzzy socks. 

You tiptoed through the room, grabbing Bob’s shirt from where it had carelessly been thrown onto a chair yesterday night, and grinned to yourself as the music grew in volume. Everybody Loves Somebody by Dean Martin was playing - of course. It was one of his all-time favourites.

You stopped to lean against the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, head resting against the wooden frame, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you watched. Bob was standing in front of the stove, head bobbing along to the music, a bowl of batter next to him and a pan in front of him, just in boxers and with messy hair, his glasses folded up neatly on the kitchen table. 

He looked so attractive you wanted to scream. 

Instead you shuffled over to him quietly and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder, mumbling “Good morning” against his skin, warm under your fingertips. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed again and turned his head to you, a smile on his lips that you couldn’t help but mirror. 

“Good morning”, he said, voice still a bit hoarse and laced with sleep and you wanted to just pull him in and drag him back to bed right that second. “Slept well?” 

“Like a baby”, you grinned, resting a palm against the edge of the counter and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Even though the bed’s a little cold without you.” 

“Is it?”, he asked with a laugh, letting go of the pan to put a hand to your waist instead and pull you closer, your chest bumping into his, your fingers closing around his biceps and your breath catching in your throat. 

“Very much so”, you muttered, not bothering to hide how affected you were by him - by all of him. His touches, his words, the smell of his aftershave. You hadn’t been dating for too long just yet. Your six month anniversary was coming up in a week. But you were absolutely enamoured by him anyway, head over heels, so into him that sometimes it surprised you more than anyone. He was everything you’d ever dreamt of all in one: gentle and sweet, fiercely loyal, protective, kind... and, shockingly, blessed with such a quick wit that at times he blushed at his own words. 

He leaned in with a sweet smile, connecting your lips gently, all slow and soft and unhurried. You crossed your arms behind his neck and pulled him closer into you, so close that not even a slip of paper would have fit in between you. He was radiating warmth, seeping into you easily through the thin fabric of your shirt. You sighed into the kiss, your muscles relaxing further than you’d thought possible, practically melting into him. He put a hand to your hips, brushing over your skin, drawing his fingertips to your mid-thighs before slipping his thumb under your shirt, dragging it up until he reached the point where your thigh met your back. 

You pulled away, breath hitching, and he let out a groan. His cheeks were flushed when you looked at him, pupils blown just wide enough for the change to be apparent, and he blinked heavily. 

“You just put on the shirt and went with it?”, he asked, thumb brushing your skin in circles, heat spreading through your body in response, his voice a little shaky. You had to smile. It was somehow reassuring that you affected him just as much as he affected you. 

“Yup”, you grinned, trailing your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, before you leaned forward and pressed a small kiss to his exposed collarbone. His grip on you tightened. You decided to tease a bit. “Why? You want me to go change into something more decent while you’re standing here in briefs?” 

His cheeks flushed even more and he tugged you closer to him again. 

“No”, he said quickly, clearing his throat, only making you grin. “No, of course not.” 

He was absolutely adorable when he was nervous like this. Not that you didn’t love the sudden glimpses of confidence, god, you did, but Bob was shy and that was not just okay, that was beautiful.

You pressed another kiss to his collarbone, then one to the base of his throat, then one to his pulse point. You could feel his adams apple bob, his thumb on your thigh coming to a halt, his hand sliding down, your shirt falling with it. 

“Do you want to...” He cleared his throat. “Do you want to go back to bed?” 

You chuckled against his skin, pulling away to flash him a grin. 

“Good thing you didn’t pour the batter in just yet”, you said, nodding at the pan that now stood long abandoned on the stove, still cold, still unused. “Pancakes after sex sound heavenly.” 

You watched his eyes widen and laughed, grabbing his hand, intertwining your fingers and spinning on your heel, ready to dash back to the bedroom when you spotted his glasses on the kitchen table. You turned back for a moment, grabbed them in your free hand and tried to both maneuver you two through the hallway and unfold the glasses simultaneously. 

Bob chuckled behind you, but you ignored his amusement, tongue darting out between your lips as you concentrated, stopping in the doorway to let go of his hand and hook the glasses behind your ears. You tried to push back the excitement bubbling up in your stomach, especially as you caught sight of his raised eyebrows and red cheeks, eyes following you closely, ever so watchfully. With your index finger, you pushed the glasses up on your nose. They made your vision go a little blurry - nothing you couldn’t deal with. 

“Can I tell you a secret?”, you asked, voice a bit breathless, grin threatening to break out again. He nodded with a fevor that had you biting your lip to keep from laughing. “I’ve always wondered if your glasses would look good on me.” 

Bob stared at you blankly for what couldn’t have been more than a second before his hands were on you again - so suddenly that you stumbled back a little even though his touch was soft, his fingers splayed against your waist so lightly that you almost didn’t feel it, his lips on yours ever so gently. Your eyes fluttered shut, your hands finding their way to his hair, pulling him into you, deepening the kiss. He guided you back towards the bed, your knees hitting the edge, and lowered you onto the mattress, holding himself up by his hands next to your head.

When he pulled away, you finally allowed yourself to grin at him. 

“Well?”, you whispered, “Do I?”

“What?”, he muttered, voice laced with something thick and deep, pressing kisses from your throat down to the hem of your shirt. You wrapped your legs around his middle. 

“Look good with your glasses on”, you breathed. 

He raised his head, meeting your eyes unabashedly, your hands loosening in his hair. There was something in his gaze that you hadn’t seen before, something new and exciting. Your breath hitched in your throat. 

“You look gorgeous”, he said, none of that usual shake in his voice. You had to bite your lip to keep from pulling him down to you and just eating him up right here and now. 

“Shit, Bobby”, you whispered, dragging your hands down to his jaw and brushing your thumbs over his cheeks. Soft, warm skin under your fingertips. So fucking warm. You felt like you could just drown in him and be content with it. “That’s so hot. You’re so hot.” 

You craned your neck to be able to reach him, connecting your lips, pulling him into you - digging your teeth into his bottom lip, groaning into the kiss when he dragged his hand down to your thigh again to slide it underneath your shirt. 

“Will you keep the glasses on?”, he asked, drawing back for a moment to look at you. You had to smile. 

“If you want me to.” 

[cevansbrat0007]

Hi Britt!

I enjoyed your latest update on Bird and Ari and I love it!!! I'll leave the comments under the fic but this comes to mind first so I have to get it out:

I've recently watched a tiktok video of women pranking their men by sticking a sausage between the zipper of their men's pants (while the men were asleep, of course, or this would have caught their attention) and wake their men up -- and immediately cut the sausage half with a scissor.

The REACTION. Holy .... I'm literally shaking rn just because how HUGE the response was when the men thought their junk was being cut off. Like a cat meeting a cucumber, is perhaps the most appropriate comparison.

Anywho, I wonder if Bird would land such a huge fright on Ari, since she's bold to slam car doors and getting into the world of tiktok prank lol

So I just went and watched some of these. And my, oh my. Some of these people pulling this prank are brave AS HELL.

Do you know how fast our girl would have to run if she were to do this? Like, she would need to mentally and physically prepare first. The entire thing would involve liberal stretching, followed by lacing up her tennis shoes.

Because, if she were to do this, she would have to RUN, and run FAST, to right to her pre-established hiding spot. And if she's smart she'd already have a few snacks and a couple bottles of water waiting for her.

Just in case she's stuck there for a while. Not quite sure how long it might take for Ari to calm down, let alone see the humor in what he just experienced.

Debating turning this into a drabble, because bratty Bird and grumpy Ari are really fun to write.

Thanks!